There are wonders beyond imagining. Explorations unending in Gardens of Delight. Discoveries of magic beings endowed with lush sensualities that evoke tumescence and breathless joy. There are agonies transcendent into ecstasy, and ecstasies that are pure pain. There is the sharing of love.
Monica found glory. The glory was Solange.
The House of Madam Dubois had never witnessed such happiness.
The advent of Melissa was one more milestone. In less than a year Monica's life had been totally changed. She herself had been changed. Nor would there be any retracing of the steps she had followed. That could not be done even had she wished. She did not wish.
The adoring child was a constant diversion and delight. At one moment almost puppy-like in her exuberance and her gamboling. The next a knowing and sensuous female. They explored each other delightedly.
Even on that first day the effect on Melissa of her first whipping-and it had been a severe correction-kept her subdued for only a very short time. She refused to put her clothes back on and continually waltzed to the mirror where she could examine the changing colors of the weals and striations on her bottom. Monica was puzzled by the almost obsessive curiosity her charge exhibited in the House of Madam Dubois. Melissa explained that she had fully expected to be sent there and had learned all she could. What she had picked up here and there intrigued her. It became evident there was some quality within her psyche that reached out instinctively to seek the key that Solange held: just as it had been with Monica. But Melissa had no inhibitions, no hesitations. She was joyfully and carelessly following a path she knew would lead to heart's desire.
Monica, good humouredly, acceded to Melissa's constant demands that she strip to enable the girl to gasp with ecstasy and envy at the sight of a female body so totally marked. The child would stand enthralled for as long as Monica was willing to exhibit herself. The older girl was honest enough to admit that she, too, took joy in this. She was proud of what she bore. Each mark evoked a memory. Solange was never far from her thoughts.
But these revelations of punishments she had suffered only fanned the flames of Melissa's curiosity and desire. Monica considered whether it would be wisest to keep punishing the child until she agreed to cease her importunities. Or whether, since their union seemed likely to endure and expand, she should tell her what there was to tell. She chose the latter.
Melissa was enchanted. It was as though the House of Madam Dubois-and at the beginning Monica used only Solange's full title-filled in her imagination a fairy tale image of unutterable delights. A magic place filled with nubile naked girls and ruled over by a High Priestess who was the most beautiful of all and who possessed an infinite wisdom. A lotus land of femininity. Monica finally had to abandon her graphic descriptions of pain and punishments and captivity-a captivity from which there was no escape: for instead of dampening Melissa's enthusiasm they made her even more demanding that she should be sent there. She listened enraptured, asked innumerable questions, and pleaded again and again to be told, once more, the full story of Monica's five month imprisonment. In telling of the seven days the older girl made no mention of the bastinado.
It would have been easy to have granted Melissa's request. Solange would be delighted. But Monica selfishly and reasonably wished to keep the child for herself. As a compromise she suggested something that sent the younger girl into an excited rampage of ideas and plans. It was decided that within Monica's own house there should be prepared three rooms. One would be the prison cell Melissa was so impatient to occupy. Another would be a large well lit compartment containing all the accoutrements that Monica secretly hoped might quench some of the excess energy that her charge bombarded her with. The third was of Melissa's own devising and was no doubt the product of some romantic historical fiction she had read. It was a dungeon, set deep within the basement of the house. At considerable cost it was artfully provided with heat. There were no windows. If the prisoner was not to be kept in utter darkness light would be provided only by a single candle. The effect was perfect. Monica shuddered at the thought of being locked in it. But Melissa was ecstatic.
It cost Monica some embarrassment and a great deal of money to bring these facilities into being. Contractors and workmen were curious. She told them nothing, but endured their curious glances and remarks. The biggest cost was the chains. Fortunately Solange had told her where she had obtained them. Monica took Melissa there, the girl was measured, the desired effect discussed. No questions were asked. When the lovely heavy things were delivered Melissa went into paroxysms of delight and gratitude and insisted on wearing them immediately. Monica humoured her. In fact it was becoming difficult for Monica to refuse her anything.
Fortunately the house was large. The new facilities were not obtrusive. Monica made it clear to her staff that certain areas and certain subjects were out of bounds. It was understood.
They fell into a happy routine. After a few days Monica resumed her everyday affairs. Melissa accompanied her everywhere. But when the three rooms were completed she went only where Monica felt desirable. At such times the child was chained and locked in her cell. Or endured some hours of discomfort or immobility in what they came to call the 'Games Boom.' When she had been particularly obstreperous she was loaded with every chain they possessed and locked and bolted in the dungeon with only the solitary candle for company. Monica was amused to note that after an afternoon in the dark and forbidding place she actually did emerge somewhat chastened. A diminution in ardor that sometimes lasted as long as thirty minutes.
There were quaint moments, of course. One of them was the unannounced appearance of Aunt Millie one afternoon. For a moment Monica panicked. Melissa was locked in the stocks in the Games Room. But Aunt Millie was not curious. She accepted Monica's hurriedly concocted story that the child was having a bath and that she would go and tell of their guest. She flew to release her prisoner. They both fell to giggling as the locks were removed. Later Melissa's manners and deportment were such as to visibly elate her maternal parent who stayed to tea and went her way with obvious relief. No mention was made of an end to Melissa's stay in London.
Visits were enjoyed with Joan and, later, with Marjorie. Realizing who they were Melissa lost little time in disrobing and showing with the pride the marks upon her bottom. Marks that were now being added to day by day. She wore them as a soldier might his medals. Incorrigibly she demanded that they strip, too, so that she might examine any souvenir they bore upon their person from the time of their incarceration. Both girls laughingly refused, telling her their whip marks had healed and faded long since. Monica realized that, with them, this was probably true. She was furious when the younger girl then tactlessly suggested that she, also, undressed to show their visitor "those simply gorgeous marks." She passed it off as best she could. Aware that Joan's curiosity had been piqued. As a lesson in thoughtfulness Melissa spent the rest of that day and all that night chained in her dungeon. It was one of many times Monica was thankful for her investment. Melissa could become quite unmanageable if not persistently curbed.
Monica felt fortunate that Solange's visits to her home fell on such days and at such times when Melissa was safely confined out of sight. She did not speak of her charge. She realized that Solange must eventually be told. But she wanted delay. When they made love they both examined and discussed the tracery of whipmarks on Monica's skin. Solange hinted and Monica knew that her second seven days was drawing close. Her wounds were fading. She was curious as to her fate in this second period of her enslavement. But Solange laughingly denied her entreaties. She was not to know. Monica realized with amusement that her importunities with Solange were much akin to Melissa's demands upon herself.
The day finally arrived when Monica was faced with decision. On that day Solange visited. But not as a guest. She came as a Mistress reclaiming her slave. Monica would report "for duty" the following morning. Monica had no thought whatsoever of disobeying or arguing. Solange possessed her utterly. She would do whatever she was told. Ruefully she admitted to herself that she would do it not only with happiness but eagerly. Considering Melissa, she knew there was really no choice. She could not leave the child here alone for seven days. True she could be supervised and looked after. But Monica shuddered to think of what shocking disclosures the girl might make or what ill advised ventures she might embark on. Since it was Melissa's greatest wish to enter the House of Madam Dubois she had better do so now. They would go there together.
She confessed the whole story of her cousin to Solange and accepted meekly and without complaint a promise of punishment for having held her secret for so long. But Solange was delighted. Melissa was produced, examined, questioned and embraced. It was Solange who demanded she strip and remain naked throughout the visit. Melissa obeyed with her usual abandon in getting rid of her clothes. The child was overjoyed: in a seventh Heaven of happiness that at last her dream had come true. Throughout tea she sat in silent adoration of their visitor. Monica was amused and pleased that, at last, the child felt awe for someone. Perhaps, after all, Solange-or Madam Dubois-might be good for her.
Sensing a possible awkwardness or shock, if undisclosed, Monica, that evening, told Melissa of her true relationship with Solange. Simply that, when she entered the House of Madam Dubois, she would cease to be a person and become an adoring, but totally abject, slave.
Melissa was enraptured and demanded instantly that she also be a slave to Solange.
"She can use two of us," she pointed out reasonably.
"But I don't even know what's going to happen to us tomorrow," Monica told her laughing.
"You mean we may be chained and whipped and-and all sorts of things? And you'll be naked too, won't you all the time?"
Monica admitted these things.
"Will they chain us together?"
Monica thought this un-likely, and said so. She thought-and admitted to herself that she hoped-they would be separated. She to be a slave and Melissa to enter the normal routines of the House.
It was Hester who admitted them the following morning. Respectfully she told Monica that she should go immediately to Madam's apartment. Without preamble she locked a collar and leash around Melissa's neck and led her away. Monica's last impression of her niece was of an enraptured backward glance over her shoulder.
In the bedroom Solange was not visible. Quickly and without volition Monica stripped and put her things away in their appointed drawer. Nothing had changed. Instinctively she knew what to do. Hastily she knelt beside the ring and, lifting the collar and chain fastened to it in obvious invitation, locked the exquisite collar round her neck. She waited with bowed head.
It was not long. She knew her Mistress was pleased from the voice: "Darling girl. You look sweet. Come kiss me."
Joyously Monica leaped to her feet and, forgetting, was striding with open arms to embrace her when her neck was snapped back by her tether. It was so absurd that they both burst into laughter. Solange brought herself within the range of the chain and possessed her slave tenderly.
They made love.
Afterwards Monica held out her wrists and ankles to be chained.
Solange draped herself across a chair and surveyed her slave with amusement.
"It is where you belong, Cherie."
"Yes Mistress."
"There is a small matter of punishment?"
"Yes Mistress."
"Why must you be punished?"
"Because I withheld something from you, Mistress."
"And that something...?"
"Melissa."
"Hmmmmm-Then I think I will punish Melissa."
"Yes Mistress."
Solange laughed delightedly. "Well done, ma petit. I see I still have my slave girl. You did not forget."
"No Mistress."
"You must have been aching to protest. To be so nobly English and to say to Solange: Oh no. Do not punish poor little Melissa. Punish me. N'est ce pas?"
"Yes Mistress."
"Well, then, since you have been so good a girl I will indeed punish you. Is that not nice of me?"
"Oh, yes Mistress. Thank you Mistress!" Monica's response was fervidly sincere. She did not want Melissa to receive, as yet, the sort of punishment she herself was expecting.
"And how would you like to be punished, Cherie?"
Monica never enjoyed this question. Whatever she said was sure to be the wrong thing.
"Twenty strokes, please Mistress-across my bottom."
"Your bottom, indeed! I should give them to you across your breasts!"
"Thank you, Mistress."
Solange laughed with huge enjoyment. "Sometimes I must release you from being a slave. It so restricts your conversation. But do not relax. You are so beautifully trained. Do you really want twenty strokes across your breasts?"
"Only if it would give you please, Mistress. Or if you think it beneficial to your slave."
"Perfect again. Cherie, do not think because I laugh that I only tease. I am so proud of you."
The Mistress knelt beside her slave and fondled her long and with passion. "It is so, that I am proud. Can you understand how proud I am, Cherie?"
Monica nodded happily and mutely raised her lips to be kissed. She wanted nothing more in like than to be chained as she was now. For every inch of her to be possessed by Solange.
"It is important, darling girl, that you understand that you could never be such a slave: so wonderful, so glorious, so lovable a slave without our day with the bastinado. Do you truly believe this, little pigeon?"
Monica took her Mistress's hand and kissed and fondled it as though it was a lifeline to all she held dear. She whispered with total sincerity: "I do believe. I have thought of this all these weeks. I have thought of it with Melissa-oh so much. I was not sure that it was so when you left me to wait after the first time. But then, the waiting, and my feet on fire, and knowing that when you returned I must bear it all over again... somewhere in that time I became a slave. I don't think I can disobey you now even if I try."
Solange smoothed the beloved hair and kissed the bowed head. "We do not understand all these things, my dear. Why we are as we are. Why we must suffer before we become as we wish to be. Let us not concern ourselves. It is enough that I have you."
"And that I have you, Mistress." Monica tensed, then said what some compulsion made her say. The words sounding as from lips other than her own: "I love you. I only want to be as I am now. That you may understand my love I humbly ask you to punish me now with the bastinado. I will accept it gladly because it is your hand that holds the cane... "
Solange wept. Monica wept. Tears of gladness and relief. Then, locked together laughing, they rolled upon the carpet. Monica's tether was amply long enough to allow their play.
It was always as though Solange felt a duty. She never forgot a transgression or a punishment. After the two of them had slept awhile in each other's arms she led Monica to one of the useful rooms with its anonymous furnishings, removed the chains from her wrists. Replaced them with broad padded leather wristlets which she attached and lifted to the ceiling with the winch. Monica found herself in the center of the room, her toes six inches off the floor, hanging from her outspread wrists. She did not recall being in this exact situation before. It was a great strain on her arms and shoulders. She knew it would get worse and worse.
"So silly a girl to earn punishment even before she returns to slavery." Solange laughed and playfully slapped the suspended girl's bottom. "We give the whip a rest today. No whip on this nice little bottom and no whip across those so lovely breasts I love so very much." She stood on tip toe and bit one of Monica's nipples. "See, they are quite safe. All I do is bite just one of them. Now you will hang there for a very long time all alone and think about your Mistress and how nice she is and how wrong you were not to speak of dear little Melissa before. Au revoir, my very dear."
Monica longed to ask about Melissa. But dared not. A slave did not question her Mistress. She knew that no matter how deep their love Solange would never allow it to affect rigid adherence to the code. She sighed. There was nothing she could do about Melissa. Better set the thought aside. In the meantime she was locked and bolted in a bare room.-She had noticed that Solange had taken pains to fully lock the door so that her captive could not be inadvertently discovered or spied upon-she was naked and she was suspended by her wrists. Her toes were tantalizingly close to the floor, but sufficiently above it that they had no hope of a resting place. She understood why the wristlets were padded. They sustained all her weight. Even with the padding they hurt. With her hands held widely apart by separate chains to the winch she could not turn or sway. It seemed probable that she would hang motionless like this for the rest of the day. It would be a long time. Tentatively she raised one chained leg. It was one of the small motions possible. The act failed to ease anything so she carefully allowed it to slip back into suspension. It was infuriating that several links of her ankle chains rested on the floor. They gave her no comfort. She knew it would be best not to try and more or to experiment. She was helplessly held. Anything she did would only bring pain. Making her body as limp as she could she hung and endured what she must.
Monica had long since learned that in her present situation a girl had two choices. She could think only of the pain and of a quite indefinite release. This easily led to panic. Pain had a limit. When you reached that limit you could deal with it. Panic had no limit at all. The other choice was to let the pain possess you so that you could then adjust to it and use the time to think of things that mattered. Monica did this now. Her thoughts were of Arlette.
Since the first of the seven days she had sensed that both Arlette and Solange had been fully aware of the triangle that had developed. In making her a slave Solange had, at the same time, taken her away from Arlette. The French girl had continued to visit at Monica's house, and they had made love. But both had known that Solange was stronger than either. There was a restraint. The gaiety had gone. The time came when Arlette said: "It is over, beloved. Let us not deceive ourselves."
Monica had cried.
"Madam called me into her office yesterday-that so much like business place. There she says that you are her slave. I must not see you more-except in her house. But only when she so orders."
Monica continued to sob. Arlette caressed her tenderly.
"You see, Cherie. I too understand this slavery. I know so much of it. I know she possesses you and what she did to you that this happens."
Monica looked up, surprised: "You mean...?"
"Yes Cherie. I too have been broken. It was so... Oh, I have not the words! It was such that Arlette does not forget."
"Why did you let her...?"
The French girl shrugged: "I love her." There was a pause. "Say I am weak. That I could have run away." She shrugged. "Well, I did not run. And yes I am weak. I am weak where Madam is concerned. I want to stay here. So I accepted what I must."
"The bastinado?" Monica had to ask.
"Yes, that beastly way to hurt those poor little feet. For five days I could not walk."
"Yet you still love her?"
Arlette shrugged again. "Yes. But I do not pretend to understand."
"And you are happy in her House?"
"Yes, Cherie. Arlette is happy. I was happy before you came. I will be happy now. We will see each other in her house when Madam permits-and I think sometimes she will permit. I think, too, that you will much stay there and for very long... " She grinned wryly, "I told you of Freddy. I keep him in reserve still. We are very practical, we French."
"Have you seen him lately?" Monica asked feeling guilty because she was glad of a diversion.
Arlette seemed glad, too. She smiled musingly. "Of course. I see The Honourable Freddy often. He calls me his inamorata and tells me, after he has had a drink, that he is my destiny. He is quite absurd. I think I marry him sometime."
"Has he ever spoken of me?"
"Arlette is sorry. She forgets. Last week he says some such foolish thing I am to tell you. It is that the villain still pursues her. I suppose he means you. He is truly droll."
"I suppose he means that silly visit I told you about. Well, I'm glad he isn't bothering. I don't suppose I'll see him again. That is; unless you actually do marry him. I'll come to the wedding. I ought to tell you not to marry such a man. But I won't. There's something about him.
I ought to hate him. But I don't. What do we do now, darling?"
"We remember our love," said Arlette.
It was indeed a long afternoon. Monica reflected wryly that she got out of training in the times between her visits to the House. In the end it became hard to keep the mind occupied. The pain got worse. You got tired. What did a girl do then! She thought of Melissa and wondered what Solange would do with her. The question was soon answered. The door opened. A naked Melissa was thrust inside. The door closed behind her.
Both girls were startled by the other. Melissa's face was a study at the sight of her suspended naked cousin. Monica, in turn noted that the younger girl's hands were tightly bound behind her back. A tight band of metal was padlocked around her concave waist and another round her neck. Both exclaimed: "Oh, darling!" at the same time.
"What have they done to you?" Melissa asked fascinated.
"I'm hung up by the wrists, silly. Can't you see that? What have they done to you?"
Melissa did her little dance around the room. She seemed in no way impeded by her bonds: "Oh darling, it was such fun. I've been whipped. I mean with a really truly whip. Oh I wish I could see the marks. They won't let me go to a mirror. You look and tell me."
She stopped her prancing, turned her back, spread her arms as wide as the bound wrists would allow and waited expectantly.
Monica was almost envious. Across the slender back someone had placed five perfect whipmarks regularly spaced. There was no sign of cutting damage with a tip. Just the five red raised welts straight across the back itself. The effect was exquisite.
"You lucky girl," she said. "They're the most beautiful marks I have ever seen on a girl's back. You are going to be awfully proud of them. But didn't they hurt terribly?"
"Oh it was awful, awful. I almost cried. It hurts more up there than down on the bottom, doesn't it." It sounded as though, for her, it was a profound discovery. "But it was only five so I managed to be very brave."
"Who whipped you?"
"Oh that was the nicest part." Melissa was glowing as though she had been to a Ball instead of a punishment room. "Hester took me away and stored my clothes. Then she turned me over to that nice French girl who came to visit us." She struggled experimentally with her bound wrists. Quite evidently not with the expectation of freeing them, but rather to assure herself that they were still firmly tied. "She's awfully kind and does the nicest things. She talked a lot about what she will do to me, and then she fixed me up pretty well the way you are except she left my feet on the ground. I say, darling! Isn't it exciting to have-to stand like that-all naked and have her look at you, every little bit of you. It's such a wonderful way to tie a girl because if you are stretched just the tiniest bit your tummy goes back and your breasts stick out and your bottom curves. Oh o, o-I've never felt like that before."
Melissa turned her scrutiny upon her suspended cousin. She suddenly looked contrite. "I say, darling. Does that hurt? I mean hung up like that? You look beautiful."
"Of course it hurts," Monica retorted with faint irritation. "It's supposed to. But thanks for the compliment."
"Well you do, you know."
The child looked so happy and was so evidently deeply in the throes of pleasurable excitement that Monica could not help wondering just what it might take to repress her bubbling spirits. She found herself with an intense hope that Solange would not take Melissa to that brink. Despite her own predicament she grinned at the eager face.
"Oh Monica, I'm so happy! I'd kiss you if I could but I can't reach up where you are." She giggled. "I'm sure you're hurting. But it's such a lovely way for a girl to be. I hope they hang me up like that-I'll ask Arlette."
"If you ask, then they won't do it."
"Spose' not. But I sort of half know what it's like from the way Arlette fixed me." She shivered deliciously. "You just know something awful will happen and you just stand there... All shivery and quivery. Then when you see the whip you know why you're tied like that-it's just perfect to whip a girl... Arlette was so sweet. Know what she did?"
"What?" Monica almost forgot her discomfort in the presence of this elfin sprite.
"Well, she told me what she was going to do. She showed me the whip and made me kiss it. Oh, oooo that was delicious. She said it wasn't long enough to curl all round-and it didn't." She giggled again. "Just for beginners I 'specs. Then she said she would aim very carefully so that I'd be pleased with my marks, and that she'd take a lot of time in between so I wouldn't have to scream... I wouldn't have anyway! And that's what she did. I like her so much. But, oh my, it does hurt across your back. Even spacing them out as she did I got more and more thankful I only had five. But, you poor dear, I 'spose they use the long whip on you?"
"Tes," said Monica with emphasis. "They do!"
"In between times while I wriggled all I could-you just have to! She made little jokes and told me I'd better enjoy this lovely five stripes before I got a lot more that would mess them up with criss cross. That really made me feel all funny to know I had more to look forward to. Then she said the nicest thing. When she chains me up for the night in my cell... My Cell! Doesn't that sound gorgeous! She is going to place a mirror there so I can admire what she calls: 'The so nice purple stripes.' Oh I like her so much."
Suddenly the door opened again. Melissa gasped: "Sorry darling. I just had five minutes." Then she was gone. The bolts thudded, the locks snapped.
Monica hung limp and began to feel the pain again.
She belonged solely to Solange. The Ring by the bed was her home. It was Solange who took her to the room next day.
This time the bench was very narrow. It's end was tight against, and fastened to, a vertical post. It formed a unit. Monica lay on her back on the bench. Then, under Solange's intent instruction, edged herself down so that her bottom was pressed firmly against the upright and her legs raised vertically at right angles to her body. Her waist was then strapped tight to the bench, all her chains unlocked, her arms taken straight down and strapped. Monica remembered with dismay the position in which Freddy had found her. This was similar. But she did not think it would end in quite the same way. She was right.
One of her legs was pulled down over the end of the bench and its ankle strapped tight. Her other leg was pressed firmly against the vertical post and strapped with her foot as straight and high as it would go. Solange stepped back satisfied. A quiet smile on her face. Monica was thus fastened on her back, arms down, one leg straight up where she could see it, the other bend down and back out of sight. Struggling experimentally she discovered that she could move scarcely at all. In such positions a girl's sex was prominently displayed. She hoped it would not be whipped again. Solange bent over her.
"Comfy, little pigeon?"
Monica played the game. "Oh yes, Mistress. Not as comfy as the Ring, of course. But a nice secure feeling." She grinned.
Solange's mood changed. She tenderly kissed the raised lips. "Do you love me?"
"You know I do."
"How much, Cherie?"
"When I asked for the bastinado you knew how much, Mistress. I will ask for it again if in such a way I can prove what I feel... "
"No, dear one. There is no need. I know." Her finger tips were light in the bound girl's hair. She seemed to be pondering: "You know that I love you very much?" Her eyes found Monica's almost hungrily.
"Yes Mistress. I do know."
"You can never know how much I love you. It has never been like this before with me."
A great welling of glad emotion made Monica's words hard to say: "Darling!" She smiled happily. 'Tes, I have broken our code. I do not care, Mistress. I want so much to prove: and I can do so little. I would give you anything."
"All the time I am hungry for you, Cherie. I must possess you utterly."
"I want you to... always!"
Solange's eyes raised themselves to some distant vision: "I will, Cherie. Be very sure... I will."
Once again it was a surprise. Monica grinned up at Arlette: "How did you get here?"
The French girl grinned back and gave her Gallic shrug. "I am here. Is it not enough?"
"But I thought...?"
Arlette's eyes twinkled. "Arlette knows. My little pigeon is thinking that naughty Arlette has stolen into the sacred room for a small peep at the lovely sacrifice our Mistress keeps all to herself, n'est ce pas?"
"Well... I suppose-"
"Of course you did. But this is not so." She pouted accusingly. "Our little naked girl she is so disappointed that it is not her so beautiful owner who stands here."
"Ne me taquiner pas. You are a tease." Monica tried her French. "But, honest, you won't get into trouble, will you?"
"It is our little pigeon who will get into trouble. She to whom we belong has given you to me for the whole day. That is bad... no?"
"You know it isn't. Are you going to be very cruel?"
"I would much like to whip that nice hairy sex that smiles when I come in the door," Arlette admitted. "But mademoiselle's day is already planned. Arlette does not decide-she works... "
"You made young Melissa happy yesterday," Monica acknowledged gratefully.
"She is easy to make happy-that one. I think I must whip her really hard before she stops the laughing."
"Be kind to her, darling."
"Mais oui. What else to one like that. She is easy to love. Already I think I love her very much."
The French girl leaned and once again kissed the willing lips, lingeringly and tenderly as they had been won't to do. Then rested her cheek gently between the taut breasts. Moments later Monica felt upon her skin the unmistakable wetness of tears.
Monica had never known Arlette to cry. Instinctively she sought to clasp her arms about the grief stricken girl. Foiled, she managed only to raise an inch or two and survey the dark hair and shaking shoulders. "What's the matter, darling?"
There was no answer. The captive relaxed and waited. When a girl must weep it is best to let her. But she wished her hands were free.
When the storm of emotion passed Arlette dabbed at her wet cheeks and the damp spot on her prisoner's chest. "You think Arlette is most silly, no."
"It's never silly to cry," said Monica from some deep wisdom.
"I have something to tell you that I like not at all... "
"You're going to marry Freddy?" Monica accused. "No."
"Then I suppose Solange is going to punish you for something?"
"I would not cry because of such a thing. Pouf... " I give up.
"I cry because in a little while I am going to brand you."
Every instinct hurled Monica against her bonds. She could not move. Appalled, she managed an incredulous: "Why?"
Arlette sniffed. "Cannot you guess?"
"You mean... Solange?"
"Mais oui. Who else!"
Once again the captive girl relaxed and considered a thing she was powerless to influence. Solange was going to have her branded. She examined the prospect and understood it. Viewed with detachment it became the most natural sequence in their love. She was a slave.
Slaves bore their Mistress's brand. She understood little and cared not at all that she was enveloped in a great surge of joy that she would bear Solange's mark upon her skin all the rest of her life. For anyone to see who might wish to see. She would wear it with such pride... After the first shock she ceased to think about the pain.
"It makes you happy. I can tell," said Arlette miserably.
Guilt seized Monica at the sight of her companion's melancholy. Striving for the right words that would not come, she herself started to cry. The eloquence of her tears appeased Arlette better than words. In the end they managed to smile.
"Let us talk about it," Arlette said. "It is for me to be practical."
The victim found herself less practical than curious. "Where are you going to put it?"
The French girl ran her finger across the skin high on the inside of the thigh of the raised foot. "Here."
"Right close so that anyone... anyone who-uses me will know who I belong to."
"You make the big joke." Arlette was reproachful.
Monica searched for the right thing to say. Arlette's grief made her feel insensitive. What was proper for a girl to say when she was about to feel a red hot iron pressed into her flesh?
"I suppose it's going to hurt something awful," she ventured. At that moment she did not care. But she knew it would be unkind to let Arlette know this-even though she probably guessed.
Arlette leaned over her again. "Arlette knows how it is with you, Cherie. You think you do not care. You love her so much-you are even glad. You think because of her you will not feel the pain." She shook her head dolorously. "This is not so."
"Well, don't let's talk about it. I'll scream and scream. Maybe that'll help."
"lf you wish I will gag you. It saves the shame one feels... "
"Have you done this before, Arlette?"
"Several times. I have become much expert. This is good."
"Because of Solange?"
"Because of Madam. But with none was the reason the same as with you."
"What is the best then, to be gagged?"
"It is what Arlette would choose."
"Then gag me please."
"Very well mademoiselle. It saves much shame. And now, mademoiselle, when would you like to be branded? We have all day."
"Do it now, darling, and get it over," Monica requested, uncaring.
The bound girl was able to watch the preparations. Arlette talked as she busied herself. A sort of final summation: "It is, my dear one, that Madam does two things today. She ends that which was between us. Even more finis than what I told you in your home that time. Then she marks you as her property for always. Truly she does not want the sorrow of doing this to you herself. So she tells me I must do it. Because I do it I am taught the lesson too, that you belong to her and not to me. Because I love you I will try so very hard to make what must be done so perfect as I am able."
She left the room, but returned almost immediately carrying a heavy brazier of glowing coals, a bellows, and the odd shaped elongated objects Monica guessed were the branding irons.
Interpreting her glance Arlette explained. "For you she spends the money as though it is-pouf, nothing. She has these irons made at special place in special way." She held up the lettered ends to view.
"But they're enormous!" For the first time Monica felt fear.
"They will make fine large letters," Arlette conceded. Experimentally she pressed one upon the place where, after it was heated, it would leave its mark. Despite resolution Monica cringed.
There are two letters. The 'S' for Solange and the 'D' for Dubois. They are about two inches high. I have to put them on you separately. I think it much best that they not be close. So I have the idea. Arlette will put one on each leg opposite each other in the same spot so they will match. Madam has said I may do this if it seems best. So that is what I do."
"I'm not tied properly for that, am I?" Monica was curious.
"It is a small thing, Cherie. When one leg is done, Arlette puts the other against the post. Pouf. Now it is best I put these things in the fire."
She pushed the metal rods deeply into the coals and used the bellows to bring the glow of intense heat. Catching Monica's fascinated gaze she suggested: "If you wish, Cherie, I will blindfold you so that you do not see these ugly things I do."
Monica wondered. But the thought of being blind and waiting for the touch of the iron was unbearable. She tried to be cheerful: "Thanks, sweetheart, but no, I'll watch."
But watching was not easy either. Intently Arlette went about her task. Using cord she tightened stricture after stricture around the raised leg welding it immovably against the post. Then she tightened the waist strap until Monica cried in distress. The other leg, too, received its share of additional bindings. When she was done Monica knew that, no matter what the pain, and no matter how she fought, that bare area free of cord and straps which was to receive the letter could not possibly move.
Arlette pulled an iron from the fire. It was smoking. Putting it back she used the bellows vigorously and tried again. This time the metal glowed red.
"The 'S' on the left and the 'D' on the right, n'est ce pas. It is nearly ready. Now I gag you."
Monica meekly opened her mouth and accepted the wad of rubber and lifted her head as much as she was able to help Arlette with the buckle. She was glad to feel it pulled very tight indeed. She would not scream. She would make no sound at all through her mouth. Arlette kissed her gently on each eye.
"So foolish a girl not to kiss you on the mouth before I gag. There! So tight. So beautiful. Now Arlette must work."
This time the metal glowed deep red. Monica watched until it was within inches of her flesh. Then closed her eyes and screamed and screamed into the comfort of the gag- Arlette performed her task.
Months afterwards when the two brands had healed to their ultimate perfection Monica knew that all her life she would feel gratitude to the girl who had placed them there with love.
* * *
It was when the second of the seven days was well behind her that Monica was happy to receive a visit from Diana. The two girls found much to talk about, their happy chatter constantly interrupted by an exuberant Melissa who, discovering the identity of the visitor, instantly shed her clothes to display her wounds of the seven days. She was inordinately proud and vain of the pattern of red and purple stripes. So obstreperous did she become that the two girls laughingly dragged her to her cell and chained her therein. Their last glimpse had been of the elfin face with a defiantly protruding tongue stuck out in indignation.
It was over the tea things after this diversion that they enjoyed a privacy that enabled Diana to broach the reason for her visit. Monica had sensed that her visitor was troubled. But she was quite unprepared for the nature of the distress.
"I say Monica. Do you know the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot?"
Monica felt sure the Honourable Freddy was bad news. But admitted to having met him. "What sort of a chap is he?"
"I'd call him an amusing rotter."
"Well, is he honest or dishonest-is there insanity in his family?"
Monica grinned. "I see you have met him! To tell you the truth I don't really know him well. We only met about three times."
"I made some inquiries about him. Comes from a frightfully good family and all that. He'll inherit a title. Lots of money. But he sort of just messes about, doesn't be? The man-about-town effect."
"Tes, that's Freddy."
T mean... is there an ugly streak in him? Does he go out of his way to hurt people?"
"I wouldn't say that."
"Well, he's jolly well going out of his way to hurt me," Diana affirmed vehemently. "And I never saw him before in my life." She looked at Monica piteously. She seemed close to tears. "Can I tell you the story?"
"I suppose he wants to get into bed with you?"
"Oh, nothing that simple. It's worse... much worse."
She drank a cup of tea as though needing strength. Then resumed: "He's active in a part of London Society. Goes to functions and has the odd bash himself-he's got quite a big house. I got taken there the other day by a chap I'm rather keen on. It was quite gay. Dancing, music, cards for the older men. You know, the regular thing. It began early and went on late. Dick and I were some of the last to leave. We'd enjoyed ourselves. Freddy had been quite charming in the little we had to do with him. Freddy went to the same school and they have kept in touch, that's how we got there in the first place.
"Before we reached the gate a man touched me on the shoulder and, very politely, asked if I'd mind going back to Mr. Arbuthnot's study. When we got there we found the Honourable Freddy and a policeman. They asked to see my purse. I was furious. But Dick said it was best to let them. They found twenty five pound notes in an envelope. They had a list of numbers. They matched. Everyone looked at me... Imagine how I felt.
"Then they turned the purse inside out looking for something. When they didn't find it they asked if they might have my coat. They saw a place down by the hem where some stitching had been cut. Inside were several rings and cuff links. They all looked expensive. Now even Dick looked at me. I could almost hear the prison door clang.
"What would you have done? I was furious. It was some sort of a trick. But why! They listened in a bored but polite sort of way while I raged as though they'd heard it all before. When I ran out of breath Freddy suggested, in a fine dignified judicial sort of way that before he pressed charges he would like to see if there were any extenuating circumstances. Would the police, therefore, take their notes. The matter would be finalized the following day. The constable seemed relieved. But the detective was angry. I think he would have enjoyed hauling me away in handcuffs. Anyway they agreed and left. Freddy said we all needed a night's sleep and that he and I would discuss the matter the next day over lunch at Ciro's.
