There's something wrong! I know there is. Patsy would never take all this time to buy a few groceries. When she locked this collar on my neck and padlocked the chain, she laughingly assured me she would be right back. She knows herself what it's like to be alone and chained so you can't leave. She wouldn't be so mean.
Patsy's in trouble. That means I'm in trouble too. I've tom the bed apart and searched the bathroom looking for a bobby pin or anything at all I could work on the lock with. But there's nothing. You don't leave a prisoner chances of escape, and I'm a prisoner! My chain gives me access to the bed and the bathroom, but that's all. It will only let me get halfway to the door or the dresser or the window. So what the hell do I do!
I sit. I wait. I play with the links of the chain I can't defeat. I think of Patsy and why she has not come back. In spite of knowing it useless, I make spasmodic tuggings at the chain and thrust my fingers beneath the metal band locked around my throat. But, most of all, I think of me.
It hasn't been that long. But when I think of freedom it seems centuries in the past, a sort of dream, never quite real. Reality for girls is the chain, the rope, the whip, and the clang of iron bars. I'm not sure just how Patsy came to own me But I've been thinking how lucky I am. Patsy's a sweetheart and, sooner or later, she'll go too easy on me and I'll escape. It's been a secret hope I cherish. But I can't escape now. No way! It's only a collar and chain but it holds me as securely as a dozen prisons.
I'm always angry with myself. I'm an adult girl. I've been kidnapped and enslaved. Through every moment of my captivity I've longed for freedom and escape. But what have I done about it--nothing! I've done absolutely nothing because there's never been anything I can do. There's always been a bit of me roped or chained, or all of me behind the bars of Burdock's prison. I've been passive to avoid punishment, I hate being whipped. It's made them believe I'm easy and a bit stupid. It think it's my best bet. Sometimes one of them will make a slip and I'll run. Boy, will I ever... ! But, in the meantime, I feel so damn spineless and insipid. A beautiful but vapid naked girl with a collar and chain like a pretty puppy dog.
I'm not sure about the hierarchy that holds me. Burdock owns Patsy and Patsy owns me. Then there's Daisy. Daisy may be only a jailer or a disciplinarian, but I'm not quite sure. They are out at the Big T, and I am here with Patsy. At least I was here with Patsy!
I'm hungry. It's been hours and hours, and I can't get to where the food is. I'm all right for water but that's all. I remember Patsy saying she and Burdock had agreed not to phone today, so if something's happened to Patsy, I don't have a hope of anyone finding me until tomorrow or maybe the day after. I fight panic and hate my chain with a bitter hatred. I can't get loose, and I'm going to be so damn hungry!
Patsy's either decided to chuck the whole thing or she's been kidnapped again. There are men at those parties on the ranch who desire us with such intensity that it burns our skin--it could be one of them. They may not all have the money needed to buy us, we're so high priced. There was that guy from Texas who bid a million for Patsy that time. They couldn't grab us at the Big T, but here... this big house Patsy owns... and two girls all alone! Jeepers, if a man got inside here, I'd be a sitting duck. I sleep. I'm surprised at myself, but I manage to sleep all night. That's the nice thing about being fastened the way I am--it leaves me free, just so long as I don't try to walk away. It is now definite--something is wrong. I wash away the sweat of fear in a warm bath, but it only makes me hungry. I do my hair and fuss with myself. I'm not in an erotic mood, but I try out different lipsticks on my nipples and experiment with rouge on my breasts and different colors for my puss. What the hell--I'm not going anyplace!
The phone's been ringing downstairs. I can't get to it, but it sure is a welcome sound. It rings insistently for long periods. Someone wants Patsy bad. I hope it's Burdock. I'm scared of Burdock, but I wish he'd walk in here now. At least I'd get fed. He might even chain me so I'm not such a fixture.
Prisoners live on hope. The phone's stopped ringing, so I'm picturing Burdock driving like crazy to get here and find out why Patsy doesn't answer. He's fond of Patsy--I know he is--and she worships him. He could whip her every day, and she'd still adore him. She hasn't run off with someone else. No, Patsy's in trouble.
Someone's at the front door, someone with a key. The sound is faint up here, but it tenses me into a mixture of hope and fear. I simply don't want to be tied up and taken away by one of those kooks. Burdock may not treat me all that good, but he won't take me any deeper into disaster than I already am. Breathlessly, I listen for the footsteps.
"What the hell is going on?"
It's Burdock. I relax in thankfulness. He is looking for Patsy--he's not concerned about me--but the rumpled bed and my chained condition tell him what he needs to know. Frowning, he listens while I tell him what little I can add.
"Her car's outside the garage door, the groceries still in the backseat."
Burdock wheels away to search the house. He doesn't bother with me. After all, I'm just a slavegirl--naked merchandise he'll get around to when he's ready. But, gee, I'm so hungry! I bet he never even thought about my needs. I listen meekly to the sounds he makes as he searches for a girl who is not me.
I am unlocked. My collar and chain fall limply across the bed. I am free, but I do not fight or try to run. A girl who does such things with Burdock needs her head examined. "You're hungry?"
"Yes, master."
In the kitchen I make coffee, grabbing bites of whatever is handy as I work. Burdock sits and glowers, his mind roving.
"Someone's snatched her." He talks to me because there is no one else. "I know the son of a bitch. But he'll have her hidden. This won't be easy."
I eat and drink disgracefully while he continues to glower. I am shockingly aware of him. Burdock is male. I wish he was aware of me, but he has seen so many naked girls, all kidnapped because they were beautiful. He is craggily handsome and cruelly potent with the girls it pleases him to fuck. I am scared, but if he desired me... !
"Can't leave you here alone, Effie." Burdock glares as though it's all my fault. "Where the hell did you get a fool name like that? It doesn't suit you--you're a beauty. Effie is a fool's name,."
So I am noticed after all, and this one's easy. "It's not my name," I tell him truthfully. "Gladys and I used these names in fun. Her name was Jasmine and mine's Coralie. But it's been so long...."
"Okay, you'll be Coralie from now on. Someone will buy Coralie, but they'd never buy Effie."
"Yes, master."
"And don't be so damn meek. I know you're aching to escape." Burdock looks me over as though noticing me for the first time. "You can't escape. Get it? I'll never give you a chance."
"Yes, master."
"Vary that. You can call me Burdock or sir as well, y'know."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now, what do I do with you!"
I eat and drink and try to look compliant while the male ponders my fate. It does not occur to me to make a suggestion.
"No use leaving you here. Could chain you back the way you were and leave you food. Would you want that?"
"No, I sure wouldn't... sir."
"Okay. Clean up this mess, then get me some rope. I have to tie you."
I am furious with myself. Burdock is certain I won't try anything, and he's right. I ought to run, or find a weapon, or use the phone, but I won't. I'm scared. I'm sure he'd catch me and punish me brutally. But I ought to try... I ought to try! Resentfully, I gather the rope with which I will be bound. I take the lovely ankle shackles too. They're a lot more comfortable than corded feet. Burdock takes them from me. I turn my back. I cross my wrists.
Burdock ties me tightly and with skill. I expect he has tied a lot of girls. My blood will flow, but I will not get loose. He ties my wrists and elbows, then shackles my ankles. I do not get to walk my short snubbed steps. I am picked up and carried to the car. Burdock opens the trunk.
"Please don't put me in there!"
Burdock puts me in the trunk. It is as though I did not speak. Thoughtfully, he ropes my ankles over and around the metal bands. He ties my feet up to my hands. It is not the worst hogtie possible, but I will still hate it. In the same air of abstraction, he gags me and straps my mouth tight. For a moment our eyes meet, and we understand each other. He slams the lid shut.
It is not my first such ride, but they demoralize me sickeningly. I'm so damned helpless. I am a package of naked girl in a dark trunk with the spare tire. Reason tells me it is about the only safe way a nude female captive can be transported on public roads. If you don't know where you're being taken, it makes it all the worse. I have to guess that I'm being taken to the ranch.
My guess is right. After the car stops I have to lay in the dark, hurting and apprehensive. It's a long time before someone lifts the lid. The piquant features gazing down at me are those of Daisy Ho.
"Welcome back, Coralie." There is a feminine Chinese chuckle. "Burdock tells me of your new name. Tonight at the party we will christen you with champagne."
I cannot speak, but Daisy has seen me cringe at the sound of the word party before. She tugs at the strap across my lips and extracts the wad from my mouth. She ties a noose and tether around my neck. She is a most competent jailer.
"Patsy's been kidnapped," I blurt out immediately.
"Burdock will get her back. He is already on the phone." Daisy's grin is unconcerned. "In the meantime, you are our guest again."
"I'm not a guest, I'm a prisoner."
"Perhaps you are for sale. Burdock thinks of it. Isn't that exciting!"
I sniff sulkily. A sniff or two is safe with Daisy. "Who wants to be sold to some kook who'll whip me every night! I'd sooner stay with you."
"But, darling girl, I will whip you every night too."
I sniff again. "Not as hard as he would. Anyway, Daisy, I'm glad it's you."