"I didn't sleep much. It was awful. I could hardly get less than three or four years for that lot. But it was Mum and Dad that was the worst. I've told you about that Oklahoma affair. I was still a black sheep. If this got sprung on them I was sunk forever.
"Freddy was sympathetic. He agreed the sentence would be severe. Asked me why I did it-I'll swear there was a twinkle in his eye. I think he was just playing with me. After a lot of chit chat he brought the conversation round to you-it seemed so odd. Then he looked at his watch and said he had to run. But that I wasn't to worry. I was to go and see you. Tell you this story, and that after you'd heard it you would know just what to do. He said that several times: that you'd know what to do.
"Oh, Monica. I'm so scared. Do you know what to do?"
"Yes," Monica assured her. She knew exactly what had to be done.
The London residence of the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot was indeed impressive. So was the Honourable Freddy. He was immaculate. His manners impeccable. His greeting warm. Monica was invited to pour tea.
"You are a cad, you know," she said.
An inclination of the head was his acknowledgment.
"My deeds are dastardly," he admitted. "But one does what one must."
"You didn't have to do that to Diana."
Freddy waved his hand negligently. "Likable girl, that. Just a temporary distress for her. Really your fault, of course... "
Monica was furious. "My fault!!!"
"Of course. Had to think of some way to get you into my little room."
"Why not kidnap me?"
"Oh come. Hardly sporting, that."
"D'you call this sport!"
"Well, actually, yes. Thrill of the chase and all that. Haughty heroine on her knees, don't y'know."
"What's your price?" She made it as haughty as she could.
"Oh, I say, dear girl. I heard those exact lines at the Stratford Empire day before yesterday. Shocking drama."
"What do I have to do?"
The Honourable Freddy told her in great detail exactly what would be required of her if Diana was not to go to prison.
She listened angrily and miserably. He was determined to leave her no shred of pride.
"You know I'll never remember everything exactly like that."
He handed her several sheets of paper. "Your lines," he said in a level voice. "Study them overnight. You will arrive here sharp at two p.m. tomorrow."
Furiously she was about to tear the sheets across and across. Then thought better of it and, tight lipped, slipped them in her bag.
"You see," said Freddy, "you're already beginning to like me."
It was a. determined young woman who appeared at the appointed time. Monica had ceased to underrate the Honourable Freddy. The task he had given her would not be easy for a girl in her frame of mind. She was surprised, and almost flattered, by its subtleties. She sensed steel in him. What she must do she had best do well. Bracing herself as does an actress on opening night she knocked on the door. Its opening would be her cue to enter from the wings.
She gave him no time for usual civilities, but swept upon him with swirling skirts and a waft of very strong perfume and, clasping him in her arms, bestowed a long and lingering kiss. That done she gently nipped his ear. "Darling Freddy. Think of it. I am all yours."
There was the familiar twist of his lips. A glint in his eyes. Again he used the inclination of the head.
Slowly Monica sank upon her knees before him. Seeking his hand she devoured it with her lips. Leaning back upon her heels she looked up into his eyes: "Darling Freddy has something sweet to show his little Monica?"
It was indeed a pleasant room. Monica reflected bitterly that perhaps the past tense should be used. It was exactly as he had promised. A perfect replica. She shrugged inwardly-at least she was experienced.
Monica gave a squeal of delight and turned to embrace her companion once again: "Oh dear, dear Freddy. All this for just little me?"
He nodded. She knew she was winning.
"Oh darling. I'm so excited! May I strip my clothes off naked?"
She took her time and did it with as much grace as she could contrive. She had heard that men loved to see a girl strip. Well, Freddy should have his money's worth. She would do it slowly and provocatively. Naked was naked no matter how you arrived. She stole brief glances and was satisfied with his rapt attention.
Standing on her toes she made a couple of swirling circles, arms flung wide. Let him look. It was like cold water. Jump in and get it over. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at the sinister bench as though seeing it for the first time. Clapping her hands she exclaimed in ecstasy as though it had been a golden couch. "Dearest one," she asked, "please may I try?"
It felt familiar. She reflected wryly that so many things felt familiar to her now. She settled herself by wriggling into the exactly correct position: "Darling, be a pet and strap me down, please."
When it was done she tested the bonds: "Freddy, be a sweet boy. I think the left wrist and my tummy are a little slack. Would you please?"
Freddy cinched all the straps again, brutally. Instead of wincing as she wanted to she smiled enchantingly. "Thank you, sweet. You are kind to me." She paused and twinkled at him. "But isn't there a little something missing? Look at little Monica's feet. See! She's kicking them." She kicked up and down enticingly.
It was hard to keep the smile going while he fitted the anklets, strapping as brutally tight as all the others. But she managed it.
"You're so clever," she cooed. "I'd never have thought of it myself. But wouldn't it be a good idea if you sort of stretched them-just the teensiest bit? I mean so you could get a nice look at my fur." She giggled. "Sorry darling: so you can have a nice look at my cunt."
She was afraid now. What was past was simple. But if he tugged as hard now he would hurt her frightfully. She supposed it possible that enough force could tear some part of her.
But Freddy was careful. She reflected bitterly that, after all, he had an interest in keeping her in one piece. She ended up wickedly stretched but undamaged. Determined that he should have no cause for complaint she smiled winningly and suggested: "Dearest, I'm sure that if you tightened each of them just one more hole my cunt would open up much more nicely for you."
She did indeed feel her lower lips open under the increased pull. She was in real pain. This was really a torture-a punishment. Not a love couch. Certainly now her legs and loins would stand no more stretching. But, she reflected ruefully, a girl had other attributes.
"Please Freddy, please be a dear and suck and bite my titties."
She hated him and herself because, quite rapidly, what he was doing above began to blur the pain below.
"Oh Freddy, you are so wonderful. Do you think you could put a finger in my cunt and massage my clit?"
Freddy stopped when he sensed she was near orgasm. She knew this to be her final cue.
"Darling. Please shove your cock up my cunt and fuck me all afternoon."
Monica knew she had said all that really mattered.
* * *
There was no doubt about Diana's gratitude. Nor was there any doubting her curiosity. She looked at Monica wide eyed as though she had worked a miracle. Monica felt neither need or wish to explain. Instead she invited the thankful girl to stay with them for a week. They would amuse themselves with Melissa and see London.
Monica had worked out a routine for her ward. There was a code of behavior. Each item carried a punishment for infringement. True it was more of a game between them. A game in which Melissa unblushingly broke the rules and often deliberately invited retribution. But here and there on the list were items that, to Monica, were important inasmuch as she saw them as a responsibility to insure Melissa's wellbeing, these injunctions if violated offered the delinquent inflictions severe enough to deter. She made it clear, too, that under certain circumstances her punishment would know no limit. Melissa accepted it all with bright eyed enthusiasm and tongue in cheek.
The child was delicious. An endless source of joy. The punishments Monica felt called upon to deliver did no more than contain her within wide limits of tolerance.
Early in a day of shopping and theatres the three of them were in a secluded corner of a bookshop when Monica heard her name spoken within an unmistakable giggle. Turning she was horrified to behold her cousin standing stark naked except for boots and stockings. The little minx had contrived to leave the house clad in no more than boots, stockings and a scarf. Her coat had effectively covered the rest of her. If she let it slip from her shoulders, as she did now, she was nude. This prank cost her a punishment that, for her, was particularly frustrating. To be with them whenever they were in the house, for a period of twenty-four hours, stripped, her hands tied behind her back, and wearing a gag. It was the gag Melissa hated. The other two girls exhausted themselves with laughter watching her fury at being unable to speak.
Having served her penance for this one Melissa most unwisely sought revenge by putting glue inside her companions shoes. Her wide eyed protestations of innocence were so palpably false that even she had to join in the hilarity. She was made to clean the mess: An obvious risk she had never even considered. The rest of her day she spent hanging by her wrists with her toes just barely on the floor. When released she soberly conceded that she "would try and be a good girl." Diana and Monica hearing the tone of voice in which this pious declaration was made were much tempted to hang her up again.
Monica was obliged to brief the child on the problems created by the wounds she bore from her branding. Monica had no wish to explain these to Diana, so avoided total nudity when in her company. Melissa's constant desire to compare "marks" had to be curbed. But Monica did allow her to view the wounds when she placed fresh bandages on them daily. Melissa was enraptured and impatient for them to heal so that the letters would be clearly etched in the flesh, as usual she demanded that she, too, be branded-but with Monica's initials. A wish that was very firmly squashed. Monica had an amused vision of Aunt Millie viewing such a phenomenon. Had it not been for Aunt Millie Monica might have been tempted to accede to the fervid demand. There was something about a brand... She knew she herself was becoming daily more proud of those she bore as they healed and began to take form. Freddy had shrugged off the bandages with amused nonchalance. They had not spoiled his enjoyment. He advanced the view that, after his first visit there, nothing that emanated from the house of Madam Dubois could possibly astound.
Monica often thought back to her two almost incredible experiences with The Honourable Freddy. They never seemed quite true. Their last good-bye had by no means been appropriate to the occasion. She had not raged or spit at him. He had shown neither pride or shame. It puzzled her. It had been as though a married couple had made love, dressed, and gone about the affairs of the day. Freddy had been gravely courteous, attentive, admiring her with his eyes. When it was done he made no reference to what had taken place. He did not speak either of the past or of the future. He contrived normalcy. Her own mind had been so bemused with things to say or not to say that she had said nothing. Later she was annoyed by this failure to express contempt. He might so easily interpret her silence as assent.
Thus it was that when, a couple of weeks after Diana had gone home, she opened her door to find Freddy on the step she was in no way surprised. There was a sort of inevitability about it. Once more she found herself without a suitable retort. Even over tea which, though furious with herself, she felt compelled to offer, she still failed to marshal the army of condemnation that came so easily to mind when he was not there. All she managed was: "Blackmail again this time?"
"No," said Freddy. "Don't really make a habit of-it, y'know."
"White slavery perhaps?"
"Ah, that one appeals. How about you being the first in my stable?"
"Child beating? Or you'd make an excellent confidence man."
"Frightfully flattering, dear girl. Not nearly enough child beating being done. But what I really had in mind was beating you."
He said it so casually that Monica failed to catch its full import, but treated it with levity.
"Why didn't you? You had me helpless enough on my last visit."
"Hardly sporting, old girl. Besides, I hadn't thought of it."
"To what am I indebted for your present thoughtfulness?"
Freddy shifted awkwardly in his chair. It was the first time she had seen him search for words: "To tell you the truth, Poppet, I'm not quite sure myself."
"And this beating? Are you going to knock me about after tea?"
"Not really my form that. No, I intend to whip you."
As usual the words wouldn't come. She understood how women were supposed to throw things. The potful of tea would be most satisfying.
"What coercion are you going to use to bring me to heel?"
He looked her straight in the eyes. A level direct message: "None."
They sat silent, eyes locked. Sarcasms died on Monica's lips. He meant what he said. Without wanting to she examined the proposition.
"I suppose you have made the structural alterations?"
"Yes." Just the single word.
"You are suggesting that I meekly walk into your nice bright room just to oblige you?"
"Yes."
"Well, surely you can give me some sort of reason why I should, can't you?"
"Not really, Poppet. I've thought about this a lot, and tried to pin it down. The fact is y'know both of us are under the influence of the good Madam's house. You from having been an inmate and me picking up bits and pieces from Arlette."
Freddy took another piece of cake, thoughtfully.
"Hasn't it occurred to you that if it wasn't for the rum goings on there we would never have met-"
"A pity we did!"
He held up his hand placatingly. "Quite, quite, and all that. But seriously: I suggest that had it not been for your time there you could never have brought yourself to have spent that last afternoon with me. You would have had the noble impulse. But without whatever it is that Madam instills in you girls you would have had to let poor little Diana go to prison. Fate worse than death, and all that."
The same thought had occurred to Monica. She refused to acknowledge it.
"Arlette shouldn't have told you things."
"Don't blame the dear girl. It goes back before your time." He grinned amusedly. "Y'know among the upper crust Madam's name is a household word. Douce damsels quail before it. Surprising how many debutantes had their bottoms striped there before being presented at Court. They pass the word around. One little filly really told me a tale-thought she was pulling my leg until I met Arlette. I bet you've been whipped more times than you can remember?"
Monica flushed. It was true.
"So you feel one more or less won't really matter to me?"
"Be honest. Will it?"
"But why do you want to whip me? Do you dislike me? Are you naturally cruel... what do they call it-sadist? You must have picked up the wish recently. Goodness knows no man ever had a better chance than you have with me."
Freddy nodded seriously. He seemed so very sure of himself. "It's much the same as last time. A tremendous emotional experience. Incredibly novel circumstances." He grinned at her again. "There's something about you that invites this sort of thing. You're so damn beautiful."
"You mean you have picked up a silly erotic fantasy and expect me to suffer agonies so you can add it to your collection of conquests."
"You know you enjoy it."
She waved her hands in despair. "Freddy, you are quite impossible."
"I suppose you keep going back for these seven day visits just to gossip?"
Monica blushed, and knew he saw the blush.
"And I suppose those two brands on your legs got there by accident?"
"They are none of your business!"
"Good thing she didn't put 'em any higher. Chance for a bit of coarse humor there."
She stamped her foot. "Stop it. You'd better go."
"Let's say the same time tomorrow, shall we?"
"Have you brought me my cue sheets again?" Monica asked icily.
For the first time Freddy looked as though a shot had got home.
"Not really, dear girl. You don't need 'em." Freddy leaned forward. "Look, all this repartee aside, you were pretty damn marvelous. If there had been a gold cup around I'd have handed it to you. If you'd wanted to tell me to believe what you said and did I'd have to believe you."
She flushed under his earnestness. This had to stop. "I simply refuse. The answer is-No. You knew it would be."
He spaced his words. They were spoken with a quiet knowledge: "You will do it. You will do it because you want to. You will do it because it is there to be done. You will do it for the same reasons that takes you to the famous House. You will do it for the same reason that somewhere around these premises you probably have Melissa in some similar predicament, and you will do it because there is something in you that sees it as a challenge that you would never forgive yourself if you reneged on."
His voice trailed away. There came a long silence.
"Are you satisfied just to whip me, or must I crawl too?"
"You must crawl."
"Very well," said Monica. "Tomorrow."
It was a pleasant walk between their two houses. Monica used the time for reflection. She felt propelled by a force she could not control. What she was about to do would have been beyond credence a year ago, and quite beyond her capacity to perform. She conceded that she was doing it now because she wanted to. But as to why she wanted to she did not know. It was just part of the pattern of her amazing new life. True, she was annoyed with herself for allowing Freddy to have his way with her, but she would not let this irritation rob her of an experience which, by the tenets of this new existence, possessed a certain logic. She was unable to decide whether she liked or disliked the Honourable Freddy. There was a kind of fascination arising from his bland assumption that life would give him what he wanted. His very outrageousness piqued curiosity and gave him a certain charm. In a sense it gave him a sort of power over her. She vowed to watch this influence and keep control over it.
Appalling as society might view the manner in which she would spend the afternoon, she found herself unable to view Freddy in too sinister a light. She was willing to believe him prompted by no more than curiosity and an amused eroticism. She had glimpses of fear if she let her imagination run. But she doubted he would hurt her more than she had been hurt innumerable times in the routines of Solange's House; a degree within her tolerance to bear. Pride prompted a wish to humble him by nonchalantly bearing inflictions beyond the capacity of other girls. She ruefully reflected that pride came before a fall. But she was determined to best him if she could. To that end she carried a small bag.
His insistence that she crawl, and her acceptance of the condition did not disturb. It was truly a game. Both saw it as such. She enjoyed his admiration for the manner in which she carried it off. If it was intended to humiliate it failed.
The room had not changed. Her shameful bench was still there. But her eye instantly focused on the new ropes and pulleys designed for her discomfort. Gauging their placement she knew she would stand a few feet in front of the bench. Around her would be much space. Ample space for that which would be done. Freddy was attentive and charming. He glowed with amused admiration for her animated chatter which took them through the formalities of greeting. From her: "Oh Freddy, you are so sweet to ask me over to be whipped all afternoon," to her matter-of-fact: "Darling, may I strip naked now?" she carried them to the point where, standing naked and proud, she offered him her wrists for the leather cuffs. As he fastened them on her she admired his thoughtfulness in providing these fresh facilities and offered the hope they would both profit from their use. Somehow she managed to avoid sarcasm.
She watched fascinated, and only slightly apprehensive, as Freddy used the winch. Her hands and arms rose as though possessed of a life of their own until she stood with arms outspread and tautly raised. She fervently hoped he would not raise her until she hung. He didn't. When her heels were an inch off the floor he stopped.
Monica almost wished she could produce a blush. Certainly this taut exposure before a man demanded one. But she had been fastened like this so many times by Arlette and by Solange that she no longer felt shame, embarrassment, or even pain. She was pleased with her position inasmuch as she knew it exposed a girl to her best possible advantage. The look in Freddy's eyes told her that she was scoring heavily. Despite her seeming disadvantage she resolved to try and dominate the situation.
"Freddy, it's so darling of you to fasten me like this. I think it's just the very position for a girl to be whipped in, don't you?"
"Well, there is the more conventional touch your toes, Poppet."
"Oh that's just to cane my bottom, dearest. This way you cane or whip every little bit of me. I am a lucky girl."
"Are you quite sure, poppet?" Freddy asked quizzically as he produced from under the bench a truly wicked cane and an equally wicked whip. It was a thing of beauty but, looking at it, Monica felt a spasm of fear. "I bought these specially for you. The shop chappie assured me that even the most obdurate females confess all after about five strokes. Wouldn't have insulted you with anything less."
Monica's knowledge of such matters told her that she would have been happier with something less demanding to live up to. But no quiver of such sentiment showed on her face. She beamed admiringly: "You are so thoughtful. It's what I like about you, Freddy. Lesser men would have got some quite ordinary whip to beat me with. But not you. Why, that beautiful thing will simply slice my skin and leave the most delightful wounds. You'll be so proud."
Unabashed, Freddy circled the naked girl admiringly as though assessing the best places to use the lash. Reaching the bench he sat up on it and surveyed his prize.
"I have to hand it to Madam," he said. "Those two brands are a work of pure genius. No mistaking who you belong to." As though suddenly inspired he suggested: "What say we put an 'F' and an 'A' right underneath them?"
"A girl cannot serve two masters, Freddy," Monica managed coyly.
"No, Poppet, but she can jolly well serve a Master and a Mistress." He laughed coarsely. "How about on your bottom-one on each cheek?"
"But, Freddy, then I couldn't even see them." She hoped he wasn't serious. "Besides, I came here to get a nice whipping. Not to get branded."
"Is any whipping nice?" he asked quite soberly.
How strange a man! A girl never knew where she was with him. "Not really, darling." She answered cautiously. "It all depends on the spirit in which it is given and received." She supposed there was some truth in what she had said.
He flexed the cane experimentally. Despite herself Monica could not take her eyes off it. "I'll start with your bottom-that's the usual, isn't it? After I've got warmed up-or should I say after you've got warmed up-" again his ribald laugh, "we can go on to the whip. Damned extraordinary situation y'know. Hardly believe it... "
"Oh, but you will, darling, once I start to scream," Monica assured his cheerfully.
"Do you stay this happy when it's actually happening to you?" he asked with a mixture of sarcasm and curiosity.
"You'll find out, won't you kind Sir." Monica was provokingly demure.
Her reward was instant and shocking. The pain as the new cane bedded itself deep into her bottom flesh was the equal of anything she had ever known from such a source. Freddy had a strong arm. Monica's breath caught in her throat. For a moment she closed her eyes as though absorbing the agony and willing it to pass. Then, vivaciously, she trilled: "Oh darling, how clever you are! That hurt me atrociously. Oh I just know this is going to be the most wonderful caning I've ever had."
"With the whip to follow," he reminded her jocosely.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Freddy gave her five more hard strokes on the same spot in rapid succession. It was pure cruelty. The cumulative agony was so excruciating that she bit her tongue to hold back her screams. Nor could she hold a pose but kicked and writhed within the small tolerance her bonds permitted. At the end she was panting, sweat ran down her flanks. It took her moments to compose her features. He had come directly in front of her again. They looked directly at each other. She contrived a wan smile and said: "Thank you kind Sir." It was the best she could do.
"That's better," Freddy said unexpectedly. "It'll teach you not to be pert."
Once again he hitched himself into sitting on the bench where he had a perfect vision of her pained nudity. He was still flexing the cane.
"Damn rum business," he mused. "I enjoyed doing that to you: I'd wondered if I would or not." He fell silent, watching her obvious distress. "Mind you," he continued reflectively, "I'm not sure yet whether I enjoyed it because it took you down a peg-it did y'know! Or whether it was a sensuous thrill from the feel of it thunking into that soft skin of yours. Bit of both, I expect. Easy to see it could become habit forming. By the way, what's the form on this? What's considered a proper dose for a young lady like you?"
It had given Monica time to compose herself. Her bottom was on fire. But even though she did not now expect to win the battle she was not ready to surrender.
"At least twenty strokes, kind Sir."
"Twenty!" exclaimed Freddy incredulously. "Why, I've given you six already-I mean... we've scarcely got nicely started-and we've got all afternoon?"
"It's customary to space them somewhat more humanely."
"But dammit, girl. Even if I'm downright humane, let's say we chat from time to time-you'll end up with a couple of hundred."
"But, Freddy dear, surely you got caned at school? At least once? Could you have stood two hundred?"
"Well, I wouldn't actually have wanted them... "
She stood silent.
"Looks like being a bad afternoon for you?" Freddy eyed her questioningly.
Monica brought out the only artillery she had: "Well, just in case... I did bring something... "
"Chloroform?"
"No, silly boy. But I did think... I mean, it sort of occurred to me... " She wondered hesitantly how this might sound to him. "I didn't really expect you'd want to cane me steadily all afternoon. I thought... " She blushed and wailed: "Oh it's so difficult to say. It sounds so absurd for me to be saying this. But I thought you'd enjoy a bit of variety so I brought some other whips. They're in that bag I had. If you really must be hurting me all afternoon it would be best not to do it all in one place-or even in two places... You don't want to take me home on a stretcher, do you?"
Freddy brightened perceptibly. "I say, what a corking idea! No, no stretcher! May I look?"
She nodded toward the bag. "Of course."
Freddy rummaged inside and withdrew a quite small whip with many braided thongs. He looked at her questioningly.
"That's for whipping my breasts." She flamed scarlet.
He next produced a whip with three light leather thongs. He viewed it scornfully. "Wouldn't have thought this in your class."
"Well, I thought... You see I've done all this before. I do sort of know all about the difficulties. One of the problems of whipping a girl is that if you want to spend a lot of time doing it as you want to this afternoon you can't possibly use things too severe or she'll be dead by evening. So this whip was made for such a purpose. It hurts far more than you think. But it doesn't injure and you can go on with it. They use it on us a lot at Madam's just for that reason. Madam believes a girl does a lot of good thinking while she is being whipped-she does, too! So it should last a long time. We all hated that whip. Just because it went on and on and on... In the end we hated it as much as we hated the other. But the marks it makes don't stay on your skin forever."
"In other words you'd like me to use it on you instead of that nice one I bought... "
Freddy put it down and tried again. This time it was a Martinet. Six flexible lashes on a short handle. This time Monica found it even more difficult to answer his raised eyebrow. "That's to... that's in case-I thought perhaps you'd like to whip my sex."
"You are just too good to be true," said Freddy admiringly. He examined her stretched nudity, giving particular attention to that portion she had just mentioned. "Doesn't look too practical, old girl."
Her blush had become a permanent fixture. "It isn't much good in this position. You have to stretch my legs out on the bench."
Freddy slapped his thigh in pure enjoyment. "By jove, of course! Perfect, what! Have to try that. Absolutely. He sobered slightly. "But how badly does it hurt you?"
"Are you hoping, or just nervous?"
That shaft of wit earned Monica one more savage slash across her bottom. Freddy evidently believed in striking with vigor or not at all. Swallowing the pain she said: "Thank you very much," then continued: "It hurts terribly, of course. But if you use that whip it won't damage anything. They use the same one to whip up and down the inside of a girl's thighs where the flesh is very tender. It's terrible. None of us ever manage to stand it without howling. They do that in the same position, of course."
"Amazingly versatile pose, that," Freddy agreed. "Gives me ideas... "
Monica knew what his idea was. But ignored it. "You see, Freddy," she explained, "when you make an art or a pastime of whipping girls you have to consider the maximum effect with the minimum damage. That's why you just have to have so many whips. Right now you are caning my bottom. But I don't think you'd consider that cane suitable to whip my breasts with. The same with that lovely whip you purchased. If you used that on my breasts you'd cut my nipples off."
"Right, Poppet. Musn't damage the merchandise." Freddy looked at his watch. "Here's the agenda: I'll whip you slowly for thirty minutes with the one you recommend. If I see it's not hurting enough I'll change it. At the end of thirty minutes I'm going to have one glorious slash at you with that treasure I bought-can't just jettison it y'know. Then we'll have tea."
It was just that simple. Freddy whipped away at his victim slowly and with much experimentation and comment. Monica knew a total unreality that she should be standing there naked carrying on an intermittent conversation with a young man who was busy whipping her body. Thirty minutes was a long time to be whipped. But it was a degree of pain that she was familiar with. She knew its limits. Freddy had ceased to exert full force. She managed to bear what she must with no more than gasps and small struggles. Sometimes he varied his treatment by returning to the cane and her bottom. At such times it took all her fortitude not to scream. Whenever he paused with a wish to chat she forced herself to calmness and did her best to accommodate him.
When the time was over she knew with certainty she was afraid. The nagging pain of the thirty minutes had sapped her courage. What she faced now, even though it was only one stroke would break her down. Or could she hold on... could she? Freddy had discarded that which he had been using. Now he was in front of her playing lovingly with the implement of pain that Monica could only gaze at with horror.
"It's really beautiful, Freddy," she said admiringly and hoped for the best.
She followed him with her gaze as he walked back to take up position behind her. Looking over her shoulder she saw him raise his arm. She turned away and closed her eyes.
Tea was a surprising success. Quite unreal, of course. But she was coming to expect the unreal as a matter-of-fact. Freddy insisted on tying her feet together tightly with cord before he released her. "No use dangling temptation in front of you," he pointed out. "Wouldn't blame you for doing a bolt." She protested and offered him her word that she would not even try to escape-though, secretly, she could see logic in his act. But Freddy seemed to find amusement in robbing her of ability to walk, so she did not argue, and even put her arms round his neck when he carried her to the lounge, as he was obliged to do. It being too great a distance for her to hop.
Once she was in the big chair before the fire he insisted that she pour. Her bound legs did not discommode her and she played hostess with much pleasure. There was a band of fire round her waist at which she had to dab with a handkerchief from time to time for the single lash had drawn blood as she had feared it would do. She knew that she would now bear a second circular band, perhaps for the rest of her life. It would match the one Arlette had put there long ago. But she refused to allow the wound to detract from their enjoyment. Freddy was in no way contrite for having put it there. She suspected he was rather proud that she would be compelled to wear this mark he had placed upon her. She refused, also, to be affected by the certainty that when this interlude was over she would find herself rigidly fastened and most shamefully punished. She thought, almost with amusement, of her cringing sex and all it had to bear. She also made a mental note to warn him not to whip her scarcely healed brands. Apart from the pain she did not want their perfection marred.
"How do you stand it?" Freddy asked suddenly.
She considered. Then told him of the hours and the days and the weeks in which the girls in the house of Madam Dubois entered a new and strange world. A world in which their temperaments might flower in unpredictable ways. She told him of imprisonment, of chains and of the whip. She did not pretend that she was inured to pain or that what he was now inflicting on her was in any way bearable or pleasurable. But she told him of the girl's philosophy that if you rejected hope and a dream of cessation and refused to accept panic you would survive. The knowledge that all things end was surprisingly sustaining.
"Why do you go back there?"
She flushed and refused to answer.
"I can whip you until you tell me?"
"You could. But you won't."
He shrugged away the implication of decency. "Your brands answer the question quite explicitly." He grinned at her. "And what will the good Madam say when she sees my marks on her little slave girl?"
It was a question Monica had wondered about herself. "She'll probably put some more right on top of them," Monica assured him mournfully. "You ought to be grateful for getting at me first."
It was rather fun being carried back again. She wished she could have known him differently. Yet, without the pain, he could never have existed for her. Immediately he placed her on the bench she thrust her arms down to be secured, then watched, as like old times, as he unbound her ankles and strapped her waist and stretched her legs. This time not to their ultimate degree. She expected some coarse reference to the lips of her sex, and was almost tempted to make one herself in the hope that, since it was to be whipped, he would refrain from tightening the straps so as to open them wide. But he was thoughtful and stopped short of the stricture that had always shamed her.
Freddy looked at the Martinet in his hand. He looked at her triangle of hair with its pouting lips. He looked quizzically at her.
"I bet there isn't another chap in town who's ever done this," he said.
"Aren't you lucky!"
She supposed her remark was pert. It made as good a commencement signal as any. As the first blow fell she thought ruefully of the other times, then settled herself within her bonds to absorb the pain and to endure. She could raise her head just enough that she could watch. She did not like watching. It was too awful to see the thongs slashing down on her defenseless loins. But she was pleased to observe that her gaze discomforted her tormentor. She watched through the whole of her punishment.
Fortunately Freddy appeared to regard this particular infliction on her as having some humor. His blows were not vicious. He took an almost clinical interest in examining the effects of his work on this most intimate area of the female anatomy. He varied his stance and the placement of his strokes. She suspected he became deliberately involved as a protection against her accusing eyes.
When he took the last whip from her bag they both looked at it dubiously. She had hoped he might not use it. She hated having her breasts whipped. They were a girl's most treasured possession. It was a ravagement, a rape to see them flogged. She hated it even when it was done by Arlette or by Solange. For she literally did see them being whipped. How could a girl fail to see. She had tried closing her eyes. But they always made her open them. It was part of the punishment.
"Y'know, when I first saw this thing and you told me what it was for I could hardly believe it. I said to myself: Ah that's not for old Freddy. Couldn't do that to a girl." He smiled shamefacedly. "But somehow along the way that noble intent seems to have got lost. Fact is you're so damn delicious. Seems silly, but one could almost say you were made to be whipped. Anyway. I've done the rest of you, as it were-might as well finish the job. Complete coverage, eh! No pun intended."
She agreed resignedly. "As you say, you've done the rest of me-might as well do me all. Besides I don't want to have to come back next week for something you forgot." She smiled appealingly up at him. "Darling, the way they generally whip a girl's breasts is one at a time. You whip the one on the right and when you think it's nicely done you go round the other side and start on the left."
Freddy followed her instructions.
She wondered if she would have to endure teasing when it was over. Would he leave her there. Would he try and think of something else to do to her. Often Solange would tease like that. Sometimes it was hard to bear if you were tired and hurting. After the last stroke she watched him replace all her whips in her bag and close it. Turning suddenly he caught her glance and interpreted it. "I'm sure you'd like to lay there quiet for an hour or so and rest," he suggested slyly.
"No."
"Have you anything to say about it?"
"No," she admitted. "I can tell you I want terribly to be set free. But I can't make you do it."
"How does it feel now that it's over? Your whipping, that is... P"
"It's heavenly," she acknowledged. "It's the most beautiful feeling there is. You know, Freddy," she paused somberly, "I sometimes think that's part of the reason you're trying to discover: Perhaps that's part of what prompts us. This coming out on the other side. This calm after the storm. Please untie me Freddy."
"Not yet, Poppet. Unfinished business, what?"
"Must you?"
"Don't be feminine. Today I refuse to be made to feel like a bounder. You may not realize it but you look delectable with all those stripes. No man could resist. All your fault really... "
"I'm sure it is," Monica said icily, though her eyes sparkled. "And now, if you please, release me, kind sir."
"You don't really expect me to, do you?"
"No, I suppose I don't." She strove for a properly resigned effect.
"Are you going to ask me nicely?"
"Do I have to do that? Surely the way I'm fixed is invitation enough."
"No, Poppet. Much nicer visiting when you're invited."
"Must I... must I use that awful word?"
"Of course. Non synonym half as explicit."
She looked him squarely in the eyes and hoped her courage the equal of her fervor: "Freddy, I'm not going to say that beastly word. I've said it enough. Go ahead and whip me all night. I won't say it. There is a synonym that's better-much better... "
Fearfully she watched the resolution harden in his eyes and the tightness of his mouth. She could almost feel the whip searching and excoriating. The tremor that ran through her being endowed her voice with a quiver appealingly feminine: "Freddy, please love me."
Freddy loved her.
* * *
It was Solange's idea. A brief incident. But worth record as part of Monica's increasing involvement. The lady's name was Mrs. Hardcastle; somewhat descriptive of the woman who bore it. She was certainly built on the lines of early Norman architecture and the word hard was apt. She was a neighbor of Mrs. Spicer Bassett. She had daughters. She had heard stories. She, would visit to see what she might see. This innocent intent complicated by Mrs. Spicer Bassett's belief that "Young Poppy" might do the honors. A thought that horrified Solange, for young Poppy was clumsy. She would trip on her chains, spill tea on the visitor and be no credit to The House. A well meaning child. But not in the drawing room.
The answer was obvious.
Mrs. Hardcastle examined the Drawing Room. It looked like money. She approved. She had approved of the trim maid. Now she found herself with an even warmer approval of the quite lovely naked girl who walked smilingly toward her with a grace in no way impeded by the silver chains she wore from wrist and angle. Mrs. Hardcastle approved of naked girls.
"Dear Mrs. Hardcastle. Madam has delegated me to attend you. I am at your service. Tea will arrive soon."
The charming creature knelt on one knee in obeisance before rising and, standing back a few paces, stood receptive and alert: "What have you got those things on for?"
The girl raised her chained hands and examined them as though seeing them for the first time. Then, holding her wrists apart to the length of their tether, offered them for the visitor's-inspection.
"We are always kept chained."
"To keep you from running away?"
"Only in part. It has been found that if a girl is kept chained constantly she will lose her adolescent urge for inordinate freedom."
Hmmm! Big words for a young pullet like this. But seemed spontaneous enough. Damn fine hips. Mrs. Hardcastle approved of hips.
"Heavens above! Have you been branded?"
"Yes madam."
"S on one side and D on the other, eh?"
"They are the initials of Madam Dubois."
"She do that to all the girls?" Mrs. Hardcastle was startled.
"Why you then?" Mrs. Hardcastle leered. She had guessed.
"It is an honor that I valued, madam."
"I bet you did! Must have hurt like blazes?"
"Yes, madam." The girl leaned forward and examined the deep imprints in her skin with a pleased quiet smile. "But it was worth it. I am so proud."
"Now look here," said Mrs. Hardcastle getting straight to the point. "If I send my two girls here what's going to happen to 'em?"
Monica told her.
"Well, it's what they deserve. But does it knock obedience into 'em?"
"After the first month or two we all become very obedient, madam. It varies according to temperament and the degree of severity agreed to by the parents. We are punished only in the degree they condone."
"My two won't have any skin left on 'em after a month then," Mrs. Hardcastle declared with evident satisfaction.
"Turn round girl and let me look at your bottom."
Monica obeyed meekly, bending forward hands on knees. The work of Freddy's cane was still a magnificent display of stripes and welts.
"Good gracious, girl. You've been whipped everywhere!"
Monica was aware that such a display as she bore upon her person might be hard to explain. The Honourable Freddy could hardly be mentioned as part of the curriculum. She did the best she could: "I possessed certain faults of temperament that merited correction."
"Do you always talk like a butler?" asked Mrs. Hardcastle.
"Gramma and deportment are considered most important here, madam."
"So what you were trying to say was that you were a bad girl and got whipped."
"Thank you, madam."
"Well, come, come, girl. Tell me what you did."
Monica did the best she could. "I was disobedient."
"Just how obedient are you expected to be?"
"Totally, madam. Even a mental reservation or evasion will be severely punished if detected. We girls who have been here several months have but one wish: to be so completely obedient and to please our Mistresses in such ways that we will not be severely whipped."
"You expect this tractability to continue when you return to your homes?"
"We sincerely believe so."
Mrs. Hardcastle examined the naked girl appraisingly. "Mean to tell me if I gave you an order this minute you'd obey?"
"If I could, madam."
"Very well then!" said Mrs. Hardcastle, with the air of a player producing her trump card. "Go and get me a nice cane and let me use it on your bottom. And I don't want any arguments," she added darkly.
Monica was dismayed. The last thing her bottom wanted at that moment was to be caned again. She was annoyed with herself and with Solange for catering with this absurd woman. Mrs. Hardcastle looked like being a problem. But she managed a winning smile, curtsied, and went on her errand.
The visitor obviously approved of both the service and the cane. She flexed the latter in a manner that plainly said she had done it before. "Touch your toes, young lady."
Monica made no effort to contain her distress. Quite probably this woman enjoyed seeing a naked girl wriggle and gasp. She did both. But when the "six of the best" had bedded themselves in her posterior she contrived to keep her features bland, to kiss the cane, and to say thank you nicely. She laid the implement on the table and once more stood attentive.
"You're a good plucked 'un," Mrs. Hardcastle acknowledged, almost with admiration. "My girls make a lot more fuss."
Monica felt like crying. She hurt horribly. This amusing afternoon had got out of hand. She wished Solange would come, but knew her presence in this room was not part of the plan. She would have to handle this alone. She would get no help. She could send Mrs. Hardcastle away angry, and probably vindictive, something which, for Solange's sake, she did not wish to do, or she could strive to please and to guide enquiries into more conventional channels.
"Would you enjoy a short visit with Poppy Spicer Bassett?" she asked tentatively as a diversion into more innocent pleasures. It was not in their plan but was a thing she could easily bring about.
"Where have you got the little bitch?" Mrs. Hardcastle asked amiably.
"She is sitting in the stocks for the day."
The visitor emitted a gargantuan guffaw. "Well, I must say I like this more and more. But I say, girl, what about that tea?"
Mrs. Hardcastle had a healthy appetite. The tea and the manner in which it was served by this docile naked wench met with her complete approval. All in all it looked like being a good afternoon. There was still one avenue to explore. She was not one for preambles: "How would you like another twenty strokes, m'dear?"
Monica was not surprised. But she was alarmed. Her bottom had had enough. She herself had had enough of this extraordinary creature. "I would hope that you could excuse me, madam," she said demurely.
Mrs. Hardcastle chuckled. Pity to waste a girl like this in a prison. Such pretty bits of flesh had better uses.
"Let's test your quality, young woman," she said briskly in a voice that presaged nothing good. "Twenty more of the best on that pert bottom or you can give me pleasure. Which is it to be?"
Monica was neither surprised or shocked. She had sensed it. Mrs. Hardcastle did not play games. What to do now! She could run screaming for Solange to bring this absurd charade to an end. In so doing she would make a bitter enemy, and perhaps a powerful enemy, for The House. Or she could submit. She had no illusions about herself, or about Mrs. Hardcastle, or about the act itself. The woman held no allure. It would be an act without joy: at least for she herself it would be without joy. But there was a compelling quality about this middle aged creature. Making her voice and her features as douce as she could contrive she requested submissively: "Please to arrange yourself, dear Mrs. Hardcastle... "
It was questionable if young Poppy was pleased to see them. Monica could sympathize with the mixed emotions that crossed the youthful face. Mrs. Hardcastle must be a formidable and forbidding sight for a fifteen year old when she is locked naked with her feet spread in the stocks and her hands prudently tied behind her back so that she could neither pleasure or protect herself. Monica knew only too well how, at such a time, a girl's every instinct would seek to tear her hands free so that they might cover her breasts or the dark triangle and lips which, in Poppy's case at that moment, seemed the most exposed object in the room. A growing tide of scarlet revealed her shame... After all, she was a girl from a nice home.
"Well, young Poppy," boomed Mrs. Hardcastle enthusiastically. "You are in a pretty pickle, aren't you?"
Young Poppy burst into tears.
Monica was ashamed. Nothing was going right on this terrible afternoon. She must have done something wrong to bring about this train of events. She did not know what it had been. But perhaps nothing could be right with this insensitive termagant. She wished, now, that she had not subjected young Poppy to this ordeal, and was about to suggest a tactful return to the drawing room when she found herself totally demoralized by the bursting open of the door and the whirlwind apparition of a widely grinning Melissa.
For all of us there are moments so shocking that, if it is a dream, we long to wake. Or if we are awake we long to close our eyes into oblivion. This was such a moment for Monica. How on earth did Melissa contrive to be where she stood now grinning hugely with evident enjoyment of her cousin's dismay. Monica's disorganization gave the younger girl her chance to take complete control.
Melissa was always astounding. As though it was a daily event she dropped a most charming curtsey to the older woman who was examining her with evident delight. "Dear Mrs. Hardcastle. Madam Dubois has sent me to attend you and to relieve your present guide whose period of freedom has expired." She turned to her cousin, and in a fine assured voice explained: "I am to place you in a collar here with Poppy. Then I am to escort Mrs. Hardcastle to Madam's office."
Monica jolted her mind into action. She must not let the side down now. She made a lightning summation. Melissa could only be here by Solange's will and connivance. Why, she could not tell. But the child was happy. Obviously she was carrying out orders. If she took this dreadnaught of a woman direct to Solange she could come to no harm. Monica was furious at the humiliation she must now endure, but she could see no way to evade it. She was trapped by some unknown intent of her Mistress or of her exuberant cousin. With Mrs. Hardcastle absorbing every word and glance she could not even ask a question. She must do now something that made her cringe and do it as though it was an expected routine. Forcing a faint smile to her lips she went to the wall and stood erect with her back to it.
Melissa took the opportunity to deliver a reassuring wink as she fitted and locked the collar round Monica's neck so that the older girl was held there standing by the few links that it was hung from. Monica had never allowed the child to chain her before. She was chagrined that it should happen thus. She knew she was blushing.
What sort of interpretation would Mrs. Hardcastle deduce from her scarlet face. Well, it did not matter. What mattered most to Monica at that moment was her seething wish to take a well whipped Melissa and lock her in the dungeon for a long, long time. Harsh measures would be needed to cleanse the enjoyable memory of her cousin's shame from the moppet's mind. She knew that Melissa was enjoying every moment.
She stood in her chains as nonchalantly as she could while they took their leave. Mrs. Hardcastle seemed fascinated by all that was taking place. Melissa's bubbling chatter was terminated when she closed the door. There were the usual thuds and clicks. Melissa would delight in driving the bolts home as loudly as possible. Resignedly Monica turned her attention to young Poppy who was making futile efforts to dry her tears on her naked shoulder.
"Miserable old twerp," Poppy sniffed, continuing her contortions. "She never did like me." She emitted a small giggle. "I sent her a packet of horse manure in the post... " She looked up anxiously, "I say, Monica, I suppose you can't get loose can you?"
"That's a silly thing to ask." Monica was cross. She sympathized with Poppy. She remembered how often she had longed for her hands when their use was denied her. Without hands there was nothing a girl could do about tears. But the idea of any girl ever getting free in this room, or in The House, was at that moment preposterous. She longed to be free herself.
The girl in the stocks had stopped crying and had managed to return to her normal state. "Well, don't get shitty about it. Just hoped you might untie my arms. It's awful not having your hands. I'm sure they tie them when we sit like this just so as to be horrid. Your bottom gets so numb if you can't raise yourself... "
"I know it does," said Monica, with feeling. "You have to try bending back and forth and from side to side. It helps. But not much."
"I've been meaning to ask you. Are you something special that they put those brands on you?" Poppy giggled. "I thought they only did it to cows."
"Yes, I'm something special." Monica hoped the question might be dropped.
"They won't brand me?"
"No."
"That's horrid of them. I'd like to go home with brands like that. The girls would be green with envy... "
"Hasn't it occurred to you that it hurts?"
"Well, I suppose so." Poppy brushed off this contingency lightly. "But it would be worth it just to see people's faces. Will you ask Madam if I can be branded? Please Monica. . r."
Monica wondered if every girl in the place wished to wear a brand. Melissa: now Poppy. She herself was daily more proud of her healing wounds.
Hester set them free at the usual time. Poppy was led away chattering. Monica thoughtfully made her way to the bedroom and locked herself to the ring.
Solange was repentant. "Ma pauvre Cherie-that awful woman! But we take revenge. Her girls they come to us at double the usual fees. Solange will buy her dearest girl something nice. And tonight it is I who will make you very happy... "
"But I'm supposed to go home, aren't I?" Monica felt her day more and more disordered.
Solange smiled guiltily. "I have a so bad confession to make. My little pigeon is not going home."
"But that's wonderful, Mistress." The chained girl was relieved, yet still puzzled. "Why are you keeping me?"
"It is time you paid another of your seven days, Cherie. So I play a little trick and keep you here."
"But, darling, you don't have to play tricks... "
"Solange knows that, dearest one. But this seven days is to be a little different. It is impromptu. It seems there is a small bill my little pigeon must pay."
Monica had guessed there was something. She did not care. She was close to her Mistress. She was safely tethered to her ring. But she was curious. "What have I done, Mistress?"
"There is the little matter of the whip marks all over you."
Monica flushed. She had indeed been thoughtless in giving herself to the Honourable Freddy. A body marked as hers was scarcely ready for a seven day visit to Solange.
"I acted without thinking, Mistress. I should have asked permission."
"But these so charming little wounds: they do not plant themselves upon a girl's skin without help...?" Monica confessed.
"This so Honourable Freddy... pouf! He is too much. I can understand your impulse... Perhaps much better than you think. We are so foolish when we are young. But it is wrong to humor him. He is spoiled. You are perhaps a little in love with him?"
Monica did not understand her feelings about Freddy. Tearfully she tried to impart her confused emotions.
"Who owns your body, Cherie?"
Flinging her arms about her Mistress's knees Monica vowed: "You do, Mistress," her voice vehement.
"So you gave this selfish young man something that was not yours to give?"
Monica was horrified. Solange was right, of course. Freddy's strange influence had caused her to forget her condition. To be careless and unthinking, swayed by a feminine impulse. She had been unfaithful. Guiltily through a flood of tears she pleaded: "Punish me. Cover me with stripes. I will bear yours with happiness. Oh, darling, I'm so ashamed... Honestly, I don't know why I did it."
Solange smiled down affectionately at the chained girl. "Come, come, dear one. Truly you shall be punished, and in ways you will not like at all. But I will not let you be the noble penitent bearing your whippings stoically for love." Solange laughed with a genuine amusement that caused the tearful face to look up in surprise. "Oh no, my beautiful darling. It shall be worse, much worse."
Monica's face reflected her doubts. She had been thoughtless. She deserved to be punished. There seemed little doubt that she would be punished. By why this merriment?
"I am cruel. Am I not? I should not tease you so." Solange bent and kissed her. "But, of a certainty, I do not really tease at all." Her smile belied the sinister portent of her words. Monica was quite willing to believe she would be punished terribly. "The punishment I have chosen for my little pigeon will be, for her, so awful that I think she would take many, many whippings rather than endure it." Solange could not contain her laughter.
Monica knelt back uncertain whether to laugh or cry. She managed a wry smile: "Please tell me, Mistress."
"You are ready to bear the so great shock. This terrible thing...?"
Monica nodded. She did not know what to say.
"Then, dearest one, I will tell you quickly. For all your seven days you are to be punished. But not by Arlette, not by Hester, and not by me. For those seven days your Mistress is to be dear little Melissa... "
It took moments of a stunned silence for the full import to be realized by the kneeling girl. She felt torn between rage and a desire to burst out laughing in relief. Then, as she realized all the implications, anger won. Leaping to her feet she beat her chained hands in a gesture of denial: "No, no, no! Oh darling, how could you...!" she wailed.
"Is it not a most fitting penalty?"
The prisoner tried stamping her chained feet upon the carpet, but found it ineffectual. "You know it isn't! It's a terrible thing to do to me. You know Melissa. She'll think up terrible things."
"I have told her to."
Monica fell to her knees imploringly. "Oh, I don't care much about that-though I expect she'll be simply horrid. But don't you understand. After a week of whipping me and chaining me and all the rest of it, how on earth am I to control the little baggage when I take her home again. She'll be quite above herself. She's bad enough at any time."
Solange patted the pleading girl cheerfully on the cheek. "You are seeing that which is not there, Cherie. Solange knows the nice things you keep at home for the training and control of this so delightful little moppet. It is for certain that a few days in her dungeon and in the stocks, and whatever else may seem appropriate-the bread and the water maybe. And, without doubt, her gag. She will soon be back as she was. Exuberant, it is true. Naughty in small ways without doubt. But tres adorable!"
"Please punish me some other way." She made herself as appealing as she could.
"No." Solange's voice was firm. "It has been decided."
Monica could tell. Her fate for the next seven days was sealed. She shrugged resignedly. Suddenly the chains she wore seemed doubly heavy. Escape had always been hopeless. Now it was doubly so.
"When am I to be delivered into her eager little hands?"
"At the usual time in the morning. Until then we forget. There are things for us to do, are there not, Cherie."
The girl chained to the ring knew that indeed there were things for them to do. It was her only ray of comfort. She did not care to contemplate the rest of her immediate future. It was far too bleak. Best set it from her mind. Slowly she held out her chained hands. Her voice had become husky: "Darling Mistress, there are many, many things for us to do... "
They did not talk much after that.
* * *
In the morning Melissa was punctually on time. She wore nothing but a wide anticipatory smile. She carried, presumably as her badge of office, a quite wicked slender riding crop that Monica knew could wrap itself around any part of her and leave a most frightful weal behind.
"I say, Monica, isn't this jolly!"
"No." Monica found it impossible to sound pleased. "Oh, I say! You're not going to be sulky, are you darling?"
"Would you blame me."
"Well not really," admitted Melissa judicially. "But if you are, you know, I'm going to use this on you. I never sulked with you. So you'd better not sulk with me."
"You'll use it on me anyway," Monica predicted bitterly.
"I can see you are going to keep up being the stern guardian," Melissa giggled with amusement. "You know, darling, you really aren't dressed for the part, are you? Or do guardians wear chains this season?"
Monica rapidly reviewed a number of things she longed to do to her ebullient cousin. But, even though she would shrink from admitting it, that black riding crop would influence her responses. Cautiously she suggested: "I hope you realize that seven days pass. That there will be an afterwards."
"Was that a threat, darling?" Melissa flexed her whip thoughtfully.
"No." Monica said the word as humbly as she could.
"I'm so glad, darling. Terrible, wouldn't it be, if dear little Melissa had to start whipping you so soon." She surveyed her chained victim musingly. "Look, Monica." Her voice was suddenly sober. "I've thought this all out. I know you hate it. You know I love it. It was Solange's wish so there's nothing we can change: even if we wanted to-and I don't want to. At the end of seven days when you take me home I know you will get your revenge. You won't call it revenge. You'll call it teaching me a lesson. Or putting me in my place. And I'm sure I'll deserve it." Her elfin grin made its appearance. "In fact I'm jolly well going to make sure I deserve it. You see, I'm going to put afterwards right out of my mind. I refuse to think about it. Every time you bring the subject up I'll whip you. Hard. I won't have you spoiling my week. I love you very much. But this is something I want very much. So you'll have to put up with it. I'm going to do just everything I can think of to you, and damn the consequences. Was it Lord Nelson who said that?"
"I'll Lord Nelson you!" Monica promised incautiously.
The whip curled round her thighs causing her to cry out and feverishly rub her wound, forgetting all dignity.
T warned you," Melissa pointed out reasonably.
"Oh, all right then!" Monica said irritably. "Solange told me. You told me. I'm fully chained so there's nothing I can do. I don't want to get whipped to pieces so I'll do what you tell me. But I can't possibly pretend that I'll enjoy it."
"You're not supposed to," Melissa reminded her pertly. "You're being punished. What did you do to make Solange angry?"
"None of your business."
Another stroke with the whip.
"Oh, very well. It was because I let Freddy whip me."
Melissa laughed in genuine amusement. "Poor dear. You get whipped just for being whipped. Not fair, is it!"
Monica kept silent. She was uncertain which answer might earn her another blow with that damned whip. She already felt she had been whipped quite enough in the last few days. She wouldn't invite any more that she could help.
"Ohooo! Poor cousin Monica's getting careful of what she says," Melissa mocked gleefully.
"I just don't want to be whipped any more," Monica admitted. "There was what Freddy did to me; then that awful creature nearly cut me in two yesterday. Now you're going to start. Honestly, kitten, I hurt and I don't want to hurt any more. Please don't whip me any more than you feel you have to-or any more than Solange has ordered."
"Don't call me kitten. You know perfectly well what to call me."
"Yes Mistress." Monica's voice was doleful enough to melt any heart. It did not appear to have any effect on her youthful tormentor.
"Wouldn't you like me to tell you what I'm going to do to you?"
"What are you going to do to me, Mistress?"
"Everything! Absolutely jolly well everything. There are seven days. It should be time to try out everything there is here and add a few of my own." Catching the stricken look in her cousin's eyes she hastily added: "Not to worry, darling. I know there are some really horrid ones. But I'll only keep you in these an hour or so-just so I can see. But you'll really adore the first one I'm going to give you. I read about it in a book. Jolly simple actually... "
"What is it?" asked Monica without enthusiasm.
"I'm keeping it for a surprise-mustn't spoil it."
"I'm sure I'll adore it." Monica's voice was bitter. Then, catching sight of the whip being flexed in deft hands, she added hastily: "I will try, Mistress. Honestly I will... "
"There's another thing you'd better get used to, sweet cousin, and that's that I'm never taking any chances with you getting free. It'll be a nuisance but I intend to keep you under control always. Heaven help poor little Melissa if you did get free and got your hands on me." She giggled happily. "Solange was darling about this. In fact it was her who warned me. She even let me have the nicest little gadget that I suppose she uses sometimes. Ever seen this?"
"This' was a strap and buckle and tether. Monica had not seen it before. She knelt stiffly and hating every moment while Melissa buckled the thing tightly above her right elbow. It did not hurt, and looked like a rather bulky wristlet.
"See, darling, it's quite humane," the nymphet chuckled. "But if you are a bad girl and struggle or run then your Mistress would have to pull you back like this... " Eyes sparkling she gave the tether a sharp tug.
"Ouch! Did you have to do that?"
"Actually, yes darling. I have to demonstrate it for you. Then if you know what happens when you are bad I'm sure little Monica will be very good. Isn't it cunning? When I tug or you tug, a lot of little spikes rise up and pop into you. I'm sure it hurts."
"Thank you," said Monica hopelessly. "One more cross to bear... "
"So now we start our day," Melissa said briskly. "I'll leave the tether on you when I unlock your collar. Come along little slave girl."
Monica allowed herself to be led. What else could she do! Her wrists were chained. Her ankles were chained. The spiked leash was on her arm. To resist would only earn her pain and indignity. At the end of their journey to one of the rooms she found herself standing taut with her wrists high above her head. A very conventional pose she had been forced to endure many, many times. Surely the moppet would not waste time with this-unless, of course she was to be whipped. It was an excellent way to position a girl for a whipping. But it soon became evident the child had something else in mind.
"Don't you think you'd look nice in these, darling?"
Monica was puzzled. Melissa was proudly holding up a pair of some sort of pants to encase the hips. They must have been especially made. No milliner would dare offer so brief and so tight a covering for that most sacred area.
"They won't fit me. They're too small."
"Let's try, darling, shall me?"
She unlocked Monica's ankles and removed the tether. Monica was kept safely a prisoner by the bands about her wrists.
"You'll have to help. If you don't I'll whip you."
Monica obediently stepped into the tiny bit of material Melissa held for her. She wriggled as directed as her cousin tugged and pulled until the things were touching her hips. Then, instead of pulling them the rest of the way up, Melissa went and picked up a large paper bag and put on a pair of elbow length gloves. The captive watched fascinated as the younger girl plunged her gloved hand into the bag and withdrew a handful of green leaves which she proceeded to stuff into the folds of that which clung to Monica's hips. Suddenly the helpless girl knew what she must now endure.
"Oh no! Don't do that to me, please!" she wailed.
The youthful Mistress paid no attention to Monica's complaints and moans. Intently she tugged and thrust her leaves so that little by little the bound girls loins were encased in the tight stretchy material that fitted like a second skin. She took time and much care to ensure that no single inch of surface was not well padded with the leaves of the stinging nettles she had gathered fresh from the garden that morning. When she was done her victim's most private parts were sheathed tight in the clutch of the beautifully designed and made panties. Within the prison of the stretched cloth the nettles transformed Monica's bottom and tummy into a fiery misery as of a thousand bee stings. It was a scorching torment utterly relentless in its steady torture of the tender skin it touched. Monica gave up trying to steel herself against this embrace and writhed and danced in a futile agony over which she had no control. Melissa watched with tremendous interest and satisfaction.
"I say, that's jolly good," she enthused. "I've never seen a girl hop around like that before-not even after six of the best... "
"It's awful," Monica moaned in genuine distress. "I'm sure you don't know how awful it is. Oh please take them off me, darl... Mistress."
"Don't be a silly," Melissa admonished cheerfully. "You have to wear those all day. After a few hours I'm going to change the leaves and give you fresh ones. Aren't I sweet?"
"You mean you are going to keep me like this all day?" Monica was aghast.
"Of course not, stupid. I'm going to do all sorts of things with you. But you'll have to wear those drawers all the time."
"I can't! It's too awful... Oh please!"
"I'm Curious and I want you to tell me," Melissa instructed brightly. "The way you are squirming I'd suppose there is a, good chance a leaf or two might get up your cunny-"
"There's one up there now. It'll drive me mad. Oh, do something!"
"What, darling?"
"Take it out."
"How can I? You wouldn't expect me to take off those lovely drawers just to get at one teensy weensy little leaf, would you?"
"Oh yes. Please... "
"I'm jolly well not going to," Melissa affirmed with mock indignation. "All the fuss you're making over one little leaf. Aren't you ashamed? In fact I'd thought that if you didn't stop making all that noise I would get my hand down in there and stuff that big thing of yours full of nice fresh ones."
Monica knew defeat. The child would have her way. She could not control her tears or the almost obscene contortions of her loins. She knew she would sustain no serious damage from the torturing leaves. But it was a terrible way to spend a day. Especially since it was evident that she must wear this thing as a garment whilst suffering goodness knows what other pains or impositions the bright eyed minx might devise. If only Solange would come...
But Solange did not come.
The day belonged to Melissa.
* * *
Long after, Monica remembered that day and those that followed. She was always ashamed. Melissa seemed able to sense those punishments which hurt her most, or shamed her most, or against which her defenses were inadequate. She was always in tears, always pleading. Melissa happily inflicted on her a far more stringent and demanding regimen than that usually imposed on the girls of Madam Dubois. Monica did not understand it. But it seemed she was able to sustain with some degree of equanimity the sometimes cruel inflictions of Solange, Arlette, or even the Honourable Freddy with a greater courage. There was something demoralizing about being in the power of this exuberant fifteen year old who had, heretofore, been kept rigidly under her own thumb. There were the nights, of course, which she spent chained to the ring and with the comfort of Solange's presence and love. But even these seemed to carry a far too heavy burden of pleading and remonstrance which availed her nothing. She realized that Solange had understood all too well that which could be used to punish her. Solange's choice of Melissa as her instrument proved to the slave how very deeply her Mistress understood her. The knowledge, instead of being disquieting, filled her with joy. At the end of the seventh day she was not released to return home. But was chained, as usual, to her ring. Solange told her that she wanted to talk to her. Monica did not mind. She was welling over with happiness at the end of her ordeal. That which had seemed forever was now done.
Solange chose her office for their talk. Monica was still naked. She had come to hate clothes and always delayed wearing them until under the compulsion of the last moment.
"Well, what's it going to be for poor Melissa?" she asked amusedly. "The dungeon, the stocks, hanging by her thumbs, a hundred strokes? Or perhaps," she continued, laughing, "it will be all of them? No doubt a seven day penance would be symbolically fitting. I must admit the little poppet was far more enterprising with you than I thought she would be. I am sure she is now trembling... "
Solange dismissed the topic with an airy wave of a lovely hand. "Pouf! It is of Melissa that I wish to talk. But not of her punishments for being so saucy. You have guessed, Cherie, that which I am about to say?"
Monica had guessed. She had been wracking her mind for the answer that would be demanded of her.
"Well?" Solange was intent. Only a faint laughter in her eyes.
"No! Darling, I can't. You know I can't. It's not possible."
"Everything is possible."
"But not this. You're forgetting her parents."
"Those so quaint parents have, I think, forgotten her."
"But the child herself! You can't do that to her."
"It is her heart's desire."
Monica fell silent. Solange was correct. If told she was to become slave to Solange Melissa would be ecstatic. She bestowed upon the older woman an adoration that knew no bounds. Monica fought grimly with the knowledge that she herself had come to independence through mischance at a phenomenally youthful age. Her life was her own. To give as she wished. But Aunt Millie and her odd husband could hardly be expected to relinquish their daughter.
"She can go home for week-ends." Solange read her thoughts and laughed at Monica's chagrin. "You'd brand her?"
"Of course."
"What do you think her mother would say when she saw that?"
"She would never see it, Cherie. You prudish English would never examine a fifteen year old in her bath. Not even her mother. It would be considered... not nice. N'est ce pas?"
"But the other-the thing you did to me...?"
The older girl laughed chidingly. "It is a word you do not like. I know. Well, I cannot blame you. But, yes. I will bastinado her just as I bastinadoed you, and for the very same reason. Think! Is there a better way. I do not know one. Even though you may not walk when it is done, still those sweet little feet carry you very far to a place few ever reach."
"Do it to me then-not to her." The words burst out of Monica like bullets from a gun.
"Do not be absurd, Cherie. Thus you would have learned a lesson twice and Melissa not at all."
"Let her watch then."
"No. You know that would not work." Solange's eyes softened tenderly. "You must love your little minx very much, little pigeon."
Monica knew that she did indeed love the delicious Melissa. How absurd it was that she was planning the most severe punishments for the child in order that her authority over her might be re-established, and yet rise so fiercely to her defense.
T cannot say yes to it," she said miserably.
"Whose possession are you, ma petit?"
"Yours, Mistress."
"You obey me?"
"In everything but this."
"There is no such obedience as that. You obey or you do not obey."
Monica squirmed in her chair. She could not meet Solange's eyes. Instead she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.
"You know which room to go to. Go now. Position yourself. I will attend you later."
Monica nodded mutely. As she passed she fell to her knees beside the chair and kissed her Mistress hungrily. Solange uttered no word. But kissed her back again and again. Then Monica continued on her journey. She had no thought of disobedience. But it seemed a very long way to go.
The room was just the same. Even the same rug spread on the floor in front of the small, ugly, heavy goal-post. Almost bare, and innocent as it seemed, the broad straps on the crosspiece gave it a sinister air that anyone might have sensed. Monica shivered. The memory of her previous immolation was still vivid-it would always be. Now it would happen to her again. She looked around her without hope or purpose, as though seeking a means of escape that was not there. Slowly and carefully she sank down on the rug and wriggled herself into the desired position. Hating every move, she bent her knees and raised her feet so that she was able to place her ankles within the grip of the straps that would hold them motionless while they were beaten. She even attempted to reach back and secure them with the buckles. But even though she was totally without restraints she was unable to accomplish this, so relaxed in her recumbent state upon her stomach and rested one cheek upon her arm. Soon enough that arm would be lost to her and there would be only the rug. It seemed to be unchained. She made herself as comfortable as she could.
Why was she doing this! The question hammered at her mind incessantly as she lay waiting. Would it help Melissa: she did not know. She was not even certain that she lay where she was to protect the child, or was it simply that Solange saw this as a punishment to serve the dual purpose of correcting her obstinacy and re-affirming her slave state. Her previous suffering in this room had been inflicted with love. Now she would be no more than a slave girl who had grievously erred. She shuddered at the certainty that this time she would be totally unable to walk and would therefore have to spend a week chained to her ring. Logic indicated that she was unfettered-a most unusual state in The House. Why not make her escape! With her knowledge of the place she could probably pick up coat and shoes and reach the street without being seen. Monica rejected logic. It had no place in her present dilemma. Instead she wondered miserably what Solange would do with Melissa in those days it would take for her feet to heal so that she could walk again.
Her quandary was compounded by the quite certain knowledge that the irrepressible Melissa would not ask this sacrifice of her. In fact quite the opposite. Monica had acquainted her ward with the painful path she herself had trod. She had supposed it a deterrent. Instead Melissa had jumped up and down in glee and begged to be allowed to follow the same path herself. The younger girl had become obsessed with a desire to wear Solange's brands. So far as the agony which she herself now faced for the second time Melissa had waved it airily away as a bridge she would cross when she came to it. Some deep female intuition enabled her to comprehend its logic and to accept it. Irrationally she found pleasure in the prospect of lying abed with wounded feet. She pictured Solange tending her with love and compassion. As with the brands, the felicity of the final outcome caused Melissa to feel that any agony at all was well justified.
Striving to analyze those things within herself that caused her to be lying as she now was Monica had to suppose that Aunt Millie must rank high. She was a dear old soul. She had entrusted her daughter to Monica with gratitude. In her visits from time to time she had shown much happiness with the child's evident wellbeing. It would be quite beyond Aunt Millie's reasoning powers to understand what her child now desired and which Solange proposed. She must never be told. But what if she found out! Solange's rationalization of the situation was so simple. Explained like that Melissa's parents need never know. Monica began to feel that she was behaving with a pointless obstinacy. She herself had chosen the path. None of her own relatives had the faintest inkling of anything untoward in her life. The brands upon her thighs would be seen only by those she wished to see them. If her body was striated by the whip who was there to know.
But perhaps her true and inmost instinct in this rebellion was her possessiveness of Melissa. She loved the delicious nymphet. She did not wish to share the sparkling child with anyone. Just as Solange had sensed in she herself those qualities most desired so also did Monica now know that she desired Melissa. She had possessed the girl for a long time now. They had become inseparable. Guiltily she faced the sudden realization that if it was her own brand that was to be imprinted in Melissa's flesh she would hold out no objection. She experienced a revealing surge of passion at the thought of those two letters burned into her lovechild's thighs. Was she then no more than a hypocrite.
The relationship between Melissa and herself drifted happily on the tides of time. The future had seemed likely to look after itself. She envisioned a sort of guardianship merging into a deeper union as the gap in their ages faded with the years. Aunt Millie seemed pleased with all that had taken place so far. Monica had sensed in the older woman an unspoken acceptance of a condition that would become permanent.
But now Solange! Monica wondered if she should have foreseen as inevitable her Mistress's desire for the child they both adored. Melissa had become almost a part of herself, therefore a part of Solange and indisputably Solange's possession as was she herself. Was Solange robbing her! Was Melissa being forcibly wrest from her care! Obviously the answer to both these questions was no. It had come about with a complete naturalness that she had owned Melissa and now Solange owned them both. All that was necessary now was to bring herself to accept what was already a faitaccompli. If her love for Solange was wide enough it should easily encompass the three of them.
Monica felt betrayed by something within herself. Her own reasoning as she lay there made the very act of being there seem an absurd and irrational martyrdom. Her revolt against her Mistress's intention was no more than hurt pride and an over-possessiveness of this Moppet they both loved. Unhappily the girl lying there on her rug faced the fact that Solange, with her usual insight, had correctly evaluated her stand. Thus her present plight was no more than she deserved. If her spirit was still too unyielding to comprehend instantly the totality of this love of which she was a part then it was proper that it be broken once again so that she might come to a deeper and happier humility. Monica shivered. How foolish she had been.
She lay still and silent, head cradled in arm, as Solange entered. She did not look back. No word was spoken. Every nerve and sinew shrank as she felt the strong hands buckle the straps ruthlessly tight about her ankles. Her feet-those small, tender, innocent feet, now offered their soles invitingly to the cane. She could not move them.
Solange sat beside her on the rug, just as she had done that other time. Without volition Monica obediently crossed her wrists behind her back.
"There is no need to tie them, Cherie. All that needs be done is done. It is the little feet that must not move.
The rest of you may move as much as it desires."
The older girl let her fingers rove lovingly over her possession. At the first touch of them Monica ceased to think about the cane.
"I have left you here to think, little pigeon. You have thought much, n'est ce pas?"
Monica nodded. But did not speak. Nor did she turn.
"Have you been able to understand that which is about to happen?"
"Yes." It was a muffled, barely audible word.
"My darling girl. Solange will tell you what it is that you have thought. It has been a long road that you have trod lying here waiting for me to come. At the end of it you have felt foolish. Like an army with no battle to fight but which must now suffer casualties because it advanced upon the field. Am I right, Cherie?"