It is always an ecstatic moment when a girl's elbows are untied. I almost purr with pleasure. Then my ankles. That is all. Daisy will never allow me a chance to escape any more than Burdock will, perhaps a good deal less. Daisy cannot lift me, but she pulls my shackled feet up and over, then embraces me and tugs while I struggle to follow them. In a few moments I stand erect and gaze around. I am back at the Big T. Daisy grins and pulls on my leash.
The luxury prison for the Big T's kidnapped girls is ingenious but frightening. The innocent chicken house above, the iron bars below. No one could possibly find us, not ever--unless they knew! Daisy tugs me gently, my hobbled steps obey her signals. She uses keys and presses buttons. We descend the awesome stairs to the bars and the wicked door. On the other side of them is the swimming pool and plush luxury. There are also two girls who stand well back and survey me with bright-eyed interest. They are as naked as me.
"Paula and Dorothy. They will soon be sold." Daisy pats my bottom and unlocks the door. "Go on in and play with them."
"Won't you untie my hands?"
"No, nor unlock your feet. It pleases me to make them a gift of you. The poor dears need comforting."
I clatter my chained way toward the waiting girls. Behind me the door clangs shut with triumphant finality. Daisy does things right.
"You've been here before," Dorothy accuses.
"Isn't there some way we can escape?" Paula asks pathetically.
"No, we can't escape. Why don't you take me to bed while I'm so helpless?" I ask helpfully. "I haven't been loved for two whole days."
"We aren't lesbians."
"Well, it's all you're going to get down here."
"But we'll untie your hands."
"I'd love to have my hands untied," I tell them fervently, "but you'd be whipped for it. Best leave me tied."
"We've already been whipped. Are you dangerous or something?" They turn and show me streaked backs and bottoms. "Girls get whipped here whether they do something bad or not. There's a show every night and there's sort of an auction. Last night a girl was actually sold. The men get all excited when we're whipped."
They are lovely creatures. But right now they are bitterly resentful. And why not! I was resentful too when my life was taken away from me. I guess I still am, but I'm sort of resigned to it and they aren't yet.
"With the bodies you've got, you'll soon be sold," I tell them reassuringly. "I'm told that if a girl's a bit lucky in who buys her, it's not that bad."
They gaze upon me pityingly. I am resigned--lost. I am obviously enslaved. I suspect my bonds are, for Dorothy and Paula, a measure of my social status. I cannot bother to enlighten them. If they are likely to be sold... !
It is evening. Daisy leads me from inside the bars up to the ranch house and the man who owns us all. I stand nakedly before him, a picture of submission. Burdock frowns.
"I suspect you need your ass whipped, young lady. You're just too damn sweet for words."
"It's only because I'm so helpless, sir."
"Look, girl, Tm after Patsy and I'm having no luck. Can you think of something?"
"Nothing, sir. I was only her slave."
"Huh!" Burdock gestures away my humility. "Since we've repossessed you, we may as well make you work for your keep." He glares at me.
"Yes, master."
"You being a smart-ass?"
Oh, shit, I've said something wrong! I become nauseatingly pliant and contrite. "No, sir, I'm not. Honest, I'm not." I glimpse the whip and plead. "Please, look at me! I'm so helpless and naked. I'm scared to offend you."
"Okay, okay." Burdock dispenses of my humility with a wave of his hand. "There's a show tonight. I've told Daisy to make you the star turn."
"You mean, I'll be whipped?"
"Hell no! She'll think up something. She's going to warm up the pelts of those two downstairs. May help the bidding. Look, I want you erotic. Don't miss a trick for wiggling your ass or shaking those pretty tits. I'm not selling you tonight but it all helps." He gazes at me somberly. "Haven't fucked you yet, have I?"
"No, sir."
"May as well use you. There's a bit of time. Come along." I follow where Burdock leads. I clink and clatter, my hands behind my back. But, most of all, I know a bitter humiliation. My cunt is about to be used--just a convenience, nothing to take seriously. The male desires me. I toss away my own desires about the male. This will not conform to fantasy. I am a slave.
But I am wrong. Burdock is magic. He takes the shackles from my feet but makes me lay on my bound arms. From the moment he enters me I know this will be different. The chemistry of mating is strange. This most unlikely union takes me to the stars and below to the bowels of the earth and back into the blazing sun. Burdock shatters me, and I know I will do what I must to have him shatter me again. His phallus is far more potent than his whip. Against such potency I have no will.
"Get yourself a bath. Go find Daisy."
Daisy is amused. She has no illusions. She bathes me herself, soaping my sex with needless vigor. Casually, she says, "You're going to dress."