"Yes."
"You are still obstinate?"
"No."
"And this change of heart: it is not because of those poor little feet fastened as they are?"
"No." A vehement shaking of the head.
"I have been considering what to do with Melissa while you remain chained to our ring while your feet heal. What I am about to do to you must be of such severity that you will never contemplate it again. I do not think you will walk for a week. It is best she does not know or understand this foolishness of yours. So I will keep her safe and amused until that time when you can walk again and will witness those things which will make the child mine as you are mine. Making you watch is part of your punishment. Tell me it is just, my darling."
"It is just, Mistress."
Suddenly Solange seized Monica's arm and, turning the naked girl as much as the prisoned feet would allow, joined their lips in fierce possession. They clutched each other in an ecstasy of longing as though they had been separated by a span of years.
"You are so silly darling," Solange exclaimed when their first hunger had passed. "And I am so cruel to you because I love you too much. Your darling feet will not feel the cane. I am sure they should, but they will not. Solange understands. Much happens to her little pigeon. To so quickly adjust. Pouf! It is not easy."
Monica looked up at her Mistress with wonder and with love: "You knew, didn't you? You knew how my mind would work! Oh darling." Using her free arms the prisoned girl raised her bowed body to look deep into the older girl's eyes. Her voice was deeply serious.
"Darling, I have earned the punishment. Don't take it away from me."
For answer, Solange kissed her once more, then unbuckled the straps. Monica was free. Monica was forgiven. Monica was loved. It was not until then that she wept.
But in the other part of her punishment she was unforgiven. Monica passionately did not wish to witness the imprinting of the brands upon Melissa's thighs or the cane rising and falling upon her upturned feet. But she was wise enough to know that in this Solange would be adamant. She was uncertain whether the younger girl would feel shamed by her presence at what was, for her, a most intimate rite: or whether she might be grateful that they be together in her agony.
But first they were sent home. Monica that she might attend her menage and correspondence; Melissa that she might-enjoy a day in town with her mother, and have much time in which to contemplate that which would happen to her on her return to The House.
Solange had made it an impressive and almost formal occasion. The three of them had gathered in the study. Monica and her ward fidgeting uncomfortably in unaccustomed clothes prior to leaving. Monica found amusement in likening Solange to the Mother Superior instructing the novice in the demands and penances of her Order. Not that their youthful novitiate behaved in any manner appropriate to such an occasion. But it was clear to see that the Mistress was determined that the child should understand and accept. It was gravely explained that there was no compulsion. She could withdraw at any time up to the day itself. She must reflect upon agonies too great to bear. What she would suffer would leave its mark both upon her flesh and upon her mind. Thereafter she would be changed.
Melissa lightheartedly waved away all admonitions. Her eyes glowed whenever those things she would suffer were named. She produced her usual giggles. "You remind me of Miss Cuthbert at school," she assured Solange. "Whenever we got a hundred lines or had to hold our hand out she always gave us a lecture first." Suddenly she clasped her mentor in her arms hugging her with affection. "You're sweet. I do love you so much." Then, as with a piercing realization, she turned to them both and asked poignantly: "I say, darlings, will it really hurt poor little Melissa something terrible? I mean... more awful than awful...?"
They told her that it would, and how it would.
She nodded somberly. They discerned that beneath the gaiety she saw starkly that which awaited her. She was a wise child whose illusions were only those she wished to cherish. The solemnity of the occasion had not been lost to her. She gladly embraced her role as initiate. Her courage would be ample to sustain her. She produced her most appealing grin.
"You will strap me down just as tightly as you can, won't you, darlings?"
They chose laughter to assure her that indeed they would.
It was a happy time for both of them. There were only brief moments when Melissa might be seen to pause and seem to see something far away. Monica knew the vision, but never spoke of it. There had never been much need to tell Melissa anything. There was none now. That which awaited her made her more precious as would the careful faceting of the uncut jewel.
It was on the final day before their return for the consummation of Melissa's ordeal that the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot once more made an appearance.
Monica had put Freddy at the back of her mind but had acknowledged a reasonable certainty that he would not leave her alone. The possibility did not distress her. She was puzzled and somewhat chagrined by her failure to hate Freddy, or even to treat him with a genuine and utter contempt. She felt that he knew her too well; had too easy' an access to her thoughts. Thus she was always at a disadvantage and doubly naked. His casual confidence that she would always yield to his most outrageous demand was enough to drive any girl into rebellion. But there was a big brother quality about him that disarmed. Arlette, when questioned, always dismissed Freddy as an amiable fop. Useful and tolerable as a final weapon against a hostile world. But to be held in reserve instead of embraced at the moment. Obviously there was some sort of bond between Freddy and the French girl. They spent a good deal of time together. Considering Arlette's aptitudes and experience it was strange that Freddy should seek what he did from Monica. Having glimpsed steel beneath his surface Monica was perplexed by his tolerance of Arlette's intransigence.
It was therefore with an open but wary mind that she greeted him. She wished that Melissa had been safely locked away. But the child was very much in evidence. She was intrigued by Freddy and saw in him untold possibilities of romance and spine tingling excitements. She blissfully ignored Monica's frowns and gestures even though she knew they might lead her to her cell and her chains. She was avid and exuberant. But managed to contain her spirits with the mechanics of serving tea, which she did with a verve and flourish that obviously amused their visitor. Observing Freddy's interest in the pure joy of Melissa's motion, Monica doubly wished the child safely locked away. She did, in fact, use an excuse to remove her ward. But this was quickly quashed by an Importunate Freddy.
"Leave the child alone," he ordered. "She's an absolute little jewel. Every home should have one around somewhere." So Melissa, now his adoring slave, was allowed to stay.
Before Monica could say it Freddy forestalled her. "You were just about to ask in a fine chilly voice: 'And to what am I indebted for this honor?' weren't you?" he challenged.
As usual he had hit the nail on the head. But she was too honest and too amused to deny him his victory. "Yes," she admitted. "Consider it said."
"I wanted a cup of tea with the most beautiful woman, served by the most delectable child in London. Isn't that enough?"
"I'm not a child," Melissa retorted with mock petulance.
"And you know that's not the real reason you are here," said Monica with mock severity.
"Dammit, poppets. You underrate yourselves," Freddy declared. "Only the best and finest in the land for good old Freddy-and here I am. Speaks for itself, what... "
"Well, I expect you'll tell us soon enough," Monica conceded. "When are you going to marry Arlette?"
"You mean when is she going to marry me," Freddy corrected morosely. "On of these days I'm going to set fire to that damned House. I think she's more a prisoner in it than you girls ever were. Married to her work, that is. Ought to marry you if I had any sense." He met her eyes intently. "Y'know, Monica, you really are an absolutely corking girl... Serve her jolly well right."
"I'll marry you, Freddy," Melissa offered. "I'm not a virgin, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind. I'm really awfully good at it... "
"Ah! And what is your experience?" Freddy inquired soberly.
"Well, just the once. But we tried it in just every way we could think of. It's really smashing. Want to try it now? May I please, Monica?"
"You are getting closer and closer to getting locked up you know where," Monica warned.
"Oh please, darling, don't be horrid. I'm sure Freddy would love to, wouldn't you Freddy? And since you don't want to it seems a pity not to use me."
"Melissa!!!" Monica was irritated more by the knowledge that she was blushing than by her ward's precocity.
"Oh all right then. I'll be good. Another delicious cake dear Mr. Arbuthnot? Since I'm not allowed to do anything really heart throbbing for you I'll pour you another cup of tea."
"I say, does she go on like this all the time?" Freddy was entranced.
"If she's allowed to," Monica told him severely. "That's the reason she spends most of her time chained up."
"Is she very cruel to you?" Freddy asked Melissa.
"I'll show you the marks." Joyfully Melissa began to shed her clothes.
"Melissa!!! Stop it!"
"Oh Monica. You are a spoil-sport. I'm sure Freddy would like to see me naked. You would, wouldn't you, Freddy?"
"Indubitably."
"You are both impossible." Monica was exasperated between laughter and anger. "If you both can't be reasonable I'm going to lock Melissa up-and very uncomfortably too. I think you are both doing it to provoke me."
"Of course, poppet. You are exquisite when you're angry."
"Well, get on with your mission, whatever it is."
"I say, dear girl, do we have to have all this repartee, this thrust and parry every time I come to tea. If I mentioned the time you'd refute me."
"But you never talk about anything sensible."
"Very well then. We will discuss my wedding. This gorgeous poppet here will be a bridesmaid and you can be the feminine counterpart of the best man-don't know what they call 'em. The wedding will be at the ancestral castle."
"No thanks," Monica declared firmly. "I've heard of that castle. It's got dungeons and an oubliette. I can imagine where I'd end up."
"There are times, dear lady, when I would dearly love to drop you in that oubliette and leave you there for a long, long time. This is one of them."
"You see! The idea was in your mind."
"You do Freddy an injustice, poppet. What I had planned for you was one of the warmer dungeons. No H and C course, but reasonably residential. I'd have to put a chain on you somewhere in case you got skittish when Cedric showed up-"
"Cedric?"
"Well, yes. Cedric's the best man y'know. Thought I'd give him the key. He'd provide a bit of comfort through the long dark hours."
"Do women ever throw things at you, Freddy?"
"Themselves constantly, m'dear."
"Come to the point."
"You mean the nub, the crux, the essence as it were?"
"Oh, get on with it, Freddy."
"I wish to borrow young Poppy."
"You must have been misinformed. Poppy's not a virgin.
"See what I mean. There you go again."
Monica refused to allow her surprise to show. What on earth could Freddy want with so quaint and youthful a character as Poppy? "You must want to whip her then?"
"Off the wicket again, dear girl."
"That's the only two things you do with us poor girls, isn't it?"
Freddy wagged an admonitary finger. "Take care, damsel. That oubliette gets closer by the minute."
"Just a simple question then. What do you want young Poppy for?"
Freddy appeared to be collecting his forces. "Long story really. It's for Cyril Crumleigh's wedding. You know Cyril, don't you?"
"I've met him. You mean he's short a bride?"
"Not exactly, dear lady. Not for the wedding at all actually... "
"You mean they are going to live in sin?"
"I say, watch the language, old girl. Keep it clean, what!"
"What do you want Poppy for?"
Freddy grinned disarmingly. "The boys are giving Cyril a bit of a send off. Last night as a free man and all that. Fine old institution. The stag party. I'm in charge of the arrangements."
In spite of her distrust Monica was intrigued. "Where on earth does Poppy fit into such a thing?"
"I'm using my own house-the banqueting room. Cyril's a good egg and I want to give him an evening to remember. Generally speaking females don't enter into such an evening-and they won't here either... Except as ornaments... "
"That's about all a lot of men see us as anyway. And I can tell you this: Young Poppy won't be popping out of a cake or a pigeon pie or some such idea-if that's what you have in mind."
Freddy waved a deprecating hand. "Give old Freddy credit for more finesse than that, poppet. The idea is sound. But it's been overdone. I've thought of something far more original." He quaintly raised one eyebrow in a quizzical examination of his hostess's reaction. "Tucked into the exact comers of the room there are going to be four marble columns. On each column there will be a naked girl. Her hands will be chained above her on each side to the wall. Shell just stand there in all her glory, inviolate, immaculate, untouched by the profane hand of man... "
"To be leered at by the boys-and probably a few dirty old men as well. I can imagine the comments and the sniggers."
Freddy shrugged. "You might even be wrong in that. Pure beauty evokes reverence."
"Shouldn't you leave this sort of thing to Roman Emperors or Eastern Potentates?"
"Why should they have all the fun?"
"You propose subjecting Cyril Crumleigh to these lecherous temptations and then delivering him, sodden with drink, to some unfortunate bride."
Freddy grinned reminiscently. "I'll admit it's a barbarous custom and likely to leave the groom a bit hors-de-combat.
But we've arranged for Cyril's valet to be on hand in case our hero falls by the wayside. Splendid fellah, Bates. Frightfully virile and makes marvelous pick-me-ups."
"You actually intend a bride to be comforted by her husband's valet?"
"Some precedents actually. Valet chappie had to help out Cyril's grandfather. The fourteenth Earl was born nine months later to the day. Much to be said for the Feudal system... "
"I refuse to have anything to do with it. Besides I still don't see where young Poppy fits in to all this."
"Well, I'm told the dear child has a magnificent shape so I thought she'd fit into one of the corners. Look damn good on that column."
"I'm sure it's a pretty dream. Your guests will be delighted. But it is just a dream where Poppy is concerned. Madam Dubois would never consent."
"She would if you persuaded her."
"Well, I won't. Besides Poppy could only fill one comer. What about the other three?"
"I have girls for them," Freddy stated airily. "Truly gorgeous creatures. The fairest in the land. Veritable houris from Paradise, and all that."
"Where did you get them?"
"Didn't I tell you, dear girl?" Freddy looked pained. "I thought you understood: There's Arlette and Melissa and you...
Monica wondered afterwards if, had Melissa not been present, she could have imperiously swept The Honourable Freddy from the room and from her house. She believed she could have done. She ardently wished she could have done so while her anger was high. But Melissa's joy at hearing the role cast for her was a diversion that allowed the anger to fade and for Freddy's cool assumption of compliance to seem no more than was to be expected of him.
Melissa could not contain her curiosity and excitement. "Will they be able to touch us, Freddy?"
"No," said Monica firmly.
"But how can we stop them, darling, if our hands are chained like that?" the younger girl asked innocently.
"It will be understood that touching is out of bounds," Freddy explained. "After all, blue blood and noblesse oblige and all that sort of rot. Chaps will be on their honor. Besides," he added practically, "you'll be on that pedestal three feet off the floor. The remote goddess or the vestal virgin theme, what."
"Do we have to-well... sort of expose?" Melissa demanded ardently.
"No, actually. You see that's part of the reason for the chains. They'll give you a lot of support in what otherwise might be a tiring spot."
"They'll also keep us from changing our minds," Monica contributed acidly.
Melissa clapped her hands. "Well be quite naked, won't we?"
"Some small trifle round the hips?" Monica sounded almost pleading.
"I don't want anything," Melissa declared. "But you could let Monica have her little bit of something,' then when you've chained her hands you can take it away from her. I can just see her face... "
"Melissa!!!"' "Oooops darling! Sorry." Melissa contrived to look contrite. "You can whip me after Freddy's gone."
It was as though mention of the whip had tolled a bell. Melissa's light hearted reference to punishment died on her lips. She looked stricken. Monica knew instantly that the younger girl had glimpsed tomorrow. Tomorrow was the day of the brands. In their mixed shock and amusement at Freddy's latest outrageous wish they had forgotten that after what must happen the next day Melissa would be in no condition to Either stand or to display her nudity. The child voiced the question for them both: "I say, Freddy, when does this absolutely ripping idea take place?"
Freddy had caught the undercurrent. Their faces had betrayed them. He chuckled. "Bet I know what's on your minds. I suppose one or both of you are on the verge of collecting some atrocious marks on your pretty hide?" He nodded knowingly at their expressions. "Considering the antics you girls get up to with our good Madam it's damn inconsistent to criticize any bit of quaintness I think up. But don't worry. Cyril's last night of freedom is over a month away." He scanned them anxiously. "Is that long enough for you to become presentable again?"
In pure rapture Melissa hugged him. Then did her little dance. "It's so lucky. I'll be all healed by then-"
"Melissa!!!"
"Oh! So it's the younger member of the family, eh? Must admit you have me curious." He turned to Monica. "What the devil are you going to do to her?"
"Mind your own business."
Freddy sighed. "I can always ask Arlette. Won't say the dear girl tells Freddy all. But I hear some rum things sometimes... " He paused reflectively. "Sometimes think it's these rum going's on that keep me from getting a wife. Habit forming-that's what they are."
Monica saw him to the door. They stood there silent for moments. He gravely considering her. She faintly troubled.
"Freddy. Why am I doing this?"
"Don't you know, poppet?"
She slowly shook her head.
Freddy leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Sweetheart. You are doing this simply because you want to."
She watched him lithely take the steps and reach the pavement. Standing there she recognized wryly that, as usual, The Honourable Freddy was absolutely right.
Returning to the drawing room, Monica found a dubious and uncertain young woman eyeing her with obvious misgivings. Melissa must have been thinking. Her behavior had been appalling.
"I say Monica! Isn't it absolutely scrumptious! I mean, aren't you thrilled?" Melissa evidently believed attack her surest defense.
"You are the most embarrassing creature I know." Monica's voice was vehement. "What should I do with you?"
The moppet pretended to consider. "Well, I suppose you could whip me. That's sort of the easiest, isn't it? I mean, I'd willingly bend over to save you the trouble of tying me."
"I think you like being whipped."
Melissa dropped a delightful curtsy. "How about the dungeon then, dear Mistress? You know I don't like that. You can even put all the chains on me and leave me there the longest time." It became evident the young minx was quite serious in her wish to placate. Her tone was almost pleading: "You could even do the most awful thing and take the candle away. It's no fun sitting there in the dark I can tell you." She looked questioningly at her cousin as though seeking a clue. Then, as though in an effort to promote decision, said: "I know I have to be punished, so I'll take my clothes off."
Musingly and quite without anger the older girl watched the younger strip. She knew Melissa preferred being naked and saw nudity as the prelude to almost any activity; so her act could not be construed as any too ardent wish to please. Monica knew that she should punish the child. Her behavior in front of their visitor merited correction. But she found herself unwilling. The idea of cutting stripes upon that vibrant body today seemed cruel in the light of what it must bear on the morrow.
One of Melissa's most endearing traits was her understanding of her own faults and her complete willingness to surrender herself for punishment for them. When she knew she had erred she displayed an amazing courage. She hated and feared the dungeon. But, at such times, she would walk into it, head high and a quip on her lips, and offer her wrists for the shackles.
There had been such a time on their return from The House after Monica's humiliation. Then, too, the child had stood uncertain. Then, too, she had removed her clothes as her first step toward the retribution she knew pending. Monica had been furious. Her seven days of tribulations at the hands of her youthful cousin had built up in her mind a determination that the minx should not go unrewarded. Angrily she had asked the same question: "What should I do with you?"
Melissa had been resigned. But unrepentant. "I suppose you'd better give me the whole bag of tricks." She essayed a faint giggle. "That's what I did to you." She made an obvious effort at concentration. It was evident she wished to give weight to words she must say. "Darling, I was simply horrid to you. I know I was." She shuffled her feet awkwardly. "I loved every moment of it. I won't pretend I didn't. I'd even love to do it all over again-so there! But I know I did things to you that I didn't have to... Was I very cruel? I'm scared I was. And all the time I knew I'd have to pay for it. That we'd come back here and you'd really get your own back. Though really darling I don't see it as just getting your own back in a sort of revengeful way. I was unkind to you, and I enjoyed being unkind. So you ought to punish me. Here I am. I'll do whatever you tell me to."
It had been a problem then. Monica's fury tended to subside in the face of the child's self imposed immolation. Her intent with whip and cord died. She loved Melissa. The child could always impose with some degree of immunity. But there were limits. Melissa had an actual need of punishment at times if she was to live within a civilized society. Her natural ebullience demanded it with an inevitability that both cousins understood and accepted. After much soul searching Monica had contented herself and salved her conscience by chaining the girl in the dungeon for twenty-four hours. For six of them she had taken the candle and left the woebegone prisoner in total darkness-an experience that had left a deep and frightening impression on the, by now, repentant captive.
Considering this recurring problem at that moment after Freddy's departure Monica had an inspiration.
"I'm not going to make a little heroine of you by using the whip or that dungeon you're so fond of talking about. I'm thinking about tomorrow. I'm sure you are too.
Enough of anything's enough. Go and get me the gag."
Melissa's wailing protests and pleadings told Monica that her choice had been sound.
"After that outrageous chatter this afternoon this is most appropriate," she assured her despondent ward as she buckled the strap tightly and snapped the padlock at the back of Melissa's neck. "You can wear it the rest of the day. And put your clothes back on."
Melissa wrinkled her nose in the best grimace she could make under the handicap of her gag. Then did as she was bid.
It was not an easy night for Monica. Sleep did not come easily. Her own inflictions had been sufficiently recent that she relived again and again the sear of the brands and the relentless implacability of the bastinado. She hoped tomorrow's victim would sleep. The child was aware in a large measure of what must befall. But perhaps she could thrust it from her mind and find rest.
As always, it seemed like coming home when she locked the silver collar around her neck and sat on the floor by the ring. She wondered if Solange would make them wait or what rituals she might impose. She wondered with a great heaviness of heart how Melissa was conducting herself.
They had both worked at being cheerful. Both had slept more than expected. At breakfast Melissa had shown her usual resilience and determination.
"I keep wanting to ask you questions about... about-what's going to happen to me. I'm curious and I'm afraid. I'm not sure whether I'm most afraid of the pain or whether it's being afraid I'll make such a fuss you'll all be ashamed of me. Did you make a lot of fuss, Monica?"
"Yes," Monica admitted. "You can't help it. But it doesn't matter. No one minds. In fact they expect you to. Solange will tell you to. So don't worry."
"Am I being a silly girl to... well sort of-I mean, to want to come through with flying colors?"
Monica had clasped her hand. "Of course not, darling. But the thing to remember is that we aren't doing or suffering what we are for that reason. But I know how you feel-" She bitterly remembered her own screams. "After Solange had given me one... one of the things, she asked if I would like to be gagged. I said I would."
"Did it help?"
"I don't know," Monica admitted. "At least you don't feel the shame of having made a lot of noise. But I do believe it helps to scream. Solange believes this too."
But through all the questions and the knowledge of something to be borne there had shone steadfastly in Melissa's eyes the light of a great desire-the glimpsing of the fulfillment of a dream. She would, with certainty, walk radiant and erect from the other side.
Monica held out her wrists for her chains. She did this automatically. Always with joy at the beauty of these things her love had created for her. But today Solange turned her gently and chained her wrists behind her back. The linkage was fairly long. By putting one hand well to the rear she might use the other for small things. But it made her far more helpless than when her hands were joined in front. She instantly guessed why-Solange would take no chance that she become distraught and seek to interfere with what she must witness. But she said nothing. All was understood between the two girls. The Mistress fastened the ankle chains then led her to the room where it would happen.
The bastinado was to be first. Melissa managed a brave and cheerful grin as she looked up at them from the floor. Her ankles were tightly strapped to the crosspiece. In addition Solange had chosen to tie her wrists behind her back-perhaps to inhibit struggles that might injure. Thus the victim lay upon her stomach without freedom to move more than her body and her head. She was ready.
"I do not offer her the gag," Solange explained. "I think it best she scream. Besides," she added slyly, "her screams will cause you much distress as you hear them, Cherie. Those so fine maternal instincts. But remember, you too are being punished." She paused and smiled broadly. "I have the so fine idea: I think that when our little darling is much hurt you may say things that will do no good. So it is our dearest Monica who will wear the gag. Come, Cherie. Open up that delightful mouth."
Monica obeyed. She did not care. In fact she was inclined to agree. It would be best that she could not speak. Her' eyes met the older girl's lovingly as the gag was adjusted. She even managed a wink with her cousin on the floor whose irrepressible spirits rose to the occasion.
"See, it serves you right: keeping me gagged yesterday when we had all those lovely things to talk about. I hope Solange keeps it on you all day. Do please keep it on her, darling."
Feeling very much de trap Monica backed and leaned against the wall. She would obey and watch as she was bidden. Along with all the other emotions she felt a quite human curiosity as to how Melissa would cope.
The first stroke brought an instant response from the bound girl. A ripple of shock seemed to course through her. The head raised, eyes staring. The shoulders struggled and the bound hands tore at their cord. But the lips were bitten and no more than a small whimper of dismay escaped.
The second stroke sent her into writhing convulsions. It was incredible that a body so bound and secured could contrive such contortions. It had been wise to tie her hands. She looked up at Monica and pathetically tried to look over her shoulder at she who was wielding the cane. Small strangled words came from the ripe lips: "I... I-I'm sorry. I can't stand it. I didn't think it would be... be like this. I'm going to ask you humbly to forgive me... But if you won't-or can't... then I'll have to scream... "
And with the third stroke she did. The scream tore at Monica as a thing almost physical. A cry of agony that reached out to her as a hand seeking succor. A hand which she was helpless to touch. A voice to which she could make no reply. Indeed she was being punished! If she did not doubt it now. She was obliged to exercise she did not doubt it now. She was obliged to exercise control to keep from fighting her chains.
It was, of course, a repetition of her own story. She recognized every nuance of pain, every writhing struggle, every sound from the high tearing scream down to the small despairing moans and choking sobs. Each of them tore at her as might a whip. She genuinely believed that she would cheerfully exchange this sight and sound for the scalding lash. She did not wish to see her love so tom...
It went on and on. But the time came, as it had done with her, when Solange laid down the cane and quietly left the room. Monica slowly approached the tortured child and lowered herself to the rug beside her. She longed to be free of her chains. They made an embrace impossible. She longed to gather the injured and sobbing girl in her arms and murmur endearments and words of comfort. But her chains and the hated gag denied her. But wriggling into position she did manage to use one hand to smooth tangled hair and to wipe away tears. She was sorely tempted to try and untie Melissa's hands. But feared whatever punishments such an act might entail. She would have to be content to do what she herself could do for the captive.
They were like this for a long time. Monica recalled that the interval between her own punishments had been long. She had thought much in that time. Was Melissa thinking coherently now! The gag prevented her asking questions. Silently she cursed it. A padlock locked it on her so there was no hope of getting it off.
After a long time of sobbing and of small protesting motions Melissa managed to look up. She tried to smile but it was a failure.
"Will it start again?" she asked hopelessly.
Miserably Monica nodded.
"Darling, help me... please."
Helplessly Monica motioned to her chains and made a small and ineffectual struggle to demonstrate her own helplessness. Once again she cursed her easy acceptance of the gag. She should have remembered this time of waiting and how words could have helped. Solange might have listened to such an argument and refrained from placing it on her.
"Don't worry, darling. I can see there's nothing you can do. But I have to tell you: I can't stand this. I just can't bear it-it's too awful!" She looked up wanly. "Was it like this with you?"
Again the frustrating nod.
"Why don't we hate her? You don't, do you? I don't. I can't tell why. I just long for this to be over and have her hold me in her arms again. It was like that with you, wasn't it? No, don't bother nodding. I know." She paused for a moment, thinking. "I say, Monica, look at my feet, will you? What are they like?"
There was probably nothing in the world that Monica wished' less to do. But to do nothing could only enhance the prisoner's fear. Dutifully she struggled up and examined the pitiful small soles. They were frightfully swollen, bruised and purple. They were not cut. There was no blood. That might come later. Her own had. The thin layers of flesh could stand only so much. But now: how to convey some message to the anxious girl. She turned and made a deprecating shrug that she hoped would indicate a condition bad but not hopeless.
"I think they're pretty bad," Melissa stated firmly. Tears came to her eyes again. "Darling, is there any chance I may not walk again...?"
Vehemently Monica made negative gestures. It would never do for Melissa to harbor such a fear at this stage. With such a thought, that which was still to come would be impossible to survive. She must have managed well. The fear in the child's eyes faded.
"You're sweet," Melissa murmured. "You hate this, don't you? I can tell! You're being punished for something-I heard her say it." A pale Melissa smile appeared. "I can't really believe it now, but I suppose I will get through this. I won't really die or go mad or be lame for life, will I? It's sort of peaceful here now with the two of us alone so I feel a bit better. But I'm so afraid of when she comes back. I love her. But it hurts so much I just go wild. I don't want to say something to injure her, or that I'll be ashamed of. I almost wish she had gagged me. But I'll admit the screaming does help. It must sound frightful. But it's something I almost have to do."
She mused awhile. Then said in a puzzled voice, "You said it would change me. That it was something that had to be done if I was to belong to her in the way she wants me and the way I want her. I didn't believe you. I was sure the way we felt was enough. I couldn't really understand this. I thought it was just some idea the two of you believed in, so I didn't mind too much when I knew it had to happen to me. But it's true. When it hurts like this, this awful kind of pain that's different and worse than a whip, and it goes on and on... Something does happen. I don't know what. But I know now you were right. I'll never be quite the way I was. You can't suffer like this and have a part of yourself wounded and injured without being a bit different afterwards. Maybe when I get better I'll only seem just a teensy bit different. But I'll never forget this... never!"
As though having made a discovery, she continued in a hushed voice: "She's wonderful. She knows all about us. She's so terribly wise. Have you felt this, Monica?" The mute girl nodded, and wondered if any of her tender smile managed to escape the gag. She had become frustratingly aware that there was little feeling to be conveyed without lips and hands. She did the best she could with the five fingers to which she could give a small range of freedom by wracking her other arm and shoulder. They stayed there upon the rug. Two captive girls without hope of escape. But with a vision of the distance that few prisoners ever know.
Solange returned. She wasted no time. But kissed them both with great tenderness. Then picked up the cane. Melissa screamed.
Hester helped Solange carry the broken child. Monica trailed behind them feeling useless. It was almost with shock that she entered the room instead of the bedroom or the cell. It was the room she remembered so well. The room of the altar and the stretched legs. Evidently Solange considered the posture better suited to the purpose. Monica saw its advantages instantly and wondered why she had been branded elsewhere. In this position no movement was possible and the exposure extreme. She watched while they strapped the girl into position, and felt every strain as the slight legs were drawn further and further apart until rigidly taut. Melissa made constant wailing and moaning sounds. But what was being done to her now did not touch or affect her wickedly wounded feet.
It was evident that Solange would waste no further time. There would be no contemplative, suspenseful wait. Melissa was tired and broken. It would be best to get the brands placed and done with. The victim herself showed almost no interest in what was taking place. She lay with eyes closed. The two Mistresses left when Arlette arrived with the ugly things that were to be used on the naked moaning girl. The French girl looked with pity at both her charges. She noticed Monica's gag and smiled. Since Monica could not speak, she would not. Nodding toward the strapped figure she made a wry grimace and gave her Gallic shrug of acceptance of something that could not be changed. Then went quickly about her task.
The 'S' was within an inch of her skin before Melissa awoke to what was about to happen. Monica cringed at the screams and the smell of burning flesh. But nature was kind and the wounded child fainted so that Arlette was able to complete her task and imprint the 'D' upon flesh that responded not at all. Monica emitted a great sigh of relief and leaned back against the wall. Arlette came and kissed her lovingly, then gathered up her tools and departed. Silence fell upon the room. A silence that prompted Monica to tiptoe over to the taut legs and examine what had been done. Arlette had placed the letters beautifully and burned them deep. Inappropriate as the thought might be, Monica could not avoid a vision of a jubilant Melissa on the day her bandages would be removed. She remembered herself how joyful that day had been.
Solange returned alone. She unlocked one of Monica's wrists, then locked them both again in front. The chained girl could now use her hands in some degree to be helpful. Together she and the Mistress carried their unconscious burden to her room.
The healing time was pure happiness. Monica was kept chained and not allowed to return home. For the first days she and Solange took turns to sit with the tired and depleted Melissa. When not thus occupied Monica was chained to her ring. She shared with the invalid a vast relief that something was done and past. As the girl in the bed regained her gamin grin and her voice could once more be heard with all its amusing importunities and questions, so too Monica's spirits soared. Solange reigned over them with a new tenderness. Monica believed she had never seen her Mistress so radiant.
For Melissa, as her spirits recovered from shock, her bed became much the same as Monica's chains. She could not leave it. She had tried to walk, and had gingerly placed her feet upon the floor. But when she put weight upon them she sank back on the bed gasping with pain. Her eyes hurt and imploring. For several days they had trouble convincing her that her feet would truly heal and return to normal just as Monica's had done. In fact Monica was constantly having to display the soles of her feet for inspection to prove this point. The victim's feet had been bandaged so that she could not examine them and be shocked and distraught at what she saw. It was not long before she had to be threatened with chains and worse if she continued her wish to view what had been done to her. The big event of Melissa's day came with the changing of the bandages which covered her brands. The older girls gave up any idea of keeping her from this somewhat grisly sight. A brand takes a long time to heal, and until it does it is not pretty. But to the girl who bore them the two wounds were a pure delight and a forerunner of greater delights to come. She never tired of seeking to see them or to talk of them.
But it took two weeks for the small feet to regain their former buoyancy so that their owner could once more do her dance of delight. From this fact Monica knew that Solange had whipped she herself with a greater kindness than either Arlette or Melissa had received. She wondered why. That she needed less to bring her to heel-or that they needed more! She did not know and would probably never know. She supposed the answer lay in her long sojourn in the House prior to her true enslavement. As one of its inmates she had borne the full brunt of its discipline. She had always admitted its potent influence on the feminine psyche.
Monica was surprised by Solange's ready acceptance of The Honourable Freddy's request for the service of young Poppy. She had broached the subject with some difference and the feeling that she might ask a favor of Solange that would never be granted by Madam Dubois. The more she viewed Freddy's wish the more outrageous it seemed. A stem refusal from Solange might have done what her own weakness had failed to accomplish. She found herself almost sorry that Poppy's services were so easily obtained.
Solange had been curious. She had not said yes immediately. But had asked questions. She had discerned the hazard that a guest might recognize one of the four, but had agreed that nudity was a girl's best disguise. Monica had sensed that something about the situation intrigued her. She wondered if perhaps her Mistress herself saw an evening's amusement on a pedestal. But dismissed the thought. It was hardly Solange's cup of tea. Young Poppy went into raptures of delight when advised of her impending night on a marble column. So excited was she that she was allowed to spend an afternoon with the now nearly recovered invalid so that they might compare ideas and share their delight.
By the time they went home the invalid had become thoroughly spoiled. She was once again the dancing impetuous nymphet. But Monica noticed one change: Melissa obeyed. A sharp word had an instantly sobering effect. She often pleaded or pouted, but obedience had become automatic. She never showed resentment. It was as though she wanted to obey. Monica became quite sure that this was so. The child might not like the order, but she wished to obey it. A seeming contradiction. But part of the magic of Solange.
The Mistress provided another surprise by announcing that Freddy's Arabian Nights entertainment could hardly take place without a few arrangements. Since one of her pupils and one of her Mistresses was involved they would gather in her house for tea. Plans and understandings could be arrived at.
When Monica and Melissa arrived they were startled to find the Honourable Freddy well established in the largest armchair. He had the appearance of a guest of long standing.
"Frightfully decent this, eh what," he chortled. "Came early to interview young Poppy. Charming child-even with her head stuck in the stocks-you girls do get up to things here."
"Proper arrangements have been made for your conveyance back and forth," Solange stated in a strictly business manner. "A closed brougham has been employed. You will therefore only require wraps."
It was a very conventional tea. Solange kept the business in hand well to the fore. But she struck one discordant note. Since it seemed deliberate, Monica wondered why.
Solange bestowed her full attention on Arlette. It might be more correct to say that Madam Dubois bestowed her full attention on Arlette: "I am surprised, my dear, that you have lent yourself to this enterprise."
Arlette was embarrassed. "I wished to be of service," she said awkwardly.
"You will give much pleasure, I am sure. Your figure is exquisite."
"Thank you madam. It is much to be hoped that my wish to help Freddy gives no offense?"
"You're going to marry him, aren't you?" Arlette looked startled. Freddy was studying her intently. Solange eyed them both with quizzical gaze. Monica became aware of an undercurrent.
"He has done me the honor to ask, Madam."
"Well?"
"I do not know," the French girl admitted unhappily.
"Nonsense! You must make up your mind one way or another." Madam's voice was premonitory. She turned to Freddy. "I will see that this foolish girl arrives at the conclusion."
Monica felt certain that she would.
It is to be supposed that for a girl to stand naked upon a marble pillar well above the level of the floor and to have her hands chained above her head so that she can neither cover herself or step down from her perch is not the happiest of situations. Yet in the Grand Ballroom of the house of the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot four naked maidens in precisely that predicament viewed their condition from four different perspectives. Arlette appeared distraught-as indeed she had been since the afternoon of the tea and Madam's declaration. Melissa in a seventh heaven of excitement. Young Poppy roguishly shy, and Monica standing in bored irritation that she had allowed herself to be maneuvered thus.
It had been decided that the girls should be chained in position early in the evening rather than make a disorganized entry later. True, they would be very tired before the night was done. But they were used to chains and uncomfortable postures. Monica guessed that Freddy was correct in his belief that should any of the girls droop with fatigue they would become even more erotically interesting to the assemblage. Waiters and maids had been briefed to discreetly ignore the existence of the living statues. Monica wryly reflected that a stay in Madam's House inured a girl to strange and diverse employment.
Of the four it was probably Arlette who would suffer the greatest discomfort. As one of the Mistresses she was rarely, if ever, subjected to chains, strained and painful postures, or nudity. Watching her mount her pillar it had been evident that she did so with hesitation and dubiety.
Monica suspected that she had raised her hands to be chained with a very real reluctance. Freddy had chained them. It seemed doubtful that the French girl would have allowed anyone else to do so.
Monica had been puzzled by the chains. Freddy must have gone to a good deal of expense to have them installed. True, they were in keeping with the motif striven for and, true also, that they would offer some small support for a girl who must stand motionless for many hours. But he could have got these effects with simulated stage props at much lesser cost. After her hands had been secured Monica had tested her bonds. They were totally authentic. There would be no escaping from them. She wondered, with a flash of amusement, whether they might not also be a safety precaution in a gathering that was likely to get more and more inebriated as the evening progressed. They would certainly foil an amourous male bent on seduction, or who might even essay to carry one of the maidens bodily from the room. The girls were there to stay on their columns. She hoped the Honourable Freddy would not lose the key.
It had been decided that the four of them should maintain a distant anonymity by allowing their eyes to rove well above the heads of their audience as though seeing beyond a far horizon. Or they could keep them downcast. Never must they run the risk of meeting male eyes head on or to invite a word or comment. These admonitions had been most forcibly drummed into the consciousness of the two younger girls who accepted the prohibitions with obvious disappointment. Young Poppy had evidently contemplated a busy evening with her eyes plus some provocative motion with those other parts of her person most likely to attract male attention. Solange had been obliged to promise her a hundred strokes should she follow her natural instincts.
It seemed probable that Arlette had accepted nudity, chains, and a marble column for no other reason than to please Freddy. Monica wondered about the two of them. Arlette always dismissed the subject of the man who wished to marry her. She spoke of him as one does of a playful puppy-not to be taken seriously. Yet she was doing something now that few women would do for any man. Monica knew that she herself would not be standing as she was had it not been for those months of conditioning to nakedness and chains in Madam's House. It would have been unthinkable. So why Arlette! The French girl must possess deeper feelings for the man who pursued her than she was willing to admit. Monica sympathized with this lovely girl she had loved. The mystic influence of Solange was upon them both. They had lived with its beauty and its pain. If Freddy had demanded that she marry him instead, Monica knew she would have been as distraught over the decision as was Arlette. For them there existed two worlds. In the safety and wonder of that life governed by their Mistress and shared by Melissa they had no desire to enter or to examine the prosaic existence of the rest of humanity. It was there somewhere over the hill, but as time had passed they had become increasingly oblivious to it. Monica had become aware that, because of the thing she was now doing, her Mistress was displeased. No word had been spoken. But there was no doubt. Solange had entered into the arrangements in a business-like manner as though to competently dispose of a matter that must be dealt with. But there had been no warmth. No sharing of a topic that lent itself to humor or speculation. Monica had been dejected over this. Reflecting on it now she realized that she had allowed Freddy to jockey her into compliance in much the same manner as when she had bemusedly submitted to his whip. Solange had been displeased then. Presumably she was displeased now. Monica knew that she should have asked permission or at least discussed Freddy's proposal. Instead, she had presented it as a fait accompli when asking for the services of young Poppy. Standing on her column she reviewed her mistakes and resigned herself to what would probably be a severe whipping-or what was even worse, to be chained in her cell isolated from her beloved ring and her adored Mistress. Well, she would have to bear it. It served her right. But she was more than ever annoyed with Freddy Arbuthnot.
With the arrival of the first guest The Honourable Freddy became much in evidence. Entry of the two males produced a noticeable tensioning in the living statues. Each girl felt awareness strike her like a blow. As more and more men entered, three of the chained girls wore a mantle of pink which only accentuated their nakedness. Melissa was quite immune to such embarrassment and was enjoying as much of the male reaction as she dared watch.
Even with the admonition of the horizon gaze Monica found it possible to see enough to provide amusement. It soon became evident that the girls were not alone with their blushes. One pale young man was obviously in agony. On entering the room he had stopped as though impaled upon a stake. Freddy had been obliged to work hard to release him from his trance. Formalities disposed of the astounded youth had wandered about the room looking everywhere but at the feminine nudity provided for his delectation. But his blush betrayed him. It surpassed in depth of tone the magnificent red that young Poppy had been unable to control. But which, in her case, was rapidly fading as her enjoyment increased. The youth examined pictures, bric-a-brac and the clock. But his eyes, as though false to his determination, always returned to one of the naked girls so that the poor fellow constantly gave an impression of using force to focus them elsewhere.
He was rescued from his agonies by being buttonholed by an elderly man with white hair and a white mustache, the sparkle in whose eye belied his age. They came to rest before Monica so that every word was clearly audible.
"The thing to do is look at 'em," the older man explained earnestly. "Have a good look and get it over with. Can't go on like you've been doing-dislocate your neck, y'know. Always remember the first naked 'gel I got a dekker at-couldn't see her for embarrassment. Kept looking at the ceiling... silly young ass! Might have been looking at that ceiling still if she hadn't taken my ears and shoved my face in it... "
"Shoved your face in what...?"
"Well, never mind just now," the elder suggested hastily. Then transferred his attention to Monica. "Take this little filly here. Fine bones. Good posture. Take a good look, lad. You won't see too many like this... I say, where the devil does young Freddy pick up these little morsels?"
Whilst the young man disclaimed knowledge of her origins he accepted his companion's moral support by indeed "having a good look.' Monica found it hard to remain motionless and aloof under his scrutiny. She became aware that the white haired man was adjusting a pair of spectacles.
"Damn me! Thought I wasn't mistaken." He nudged his enraptured protege. 'The 'gel's been branded. Jolly fine job, too. 'S' on one side, 'D' on the other," he guffawed. "Nice bit of stuff in between, too. Always admired a good mat of hair. Nice and wiry. It curls. Never could understand those chappies who want to shave it off. Have to ask young Freddy about that brand. Come on, there's one over here with a really delectable rump."
Monica had become so accustomed to her brands that she had failed to point out to Freddy that they must inevitably invite comment. Not that it mattered much. Coarse humor was to be expected. But their placement so high on the inside of each thigh meant that to examine them was also to examine the most intimate of all a girl's possessions. If there were many like the white haired gentleman her longing to use one hand to cover herself would become excruciating.
The pair had paused in front of young Poppy. It was obvious that the merits of her 'delectable rump' were being knowledgeably extolled. It was obvious, too, that young Poppy was enjoying the impersonal assessment of her charms. Monica could not tell whether the slight squirming motions of her stomach and loins was involuntary or deliberate. If Solange came to know of the infringement it would earn the moppet a sound thrashing. She wondered if Solange had briefed or bribed anyone present to report on their behavior. If such there was then they were likely to all bear stripes on the morrow for what would increasingly become uncontrollable reactions to stimuli and strains beyond their control.
She was jolted out of her reverie by a sober voice beside her: "I shall have to report" this, y'know."
She remembered in time not to drop her gaze. She obtained an impression of someone middle aged and lank. She froze tensely.
"Can't have girls branded like that. Won't do at all. Don't be afraid. Who did that to you, girl?"
She was rescued by the arrival of Freddy who was evidently keeping a closer eye on things than she had dared hope.
"Remarkable, isn't it!" he observed brightly.
"Shocking!" sober sides proclaimed vehemently. "We must persuade the poor child to confide in us. Put an end to it y'know."
"Well, it's like this," Freddy explained earnestly placing his hand on the other man's arm. "The dear girl did it of her own free will. Joined one of those religious orders y'know. Led down the garden path if you ask me. But being branded goes along with the entrance fee. Sort of sign of good faith, what! Lucky enough to make her escape when they wanted to do it on the other bit, too... "
"What other bit?"
"Well, where she sits down," Freddy improvised. "Frightfully unsporting of them. Puts a girl at no end of a disadvantage when you come to think of it-more ways than one, that is. Anyway, when they broke the good news she climbed out of a window and hoofed it."
"What do the letters stand for?"
Freddy took a deep breath. Monica's heart went out to him. "Sans douce, actually. Means without sweet. Could have said sour, I suppose. Probably sounds better in French... "
"I find it hard to understand the proximity of these brands to the... er-"
"Quite, quite," Freddy responded briskly. "Method in their madness, what! Appears the old monk chappies were inclined to get in a bit of a look and a feel in between Vespers. So the Mother Superior thought it a good idea to get her initials as close to the you know what as possible. Must have been a bit of a shock to the clergy when they found it staring them in the face."
"I would have supposed a monk's interest lay elsewhere."
"Well, of course, that was the idea in branding her on the bottom as well. Might say she caught 'em coming and going... " Feeling he had strayed into deep water, Freddy made a quick recovery. "Had a story going the rounds that when they caught one of these tonsured johnnies in flagrant delicto he simply said he was plucking a brand from the burning... "
"I shall discuss this whole matter with my vicar."
"Jolly good idea," Freddy enthused. "I say, have you seen that simply smashing one in the far corner?" He led his victim away. Monica sighed in relief and stifled a desire to laugh. Freddy undoubtedly rose to an occasion.
Her next crisis followed rapidly. A casual voice asked: "How about meeting me after the show?"
Only the silence that followed caused her to realize she had been spoken to.
"I'd make it a tenner, y'know."
He was a personable youth. Monica knew she was close to blushing at the thought of how closely she resembled pictures of slave girls on the auction block. A bid had been made...
"Oh, very well then. Let's call it twenty."
Pure mischief prompted her. "I never accept less than fifty."
She knew an immense satisfaction in his immediate acceptance of her price. She wondered if, in matters of this sort, it rated as large as she supposed it. She hoped so.
"Whereabouts?" whispered her escort for the night.
"Give the money to Freddy now, and hell make all the arrangements," she whispered back. "Oh simply ripping. I am pleased."
It was hard for her to keep her features composed as she watched him make his way to Freddy's side. For once she would get her own back. But her elation was short lived when she saw the two men turn and look at her then engage in an intent discussion. Her heart almost stopped when she witnessed five ten pound notes change hands and be safely tucked away in Freddy's wallet. Surely Freddy wouldn't dare... ! Or would he! In fact, could he? She considered what he might contrive. Suppose the other girls were taken to the coach first leaving her alone chained and at the mercy of any man who had the key to her shackles. Could she fight or scream enough to make her escape? She did not know.
It was one more cross to bear.
Looking across the huge room it seemed to Monica that Arlette's cool and lofty gaze had kept her inviolate and uninvelved. But this could not be said for young Poppy. She was having the time of her life. She appeared to have given up all effort to adhere to her instructions. There is not too much a girl can do when chained and placed as Poppy was. But she made the most of such opportunity as she had. She had carried on several whispered conversations and rewarded admiring glances and remarks with subtle movements of her most interesting assets. Monica had a horrified thought that perhaps the child might have already contracted herself for more than fifty pounds. She was quite capable of it. It was evident, also, that another matter of import had been forgotten. Poppy's behavior always ensured regular whippings. She bore interesting marks. They had aroused comment. No doubt the little minx would have a ready and plausible explanation. Monica wondered what it was. She wished she could hear. But there was one present who, though they could not hear, could certainly see. Arlette was well aware of Poppy's defection. As a Mistress it would be her duty to report it. Poppy was, after all, still one of the girls in the House and subject to its rules. The cheerful moppet would have little to look forward to in the days ahead.
It was evident that Freddy must have briefed his guests to an understanding that the naked girls were for aesthetic appreciation only and were not to be viewed in any other light. Most of them would let their eyes linger only briefly. Few approached or stared.
But there were exceptions. These left Monica seething with rage. It is not an easy thing for a well brought up young woman to stand naked and listen to men discuss the finer points of her anatomy as though she was a cow. It was an age, too, when refinement and gentility governed speech. Monica was making the discovery that this veneer was easily discarded when men gathered together. Two of them were discussing her now: apparently not caring whether she heard them or not. Perhaps they wished her to.
"The intriguing thing," one of them was saying, "is that you can see the whip marks. Three of them have really had some canings. The other one doesn't show signs. With a couple you have to look close and get to one side. But the evidence is there all right. Freddy's a lucky bastard. Wonder where he gets 'em."
"Nothing quite the same as whipping a girl," the other contributed. "Must get 'em young, of course. These are all first class. Really prime. I'd say they were four of the nicest bottoms I've ever seen."
"You know my uncle, don't you-old Lord Copsleigh? Old boy's well over eighty and whips his housemaids every day and his cook on Saturday night. Had a fine life. Can't understand these modem prejudices about a bit of sport. The little darlings love it. Can't get enough, some of 'em. This one here, she'd take it well. Right spirit. I can tell. Something about 'em... "
"Well, anyway, good old Freddy's loosened up tonight. He's thought up a really priceless scheme. This girl here is for sale. She doesn't know it, but Freddy's taking bids. You give him the cash in the amount you feel is your top price. It's secret so you hope yours is the high bid. When the party's over Freddy announces the winners: the three highest bids. The rest of us get our money back, but are entitled to stay and watch the show. This little beauty gets spreadeagled and each winner gets to give her as many strokes as the number of pounds he paid. It goes, first, second, and third, naturally. Freddy is providing a whip that's not too severe-you see it looks as though the poor girl could easily get a couple of hundred. Bunny Gough forked over a hundred guineas on the spot when he heard about it. Hope for England yet with chaps like that around."
"Are we confined to her bottom, or can we whip her anywhere we like?"
"Never thought to ask. But if she's going to get two or three hundred I expect she'd like to have 'em spread around a bit. She's getting the cash, of course, should ease the pain a bit."
"I'd like to curl a leather round those two younger ones. Make 'em dance a bit. Asked Freddy. But he says some female has a hold on 'em. Has to do a bit of finessing to keep this one on the premises."
Still discussing her fate they wandered back into the crowd.
Monica stood aghast. Tears were in her eyes. She would not have believed Freddy would do such a thing to her. It would never do to cry now. She could not touch her tears or dry her cheeks. Why had he chosen her! Why not Arlette? Of course not Arlette. If he did a thing like this to her she would never marry him. The two younger girls would be protected by Solange's wrath. She was the only one left. But why would the wrath of Solange not protect her also? Miserably she realized that he could not know how close that afternoon when she had given herself to his whip had brought her to disaster. She felt only desolation at this fate decreed for her after the party. She had been whipped so much and seen so much of whipping that she wanted no more of it. At least not now. Solange would always whip her, she knew, but for different reasons and different motives. To have her skin striated from shoulders to knee with hundreds of stripes simple for the amusement of a group of intoxicated nobility was something against which her whole being rebelled. But what could she do! She was safely chained. Freddy had made sure of that. The thought of Freddy sickened her. Repeatedly she had striven to like him. She wanted to like him. But this was a betrayal. Why did he have to do these things?...
Her next tribulation took a quite different form. He was an old but erect and distinguished man. Without preamble or hesitation he addressed her. She felt instantly that he was accustomed to getting his way.
"Duke of Quorn," he introduced himself. "Been looking at you all evening. Like you. Going back to the castle tonight. Will you come with me?"
Monica once again was riven between tears and a desire to giggle. A duke! She had to guess at his motive. But she could not be sure. Her evening was a disaster so she broke the rule.
"Why?"
"Well dammit, you've got good legs. You can run, can't you?"
The giggle was beginning to win. She had to stifle it. "I suppose so. But why?"
"Don't you know me, girl! Name of Quorn means nothing to you? No sporting blood." He looked quite fierce. A Highland chieftain.
She shook her head.
He sighed at the ignorance and temerity of youth. "Never heard of my Hunt? None other like it."
Some glimmer of memory prodded her. She had heard something. Something strange... But it was gone. She shook her head again.
"Castle's three miles north of the border. We give you a thirty minute start before we loose the hounds. If you get to the border before they get to you I pay a hundred pounds. Fair enough?"
Monica felt that nothing could really astound her now. This was positively medieval. "Naked, I suppose?" she asked wearily.
"Of course. Don't see a stag leaping about in tweeds, do you?"
"And what if they catch me?"
"Well, if you stand quite still they'll just hold you 'til we arrive. If you keep running you might get scratched up a bit."
"And who's 'we'?"
"The Hunt, of course. Decent lot of chaps. Call ourselves 'The Her and Hounds.' Bit of a pun there. We're well known-exclusive."
Monica was tired. Absurd as this man was she was tempted to throw herself on his mercy rather than endure what Freddy had in store for her.
"So I either get across the border or I get caught. What happens then?"
"What do you suppose, girl? For the first you get a hundred pounds. For the second you get a hundred strokes."
Monica gave a mock groan. "Is whipping a girl all you men ever think of?"
"Well, it's only fair. Can't expect to lose and get off scot free. Does you a world of good-real incentive for the next run... "
"I can well imagine," said Monica dryly.
"I mean to say... don't just brutalize you y'know. Make a bit of a 'do' of the occasion. You get fastened up in the Great Hall and take your stripes while the Hunt applauds. Then you join us at the banquet and mingle with the guests."
"Still naked, I suppose?"
"You have to be naked to get whipped. Waste of time to dress after. Send you to bed early. Build up your strength for the run the next day."
"How many runs is a girl supposed to make?"
The Duke became testy. "Bloody nuisance. Girls last no time. Always get married. Usually one of the Hunt snags 'em. Or if they're not top drawer then the staff snaffle 'em. Head groom got the last." He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper: "Fact is I suspect, seeing a good looking wench get whipped makes 'em randy as blazes. Hike her off to the altar next day if you'd let 'em. Look here, you coming or not?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Why?"
"Dogs don't like me," said Monica demurely.
"Huh!" He strode off in the direction of young Poppy. Monica reflected the moppet was entitled to a bit of humor. She wished she could overhear the conversation.
Monica looked back at the ending of the party as one of the tensest moments of her life. When the great room had emptied four tired naked girls looked eagerly for release. It was not long in coming. Freddy unlocked Arlette. She in turn unchained the younger girls and led them from the room. Monica was left standing on her marble column, still chained, alone in the great space. It was a lonely and disquieting sensation.
It seemed hours, but was actually five minutes before Freddy came for her. He was alone. She steeled herself for resistance. Against a single man an angry and frightened girl could surely fight for her freedom. But Freddy, as usual, had out-thought her. He carried her chains. Those beautiful silver chains she wore so proudly when Solange locked them on her. She stood in mute dejection while he locked her ankles together. She could not right now. A struggle perhaps, but it would be ineffectual. How on earth had he managed to obtain these chains that she and Solange treasured so! He was forever surprising.
She refused to meet his eyes as he reached up and loosed her wrists. She considered then if she should beat at him with her newly freed fists. But to what end? Only an undignified scramble. Pathetically she held out her wrists and watched as he chained them together. He lifted her down and set her on her feet. Then, unexpectedly, offered her a chair. Thankfully she sat. She was tired and in a mood to be thankful for any small mercy. Freddy found another chair and sat a few feet from her.
"The high bid was one hundred and twenty pounds," he grinned at her quizzically.
She did not answer. She still would not meet his eyes.
"The second was seventy-five, and the third fifty. Total two hundred and forty-five."
"You'll have to take me home on a stretcher." Her voice was thin.
"Well of course, dear girl. I thought of that. It's ready and waiting."
"What are you waiting for? Take me to the whipping post."
Freddy had the grace to wince. "Actually I thought you'd like something to eat and a drop of bubbly with the boys before we start."
The thought of food and drink was agonizing. But not on those terms. "And let them paw me... and joke about what's going to happen."
"Whatever you prefer, darling. We may as well get on with the job then. The chaps can watch while they eat."
"How nice for them." Her voice was pure frost.
Freddy shrugged, as though at feminine unreason. "Actually poppet, thought I'd give you a choice. It's getting late and I expect you'd like to get home. Would you prefer the whole two hundred and forty-five at one go? Or would you like them spaced out so you can get a breather in between?"
Some instinct warned her. The words of hate and contempt died on her lips. For the first time she met his eyes. There was laughter in them. It overflowed. He slapped his knee and laughed with abandon.
"Thought you had me with that fifty quid, didn't you?" he chuckled. "Too good a chance to miss. Thought up the little plot on the spot. Chaps did damn well, didn't they? Didn't know they could act."
"You mean... you...?" Joy and fury fought inside her.
"Yes darling. You've guessed it. You've been had. Dastardly Freddy has played another trick on his poppet. All a spoof, what."
Monica beat her knees with her clenched fists. The chain that joined them contributing its own fury to hers. "You... you, you... "
"Absolute cad?" Freddy suggested.
"Worse. Much worse...!"
"Frightful bounder?"
"Oh, Freddy. How can you!" Unintentionally her tears overflowed. They were tears of joy. They welled from a tremendous relief. She was not to be whipped. Freddy had not been false. The world was wonderful. Everything was wonderful. Even Freddy was wonderful... Somehow, despite her chains she managed to get her arms about his neck and kiss him. Then he picked her up. In the cloakroom he draped a coat about her nudity and carried her to the waiting brougham and the other girls. Tired and happy she wondered why she was the only one of them that was chained. But she did not care.
It was a remote and thoughtful Solange who chained her to the ring that night. As she stretched out upon the rug and drifted into sleep it occurred to Monica to wonder why she was where she was instead of in her own home.
But she did not care about that either...
* * *
It was afternoon when Solange unlocked her collar and motioned for her to follow. Still chained at wrist and ankle Monica obediently fell in behind her Mistress, her ankles daintily flashing in quick hobbled steps as she strove to keep pace. Their destination proved to be the drawing room. It contained a shock. It contained several shocks.
The first was Freddy, casual and comfortable, as usual, in an armchair. The second was Hester standing very much to attention as though awaiting orders. The third was Melissa and young Poppy. They were naked but unchained. They looked puzzled and on their best behavior as though expectant of things to come. Monica wondered why she was chained but they were not. She shrugged the question off as of no consequence. The fourth was the greatest shock of all. It was Arlette.
The lovely French girl was as naked as Monica herself. But she wore no chains. What she did wear was far more shocking. Her beauty was marked everywhere by the whip. Save for her feet, legs and arms the whip had left no part of her untouched. All the weals were ridged. Some showed traces of blood. She sat bowed, pensive and weary as though she, too awaited a verdict.
Solange, who by some magic of her own had suddenly become Madam Dubois, wasted no time. She took the floor.
"Poppy."
Young Poppy leaped to her feet as though she had been tensed for the command. 'Tes Madam."
"Tell us what you did yesterday evening."
Poppy shuffled her feet. It was evident that she was aware of what was required of her. But was loath to begin. "I didn't behave very well up on the column," she essayed tentatively.
"Continue."
"I talked to some of the men and... and-I wiggled."
"You were told not to do this, were you not?"
"Yes Madam." Poppy sounded bereft of hope.
"You may stand beside Hester. In a moment she will suspend you by the wrists and give you twenty very hard strokes with the cane on your bottom. You will remain so for the rest of the afternoon."
Poppy burst into tears. But obeyed with alacrity.
"Melissa. Come here, dear girl."
Madam Dubois hugged the eager child and kissed her chastely. "I have heard nothing but good of you, my dear. This thing you all did yesterday-it was not easy. So I am proud of you who are young and might have done as Poppy-that so foolish girl! As a reward you shall spend the day with Hester to do as you wish and to help her with her work as she may desire. Run along now. We have much to do." Impulsively Melissa hugged the Mistress once more. Then scampered toward the waiting Hester. But half way there she stopped and turned. Her elfin grin was back: "Please Madam. If I am to help Hester may I please give Poppy her twenty strokes with the cane?"
Everyone, even the forlorn Arlette found themselves smirking. Madam herself laughed gaily. Only Poppy seemed immune to the humor of the request.
Madam appeared to consider. "I think, ma petit, that it is desired to cane Poppy far harder than you can do. So we will strike a bargain. You will give Poppy half her strokes and Hester will give her the other half. Thus all will be happy... Perhaps even Poppy."
The room seemed very quiet when they had gone.
Madam gave an audible sigh. She looked pointedly at Arlette and received a wan smile in response. Turning her attention to the Honourable Freddy she found his face quietly composed, politely attentive.
"You do not help me at all." Her voice was plaintive. At that moment it might have belonged to young Poppy. "No one has seen such a pair-such foolishness. You make me do it all. Almost I despair of you. But I will not be defeated. You will now listen. I have much to say."
Every motion Madam Dubois made held purpose. Firmly she clasped one of Arlette's hands and led the passive girl to the center of the floor as though to display her charms or perhaps to emphasize her lividly punished skin. The girl herself seemed in a daze. But that was understandable. She must have been whipped just a short time before. She would still be in pain. Considering the wounds she might well be in shock. Madam turned to Freddy.
"You wish to marry Arlette?"
Gravely he inclined his head. "Yes."
"Good. At least that is known. I come now to a thing that concerns us all." Her gaze swept them imperiously. "It is time to call a halt."
Madam took several paces up and back. She pointed at Freddy. "You will stop pestering this girl I possess with your so selfish and so absurd notions. You will not whip her. You will not strip her. You will not commit the fornication. You will not tempt her at all with your so charming ways. With you she is weak. You have a power over her, n'est ce pas."
Her finger swung accusingly to Monica. "You are as foolish in one way as Arlette is in another-two such foolish females. I have not the patience. It is understood that you are half in love with Freddy. You have, I think, a wish to be in love. He amuses you. He is stronger than you. So you flutter when he gives the attention. This will now stop! Do you understand? You are not in love with Freddy. You love only the silly thrills he provides and tempts you with. You will stop. Freddy will stop. That is final."
This time she sought out the figure of the French girl who had for so long been a part of her life. Arlette raised her eyes so that her face was open to what she was about to hear. It seemed likely that she already knew its import. Madam's voice became tender and tinged with sorrow.
"For so very long now you have enjoyed your little joke. You were very happy in this House. You kept the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot for what you call the rainy day. You do not marry him." She paused, considering. "It is not easy to say this. But in my House there is love. It is a very strong love. Perhaps stronger than any other. It is between Arlette and me. It is between me and Monique. Because of it Arlette would never leave here."
She paused and looked at Freddy. "We French are practical. We know that to live is not easy. We know that money can be a good thing. We consider our future. A girl must be rich or she must marry. It is that simple. Arlette is not rich...
"I have talked and talked. But one cannot throw love away like an old glove. My poor child has been torn. She professes humor. But she is deeply troubled. For her, decision, it is impossible. Arlette knows and I know that she should marry you. It is a most suitable match. She has no illusions about you. For you she is a most beautiful girl. You are lucky. So what to do!"
Madam Dubois took Arlette once more by the hand and turned her so that the full message of her lacerated skin might be told. "You see what I have done. I have fastened this poor child, for whom I feel only love, so that she cannot move. Then I whip her most cruelly. As I do this terrible thing I ask and ask: 'Will you marry Freddy?' At first she shakes her head. As the pain gets worse she implores me to stop. I do not stop. She sobs. She pleads. She speaks of love. I hate myself because I must whip her harder and harder.
"You know my school and what is done here. I know what happens. I cannot always tell you why it happens. I know that if you whip a girl long enough she will say what you wish her to say. If your wish is good she will not hate you. Sometimes love is born in this strange way. Do not let us consider why. It is so!
"So I know what must be done with ma pauvre petit. I go on whipping this child I love. I cut and mark this so beautiful body that I have held so often in my arms. But in the end she says yes. Yes, she will marry the Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot and become Lady something or other as the years they pass. So what must be done is done."
Madam took the hand she was holding and, leading the docile naked girl, placed it in the hand that Freddy held open. With a little sob the punished girl flung her arms around his neck and clung and wept.
"I suggest, Freddy, that you take your future wife now to her room. I know that today you will not play the antics. She will dress and you will talk. The house is yours. My darling child will stay here until the wedding. A wedding which we will all attend with much joy and, no doubt, some tears. Please to do this now. I have other work."
Cradling the sobbing girl in one arm Freddy did as he was bid. But as they passed he stopped and gravely and with much feeling lifted the hand of Madam Dubois to his lips and held it there. It was a moment they would both remember.
When they were gone Solange wearily turned to Monica. "Cherie... there is now the hardest thing of all."
"I know," said Monica. She did indeed know!
"I do not like the impulse: the impetuous. I wish always to be sure. With those who have left this room I am sure. With you I wish still to know."
"You do know, Mistress."
"Perhaps I do. But I wish you to tell me. Tell it as a penance."
"My foolishness, Mistress? Oh, I'm sorry... "
The chained girl threw herself at the older woman's feet and clutched and sobbed as she had done so often. The fetters thwarted her instinctive desire to embrace. But she rubbed her hair and her face against the beloved feet. Solange watched quietly, her face radiant with love. She did not move or speak.
When the storm of emotion subsided Monica sat back upon her heels. But her head remained bowed. Now she was able to speak deliberately and firmly.
"He roused me that first time. I hated him for what he did to me. But I could not forget. My flesh wanted him even if I didn't. When he came again and again I was wanton. Always I said no and meant yes. He knew this. He always knew what was in my mind. He made me feel it useless to fight. That I would be caught, so why run. I said this to myself. But I was wanton. I desired him and the thrills he could give. It is true I half loved him."
Monica paused, looking backward within her mind. "It is hard for me to really know why I did not seek your help or your protection. I cannot think of any nobility. There was none. I was a child who does wrong and hopes not to be found out. You caught me. But still I did it again. I wanted him to come with his absurd ideas. He knew I wanted him and the things he made me do. There is no excuse. It is over now. I am glad."
"I love you the most of anything in life, Cherie."
"It is so with me, Mistress. Never let me go."
They were in each other's arms. It was a long and passionate embrace. Monica was like a child seeking comfort and reassurance as well as love. To her Solange was all things: even to be a mother with a hurt child.
When it was done the Mistress guided her child to a chair. Going to a cupboard she produced a box which she placed upon the settee and sat beside it. The box was large. Solange gave the waiting girl an enigmatic smile and explained.
"My very dear. You know my anger. You know yourself. What you have confessed is all true. It is what I might have told you had I wished. In these past weeks I have thought much of my darling slave. I have wanted to remove from her existence all temptation. To destroy before it happened anything that might come between us. It is not easy."
The Mistress paused and smiled as with a shared knowledge. "Cherie, would you wish to be totally a prisoner within these walls? To sleep chained to your ring always?"
"Tes!" The one word was vibrant with an ecstasy unmistakable.
"And Melissa?"
"Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes! Melissa is ours."
Solange nodded thoughtfully. "I have known this. Because of it I have cherished a great wish." She grinned cheerfully, but with a shrug of deprecation. "I have wanted to employ a craftsman to drill your chains so that they can be riveted on you to hold you forever. Not even I who hold a key could free you... "
Monica's grasp of ecstasy was eloquent. "Do it! Oh, do it please... To both of us. Melissa would adore it."
"But my little pigeon forgets." The Mistress made a regretful gesture with her hands. "She owns and lives in a fine large house. She has a fine large family here and there with whom she corresponds. There is also Aunt Millie who will wish to see her daughter sometimes... Such obligations cannot be dealt with if you were chained as I would wish you chained... And Melissa."
Monica summed up her understanding and disappointment in one emphatic word: "Damn!"
"I said that, too. Many times! But we must be practical in such things. I think that with planning much may be accomplished. But it will take time. It is not a thing of this month or this year. It is of the future. So for now you and Melissa cannot wear such chains."
Monica watched expectantly. Solange smiled playfully and opened the box. From it she extracted a beautifully designed metal circlet. She tossed it to her companion. "Examine and read please."
Monica was breathless with delight. The work was masterly. The steel was polished and etched with engraving. Across a section of it had been cut the unequivocal statement: "I belong to Solange." Her eyes glowed with excitement. "I am to wear it? Oh darling...!"
"Stand up and raise your arms high."
Monica obeyed. She shivered with rapture as the metal was fitted round her narrow waist. She contracted her muscles as the band tightened under Solange's firm hands. There came the strain of force. Then a very cold click. Solange backed away smiling with satisfaction. Monica looked down at her belly. The metal stricture was deep in her flesh. Her fingers explored it. They found no space into which they might be thrust.
"But, darling, it's too tight." Monica's cry of disappointment was almost a wail of anguish.
"No, little pigeon, it is not too tight for a girl who must be made to know her condition. You have a great need to be always reminded who you are and to whom you belong. It has been made tight on purpose-perhaps as a very small punishment. But you will get used to it."