"Dress!"
Daisy laughs, knowing clothes the most unlikely thing a girl may get at the Big T. She leads me to her room. There on the bed is displayed a beautifully tailored business suit with all the accessories.
"Daisy, you're teasing. What's the deal?"
"You dress, darling--that's all."
I ask no more. Daisy has told me all she will tell. I stand and thrill to the untying of my hands and the unlocking of my feet. Once more I am a naked girl, completely free, but I will not run. Not with Daisy watching. Daisy knows karate, and I do not want a broken arm. I pick up the exquisite panties from the bed.
Daisy watches, her eyes bright with pleasure. She knows something I do not. When I become a model for what every smart businesswoman wears to the office, she produces handcuffs. Well, there are worse things than handcuffs. I turn and offer my wrists.
"Not this time, darling. In front."
I don't much care. I turn and watch the lovely shining metal encircle my wrists and click snugly upon my flesh. Daisy steps back and admires what she has wrought.
"Is that all?" I can scarcely believe such lenience.
"Not quite all, darling." Daisy is playing with me. She whispers in my ear, then asks brightly, "Think you can handle it, Coralie?" -I look at my handcuffed hands. I gaze woefully at Daisy. "Not really," I admit ruefully. "But I have to try, don't I?"
"You'd better." Her lovely Chinese eyes are laughing at my dismay. "If you blow your lines or give up too easily, you'll provide the rest of the evening's entertainment instead of Dorothy and Paula."
"You'd whip me?"
"That's right."
I can understand why Burdock and Daisy get along. They don't dither. My evening is looked after either way. I can hope I don't blow it, but perhaps that's the whole idea. Poor beautiful Coralie out there in front of all those men, and making an ass of herself. I can hear the snickers. Then, later, I can almost feel the whip. I sure do wish Patsy hadn't disappeared. I don't think Patsy ever would have whipped me. Oh, shit!
They are there as I remember them. The half circle of smooth rich male faces busy with their drinks and their talk. Paula and Dorothy have been busy with their trays. They now stand to one side in respectful nudity. Daisy prods me in my back.
I don't know why some of these men bother. They keep right on talking as I walk into the spotlight, but most turn my way, interested, expectant, hungry for what a girl can offer. I take one of the deepest breaths of my life.
"Good evening, gentlemen. I am going to strip naked for you."
The voice is mine. It stops some of the talkers. I am getting serious attention and a few grins. They glimpse what I already fear. My second line is girlishly apologetic.
"I'm going to try as hard as I can to make myself naked for your enjoyment." I hold up chained hands. "But I'm not sure it's possible. Please bare with me."
There is modest applause. I suspect Daisy has thought up a real winner, but oh gosh, I wish this wasn't me!
I undo the single button in the smart and durable jacket which fits me so well. The boys are probably confident there's a trick, but I have no such illusion. I am going to have to rend and tear this lovely thing from my shoulders and arms, and I don't know where to start. As I look down at myself unhappily, the boys vouchsafe titters. They also don't know where I start, but we all know I damn well have to.
I slip the jacket off one shoulder, then the other. It has a binding effect and hurts my wrists. I hurt them more as I strain my arms to break or tear something, anything at all, but the jacket is good stuff. It does not yield an inch. I then try a single arm, but that's no good either. My audience is now truly involved, some placing bets.
I have to do something. I can't just stand. Inspired, I abandon the jacket and remove a shoe. I do it awkwardly but receive applause for a minor victory. Behind the stag line I glimpse Daisy' smile. Mischievously, she holds up a coiled whip for my encouragement. I jettison my second shoe.
I have evolved an idea. I bend. I insert half my foot within a sleeve. I arrange the handcuff link against the seam and heave mightily. I pull the sleeve off my foot. Exasperated, I put one shoe back on and insert the pointed heel. I pull angrily and fall back to sit upon the floor. The handclaps are vociferous with approval. I want to cry'.
The suit is a pantsuit. My next discard is obvious. I find the buckle and shake my trousers to the floor and step out of them. My mind is hard at work against the jacket which is now an enemy. I refuse to look at Daisy and her whip. I peel off a nylon. Its garter belt remains chastely hidden. I suppose that as a real strip this tease my have merit. It certainly provides a wickedly frustrated girl.
I remove the remaining stocking but am still respectable.
Respectability is not welcome at the Big T. My panties and that bit of me they cover is still hidden beneath the tail of my blouse, but I drag them down and off for everyone's approval. With bare thighs and dangling garters, I must look ridiculous or erotic or maybe both. I lift what I must to show them my pubic hair, as though reassuring myself I still have it. Most assuredly I have their interest.