Monica took a tentative step. Then another. Clasping her hands behind her neck and contracting her tummy she walked daintily round the room. It was a strangely beautiful sensation. Each motion she made drew from the metal its own subtle message of confinement. She could not move without being aware of it. Each step caused it to impart a compulsive swing of her hips that had not been there previously. She knew with a thrill that this would enhance the provocation of her femininity. She came to a standstill before her Mistress. Held her pose for a moment. Then allowed it to return to normal so that she stood without tension. The band seemed to tighten as though having a life of its own holding her captive.
"It's wonderful," she breathed. "It's gorgeous. I love it! Oh, darling, to think of something so beautiful... I do love you."
She fell to her knees and embraced her Mistress in the manner that she loved. Her new posture drew from the stricture round her waist one more reminder of implacability. When she again rose to her feet she asked: "Darling, take it off for a minute. Will you please? I want to read that inscription again and feel what it's like to be without it."
Solange laughed gaily. "Little pigeon: have you not guessed? I cannot take it off. No one can take it off. Only a craftsman with many tools... "
"You mean...?"
That moment. That knowledge. How diverse the emotions! With rapture Monica sensed them all: Fear: Wonder: Love: Joy: Content. They were all there. They shone in her eyes. They spoke in her quickened pulse.
"Yes, Cherie. You must were it always."
The Mistress smiled quickly as she watched the emotions mark their passage across the chained girl's face. Then explained: "It is of the finest steel. Few tools will touch it. I had them make it for you only. It contains a lock, a clasp, that once driven home as I have driven it now cannot be touched or scarcely even found. It is for one girl only. You. If it was to be removed it would have to be destroyed. There is no other way. Even that would not be easy."
With tender amusement she watched Monica finger and strive to examine this new thing of her Mistress's by which she was held. The girl was enraptured.
"It is most practical, dear one. When you leave this House it will accompany you. When you shop, or visit your lawyer man. When you walk down the street, or attend a party, it will tell you every moment of the time that you belong to me. You can never be free of it."
They kissed tenderly and long. Monica's delight was so evident there was no need for words.
"But that is not all, ma petit. I will have you ironed so that you can never forget."
Monica stood quivering and content as Solange clamped shut other similar bands round her upper arms above the elbow. Each bore the same inscription. Each was beautiful. Each was snug so that they would not slip, but not so tight that she would suffer. Flexing her arms she felt her muscles fight the confining metal. But there was no discomfort. They held her. They told their message to anyone who might read. She could never be quite unaware that she wore them. They were high enough that ordinary dress would hide them.
"I long to lock one around your neck, little pigeon. But... " Solange shrugged disappointedly, "there are limits now. Our time will come... "
Monica could hardly wait to confront a mirror. But a sudden realization prompted a question: "Melissa?"
Solange chuckled. "You think perhaps our little darling might feel hurt if only you...!" Solange had thought of this. "I have these, too, for her." The Mistress grinned at her captive's eagerness. "Yes, yes, Cherie. I call her now."
It was pure joy for the older girls to watch. And pure ecstasy for an excited Melissa. Monica noted that the younger girl's waist band gripped less harshly than her own. But she was content that she must suffer a little. Watching Melissa as she did her dance around the room quite unhampered by any chains Monica saw how exquisite were these irons they must wear. The polished steel, even though it was heavy and unyielding, had been made utterly feminine. Whether the bands were for ornament or punishment or for confinement made no difference. Nothing could detract from their allure when they were secure where they were made to clasp.
The exuberant child who obviously felt that with the events of this day her cup was indeed full, kissed and exclaimed, hugged and danced, until Solange, laughing, told her that she must go and exhibit her new treasures to Hester.
"Must I?" The moppet tried her most winsome smile.
"Run along!!!" Solange told her. "Do as you are told. There is yet a thing that ma petit Monique and I must do."
"I know what it is you are going to do." The child looked uncertainly from one to the other, but saw only their lips smile, not their eyes. She wanted to say more but swallowed the words. She fingered the metal upon her arms. The contact brought back her radiance. Nodding brightly, but with a small wry twist of her lips, she did as she was bid.
Left alone the two older girls shared a smile over their moppet. Melissa was always a refreshment.
They stood and looked at each other.
Solange came and placed her hands on Monica's shoulders. After the happiness of the bands their eyes had become somber. Her voice was hesitant.
"My dearest one. I can be so very firm with Melissa. But now I find I cannot be very firm with you at all. I love you too much." She managed a wan smile that was like an appeal for help. "I should now with much decision give you an order. But I find... and this is so absurd I find that I must ask a question... Cherie-must I do this thing?"
Monica found herself within the grip of equally conflicting reactions. It was as though the will and purpose of Solange had been placed upon her own shoulders. As Love weakened the other so it strengthened her. She found that the unthinkable and the unbearable had become as nothing. Quailing had turned to a compulsive need. Fear was transformed into courage. It made that which she now questioningly longed for an easy task. Stroking the arms that rested so lightly upon her she said with complete conviction.
"Come. Let us go now and get it done."
Positioning herself upon the rug Monica refused to think of what was about to happen. Only that it had to happen. While Solange removed the chains and strapped her ankles to the bar she debated whether to ask for the gag. She decided against it. She had screamed before. She would scream again. Solange would know the screams were not in protest but only a release of the unbearable. Testing, she found she could not move. She felt almost happy that the time of decision was past. For her, now, there could be no going back. She had a request. She saw that which she would ask as a giving of herself.
"Darling, before you start... "
"Yes, Cherie?"
"I want to ask. And it will sound silly. And so strange. But it will tell you something I want very much to say. May I...?"
"What is it you wish, my dear?"
"You remember with Arlette-" Monica struggled awkwardly with the words. "You said that... afterwards she was in bed for a week: she could not walk. And with Melissa it was two weeks that she could not use her feet. I want you to make sure now with me this time that it will be three weeks I must lay beside my ring... I want it so."
"Because I love you... " said Solange.
She swept the cane upwards and down in a wide arc.
* * *
Quite incredibly, Pussy Willow was actually her name. A charming douce child who would be perennially fifteen for at least a decade. There was about her an aura of pleased expectancy and gratitude. One felt certain that, for Pussy, every day was a birthday. She was delivered to the House of Madam Dubois without fanfare by an angular aunt who wrote a check and signed papers with firm determination. Pussy Willow watched the transaction by which she was delivered into bondage with shining eyes and hopeful mien.
"You have found Pussy difficult, Miss Randolph?" Solange prompted.
Miss Randolph flushed. "I would really rather not discuss the child."
"Some knowledge of her temperament can be helpful?" Solange tried again.
"Temperament!" The angular visitor appeared to find the word inept. "A child of her age shouldn't have a temperament. The one she has is quite impossible... quite!"
"There are perhaps small weaknesses...?"
"Small! If you call-! Well, never mind."
"Some little matter of the heart?"
"Heart!" Miss Randolph seemed beset with exclamations. "I fear that organ was not involved."
"Ah yes. All is understood."
"Well, if you can understand it, that's more than I can.
Miss Randolph rose. "Good-bye Pussy. I'm sure you'll be happy here," she said without hope.
"Oh, I will, I will!" The child's eyes glowed.
Watching the farewell kiss Solange was uncertain whether the eager lips were in gratitude for past love or impending absence. Pussy Willow had a quality all her own.
Miss Randolph's departure left a vacuum. She was that type. A force bursting at the bonds of rectitude.
"Is it really true that girls are whipped here?" Pussy Willow asked breathlessly.
Madam Dubois was aware of an emanation, a vibrancy. "Indeed we do, dear girl. Do you fear it?"
"Oh no!" The soft eyes flamed. "And you chain us too?"
"That too. The thought is pleasing?"
"Oh yes!" Pussy's sigh was eloquent of dreams come true.
Solange was amused. Pussy was delectable. She must be shared. "Come ma cherie," she said gaily. "There is one that you must meet."
Pussy Willow followed happily, her eyes fixed brightly on the Pearly Gates.
Monica was enraptured. Pussy was all the small quivering creatures that one loved to hold, worshipful and anxious to please. She radiated a sensuality all her own, an eternal innocence that was not innocence at all. Pussy Willow would remain a virgin after a hundred men! Or, Monica thought wickedly, after a hundred girls.
The child herself was awed more by Monica than by Solange. Solange was clothed, both in garments and the title of Madam. But Monica was naked. Beautifully and gloriously naked. She wore what the newcomer assumed to be silver badges of her office. Her ankles were chained and silver bands proclaimed themselves at waist and upper arm. Pussy saw this glorious woman as a High Priestess of an esoteric cult of which she was now a member.
The older girl thought back to her own first day in the House of Madam Dubois. How different she had been. No glowing eyes, only a vista of servitude and shame in nakedness. Pussy was indefinable. She had the youth and resilience of Melissa or young Poppy. But where they were spring steel she was flesh and moonbeams. She had exchanged their exuberance for naivete.
In the position once held by Arlette Monica had her own office. She found unending delight in positioning a quaking girl before her desk as she herself had so often stood. It had been nearly a year since the locking of her silver bands and the wedding of Arette to the Honourable Freddy. A year of pure delight. Now, with gentle and understanding hands, Monica posed the adoring child to attention and took her own seat behind the desk. "I think it time to dispense with clothes, darling," she suggested with soft authority.
There was no shock, no tensing of the limbs. Only the gratitude that she be so honored. Deft fingers sped upon their task.
"You must address me as 'Mistress,' dear. Now, how did you know you would be nude? You did know, didn't you?"
Pussy had a melodious giggle. She used it. "A girl at school had an older sister who came here. She told us everything. I just couldn't wait."
"But this is a place of punishment!"
Pussy tossed aside her last scrap of covering and stood artfully posed. She was mouth wateringly desirable. "There! Aren't I nice? Do you like me, Mistress?"
Monica liked Pussy very much. But: "I asked you a question, child?" She infused a faint severity.
"I'm afraid I'm bad, Mistress. I just wanted to come. I'm not supposed to, am I?" Her soft eyes appealed. "Some of the other girls wanted to come too. We practiced tying each other," Again the giggled, shy and female. "One girl let us cane her bottom." The young eyes became dreamy, "Oh, Mistress, it was such fun."
"In a little while I will tie you. It is one of our small initiation processes. I will make it hurt you very much."
"Oh, thank you, Mistress!" Pussy glowed. Her gratitude was genuine.
"You will be whipped at least once weekly."
"It's just the way they promised it would be. Oh, I'm so happy!" Monica sensed that had the occasion been less formal Pussy would have clapped her hands.
For a Mistress bent upon stem discipline and repentance of sin Pussy Willow would have posed a challenge. But Monica had seen too many girls enter their servitude in too many different ways to believe that what was seen on their first day was all. Their fresh nakedness did not reveal so much as it concealed. The girl hid within it, unconsciously using it as a diversionary tactic. Confronted by breasts and pubic hair the examiner might see no more.
"Will I be getting lovely silver things like you have, Mistress?" Pussy's voice was infinitely wistful.
"Not at first, darling. But you will be chained often enough."
"Why are your ankles chained, Mistress?"
For Monica this was an awkward question often asked. How to answer that you wore the chains because you loved them! Solange often teased her slave about her need for the silver links. It was a need! She had worn them so long that she moved in them with the freedom of unconscious grace. They were her personal affirmation of her slavery. Only Solange held the keys. The other girls had become accustomed to their Mistress's tethered feet. It was understood that in the House of Madam Dubois nothing was ordinary. Yet even the oldest of them did not know that their youthful Mistress slept each night upon the floor beside the bed of the woman who possessed her adoration. Slept naked with a chain and metal collar locked upon her neck.
"Because I," too, am a slave, little one," Monica laughed. "There are degrees of slavery." She suddenly sobered, "I have to tell you that you are sentenced to spend a whole year as a prisoner in this House."
"Only a year! Oh Mistress!" Pussy was bereft. She pondered. "Can it be extended? I mean, if I don't want to go, can I stay?"
"If Miss Randolph agrees."
"Oh her...!" The two words spoke volumes.
"You don't have to tell me, darling. But why were you sent here?"
Pussy Willow gazed innocently across the desk as though gauging her Mistress's tolerance for shock. "It was because I wanted to come here so badly." Again the appealing eyes made their assessment of Monica's sufferance. "So I did it with the boy who comes to mow the lawn."
Monica choked back the redundancy of asking: "Did what?" She simply smiled.
"You see, Clara's sister told us that was the sure fire way. I mean, when a girl does that her parents just have to... "
Monica longed to laugh. But Mistresses must be chary of their joy. Fighting to keep her voice even she asked: "Did you enjoy it?"
"It was terribly disappointing. I got a thorn in my bottom. We were in behind the rose bushes," she added in explanation.
Two females shared in communion the most classic of all the disappointments of this world.
"Why didn't you tell him? About the thorn, I mean?"
"He was so... so, terribly busy," Pussy smiled apologetically. "It seemed rude to disturb him."
"Didn't you get anything out of it at all?"
Pussy smiled reassuringly. "He was frightfully kind afterwards." She paused and once more assessed her listener's depth of experience. "You know that odd looking thing boys have between their legs... It sort of dangles? He let me kiss it. He even asked me to take it in my mouth and sort of clean it up a bit before he put it back in his trousers." Innocence shone from the doe eyes. "It was while I was doing this that Auntie discovered us."
Monica knew that to laugh would be sacrilege.
"She was terribly upset." Pussy offered her aunt's distress as an aberration.
Monica nodded helpfully. The scene was graphic.
"But it worked!" The new prisoner was ecstatic. "That was only yesterday. And here I am!"
The Mistress did her best to nod judicially. "Did your aunt indicate any particular punishment?"
"Oh, just everything, Mistress. You'd better give me the lot."
"Because your aunt wishes it, or because you wish it?"
"Is there any difference, Mistress?" Pussy was examining the bill of fare. Monica sighed to hide laughter. "I suppose not. But I'd whip you harder if she requested it. Makes quite a difference, y'know," she added informatively.
"I expect it does." Pussy was unconcerned. "You'd better give me the extra hard. I'm sure dear Auntie would want you to. Am I allowed to cry while you are doing it?"
"Most girls scream."
"You mean, you don't mind?"
"Not at all. Make as much noise as you life. It has no influence on the infliction."
Pussy nodded brightly. She saw her future roseate. "Everyone is terribly kind," she said with deep sincerity.
"I'm afraid the time has come," Monica hinted.
The prisoner instantly stood to attention. "Please tell me what to do, Mistress."
It was the room of the pillars. The room of memories. Today it belonged to Pussy. The child would be lonely in her pain. But she did not know this yet.
Monica worked with sadness and with joy. She remembered! The place was alive with memory. How lovely Pussy was! How demurely she backed hard against the pillar! The child was exquisite, a creation for the cord and for the whip. She was designed to scream. But her screams would be those of joy.
Monica knew her task. She loved it. To see the cord bed itself into flesh as the tension was increased. To hear the indrawn breath as the naked girl discovered that the 'tying up' of childhood was indeed a thing left far behind. To pull and pull upon the cord so that it invoked the responses of a taut bow upon a violin: her instrument the naked loveliness of a girl. It was gorgeous!
"You do tie tight, don't you!" Pussy remarked with interest.
The familiar circles of the cord. First the waist. Always the waist! It held the nudity receptive to the rest. Then the hands, the poor sweet hands that would be lost because the cords were tight upon their wrists, those slender wrists that would scream their imprisonment against the chafing of the strictures. The dear small wrists that would tug and twist to no avail. Monica worked in bliss.
"Does a girl ever struggle free?" Pussy's mind was hard at work.
"Never," Monica laughed. "You're here for as long as I want to leave you. Within an hour you'll be in agony."
The tiny wrists cinched tight against the pillar! They set Monica's loins aflame. Pussy reeked of sex. The child was ripe. Victim of compulsions she did not fully understand. The pent up forces of her femaleness could carry her through seas of pain unharmed. Monica resolved to make the pain very cruel indeed. She was curious.
"You do tie beautifully," Pussy sighed. "None of the girls knew anything like this."
Monica concentrated upon the torture. She knew it well. It did not seem like torture at the start. So simple! A single strand of cord! No more. Carefully under the armpit and back across the shoulder each side, and then to the pillar and pull, pull, pull. She heard Pussy's inhalation with exquisite joy. The young shoulders went back and back. The cord buried itself deep, deep, deep. The conical breasts became arrogant. Asking for the tongue, or the teeth, or the whip. Perhaps the pert nipples were not certain of their need. But Monica knew. Monica was aflame. She tied the final knot.
"I've never been tied like this before," Pussy acknowledged breathlessly. "You're so clever."
No mention of pain. It started quite soon with this tie. Monica knew. How well indeed she knew! She found a box and sat down to gloat. Pussy was like a chicken on a spit. She became more tender and more toothsome with each moment.
"I can't move, Mistress. Only my head." Not a plaint: an accolade.
"It will soon hurt, cherie." Monica had picked up her Mistress's endearments.
"It hurts now, Mistress. It will get worse, won't it?" Pussy was hopeful.
The child was incredible. But Monica remembered Melissa. Did so few years make so great a difference! Obviously they did. Perhaps it was H. G. Wells and Bernard Shaw and The Fabians. Society was in a state of flux. The beauty of Monica's breasts must be hidden! But not the firm cones of Melissa or of Pussy. Why worry? Solange made her own rules about breasts and pubic hair. Monica cupped her hand upon her captive's exposed sex. It was wet.
"That was lovely," Pussy Willow breathed. "Please do it again, Mistress. You're wonderful."
Monica did it again. The child climaxed. Monica ministered to the orgasm with all the skill she knew. Wryly she thought of Miss Randolph. Was this punishment! Was it? For Pussy it was unutterable joy.
"It hurts so much worse after... after... " Pussy bogged down.
"Yes, darling. Quite soon you will start to moan."
"I could moan now. But it's not very polite, is it? The cords over my shoulders... they hurt every time I breathe. Are they supposed to?"
"They are supposed to, cherie. It gets worse and worse."
"How long, Mistress?"
Monica's heart was ready to melt. But she hardened it. "For a very long time, child."
Her words flittered away. The captive knew her fate. "You have such a lovely thick bush, Mistress."
Monica was annoyed with her blush. The heavy thick curls of her triangle were often commented upon. It was truly a 'lovely thick bush.' She had pleaded with her Mistress for permission to shave it sleek and bare. But the permission had been denied. Solange loved the springy resilience of the shining strands.
"You cannot touch it, darling. It's part of your punishment."
Innocence opened wide eyes. "You mean you'd let me if I could?"
"I would let you."
The silence was alive with longing.
"Please, Mistress, untie my hands... just my hands."
Monica untied the hungry small hands.
Together they took the journey into the distant land of clouds and canyons. When it was over Monica knew herself doubly a slave. Such glory could never be over. Never, never, never...
Tying the meek hands again was pure pleasure. They were so willing. They strained back and offered themselves in sacrifice that her duty be made easy. Monica looped the cords, already she was consumed by a new fire. The child against the pillar was in pain. Her breath was quickening. Her shoulders were being torn and cut. The cord was almost out of sight within the maiden flesh. But she held her wrists steady to be tied. Monica knotted them savagely as though seeking to hold forever this pungent morsel of feminine flesh.
It was so potent! The emanation from this female child! Monica was saturated in lust. It was she who was the captive! Not the girl. Pussy was welded to the pillar by the cords. Her head with its moist hair was thrown to one side in a wild abandon to sensation. Her eyes were closed seeking in another world the ecstasies punishment denied in this. Monica knew a great hunger to possess this female orphan with her tongue or with a whip. She fled from the room. Fled from a force too powerful for a Mistress to counter.
She went back in an hour, her bare feet without sound or warning. Clutching her ankle chain so that it should not clink, she beheld beauty. Pussy hung against the cords, relaxed, delivered to pain, savoring pain, sundered to it utterly. Monica remembered the times when she, too, had been bound thus. Remembered the days and the weeks that had passed before the wounds of the cords had vanished from her flesh.
The tired hurt features raised, sensing her regard. Pussy smiled gratefully for her concern. "I didn't know it could hurt like this... " Her voice trailed away.
No pleas. No begging demands! How glorious this girl! Monica recalled that she had pleaded: the cords cutting her shoulders asunder with each respiration. This girl did not plead. She knew that all she might offer was already possessed. She had nothing. Those who owned her would use her as they wished. Her role was to endure. A receptacle for pain. Monica felt humble beside the youngster in her agony. She tip-toed away from temptation.
Three hours. Surely it was enough! The poor child would think herself abandoned. Monica tore at the cords. Pussy made her first cries of anguish as the lonely bands were peeled from her shoulders. She staggered from the pillar, feverishly massaging her wounds. They were deep and livid and purple.
"Thank you, Mistress." Pussy's eyes adored.
"Why thank me, child?"
Pussy Willow was not at a loss. "For tying me up in that lovely way, Mistress. And for... for untying me."
Pussy glowed.
"Since we are here I suppose I may as well give you your first whipping?"
Monica dropped the suggestion in curiosity. She had no real intention of carrying it out. But suddenly two hungry young arms were round her neck and an excited young voice was saying: "Oh, yes please, Mistress! I do so want to see what it's like." Two moist lips planted a kiss upon an unsuspecting cheek.
Monica felt guilty. The child did not know she was grasping fire. "It hurts so terribly you'll hate it," she warned.
Pussy Willow looked at her in worship. She was quite oblivious of her nudity. The cord marks were erotic symbols upon her skin. She fingered them in constant fascination. Monica could swear she smelled perfume...
"I don't mind. Honestly I don't." The soft eyes were contrite. "But I mustn't be greedy. Perhaps you're tired, Mistress."
Tired! Monica laughed inwardly. This nymphet's ingenuous acceptance of the punishment of pain would have banished fatigue in an octogenarian. "I'm not too tired, darling," she assured her ward cheerfully. "A nice caning on your bottom, eh."
"Ooooo!" It was a gasping sigh of pure content. "Am I too young to be whipped properly, Mistress?"
Monica laughed. "No you are not! But being whipped in all sorts of places the first time you're naked is a bit of a shock So, for now, just that nice little bottom."
"Is my bottom really small?" Pussy twisted to look at her lower curve. "A girl's bottom is supposed to be a bit big, isn't it. To... to, sort of have lots of space?"
"Your bottom is perfect," Monica assured her fervently. "If it was any more perfect I couldn't stand it."
The soft eyes worshiped. "You're nice."
"You put your hands through these loops," Monica explained.
There can be few greater intimacies than that they shared then. The yielding of nakedness to another's will. The buckling of the straps that hold a girl for punishment. The slave girl and her Mistress are so very close as this, is done, one to the other. Eye meets eyes and reads the thought and the message. Pussy watched in pure fascination as the broad leather straps tightened upon her raised wrists, tightened until they were a part of her, a bond that no scream or tug could sunder. She looked at her Mistress and smiled in happiness. Monica kissed her. Just once. Pussy's lips were dangerous ground.
"Aren't I supposed to bend over to be caned?" the novitiate asked breathlessly.
"There are no special ways here, darling," Monica said briskly. "We do them all. I like this for the first time. You have to stand. Your wrists will keep you like that. But you can kick and wiggle all you like. I've never been quite sure whether it helps or not."
Pussy looked back over one shoulder. "What do most girls do, Mistress?"
"They kick and wiggle. They also make lots of noise."
"Oh, but they shouldn't!" Pussy sounded shocked.
"Why not, dear?" Monica was amused at the vehemence.
"But it's so unkind! I mean, you having to listen and watch."
The child was unbelievable. Her concern was genuine.
"I don't mind, love. Do whatever the straps will let you." Monica kissed the willing lips once more. The doe eyes shone with gratitude.
Monica had long since abandoned pretense with herself or with others. She experienced the deepest erotic satisfactions in the whipping of her girls. Their pained contortions and anguished cries were pure beauty. Yet she felt guilt about Pussy Willow. To repay such trust with cuts of the cane... ! But she chided such compassion. Pussy would never be satisfied until she had made the discovery. The Mistress knew it was often the meekest girl who possessed the greatest tolerance of the flesh. She selected her favorite cane, the cruelest of them all.
She struck the blow. Then watched its effect. Not the scarlet brand upon the soft flesh. But the face of Pussy Willow. At the moment of impact it went blank, as though the stroke of the cane had erased sentience. The figure tensed, the head went slowly back, one leg lifted tentatively from the floor. The Mistress moved to where each line of the features could be studied. Here was a new experience in girls.
Undoubtedly there was shock. No girl can gauge the awfulness of cane or whip until they are planted in her flesh. The first cut upon her nudity crumbles all defenses, dissolves courage. A girl's being is changed as her skin is cut and wealed. In the afterwards she may be better or she may be worse. But she will never be the same. When Pussy Willow opened her eyes it was to a new world.
Now emotions fought for mastery of the hurt girl's face. Her loveliness became mobile as shadows playing from a cloud. She swallowed repeatedly and breathed irregularly through flared nostrils. Becoming aware of Monica's gaze she managed a small pale smile of apology for being hurt. Or was it gratitude... ? The Mistress could not tell. The doe eyes were still liquid with worship. There was no need of words.
Just as the first blow imposes a new dimension upon female flesh and female mind, so in its own way does the second. The first has breached defense. The second brings the protagonists into open conflict. Courage and character versus pain. Having done its worst in the first instance, shock has retired to the wings.
She marked beautifully. The scarlet surge to the bruise on satin flesh. The rising ridge of protest as the skin proclaims its damaged cells, the puffed tenderness of the forming weal that can be struck again and will explode. Monica saw these small miracles take form and shape. But, as before, it was the face of the whipped girl with which she was concerned.
Pussy Willow dealt with pain in her own way. She was amazingly passive. The girl with the cane could well believe that this child was indeed loath to inflict the unseemly upon the one who punished her. A code. An ethic. Something deeply ingrained that it could withstand what was being done to the defenseless bottom. There was no scream. There was no protest. The soft eyes did not reproach. They still shone with gratitude for the trouble that someone was taking to stripe her nakedness. But Pussy Willow wept.
Monica soon realized that here were no ordinary tears. They welled from the lovely eyes as though the cane had opened a reservoir. They were without hysterics. But as the cane sought her again and again their flow was steady, the sobs that accompanied them were as soft as the eyes, as passive as the body. They were a salty ocean in which Pussy Willow washed away her pain. Monica whipped the child with an almost savage cruelty driven from her flaming loins. The weeping Pussy emanated an exquisite eroticism too great to bear. With a cry of anguish the Mistress dropped the cane and burying her face between the open legs fed hungrily.
* * *
Melissa trembled. Madam Dubois was very much Madam Dubois. She was not Solange. The office desk separated them. It was a barrier of ill omen. Besides, Melissa had been made to stand to attention. That was always bad! Her mind was busily computing how many strokes she had earned herself and praying that it would not be the dungeon.
"Did you have to aid and abet this new girl in her naughtiness?"
Melissa shifted awkwardly. There was no good answer.
"What on earth possessed you to tie the butcher boy to a post in the cellar?"
Melissa giggled. Then bit her lip. The giggle would certainly cost her five.
"I might have taken a lenient view of the prank had it stopped there." Madam Dubois brought her heavy cannon into range. "Why did you have to undress him?"
Melissa knew herself doomed. "You can't do much when they have clothes on," she offered without hope. Then, with sudden inspiration: "We don't wear clothes... "
"When you speak of 'doing much' I suppose you refer to the quite shocking whipping you inflicted on the poor boy: he is only a child!"
Melissa now felt certain it would be the dungeon. She hated the dungeon. She would have preferred the whip.
"I have been obliged to make reparation to his parents."
It would be both the whip and the dungeon! Melissa's eyes felt tears.
Madam Dubois regrouped her forces for the next attack. "As though this was not enough, the two of you commit the unpardonable indelicacy of assaulting the boy's genitals with your mouths. Where on earth did you learn such an appalling trick?" Solange knew perfectly well where such tricks were learned. But she had a position to maintain. Male genitals were definitely not a part of her House.
"We thought it might be fun. It was really-"
"Silence!" Madam Dubois erased the fun. "I am puzzled how you lured the absurd creature from the kitchen into the depths of our cellar?"
Melissa made a belated bite on another giggle. Her strokes would now be astronomical, probably delivered in more than one session. "When cook went to look for some change he asked us if he could stick that thing of his into us." Melissa looked distressed, "There's a word they use... "
"I am familiar with it. Continue."
"We just said 'yes please' and told him to come this way. He followed like a lamb."
This time the giggle won.
"Was this atrocious act consummated? Tell me!"
"Oh no, Madam. We jumped on him and tied him up first. He put up an awful fight. It wasn't until Pussy put his head in the door and closed it that I was able to pull off his trousers."
"Melissa!"
Solange was longing to laugh. But kept her face a thundercloud.
"I suppose it wasn't very lady-like," the delinquent offered lamely. Then, with infinite courage, asked: "Is poor Pussy going to be punished too?"
"What do you mean: 'poor Pussy'! I suspect that young lady to be the instigator. She is indeed going to suffer."
Tears flowed. Melissa dabbed at them, reflecting that she might not long have the use of her hands. "But she's so sweet," she sniffed and looked a vast appeal. "And I am a year older. I expect it's me who should have known better."
"You will both now know better," said Madam Dubois with heavy portent. "You will follow me." Melissa had no giggles left.
The girls referred to it with distaste as "The Games Room.' No games were played in it. Few of them entered its modest portal without tears before, during or after the visit. Madam Dubois and the quaking Melissa found it already occupied by Pussy Willow. She stood waiting, her hands tied behind her back, a shy and intimate smile of welcome on her face. She seemed unperturbed, simply glad to see them.
Solange determined to erase both the smile and any illusions about her tender heart. "You will both sit down," she said curtly. Going to a cupboard she returned with two boxes. Pulling up a stool she sat where she could pick up and examine one of Melissa's feet.
"I have whipped you so much and put you in the dungeon so often, my dear, that I have devised something new that may dampen your spirits for at least a little while," she said brightly to a shivering girl who was beginning to know she had indeed overstepped a mark.
"Oh, Madam," Melissa sniffed, "can't I please be whipped?" She showed a bright and tearful eye above her fingers. "I mean, very hard, of course. And... and, a lot of times...?"
"Don't be absurd! And, besides, you enjoy it."
"Not when it's very hard the way you do it, Madam.
I don't enjoy it then." Melissa was well aware of a weakness in her plea.
"I'd like to be whipped too, please," Pussy Willow offered stout moral support for her companion in crime.
Madam Dubois could no longer restrain laughter. "You two girls are impossible," she declared. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you." She corrected herself with a chuckle: "That's wrong. I do know. I know well my little pigeons. You see, voila! You have the so beautiful new shoes... "
The shoes that emerged from the boxes were certainly new. But they were certainly not beautiful. Cleverly and cunningly constructed of metal and leather they spoke of punishment. They were sinister. Two feminine gasps greeted their appearance. Two girlish hearts beat faster in a terrible foreknowledge.
Madam stretched out her legs and placed Melissa's foot upon her knees. Taking one of the horrific footgear she opened it wide and inserted the small foot snugly within it. Springs and hinges were cleverly hidden within the construction. But the real heart stopper was the hasp and latch that snugly circled the slender ankle so that Madam easily and deftly thrust home the padlock and clicked it shut. The ugly boot was on Melissa's foot to stay. Carefully Madam Dubois lowered the weight to the floor and repeated the imprisonment of Melissa's other foot. One more padlock clicked.
"Voila, cherie. Now when you walk you will remember the pauvre butcher boy... Remember, too, the manners... You may go about your duties."
Melissa looked at her feet and wept. They were so ugly. How shameful it would be to clomp about the house in sight of all so shod. Madam Dubois understood so well the feminine loathing for a thing such as this. It was a cleverly conceived punishment for a girl. In abject misery Melissa rose from the chair.
Her cry of pain and her fall to the floor were simultaneous. Her wide eyes looked in shock at the ugly things that encased her feet, then rose in pathetic appeal to those of the woman who watched. "Oh madam...!"
"It hurts, ma petite?" Madam Duboi's voice was sympathetic.
"There's spikes... or something!" Melissa was bereft. "I can't walk."
"With a little practice and much courage, cherie."
The hurt girl looked up doubtfully. Then, clutching a chair for support, tried again. Once more she fell. Once more she cried out against whatever was happening within the things locked upon her feet. "I'm sorry, Madam. I can't. It hurts too much."
Madam Dubois shrugged. "I will not be cruel, little pigeon. If you cannot walk, you may crawl. I will permit. But please now to leave the room."
Melissa had never felt so ashamed. She looked in mute misery at the doe eyed Pussy and at the inflexible woman they must obey. She did not want the humiliation of another essay and another fall. Nor did she want the pain. Abjectly, like a dog, she crawled from the room on hands and knees.
When the first girl bearing her new punishment had disappeared, Madam Dubois pointed to the chair. Meekly Pussy Willow took the vacated seat and placed her naked foot on the Madam's knee.
"It will hurt me a lot, won't it, Madam?" she asked without her usual insouciance. Even Pussy's happy expectancy could not counter the ugliness of the boots. They had been designed to invoke feminine revulsion.
"I won't be unkind to the butcher boy again," said Pussy Willow meditatively as she offered her second foot. "I don't think I am going to enjoy these boots at all. I hope I don't cry. Must I wear them, Madam?"
"You must. They will teach you a lesson."
Pussy sighed. It was a very eloquent sigh. "I wish you would whip me terribly, terribly instead, Madam. Would you please?"
"Don't you think that would be unfair to Melissa?"
"Oh, I wouldn't want that!" Pussy was genuinely shocked. "I wasn't thinking." Absent mindedly she rose to her feet.
Solange watched with rapt interest the play of emotion on the youngster's face as the boots worked their will with her. Surprise, pain, shame. All were there. Pussy essayed a step and came tumbling down. For a moment she sat. Then, as though admonishing herself, she said in her usual soft voice, "I will, I will... " Pussy Willow got unsteadily to her feet and stumbled with strange hesitant steps from the room. Solange, listening intently, heard her fall beyond the door, then the receding sounds of the second girl coping with her new and shaming punishment as best she could.
Thoughtfully, Madam Dubois put two new keys into a pocket of her dress. She had discovered a deterrent.
* * *
"It is that your unhappiness is also mine," said Madam Dubois. Her benign glance flickered over the watching Monica, busy with the tea things, and came to rest on the girl sitting on the edge of a chair, obviously painfully conscious of privilege. Her hands were free. Her feet were chained.
Monica served.
"Ma pauvre Doreen. You have a dolor, a malaise of the spirit that I do not like. It is perhaps your so long sentence?"
"Two years, Madam. I have served seven months." Doreen doubtfully accepted her cup and saucer from Monica's practiced hands. "It is quite endless."
"And we are cruel to you?"
"Not cruel," the prisoner gestured futilely. "You punish me. That is why I came here: to be punished."
"But these punishments. They are more than you can bear?"
Doreen took a sip of tea and managed a wan smile. "We have to bear our punishments, Madam." She moved one chained ankle as though in demonstration. "We have no choice."
"They are partly governed by behavior, my dear."
The privileged girl flushed. "Mine is not good. I know." She looked down at her nudity.
"You are much marked by the whip," Madam acknowledged. "I have known girls with your same melancholy that the whip could cure." She smiled in recollection. "The doctors speak of such things as a counter irritant. You whip a girl enough and she transfers her worry from whatever it might be to the whip. Then we stop whipping her and all is well. But this I fear is not the case with you. The stripes upon you are so many that I do not know where we would put more."
"Thank you, Madam." There was relief in the quiet voice.
"Would freedom restore your joie de vivre?"
The simple question filled the room like a thunderclap. A cup paused half way to the lips. Eyes widened. Monica remembered a day long past.
"Me? Freedom?" Doreen did not believe.
"Yes, dear child, you. Think well. Would freedom make you happy?"
What play of emotion on a face! Doreen knew herself tested. "Madam... Has something happened...?"
"Nothing, child, save that I ask a question. Watch carefully your answer."
"There is a trap, Madam...?" The girl was bewildered.
Solange laughed gaily. "It is of the most cruel to tax you so. The dangling of the carrot, eh! There is no trap. My question stands."
The captive stretched her ankle chains until they snubbed. "Free of these...?" It was beyond comprehension.
The watchers exchanged a glance of sympathy. Here was raw emotion. Here was a girl's life and hope. They were witnessing the tearing apart of a mind. Each felt guilt. Their power was so total...
"Free even of those." Solange's voice was soft.
"Oh Madam! Yes... oh yes...!"
"Where would you go, child?"
The chained girl wilted. "I cannot go home. My parents do not want me. There is an aunt... "
"This aunt. She is better than the chains?"
"No girl wants to be chained, Madam." The words were uncertain.
"You wish to walk from my door, clothed and without hindrance?"
"Yes, Madam. Oh please!" The hurt eyes became alive.
"Dear girl, because I want your smile to come back to us I will offer you a therapeutic device, a contrivance. Ma cher Monique took it long, long ago. Perhaps she may tell you of it, but not now. This is my offer. You do not have to accept."
Silence. Doreen was trembling.
"I will lock about your waist a belt. It is a reminder. You cannot take it off. Your chains will be gone, pouf! Monica will provide you with clothes to make your heart dance. The two of you will walk forth in search of all the happiness London can provide."
A long silence before the prisoner asked sadly: "But I must come back?"
Solange laughed. "Even that we forgive. You can come or you can go. But there is a thing for you to consider. You go with Monica. It is her task to give you joy, yet to bring you back. Should she return alone she will go straight to the dungeon. At night she will sleep chained to a ring in the stone. By day she will stand against the wall, a collar locked upon her neck. She will stay there many days."
"But that is cruel! I can't ask her...!"
"It is her gift to you. She chose it. Ask her."
"I proposed it," Monica said quietly.
"But why...?"
"I was once like you."
Doreen wept.
It is a rare privilege to take a bird from its cage and watch it fly. Or free a felon from a cell and watch their entry back into the world. Or lead a captive from a dungeon into the sunlight.
Thus it was with Monica.
How droll is life. What tricks it plays on us, or we upon ourselves. Doreen sat upon the park bench and sobbed. Monica let her cry. She had been there too.
"You know what is wrong with me, don't you?" The question filtered through the sobs.
"I think I do." Monica was not certain. Girls were girls!
"I think I do." Monica was not certain. Girls were girls! "I want a man." The declaration was a wail of agony. "Some special man?" Monica saw shoals ahead. "It would have been once. But now I don't care. Any man!" More sobbing. "Sex or company?"
"I don't know. Both, I suppose."
Monica quaintly thought of The Honourable Freddy. What a pity he was out of circulation. The situation would have intrigued him. "Aren't us girls any good to you?" Monica asked sadly.
"I want a man!" Drying her eyes and striving for composure, Doreen sat up and looked apologetically at her companion's anxious face. "Sorry, Monica. I'm being silly. But here's the way my mind works. I'm sentenced to two years, most of 'em still to go. I'm twenty-one. I'll be twenty-three when I get out. It's the time when a girl... lives. Most girls get married then. But I'll be chained and a prisoner with my ankles chained together so that if a man did walk into that house I couldn't give myself to him. Always chained... "
"I believe it is possible." Monica suppressed a desire to giggle. "Having your ankles chained isn't all that much of a handicap."
Doreen looked startled. Monica told her about Freddy. The telling made her blush. She told, too, of her own heart wrenching spell of freedom. The tearful girl sat enthralled.
"But you're a lesbian," Doreen enunciated slowly. "There's the difference."
"Men are a myth that girls carry around like a ball and chain," Monica said sadly. "It's a lovely dream. We get an erotic obsession about that silly thing they carry round between their legs. We think of it sticking up hard and straight and piercing us like a sword. We see ourselves a virgin sacrifice and all that sort of rot. Can't you understand that!"
"There was a man. He pierced me just the way you say. It was gorgeous! Why shouldn't I have it?"
Monica sighed. She could already see herself in that dungeon. The pact was real. Between herself and Solange there was no pretence, no flirting with reality. She would be chained in the gloom.
"Can we find this man?" It was outrageous, but Monica was prepared to be resourceful.
"After I was put in... in, the House, the rotter got married. Mother told me in the monthly letter we are allowed to receive." Doreen worked hard with more tears.
"Isn't that what I said!" Monica felt she had no illusions about the male. "Tell you what! Let's go to a hotel."
Doreen eyed her doubtfully, but stopped crying. "You mean... r "Of course, you silly. I can't think why you didn't let one of the girls... "
"You're terribly wise, aren't you." Doreen stopped crying. "I'll do whatever you tell me to."
The Hotel Hampshire was neither one thing or the other. Monica knew its reputation. She was shocked and angry with her own temerity and the thing she suddenly found herself determined to do. Before going to their room she liberally sedated the tearful Doreen at the bar. Once safe inside she stripped the tipsy girl, admired the metal belt around the waist, and sallied forth.
She had gained pointers from the Honourable Freddy. Having little taste for street walking and aware of its hazards, she gave the head porter a pound. As though conjured from the ether a bowler hatted gentleman was introduced as Mr. Smith. She countered by an admission of Miss Jones. They understood each other. He was impressed, almost awed.
'I say, you're a damn fine girl for this sort of thing.
How much?"
"Actually I'm taking you to my friend."
He was instantly on guard. "Come off it. It's you I want, not some dog eared old trollop."
"I'm taking you to a very beautiful girl. You're damn lucky."
The bowler hat was unwilling to relinquish quality. "How much?" he asked suspiciously. Price was evidently a gauge of excellence.
"Ten pounds." Monica made it high on the premise that no man valued anything cheap. Then added shrewdly: "You can look. If you're not pleased it hasn't cost you a penny."
The bowler hat brightened up. Thrusting two rustling five pound notes into her hands, he said magnanimously: "I trust you. If you want a good lay I'll make it twenty."
Doreen proved to be feminine and British. "But we haven't been properly introduced," she protested, striving to cover herself with a sheet.
"Don't be absurd." Monica was annoyed with the girl. She took away the sheet and made a formal introduction. "Now get on with it."
"Are you going to stay?"
"Good gracious, no!"
"I wish you would."
Monica looked at the bowler hat. "You wouldn't want that, would you?"
He was cautious. "How much extra?"
Monica was beginning to glimpse the commercial possibilities of being female. "Five," she said casually.
"Take your clothes off?" The bowler hat wanted its money's worth. .
"All right. I'll strip. But that's all, mind! You have your fun and games with her." She held out her hand and received another five pound note.
She longed to laugh. How absurd men were! She lived naked, yet to this male creature her body was a thing to worship. He looked at her careless nudity and raised his bid. "Twenty-five?"
Monica nonchalantly indicated the waiting Doreen. "You've paid for her. Go ahead.
The bowler hat was discarded. Mr. Smith went ahead with much vigor. Doreen moaned. Monica hoped it was in ecstasy.
By the time they were enriched to the extent of sixty pounds, less five more for the porter, Monica felt it time to call a halt. "You still want a man?" She inquired acidly.
"You've been very sweet."
"I've been very outrageous. If Madam Dubois ever hears of this she'll skin me alive. I hope you feel better?"
Doreen got doubtfully to her feet. She giggled. "I say, it was rather fun, y'know. Why don't you take the next one?"
"There won't be a next one. You've had enough for any girl."
"But it's been such a long time." Doreen looked soulful. "Just one more?"
"I'm losing patience with you. I can understand why your parents wanted you in The House."
"I'm not going back there." Doreen gave a loud hiccup as though to emphasize her declaration.
Monica stiffened. She had taken on a more difficult task than she had realized. Doreen was insatiable.
"What are you going to do? Become a scarlet lady?"
"Why not!" The voice was defiant.
"You're tired, darling. Lay down and have a nap for half an hour." Monica sought an ally in the mundane.
Doreen relapsed upon the bed. "Maybe you're right," she mumbled. A minute later she was asleep. Monica wondered bitterly whether she was drunk from alcohol or from men. She went in search of lunch.
When she returned, Doreen had gone.
Monica's afternoon was frantic. She sped back and forth between the hotel and explorations of the area. But the bird had flown. Finally, in the evening, she made her way disconsolently back to the place where she belonged. She was weighed down by failure and by a frightening realization of irresponsibility. Had her outrageous experiment been unforgivable! She did not know. Tired and distraught she fell into Solange's arms and sobbed out every detail of her debacle.
It was cold and uncomfortable and desolate on the floor of the dungeon. She was loaded with chains as well as the collar that tethered her to the ring in the floor. The same collar that would compel her to stand upright through the day. She wept unceasingly, sometimes striving to dry her cheeks with hands heavy with the immense punishment shackles that were locked upon her wrists. It was a burden to move, so great was the weight of metal upon her limbs. She was certain she deserved every pound of it. She had betrayed the trust of her beloved. She hoped she would be whipped. She deserved that too.
She did not know how many hours had elapsed before the opening of the door. It was Solange. Monica's heart leaped. In her present state even to behold her Mistress was joy. She moved awkwardly against her heavy chains. Solange kissed her tenderly and became busy with keys.
It was three o'clock in the morning by the clock on the mantle in the lounge. Doreen was weeping on the rug before the blazing fire. When she looked up from the shelter of her hands Monica was shocked. The lovely face was battered black and blue.
"A man did it! A man did it!" Doreen moaned piteously.
"It is an old, old story," said Solange.
It was indeed. The broken girl told it between her sobs. There had been men. No one knew how many. But finally there had been the Man. The one who wanted more than she could give. Then there were the blows and the torturing hands...
"Remove your clothes," Madam Dubois demanded inexorably.
There were wounds, the marks of teeth. The delinquent was taken to the bathroom and the antiseptics and a sedative. As they chained her ankles and put her safe in bed she moaned over and over: "Punish me... Oh, punish me...!" Doreen sought absolution.
Hand in hand Monica and her Mistress returned to the lounge. The younger girl was desolate. Never had she known such failure, such a betrayal of confidence. The band about her middle seemed tighter than was normal. She knew it for the grip of conscience.
"We have much to be thankful for," Solange said fervently. She poured drinks. "Here, drink this. You need it."
"No thanks to me," her slave said pathetically.
Solange laughed. "Let us shed no tears, ma pauvre," she said cheerfully. "Our pigeon is back in the roost. That is a small miracle."
"It's all my fault," Monica sniffed as she sipped.
"We have here a very strange case, beloved," Solange proclaimed happily. "It is a judgment of Solomon." She bent and kissed her dejected love. "And it is poor me who must make it. But do not fear." Her eyes twinkled, "I have so many damsels anxious to be punished for their sins, real and imaginary, that my task is easy. Do you not realize, Cherie, that your mission was not a failure. It was an immense success. Our lustful pigeon is cured of her need of men, and it was you who brought about this miracle."
Monica brightened. All in all, things had worked out rather well. Solange destroyed her complacency.
"The end turned out most fortunate. The means to it were of the most shocking."
Monica kept silent. She agreed.
"What would you suggest, ma pauvre petite?"
Monica most urgently did not want to go back to the dungeon. But she knew it was where she belonged. The face she turned to Solange was piteous. "I'll go back to the dungeon," she said with resolution.
Her Mistress sought her lips with a great hunger. For the rest of the night they shared Solange's bed.
But in the House of Madam Dubois the delicate balance of justice must be rigidly maintained. The following day, therefore, Monica went to the dungeon with her Mistress and there stood against the wall to allow the collar to be locked about her neck so that she must stand and stand.
Her only surcease the weight of chains at eventide. Even her own lovely ankle chains were denied. They were not heavy or painful enough for her condition. They kissed lovingly before she was left alone.
But Solange was not too cruel. The greatest terror of a dungeon is loneliness. At some unknown hour of the day the Mistress led into the gloomy place a starry eyed but bruised Doreen. Without preamble she chained the girl as Monica was chained, heavily, hopelessly and totally. She laughed at their lugubrious faces. "Think a little, darlings. Look not so sad. I have chained you together, not to opposite walls as I ought to do. You may find happiness... " She went away laughing.
* * *
The invitation was delightful.
"Of course, why not! You must go," Solange agreed cheerfully. "The Honourable Freddy and his blushing bride of twelve months are not of the plebeians. They are to be cultivated. Tea on Thursday the fourth is a royal command. Your darling Arlette would be desolate if you did not accept.
Monica accepted.
"Simply corking of you to show up," said Freddy. He had changed no whit. Monica reflected that surely marriage changed people... Or did it?
"Where's Arlette?" Monica had come prepared with all suspicions alert.
"The dear girl's upstairs somewhere." Freddy waved a carefree hand. "I say, you do look scrumptious."
"You're not supposed to look at other girls now you're married."
"No harm in looking, dear girl. How's the Madam?"
"Solange is well. Where is Arlette?"
"Oh ye of little faith!" Freddy sighed. "No doubt you think I have the poor girl chained up in the cellar?" T wouldn't put it past you."
"You see! No christian charity."
"Where's your wife? It was her who sent me the invitation, wasn't it?" Monica eyed him keenly. "How about a drink, dear heart?"
"I don't want a drink. We are supposed to be served tea. Where is that unfortunate girl who married you?"
"It was her who sent you the invite. Honest." He busied himself with glasses and bottles. "Here, drink this. You look a bit pale."
"Any girl should look pale when alone in a room with you." In spite of better judgment Monica found herself sipping. "I suppose this is drugged?"
"I say, that's a corking idea. I'll do it next time. You'll wake up in the arms of a good man instead of that High Priestess whose cunt you minister to."
"If you are going to use words like that I had better go."
He looked at her adoringly. "You do that so well. I've never met a girl who showed more indignation with less sincerity."
She blushed. "Can't you behave. You're married."
"What's that got to do with it?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. "I say, old girl, just for old time's sake, let me cane your bottom?"
"Before or after tea?" Monica asked icily.
"Let's do both," he suggested helpfully.
"Freddy, I should not have come. A girl is not safe with you."
"You're not a girl. You're a woman."
"A woman isn't safe with you either," Monica giggled. "If I was anything with an orifice I'd run for my life."
"You've got an orifice, poppet. In fact you've got three of 'em. Don't notice you doing and hundred yard dash."
"I'm up to your little games. Lay a hand on me and I'll conk you with a vase. That Ming over there will do nicely."
"Arlette bought it at Wool worth's."
"It will serve admirably to knock some sense into your carnal head. Now, where's Arlette?"
"You asked that before. Why don't you take your clothes off?"
"Freddy!!!"
"Have another drink. Nothing like it."
"Even one is too many with you." Monica accepted the second.
"Let me put my hand on it. I'm sure it's wet."
"Put it on your own. I'm sure that's wet, too."
"Ahah! So you are a little damp," he accused triumphantly.
She flushed. "I didn't say that."
"But it's true, isn't it?"
"If it's any satisfaction to you, I'll admit you do have that effect on me. I am deeply ashamed of it."
"Dear girl, I'm flattered. We can use the couch."
"If-the height of your ambition is to make a girl need a bath after being in the same room with you, you've achieved it. And now, goodbye."
"But you can't go now. Arlette will be most upset."
"I no longer believe Arlette is even in the house. You got me here on false pretenses."
"Since you're here you might as well undress."
Monica stamped her foot in exasperation. "Haven't you any decency?"
"No."
"Show me the way out, then."
"Arlette's upstairs. She'll be most frightfully hurt."
"Take me to her then!" Monica flashed.
Freddy shrugged. "The Madam has the right idea for you. Keep you on a chain and whip you every day. Not that it seems to have done much good," he added sadly.
"I don't get whipped every day."
"You'd come to heel if I had you."
"Try and buy me then. You'd love to have me permanently chained."
"You are the most erotic woman in the world," said Freddy sadly as he led the way upstairs.
Monica recognized the door. "Freddy!"
"Yes poppet."
"I have no intention of going in that... that place."
"Been a few changes, sweetheart."
"There would need to be. Good-bye, I'm going."
Freddy sighed. The intransigent nature of the female was a cross to bear. "Arlette's in there," he said brightly.
Monica recoiled. "Oh no! Freddy, you don't mean!"
"Arlette's in there," the Honourable Freddy assured her with complete aplomb.
"What is she doing in there?" She looked at him crossly.
The shaft went home. The Honourable Freddy had no flip answer. "Not much of anything actually, poppet."
"You mean you have the poor girl in some outrageous position?" Monica's cheeks flamed as she remembered Freddy's favorite pose for his lady visitors. "And don't call me poppet," she added angrily.
"The dear girl looks very beautiful." Freddy sounded righteous.
"Upside down? Hanging from her thumbs?"
"I say, that's a corking idea-" Monica threw open the door.
Between two narrow iron pillars the naked Arlette was fastened in a perfect 'X."
Distrust of her host had deterred Monica from instant entry. She would not have been surprised if his private torture chamber had proved devoid of life. But the flash of joy that crossed Arlette's face as she beheld the girl she had loved so long erased all else from her mind. In moments she was holding the pinioned loveliness within her arms and kissing the eager lips in an overflow of affection.
"Oh darling!" They said it together and laughed joyously. For the moment the world had vanished and only they were left.
"I'll have you free from these posts in a jiffy." Monica was indignant.
But Satan had once more entered Eden. Arlette was not tied or strapped in her taut captivity. She was chained. The chains themselves were permanent fixtures. The cuffs prisoning wrists and ankles were locked. Only a key would open them. The Honourable Freddy's wife belonged very much to her husband. Monica turned in flaming anger to demand the keys. But the Honourable Freddy was not there. The door was closed. A tug at the handle proved it locked.
"Our dear Freddy always wins," Arlette said sadly, but with pride.
The two girls surveyed each other ruefully. Each knew themselves trapped into whatever the irrepressible male had in mind. Monica was furious. "I should have known!" she wailed.
"I am sending not the card," Arlette mused. "Dear Freddy sends it and this morning tricks me into this. I am most ashamed."
"You mean you let that... that monster do this to you?"
Arlette flushed. "It gives him much happiness. We play small games... "
"You call standing like that for hours and hours a small game!" Monica knew herself fighting a losing battle. "You poor darling, you must be utterly tired!"
"I suspect me being tired will be part of his so great a plot," the chained girl admitted thoughtfully. "But I do not know what my dear Freddy holds in store... "
"How can you call such a creature 'dear Freddy?" Monica stormed. "I'd dear Freddy him if I had the chance! As for what he has in store, I can well imagine what that will be."
Arlette could not give her Gallic shrug. She produced instead a wry twist of the lips. "Darling Monique, I am so ashamed. It is most certainment you for whom he will have the so bad designs."
"You should divorce him!"
"He is really very sweet," Arlette smiled apologetically. "You see, I do not mind these things he does to me. He is not of the most cruel. Often we laugh."
"You enjoy standing like that! Besides, you've got whip marks!"
"Do not be distressed beloved. What is a few hours more or less, or a few marks upon my skin. Pouf! They come and go. They are only the food of love. Come Cherie, often enough I have tied you in ways like this and been most cruel to my little pigeon, and my little pigeon has been of the most happy, nes'ce pas."
Monica kissed her hungrily, resentful that wedlock sundered their lips from greater intimacy. Momentarily satiated she stepped back. "Does he whip you often?"
"I think you do not approve," the French girl said in reproof. "But yes, Cherie. He whips me most often. He is so clever with the whip. He has much verve and the good imagination."
"That means he whips you where he shouldn't!" Monica opined dryly. She circled the taut nudity. Arlette had understated. The marks were there.
This time when their eyes met they frankly laughed at themselves. "We're a pair of idiots," Monica admitted. "Everything that happens to us is our own fault. And then, no matter how angry we get we find happiness." She shrugged hopelessly. "I wash my hands of us both."
The door opened. Freddy carried a tea tray. "Happy reunion?" he asked cheerfully.
"I was invited to a formal tea. Is that the best you can do?" Monica asked bitterly.
"We can't go down to the lounge, poppet."
"We could if you unlocked your loving wife from that infernal apparatus: and don't call me poppet!"
Freddy sighed. "Perhaps you'll do the honors?"
"It's very certain the lady of the house won't! All right, I'll pour. You're a moral degenerate and ought to be locked up." Monica lifted the tea cozy.
"All praise is welcome, poppet."
"Unlock the poor girl. She's tired. Please Freddy. Even if it's only long enough to let her drink her tea."
"Do I detect traces of politeness?"
"All right! I'll be terribly polite: Please darling Freddy, unlock Arlette so we can all have tea together."
"That's jolly good, y'know. Rare thing from you. Now you can have the privilege of holding the cup to your best friend's bps."
"You mean you refuse to set her free from that... that beastly device?"
"Absolutely, dear girl. And it's not a beastly device. Those two metal posts cost me twenty-seven pounds ten and sixpence."
"I'm sorry, darling. I tried." Monica held the cup to Arlette's smiling lips. "He's a heartless wretch."
The captive sipped gratefully. "You are taking my poor Freddy too seriously, Cherie. You allow him to anger you. He is one big tease. Quite harmless."
Freddy had the grace to blush. He evaded Monica's accusing eye. Arlette smiled tenderly upon them both, straining now and then to ease the tension in which she was held. They drank their tea.
"I'll run along," Monica announced decisively. "I'm intruding. Invite me sometime when the hostess is less involved."
"But surely... ! You won't leave your best friend in this pickle?" Freddy's voice dripped reproach.
"How else can I leave her? You have the keys."
"She's been there six hours already."
"You should be ashamed of yourself. Set her free. If I was her I'd divorce you."
"She'll be shockingly tired by tomorrow." Freddy dropped the words casually.
Monica froze. She recognized the Honourable Freddy's modus operandi. She looked at him freezingly. "Tell me the worst," she invited acidly. "None but you can save her."
"I read that line in a novel."
Freddy brightened. "So did I. Small world, eh!"
"Get on with it, you idiot."
His eyes were suddenly serious. "If I invited you to allow me to hang you from your delightful wrists, sans clothes, of course, what would you say?"
"A resounding negative."
He gestured in sad acceptance. "You see! You are implacable. Always you reject. If I did not know better I would think you did not like me. So small a thing to ask."
Despite her annoyance she laughed. "You're clever, Freddy. The things you ask are so utterly outrageous that a girl finds herself looking at them, curiosity, I suppose. But what girl in her right mind would offer herself naked to be hung by her wrists?"
"You."
"Forget it. I'm off."
"The little matter of Arlette...?"
"The poor girl's your wife. I feel sorry for her."
"You will think of her during the night."
There it was again. The touch of fear, of knowledge. An inevitability.
"Freddy! I don't believe that even you would keep your wife like that until tomorrow. Good-bye!"
"She will also be whipped." His voice was infinitely sad.
Monica turned anguished eyes upon the weariness of the bound girl. "Darling, none of this is true f "It is true, ma pauvre petite. But shed no tears. Arlette will survive. Above all do not do what he asks of you. There is no need. It is to indulge a bad boy in silly games."
Freddy sighed. "She is a truly noble girl," he said proudly. "As she stands there through the night, and as the whip curls round her delightful person, she will bear you no malice. She is superbly designed for martyrdom."
"It is only until tomorrow, cherie."
Freddy gave a slight cough. "Actually nothing was promised about tomorrow. I suppose with a little care and attention she could stay there a week."
"What do I have to do?" Monica asked resignedly.
"You take her place. I unlock my wife and you step into her shoes. You can do it now, or tomorrow, or the day after."
"You are a complete bastard."
"Erroneous, but concise." He looked from one to the other cheerfully. "I had to give a good deal of thought to this dastardly scheme by which I use my darling wife as bait to lure a good girl to her doom. Much of this concern is the degree in which I am truly an utter cad. When I analyzed the situation and its probabilities I realized my methods were beyond reproach." His smile embraced them companionably. "It's all semantics. True, I will keep her as she is for a week if I must. But there will be no need. You will rescue her. Thus I am not cruel."
"Do not listen to this absurd man, cherie. Go!"
Monica looked with level gaze at the smiling man. "If I give myself as you wish, what happens to Arlette?"
He waved airily. "Nothing, poppet. She becomes once more the chatelaine. She will come and go as she pleases."
Monica undressed.
"You must not do this," Arlette said miserably.
For Monica who lived naked the removal of her clothes before others, even a man, evoked no cringe, no shrinking modesty. She had come to know her beauty and its power over both sexes. She was satisfied that this alone should clothe her. She faced the Honourable Freddy, naked and without a blush.
He nodded in tribute, and handed her a key. When she had used it the two girls hugged each other in a welter of emotion. Arlette was in tears. Monica kissed her again and again. When their female storm had worn itself out, Monica returned the key that would hold her captive, and positioned herself as Arlette had been exposed. Four decisive clicks told her how firmly she was a prisoner. Freddy Arbuthnot led his weeping wife from the room. Before closing the door he looked back at his taut captive and winked.
Monica sighed. What had she let herself in for? She determined to waste no more emotion in anger. It had happened. She had been foolish. Now she would pay. Freddy was Freddy. Useless to moan over him. He held her captive as he had done before. Her true concern was Solange. Solange would never believe she had been so stupid. She would think that, once again, she had given way to an erotic impulse and delivered herself to this insouciant male in some sort of phallus worship. If she went home covered in fresh whip marks Solange would punish her anew, perhaps savagely.
Strange to be chained thus in this house and left alone. She suspected Freddy might have a rebellious wife on his hands. She tested her captivity. It was severe. Escape was impossible. The only redeeming feature of her enforced pose was that she could rest both feet on the floor. But there was little comfort in that. It meant that a girl might indeed be left chained thus for a very long time. On her toes she might faint, or her wrists be cut. But standing... She shivered. Poor Arlette. Six hours! And so naked! So utterly open to the male eye. No part of her he could not ogle. No part of her he could not whip! Her legs spread by their chains a female invitation to all. She twisted against her fetters. She could move scarcely at all, but held no doubt that under the whip she would produce the most satisfactory writhings. In pain a girl's body is a palpitating entity all it's own.
What could she tell Solange? Madam Dubois would believe nothing from this house. Arlette would be subject to coercion, thus suspect. Monica was tom. She could bear Solange's whip, but not her anger. It would be more than anger. Because of Freddy it would be contempt...
"You are heartbreakingly beautiful." Sometimes when he was sincere Freddy's voice held an intense vibrancy.
Monica did not answer. She knew her beauty.
"Do we revert to repartee?" he asked without humor.
"I suppose so," the captive said wearily. "It suits you. What have you done with your wife?"
"I wish you wouldn't keep referring to Arlette as my wife. Actually she's resting on her bed. There's a small chain effect that keeps her there."
"There would be!" Monica said dryly. "Now. What are you going to do with me?"
"I had thought of the whip! Nicely spread out, of course, over both your charming self and time."
"All over me?"
"Naturally. You are exquisitely whippable."
"Freddy!" She looked at him appealingly. "Be kind. Don't destroy the good thing between Solange and me.
It's our life. If you send me home covered in whip marks she'll think I've betrayed her."
"I'm not sending you home."
His words were like the cut of a whip.
"You can't keep me here, Freddy. Don't be silly."
"Why? Think a bit."
Monica thought. He could certainly keep her a long time before Solange was driven to action. The steel upon her wrists and ankles bit deep. "You mean you'd keep me here a prisoner in the same house as your wife?"
"Quite practical, poppet. Have to see about getting those silver bands off your tummy and arms."
"No, no, no!" Frenziedly she fought her bonds, a purely instinctive protest against the final sacrilege.
"Freddy! Use me sexually. Hurt me sexually. Humiliate me. But please don't mark me or take away my bands."
"Dear girl, I have never seen you more charming."
Monica moaned. It was a terrible sound. A cry of desolation. This man would take her from all she held dear, and she was helpless... utterly helpless.
He let her weep, frankly enjoying her tears. Savoring his mastery over the lovely woman who always fought him and always lost. He knew that under different circumstances he might have married her. He could never cease to desire her. Never erase from his being a hungry need to whip and torture her. No woman he had ever known became so beautiful in pain.
"Be merciful. Let me go."
"I cannot let you go. I need you."
"Send me home this evening. Every week I will come to you. I promise."
He dried her tears. They were face to face. He kissed her. She did not resist. Her lips were infinitely sweet to him. "My beautiful darling," he whispered softly. "I have you. I cannot give you up."
She whimpered, unable to stop her tears. "Freddy," she sobbed, "I've given myself to you in the past before you were married. I let you do terrible things... hurt me cruelly. Always there was something, some sort of erotic tenderness. Perhaps a need of mine as well as yours. But it's not like that now. I belong to someone else and so do you. You've got me prisoner. I'm helpless. You can do anything you like with me. All I can do is scream. But all you'll have is a beautiful body. You won't have me. There will be nothing between us except pain. Is that what you want?"
"Even if that is all there is, I want it."
Monica shook her head. She had never felt more helpless. Why, oh why had she let herself be chained! Now she would never get free! Better by far that Arlette had suffered than that both she and Solange should be destroyed. "I thought you wanted a few erotic hours to use me as you have done before. You did not tell me. You cheated."
"I have no witticism," he admitted sadly. "I must simply have you."
"Take me. Take me now as a man and a woman. Feed on me. Let me give you pleasure!" Her eyes sought his beseechingly. She tugged at the shackles on her wrists and moaned at their hold upon her. "Let me loose and I'll do anything you want. Free me and I'll instantly go and lay on that bench. I give you my word. I won't fight. I won't try and escape. I'll even hold out my hands for you to tie me again. I'll be utterly obedient. But, please, unlock me now... " Her voice degenerated into mindless whimpers.
The Honourable Freddy Arbuthnot selected his favorite whip. Even before the lash touched her Monica screamed hysterically. She was lost, lost, lost...
He whipped the naked girl held between the posts. Whipped her with care and precision and with love. She made no pretence of stoicism or of courage. She screamed steadily, her loveliness contorting in writhing agony under each blow whether it be upon her back, her bottom or her sex. The thong searched and found her as he chose. She knew not where next she would be cut.
She had been whipped little in the past year. As a Mistress within the House of Madam Dubois her intimacy with the whip and the cane had been confined to the caprice of Solange. A month might pass without" a single stroke and then she be whipped daily for a week. Sometimes she earned the whip. But it was mostly an overflow of eroticism in her Mistress that marked her skin. Walking into the home of Arlette this afternoon her nudity had been almost free of blemish. Thus the man who was whipping her had the added joy of knowing each wound she bore was his. Freddy became a victim of his own lust. So great was his joy in the gorgeous creature he possessed that tumescence became agony. He scorned the act with a girl chained so helplessly vertical. He remembered her promise. He bargained.
Her moans and her tears did not cease. She nodded her acquiescence through them. "Yes. I will be obedient," she sobbed. "Free me and tell me what to do."
"When it is done, will you once again stand as you are now?"
He saw her tense as though his question had been a whiplash, saw the agony of decision in her eyes. But again she nodded. 'Tes, if that is what you want I will let you chain me like this. I gave you my word. I will keep it."
Freddy was dazed by the glory of this girl.
When she was free Monica unthinkingly and in a great need clung to the man who had whipped her. She cared for nothing save her grief. She had never in her life been so bereft. She put her head upon Freddy Arbuthnot's shoulder and wept stormily.
It is one of the ironies of life that acquiring a long sought treasure we no longer desire it. That wealth comes too late to enjoy. That we appease hunger with bread and are then offered caviar. It is also true that a weeping woman reduces all other emotions to a common level. Thus it was with Freddy. He found himself holding a naked girl distraught by his own cruelty, pledged by her own bond to give herself to him in her entirety. Yet desire had fled, washed away by a flood of maiden tears. Or perhaps the thing that most disarms a man is a woman's arms around his neck.
"I say, old girl. Don't carry on so," Freddy offered ineffectually. "You're not exactly going to the chopping block, y'know."
More tears. Then a hysterical giggle. "Chopping block! Oh Freddy...!"
They clung like a pair of orphans in a storm. Each suddenly had a need of the other. Neither was inclined to move.
All storms pass. Finally Monica stole Freddy's handkerchief and dried her tears. She had ceased to sob. But her voice was husky. "I'm sorry, Freddy, I really am. I'll be good." She left his arms. Laying on her back upon the bench she opened her legs wide in wanton invitation. "Come on, Freddy. I promised."
It was not one of Freddy's better days. For the second time he found himself at a disadvantage. This time physical. With complete candor he explained his dilemma. "It's those tears, poppet. The kind you were shedding... Too much for any man."
Monica giggled. She was amazed by her own resiliency. But the giggle was genuine. Freddy was priceless! Free of bonds she no longer knew panic. Fear and doubt perhaps, but panic was set aside waiting. She remembered her condition of parole. She had no thought of breaking it. She closed her legs. "Would you like me to help...?" How absurd are women! She felt warmth toward this male creature who stood so awkwardly in his defeat.
"You're a damn remarkable girl." Freddy sat beside her on the bench. His fingers traced patterns across her nipples and her breasts. She did not move. For a minute each was lost in their own sensation. "Frightfully decent of you... .To let me do this." His grin was almost shy. "Everything will be all right in a little while."
She smiled up at him. "I'm sure it will." Pointedly she again wantonly spread wide her legs. Nodding in gratitude he cupped her triangle. They gasped simultaneously as though a charge had been triggered. Monica was astounded. Had the whip primed her thus? But he had always had this power over her. She relaxed. His hands were balm after the bite of the lash. The moment was unique. She was giving herself sexually, untouched by chain or cord. "You can take your clothes off now," she told him quietly.
Much later he sat beside her on the bench again. She lay passive and open as his hands lingered. Lassitude possessed them. "What is it about us, Freddy? Two opposing forces that inevitably merge. You always have your wicked way with me."
"You love it." The old raillery had returned.
"All right! I'm wanton. I'm a lustful wench."
"They're not the right words for you. You're beautiful, and any word used for you should be beautiful."
"Moon and June and all that! Freddy, you're in love with me... I"
"Taken you all this time to find out?"
"I'm afraid we both found out something today," Monica admitted pensively. "Something we shouldn't have done. It's all my fault."
Freddy was startled. "Your fault! Oh, come on."
Monica nodded in a great wisdom. "It's a bit backward," she admitted. "Sure you kidnapped me: you did, y'know? Then you frightened me half to death," she quivered. "Oh Freddy, I was in an absolute panic. Then you whipped me quite cruelly. If you hadn't needed relief for that thing that's beginning to stick up again now I'd still be chained up there screaming my head off-"
"I've been an awful rotter," he broke in on her musing.
"Tes you have," Monica agreed severely. "But don't interrupt. I'm trying to arrive at a conclusion about myself. The reason it's all my fault is that I'm erotic. There's some sort of aura or emanation that makes people want to whip me or make love to me immediately I walk into a room. I'm not trying to say I'm particularly nice. But nature has planted something inside and I don't even try to do anything about it. Even when I've deplored it, like now. I'm still frightfully proud and glad about it," she giggled. "You've seen cats following the fish and chips... Well, I'm the fish and chips."
"You're the most beautiful thing in the world," Freddy said reverently.
"See! That's what I mean. I'm a menace! You've gone all lovelorn again. Come here you insatiable monster. See if you can make me scream the same as when I'm .whipped."
It was nice to be without pretence. To have arrived at a destination. Refusing to think beyond the moment Monica was happy. "It isn't love," she continued meditatively. "It's something very nice and very special and it's ours. But we have to remember me. The me I told you about before... before last time. I'm glad that thing is laying down for a minute. I'm not good for you, Freddy. Oh, I might be if we were married. Although you'd probably whip me into my grave the first year... You could have a nice whip engraved on my headstone. A whip and a cane crossed. I think that would look rather nice. But we aren't married and we are not going to be. For you I'm a vice. I infect you. I arouse in you things best left asleep. When you had me chained to those pillars you were an absolute sadist. You wouldn't have liked yourself a bit. You're really just the way Arlette says: rather sweet. Don't lets spoil that."
"Was I that much of a brute?"
"Yes you were!"
He nodded soberly. Then bent and kissed her. She kissed back, hard.
"I'll prove something to you," she promised impishly. "Well make an experiment. You are sexually fulfilled, exhausted. I have lustfully drained you. Now just sit still and keep quiet. I'm going to say things. They don't need answers. Just listen. Agreed?"
"Agreed." His eyes adored her.
Monica twinkled at the amused and enraptured man to whom she was paroled. Her voice took on a new and husky vibrancy: "It's so gorgeous when the strap goes around my wrist. I love to watch. It's so neat and clean and-" she shivered, "so final. It's like the wedding ring. Once it's on it won't come off. But if I can't watch I can feel as it gets tighter and tighter going right into my skin and becoming a part of me. Then, when it's been buckled, I can't move my arm. My arm belongs to someone else. It's not mine any more." Monica paused and drew a deep breath. "I'm not sure which I like best. The cord is so intimately personal. You have to guide it round my wrist. Sometimes once, sometimes twice, maybe more. It's alive with sensation. When you pull it tight, tight, tight, and it cuts and dares me to tug, and when the knot is tied I can't move that either. I have to do what I'm told or stay where I'm tied."
Monica paused in her monologue and frankly laughed at her companion's absorption with her chatter. Her eyes glowed.
"But the chains are beautiful! The cruel wicked chains that hold a girl forever. Those gorgeous metal bands! My sex crinkles every time a shackle closes and clicks on my wrist or my neck or my ankle. A girl has so many places to click on to. Then, after the click, I try them out to see if I can move or how far. Always the metal on my flesh tells me I am owned. I'm not me any more. I belong to someone else."
Monica sighed happily. She was not done. Freddy gazed at her almost in awe.
"But all these things are just the beginning. They are to make certain I don't run away or argue at the wrong time. Let's make a pun and say they are to keep me in my place. Their best function is to hold me to be punished." Her voice dropped. It became soft and confidential. "It might be nice if girls could just stand still to be whipped or bend over sweetly to be caned. I think we would like to, but we can't. It hurts too much. So we have to be tied, or chained, or strapped. We do understand this, really we do! I know I've often been grateful for being fastened.-How's that for a word: fastened! A girl fastened! That means you own her. No matter how she screams or argues or weeps, you can do what you like with a fastened girl. I've been fastened a great deal."
Monica looked at the Honourable Freddy with deliberate provocation. "It's being whipped that makes us female. I've thought about that a lot. But it's true. When the whip curls round my bottom or my waist or my breasts... " She allowed her voice to trickle away, and uttered her next sentence with puckish intent. "Or my poor little cunt... " She looked up at him innocently. "It's so much like... " Again the innocence. "So much like being... fucked. I want to scream and twist and moan, and I do. I do! I'm never more a girl than I am then. A fire bums inside my sex. When the whipping is over I'm all wet."
Once more the introspection. "I think the worst, or the best of it, is the waiting. The suspense. When someone has tied or chained or strapped me into the position they want to whip me in. There I am all naked and palpitating and there isn't a thing I can do except plead. And even when I'm doing that I know it's only a delay. They love to hear me plead. I'm sure it makes them wet too. I feel ten times naked while I wait for that first stroke to fall. I don't even know where. That's awful!"
Monica paused. Her eyes lowered hopefully: "Oh Freddy! See! What did I tell you! It worked. I'm a really truly menace. I should be locked up. I'm an aphrodisiac. Come along. Let's enjoy it." She stretched and thrust out her breasts invitingly.
"You're quite right. You are a menace to mankind. You should be locked up tight. In my dungeon and with me holding the key, of course... " A satiated Freddy looked down bemusedly at his conquest. "Dammit, girl, you're a miracle."
"What happens to me now?" Monica asked wanly. She knew she was praying inwardly that depleted resources would incline her captor to mercy.
"I want to whip you and fuck you alternately forever," Freddy said decisively.
"Wouldn't I wear out?"
He laughed and said with total certainty, "You are immortal. A poor bloke like me couldn't scratch the surface."
They were happy with each other and their moment of time. "I belong to you, Freddy." Monica chose her words with care. I'm sort of indentured, if that's the right expression. What are you going to do with me?"
"You are free to go. I'll get you a cab." His voice was toneless.
Monica did not move. She lay, moist and replete, regaling him with her breasts and her pubic hair. Power had shifted. It was hers. "Freddy!"
"Yes beloved?"
"Have I made you happy?"
He bent and kissed her. "Terribly, terribly happy." Monica considered much. She had much at stake. "Freddy?"
"What now, dear heart?"
"You whipped me quite a lot, didn't you?"
"Quite a lot."
"Did you count?"
"No. But you've got marks. Want me to take inventory?"
She giggled. "That would be nice." She turned over on her tummy. "Start counting."
"This can have but one conclusion."
She giggled again. "I'll take the chance."
T make it sixteen," said the Honourable Freddy after a good deal of finger tracing.
Monica reversed so that she could protrude her breasts at the vulnerable male. "I'm thinking about those sixteen," she admitted slowly. "There's nothing playful about sixteen. Almost anyone has to take them seriously."
"Meaning?"
"Solange. I don't think shell believe I got them playing games or having tea with Arlette. Remember: that's what I'm supposed to be doing."
"I am a rotter. I've got you in a fix."
"Sort of. I'm wondering what to do about it."
"We can't erase those whip marks," Freddy said regretfully. "I suppose a note from me or Arlette... P" Monica laughed. "You can see Solange believing that!"
"If I called upon her?"
"She'd blast you and put me in the dungeon. I expect I'll end up there anyway," Monica mused unhappily.
"You mean the Madam will punish you because I punished you?" Freddy sounded baffled.
"You didn't punish me. You know you didn't. You whipped me for simple pleasure. Somehow I've got the reputation for liking to be whipped. So no one feels sorry for me. Everyone, even Solange, would think I egged you on. I told you, I'm a menace. Everyone seems me that way."
"Lot of truth in it," Freddy offered hesitantly. "Et tu brute," Monica winced. "You see! I'm proven guilty before I've even pleaded innocent."
"Bit of a bind, dear girl."
"The trouble is, I am guilty. I've been telling you this. I know I'm guilty. So if Solange says she's going to punish me I won't have a thing to say. I'll just offer her my wrists and scream."
"No fun while it's happening, eh?"
"No, it's awful. Until you have felt it you can't imagine... "
A thought struck Freddy. "If it's that awful, sweetheart, doesn't it act as a deterrent? Know what I mean: give you pause for thought and all that?"
"No, it doesn't! I could scream sometimes. I find myself tied up to be whipped over something I could have easily avoided. It's part of the picture I was trying to give you. My subconscious, I expect, yearning for the whip. Deliberately leading into situations in which the whip is inevitable. Like this afternoon," she added dolefully.
"No guilt there for you," Freddy declared heartily.
"Yes there is! I'm erotic. I should be more careful. People carrying a bomb don't light the fuse thoughtlessly."
The Honourable Freddy eyed his erstwhile captive shrewdly. "Somewhere in all this self examination you have a thought, dear girl. What is it?"
Monica faced him squarely. She thrust every thought or consequence from her mind. T bear sixteen weals from your whip. They damn me utterly."
He nodded, following her thought.
"If there were twenty-six or fifty-six I could be no more guilty."
Freddy looked down at her adoringly.
"Freddy!"
"Yes sweetheart?"
"We don't have much time, do we? We may never even be alone again all our lives. You with Arlette, me with Solange... " Monica turned her head from side to side as though in pain. "It gives you great happiness to whip me, doesn't it?"
His breathing became heavy. His eyes were aflame. "Yes."
"Whip me then. It may be my last gift."
They sat in silence. He humble in the face of glory. She noble with the female need to give. Both were naked.
It came about quite naturally. There was rhythm and cadence, the flow of motion, the union of mind. Monica was numb. Too much had happened. Too much had been discovered within their beings. For this moment only her purpose was to glorify this male. To make of Freddy more than he had ever been. To leave upon him the imprint of all the female of the world. The marks that he would place upon her skin would heal. But his would not. He would carry her always in his heart... "Stand up, Freddy," she ordered pertly.
No act of Monica's entire life had carried with it a greater portent. She lived each second intensely as she placed herself within the twin pillars and raised her arms. She knew that Freddy could snap shut the locks about her ankles and her wrists and keep her thus forever. Once the four clicks had been heard she had passed a point of no return. She looked at him in docile trust.
The four clicks came. She could not help but flinch. Her helplessness was so total it was frightening. She refused to think. Over and over she said within her mind: I am beautiful, I am beautiful! Looking at a panting Freddy, she said without hesitation: "Darling, please whip me hard. Terribly, terribly... "
But it did not happen then. She was no longer in control. She had thrown away her power in a stupid feminine gesture. She did not care.
"I can keep you now. Always."
"You can keep me always," she acknowledged. Then added mischievously the single word: "Master."
She heard his indrawn breath. She had touched his innermost need. "If you say the word, I'll let you go, poppet," he said hoarsely. "If I start to whip you I cannot tell where it will end. Say the word. It is best."
"Whip me, Master." All the femininity of the world taunted him.
His eyes were wild. "Help me," he pleaded. "Poppet, darling little poppet, help me."
She laughed into his distraught eyes. She was drunk with a power she did not understand. "Whip me, Master. Please whip me... I want to scream."
Monica screamed!
She had played with fire, and with fire she was burned. He spared her nothing, no word, no agony. "Ask me, bitch."
"Whip me, Master."
The lash scalded between her legs before the last word left her mouth. She moaned. "Whip me, Master." She clung to ascendancy.
"I will throw away the whip and unchain you?" Nobility offered.
"Whip me, Master."
The lash coiled around her breasts. The undulation of her agony filled the room. "I will set you free," said love. "Whip me, Master."
Thereafter there was no mercy. Monica's screams pealed one on the other as a bell tower is charged with sound. After the tenth stroke Freddy paused in his torture of the naked girl. "I have whipped every part of you. Is that not enough?"
Monica sobbed her denial: "Whip me. Whip me. I deserve to be whipped... " There was a pause in which she struggled with a truth. "Whip me, Master... because I want you to... "
Freddy whipped her breasts six times in quick succession. Monica went insane within the confines of her chains. Suddenly he switched and brought the lash up again and again between her wide-spread legs into her crotch. The fluidity of her anguish within her bonds gave him a joyous agony. He wrapped the whining thong repeatedly around the slender waist upon Solange's band of ownership. Monica screamed and screamed. A listener might have likened it to a cathedral choir. A pain of pure beauty.
* * *
"What must I do with you, my darling?" Solange asked tenderly.
"Punish me."
Solange waved a futile hand.
"To what end? You have been punished enough for a dozen girls."
"Punish me, Mistress."
"You are enjoying yourself. Stop it. Do you hear!"
"Yes Mistress."
"You are like quicksilver. You slip through the hands. To punish you is to give you joy."
"I feel better when I have been punished, Mistress."
"I am sure you do, you erotic wanton. I send you out to tea with my blessing, and you return with enough whip marks to cover my entire brood. What can I do with you?"
"Put me in the dungeon, Mistress. I hate it."
"I honestly believe you do. So that makes it a sensible thought. The trouble is that I adore you. I do not sleep well at night thinking of you lying chained to the stone."
"You are very sweet, Mistress."
T expect I am," Solange said irritably. "I'm as much a victim of your eroticism as is this absurd man you have such a weakness for."
"I refuse to see him again unless you are with me."
"Chained hand and foot, I suppose. It's the only way I can be sure of you. Really, darling, you are a problem."
"Yes, Mistress, I wish to be punished."
"If you keep on like that I shall take you to bed. You are the most erotic creation that ever happened. I am trying to think of something to do to you that won't be completely futile."
"Why not those new boots, Mistress? I would hate them."
"If you were not a teacher, yes. They are odious. But I must maintain some dignity for your office. I can't have you crawling on all fours. It's bad enough to have a Mistress covered in whip marks."
"Perhaps I should do housework or help in the kitchen?"
"Pouf! Do not be absurd. I adore you. I seek only to give you some memorable pain. I do not want you... what is the English, a skiwey."
"Being branded, Mistress, is the greatest pain I remember. Would you like to brand me again?"
"Of course I would. But we can't have you covered by the letters of the alphabet."
"I am sorry I am such a problem, Mistress."
"You are not sorry at all. You are enjoying the distinction of being the most erotic female alive."
"You could give me back to the Honourable Freddy, Mistress. He hurts me terribly so that I scream and scream... The marks he put upon me were not of my seeking."
"I wish I could believe that. By the way, if we are to have contact with the Arbuthnots they had better visit us here. I cannot let you go there again. I will send them an invitation. I may be able to curb your concupiscence if I chain you neck and wrist and ankle while they drink tea."
Monica giggled. "Am I that weak, Mistress?"
"Where that vacuous scion of the nobility is concerned, yes. Have you no other thought than the dungeon and the boots?"
"No Mistress. But I really do hate the dungeon and all those chains. Especially having to stand up against the wall all day."
"Very well then. I will put you in there tomorrow. For tonight, come. We retire."
Monica followed her Mistress. Soon the chain would be upon her neck. She was very happy.
Monica's happiness remained constant even when standing in lonely solitude against the stone through the following day. She knew she would tire and long for release, but for the moment there was something akin to comfort in the dungeon which she loathed. Her disaster with Freddy on the previous day had left her tender on her flesh and troubled in her mind. It was just one more of the contradictions with which she was constantly confronted that she should find refuge in this dreary place. Refuge from what? Freddy or herself!
She fingered the metal collar round her neck. It was heavy and uncomfortable. Its chain to the ring in the wall was no more than a foot long. It was a shrewdly cruel penalty to simply have to stand. She had suffered it often enough. But its first hour or two always dissolved whatever store of courage she may have carried with her into the dungeon. Her choices of how to spend her day were limited to standing straight and free, leaning against the cold rough stone, turning and facing the wall, or looking outward across the floor to the opposite wall. Even to do some of these compelled her to carefully turn the collar on her neck. It was snug enough that this was not easy. It was a sad way for a naked girl to spend a day.
There were no other bonds. This was something for which to be deeply grateful. Solange was being kind. Often in this plight Monica's hands had been tied behind her back. It doubled the misery. Doubled her impotence. Solange had chained her and gone. Monica knew her Mistress was thinking, probably about what to do with a foolish girl. Monica guessed her punishment for Freddy would be a week as she now was. She had been whipped so much the previous day that Solange was loath to add to her stripes for fear of drawing blood with cut upon cut. It was a hazard Monica would gratefully accept rather than stand as she was for a week. But she had asked for the dungeon and had got it. She supposed she could not complain.
She thrust out one foot until it snubbed against the ankle hobble. The lovely, lovely, silver chains were back upon her ankles. She had felt absurdly content when Solange had placed them there. She did not look upon them as bonds. They were the single garment in which she was clothed against the temptations of the world. She had a ludicrous wish that she might wear them on those occasions when she must leave the House on business or family affairs, a reminder that she was owned. Lovingly she ran her fingers round the band that gripped her waist. She could never forget it for long. But she had grown used to its intimate cling. There were times when she ceased to be aware...
Her greatest concern at the moment should be as to whether her Mistress would lead her to their bed each night or chain her to the floor where she was. There was an infinity of difference between the two conditions. The previous night had given each a vivid ecstasy. Monica to be back within the loving fold instead of hanging chained between Freddy Arbuthnot's twin pillars: Solange sensuously fondling and kissing the wounded flesh of her moaning slave. It was a torture in itself not to know.
Arlette's entry into the dungeon was like a small perfumed cyclone. Solange followed, contentedly smiling. Monica stood, a marble statue of astonishment within her chain. But only for a moment. Excited arms flew round her neck. The two girls welded themselves together in affection.
"But that is of the most awful! I will kill that stupid man!" The French girl turned her loved one this way and that to better see the wounds upon the guiltless skin. She turned fierce eyes upon Solange. "I am so ashamed, Madam! Within my home while I was there. That absurd Freddy... ! What must I do with him!"
"What can you do with him?" Solange was amused.
"I can make him most miserable. There are ways... Arlette affirmed vehemently. "Please Madam, unchain our darling girl."
"Our darling girl is being punished for being a very silly girl."
"But no, Madam! She was tricked. She try and save me from much pain. He chain her to those posts of which he has much pride. Then he take me to our room and chain my wrist to the bed so that I must lay there and wonder what is taking place. It was most awful. When all is over I throw the chamber pot through the window to show my displeasure."
"Why didn't you throw it at Freddy?"
"I did. But one hand is chained to my bed so that I do not aim too well. My Freddy was of much sorrow."
"Surely not his conscience?"
"Mais non! But of the pot. It was an heirloom. It is most droll."
Arlette looked from one smiling face to the other. "Please Madam, not to punish?"
"But she has behaved disgracefully with your husband. Look at her! If I was an outraged wife I would wish to whip her of the most hard. Let me give you a whip and leave the two of you alone!"
"Non, non, non!" Arlette was shocked. "Ma pauvre Monique, she has no guilt. It is Arlette who should be whipped!"
Solange laughed. "You are as silly as she is. Why should you be whipped?"
"To make restitution, oui!" The French girl flushed and shrugged awkwardly. "My stupid husband, with much noise, is permitting."
"Permitting what?" Solange was intrigued.
Arlette showed surprise. "You are not understanding? It is of the most simple! Yesterday our darling girl delivers herself to much pain to save me. Now you think her unfaithful to your love, so you put her in this prison with a chain around her neck that she may repent of a sin she has not done. Is most unkind. I will take her place."
Eyes sought eyes in wonder. Arlette shuffled uneasily and blushed more deeply. "Please not to laugh. I am of the most serious. It is a thing I much wish. It has not been easy."
"What will Freddy say if I imprison you for a week and send you home with as many whip marks as Monica bears?" Solange demanded.
"He has already said it. He make much noise. I make much noise too. Freddy permits."
"But that isn't fair either," Monica protested. 'It's Freddy that ought to be put in a dungeon."
"Tres bon. That is true. But Arlette is having a small selfish wish." Their emotional visitor looked at them appealingly. "It is not easy to punish this wicked Freddy who I love. He is most strong. When I hit him or throw things he picks me up and puts me in cupboards or maybe he chain one small hand to the wall so I must stand as Monique stand now. I do not mind this. It is much fun. But it is always Arlette who get punish, never dear Freddy." She looked around triumphantly. "But now I have the most fine idea. Set free Monique and punish me in her place. Punish me very terribly so that I weep and stay here much time. This will bother Freddy very bad. His conscience will hurt. He will wish he had been better boy." She grinned happily. "When I am at last going home with many sad marks he will be tres pleased to see his own Arlette, n'est-ce pas?"
Solange laughed delightedly at the ingenuous summation. "You are still a child, Cherie. For what you plan the English have a saying that you cut off your nose to spite your face." Arlette yearned. "Please, Madam to do this! I am not caring about noses."
"Exactly what do you wish to suffer, you absurd creature?"
Arlette beamed. "A week in this sad place, Madam.
And then to be well whipped, all over! Fifty or a hundred, perhaps?"
"Are you sure that's all?" Solange inquired dryly. "If Madam has further thoughts, Arlette would be most happy."
"A nice sensible Frenchwoman! I am ashamed of you," Solange chided.
"But you will do it?"
Solange shook her head in bewilderment. "It is a malaise. A contagion. We are all mad. But yes, I will do it. Not because I think it right or sensible. But because it is so bizarre I will treasure its memory." Her eyes sparkled. "Perhaps, too, that it may teach you a lesson... Now! Off with your clothes."
The delighted French girl kicked off a shoe. Then straightened and raised an enquiring eyebrow. "Madam... ? Perhaps one more favor...?"
"You would like to be hung by your thumbs...?"
Arlette giggled. "That would be nice, Madam. But there is a thing that would be of the best for my dear Freddy." She paused hopefully. "Would Madam ensure that my husband is told with... oh such terrible things of my punishments and what I suffer because he is so bad." She giggled again. "Perhaps even to add small things of awfulness."
Solange chuckled in pure enjoyment. "That, at least, I can do with satisfaction. I will do it myself. I wish to see his face when I give him the so gruesome details of your torture. Oh, rest assured, Cherie. It will be a picture of the most anguish I will draw for that ridiculous male. He shall suffer."
Monica was stunned. She was a spectator. Between them, Solange and Arlette had robbed her of protest or participation. She had nothing to add. She did not relish relinquishing her own punishment to a girl without guilt. But she understood the quaint logic aimed at the Honorable Freddy's peace of mind. She hoped his disquiet would be commensurate with his wife's discomfort. She watched, fascinated, as Arlette stripped. Heard her exultant: "Voila Madam! I am at your service." Saw the intrigued Solange position the slender nakedness against the opposite wall and snap shut the metal collar upon the willing neck. Arlette glowed as though the heavy iron was a diamond necklace.
Solange, suppressing laughter, waved a cheery hand and made towards the door.
"But Madam!" Arlette's voice was shocked. "Our pauvre petite Monique!"
Solange turned, her laughter bubbling out of control. "Our pauvre petite Monique will keep you company, Cherie."
There was an impressive silence.
"But Madam! Monique is-"
"Quiet girl!" Madam Dubois held up a stem hand. "I do not think anyone is guilty, and I do not think anyone is innocent. So I punish you both. Thus we will have justice. I will give the matter much thought." Her eyes sparkled mischief. "It will take me at least a week to reach decision about so much nobility... "
Two pairs of astonished female eyes watched their Mistress walk towards the exit. She turned and grimaced at them: "Darlings. I often think nobility the greatest sin of all."
She was almost from the room when Arlette's frantic cry brought her back. "But Madam... ! We are chained to opposite walls!"
"I'd noticed that myself," Solange said wickedly.
This time her exit was final.
* * *
In the office of Madam Dubois two girls played noughts and crosses on scrap paper. Pussy Willow and Melissa had been left to their own devices before the Madam had broached the subject of their summons. The advent of an excited Arlette had interrupted an interview which both damsels contemplated with trepidation.
"At least ten on our bottoms," Melissa opined.
"Aren't we lucky!" Pussy Willow breathed gratitude.
"Oh you!" Melissa exclaimed with mock irritability. "You're worse than I am." She laughed delightedly. "We should both be ashamed of both of us."
T didn't really like those boots," Pussy admitted. "The other girls all laughed at us. I wonder if-" Her wonder was cut short by the return of Madam Dubois. The scrap paper slid into the waste basket. Two nude girls stood prettily to attention.
"I suppose you know why you are here!" Madam fixed her charges with a forbidding eye.
"No Madam." Eyes douce and innocent.
"The matter of some glue perhaps...?"
"Glue, Madam?"
"On the toilet seat?"
Pussy giggled. It was an admission.
"The matter of two frogs? Both in cook's bed."
Melissa giggled. She would not let Pussy down.
"I perceive a pattern." Madam Dubois focused heavily on two rapt girlish features. "You are like the electricity, yes! You spark. Together you make things to happen. Since you came to us, Pussy, there have been many happenings. I blame Melissa, for she is a year your senior. But I suspect it is you, Pussy, who found the glue and caught the frogs. What should I do with you?"
"Oh, whip me, of course, Madam," Pussy Willow invited happily.
Solange sighed. She was suffering from a plethora of females pleading for the cane. She eyed Melissa hopefully.
"Whip me too, please Madam." Melissa's ardor equalled her companion's.
"You are incorrigible. I refuse to pander to your erotic enjoyment of a smarting bottom. I have something else in mind."
Two disappointed young faces became appropriately grave.
Madam raised an eyebrow at Melissa. "I would not say, dear child, that you have ever been other than impudent, erotic and a bundle of mischief. But since our establishment has been honored by the presence of Miss Willow, both you and she have exceeded the bounds of all tolerance in such matters as glue and frogs and other things I might mention, n'est-ce pas?"
The office was heavy with maiden silence.
"I could punish you endlessly, and perhaps cruelly," Madam Dubois continued equitably. "But you are delightful creatures I have no wish to harm. So I have devised a plan." She smiled benignly. "I appoint you, Melissa, a prefect to whom Pussy is answerable for all misdeeds. You will correct her with justice and severity. She is in your hands. I will expect an immediate improvement in her behavior." One more pause. Madam Dubois took a deep breath. "It is not, however, to be supposed that Melissa herself will be without stain. When the two of you deem her deserving of a penalty you will both attend me. I will deal with her correction in ways that may astonish. The correctional facilities of the House are available to you, Melissa. That is all. You may go."
Two astounded nymphets locked eyes. "Those frogs and the glue, Madam...?" Pussy sensed unfinished business.
"A matter for Melissa, not me. You are free to leave."
Two disconsolate damsels trailed down the hallway.
"I'm not sure I like this," Melissa said thoughtfully. "Being a Prefect, I mean."
Pussy Willow giggled. "Silly! It's going to be gorgeous. We can do anything we like, then you cane my bottom and everyone will be happy."
"But what about me?" Melissa pondered doubtfully.
"I'll cane yours, Melissa. Don't you see! We can use the games room and everything. We wouldn't have dared... "
Melissa brightened. She perceived fresh horizons. "There is a little matter of some glue... ! And some frogs... " She suggested demurely.
"Frogs and glue! Never heard of 'em!" Pussy giggled joyously.
"I'm going to tie you, Puss," Melissa said firmly. She looked round the games room. "Face and tummy against that post."
"Ooooh! That's lovely and tight round my middle," Pussy endorsed. "You want my bottom so it won't move. I know!" She made a futile experiment. "I can't rub my pussy against the post."
"Hands up high." Melissa was happy with cord. Pussy Willow looked up adoringly as her wrists were pinioned, one on each side. "What about my feet?" she enquired.
I'll leave you them to kick with. I'm going to make you squirm."
"How many, darling?"
"Until I make you bleed. I'm going to use that thin crop."
Pussy inhaled as though savoring perfume.
A determined and jubilant Melissa cut the pert rump with all the force of her young arm. After several moments of panting silence a young and tearful face turned back from the pole. "Am I bleeding?" Pussy asked hopefully.
"Not yet. But you're beautiful." Again the whistling cut. Pussy wept copiously and happily.
"I've never been made to bleed," Pussy Willow sighed. "Will it hurt terribly, terribly?"
"I've never been made to bleed either," Melissa admitted. "So I can't tell you. But I bet it looks gorgeous. I think if I hit you on the same place twice that ought to do it." She pivoted on her toes with all her skill.
Pussy wailed. In rapture Melissa watched the thin line form and the blood appear in specks along its length. "I've done it!" She sounded awed by what she saw.
"Now it's your turn." Pussy's interest was uninhibited by a cut bottom.
"You're not supposed to give me orders," Melissa ruled. "I'm going to give you a really tremendous swipe across your back. It ought to be a work of art."
Pussy wept steadily. "You can get your hand between my legs. Be nice to me. I'm scared."
Melissa was breathless at what she had done. The crop had sliced the beautifully exposed back across the level of the breasts. Its tip had curled and left its brand on the side of a curved mound. Pussy had not yet screamed. But she was moaning steadily, her head moving from side to side. From time to time she fought her cords in spasms of revolt against a pain beyond her dreams. Across the center of her young back the scarlet seeped. Melissa watched enthralled by the drop that formed and trickled down across the white skin. She found it almost too beautiful to bear.
But such glory was a thing to share. Melissa was consumed by curiosity. What price in pain must a girl pay to bear so exquisite a symbol of another's love. Hastily she tore at cords. "Don't bother to tie me for only one," she panted. "I'll stand straight with my hands on my head. Be sure and cut me. I won't be able to stand for a second. Careful of my breasts."
Bleeding happily they went in search of a mirror. They used the big full length one in Solange's room, knowing she would not be there. Ecstatically they turned and twisted to view their wound. Each knew the pain had been a trivial price.
"I've heard it leaves a thin white line where you break the skin," Pussy whispered excitedly. "We'll have it always." She threw her arms round her companion's neck. "Oh, darling, I'm so happy! Come and whip me some more."
"How would you like to whip Monica?" Melissa asked softly.
For once Pussy Willow was shocked. "Monica! We can't! I wouldn't dare."
"I know where she is. She's chained and couldn't stop us."
"What's she done?" Pussy was fascinated.
"Nothing that matters," Melissa giggled. "She's probably a bit bored. She might be glad."
The younger girl's eyes glowed. "Ooooh! She's gorgeous. Oh darling... my cunt's already wet."
The dungeon needed no lock. The huge bolts were enough. Melissa drew them silently back. She was trembling with excitement. She and Pussy each held a slender length of cruelty.
Monica had been speaking. Her words died away at sight of two naked moppets armed with instruments of pain. "You can't get us free. We're chained," she said irritably. "Go away."
Melissa gently closed the door. "We didn't come to set you free, darling. We came to whip you," she purred. "Hello, Arlette! Well whip you too."
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Monica declared ominously. "Get out of here before you get into trouble."
"Will you bend over nicely-as much as the chain will let you, of course, so we can whip your bottoms? Or are you going to be silly and get whipped on your fronts?"
"We are not going to get whipped at all! Not by you." Arlette was stern.
Monica sighed unhappily. She knew her Melissa and her Pussy Willow. She was about to be whipped, and there was nothing effective she could do to stop it. The chain on her neck was too short. But she had to try. "I'll skin you alive afterwards," she warned. "Don't take such a mean advantage... "
"Bottom or front, darling?"
"Go easy on me, Melissa. I've been whipped so damn much." Monica tugged at her collar, and turning her face to the wall bent out her bottom to the limit of her tether.
Pussy Willow looked hungrily at the indignant Arlette. "Is this one mine, darling?" She giggled at a sudden thought. "You know why they are chained to opposite walls... ? It's so they can't touch each other's cunts." She pealed joyous laughter and cut her chained victim a curving agony around one hip.
The moppets cut and sliced and lashed, oblivious to pleas and screams and threats. It was an orgy of pain, featured by blood. No one heard or saw the opening of the door.
"That will be quite enough of that!" The voice of Solange was terrible to hear. It froze the teen-agers in arrested motion.
They pleaded. They begged. They swore obedience.
Pussy turned on the floodgates of her tears. Monica watched their defeat with satisfaction. She hurt! She watched as each sobbing nymphet was thrust against a wall to have the metal locked about her throat. Even with the pain she knew amusement at their woebegone faces. Solange relieved them of the crops and used one to thrash them soundly and without care as to where the blows fell. Their howls were music. Their writhings against their chain pure poetry. Solange was merciless. The two girls became abject in their promises. They soon availed themselves of their only small defense. Each turned to the wall and presented her bottom to be scourged. A small comfort indeed. But less awful than their breasts or their sex.
"You are all quite impossible!" Solange was breathless. She turned to a wide eyed Arlette. "Turn round. I am in the mood."
She thrashed Arlette's bottom raw.
"Thank you, Madam." Arlette just managed to squeeze out the words between her sobs.
The dungeon was filled with the sounds of feminine distress. Only Monica was mute. Catching her Mistress's eye she turned and thrust out her behind as best she could. It was terribly cut.
"Do not be absurd, Cherie. Stand up properly."
So it was to be her breasts! Tears came to Monica's eyes. She stood to attention and stuck out her chest.
Solange unlocked the collar of her slave.
The Mistress surveyed the weeping captives. "I think perhaps a month," she said with mischief.