I face defeat. I think of being whipped. I cringe unhappily. Abstractly, I fumble for my garter belt, providing female scenery for avid eyes. Let 'em look, damn it, I really don't care now. I dangle this last trifle of femininity for them to see, then drop it to the floor. With it falls my hope. Despite resolve, I look at Daisy, but she no longer holds the whip. She is doing something with her hands and arms which, for a moment, I do not comprehend, but then her message floods me with relief. I nod. I smile at the male faces. I bend down.
Oh, how I pray this works! Bending, I tug with joined hands to drag the back to the jacket up and over my head. It clings bulkily over my bra until I shake the sleeves down to confront the metal on my wrists, but now I can stand on the poor lovely jacket and pull the sleeves inside out. They hang loosely from my handcuffs' links. This is my last and only chance. I start to pull.
The jacket is magnificent; it would last forever. Crumpled, misshapen, and in disarray, it mocks my strength. The sleeves hold me as surely as would rope. I step back on the jacket and pull again, wrists screaming, hands slippery with the sweat of fear. I am going to be whipped; I can see it coming.
A sleeve tears off at the shoulder. I have found my enemy's weak spot. With trampling feet and wrenching arms I tear myself free, then stand with only the sleeves hanging defensively from my chained hands. I cannot strip them off. I must tear them asunder to be free. Surely I will not be condemned to be whipped by a lousy sleeve!
Panting, I rest for my final onslaught. Carelessly, I tear the straps from my bra, unclip the cups, and toss them aside. My breasts will please the boys. Every girl knows what excites the male. They have been admiring my pussy while I have fought the jacket. Now they may admire my breasts as I fight the sleeves. Once more I bend to battle.
It isn't easy, but I am not experienced. I get a foot inside a torn sleeve and pull against its seam. It tears! Now it is just a case of pull and tear, pull and tear. When I throw the hated sleeve away, and before I can start on the other, a male voice steals my show.
"Half a million for her--cash!"
Men are absurd. Half a million for me? He must be nuts! But I am flattered. Oh, boy! I glimpse the potency of damsels in distress. Our distress enhances male desire. I insert my other foot and heave again. It takes a few minutes, but when I cast the second sleeve to the winds, I stand stark naked, clothed only in handcuffs. Obedient to Daisy's briefing, I strike a pose and stand facing the men who desire me, my cuffed hands clasped behind my back, my breasts pointing.
I glow at the moment of silence my nakedness invokes. I suddenly remember to separate my feet to reveal what was hidden within my thighs. I blush.
"Hell, let's not be chicken shit--call it a million!"
It's the same voice, and it is sober. Furtively, I watch Burdock whisper in the bidder's ear. The man shrugs. I am not for sale.
Daisy beckons. As I smile my way out of the spotlight, I am once more furious at my own behavior. I have just revealed my nakedness in an outrageous strip. Now I jump submissively to a raised finger. I know what to do. Reaching her, I turn and cross my wrists behind my back for her to bind. She does not need words, but ties me with neat cruelty before patting my bare bottom and puts the handcuffs I have worn in her pocket.
"Amuse yourself with the men, darling. I'll be back quite soon."
The men amuse themselves with me. My hands are safely tied above my bottom. All of me a man may desire is his to use. I will push away no hand or slap no cheek. As a hot hard hand explores my sex while I stand with feet obligingly apart, I dream of liberty. Sometime I will escape. I will, I will, I will! But not now.
I am passed around. My flesh is theirs. About half of them finger me; the rest seem to be gentlemen and are embarrassed by the proximity of my pubic hair and the cleft it cannot hide. I suppose considering what they could do to me, I am kindly treated. Burdock watches. I am costly merchandise.
Interest veers again to the spotlight, even my own. Poor Paula, poor Dorothy. They stare askance at Daisy and her whip, approaching the cruel exposure of the spots with halting steps and shrinking flesh. Daisy's whip snaps across a bare and innocent thigh to bring them erect and flutter their hands away from breasts and pubes. Passively, they let themselves be bound. They've been warned! They can't escape any more than I can. They know they are about to be whipped. They hope it will not be too hard. They smile at the audience but not with love.
Paula's wrists are bound, her arms raised to make her stand tautly erect and exquisitely vulnerable. It is the classic tie. The perfect posture for her to receive the lash. She blushes prettily.
Dorothy fares differently. Her arms are gathered in behind, her wrists tied. The neat ensemble is raised by a rope from above. The higher her arms are wracked up, the more she bends down. The result is a derriere daintily and shrinkingly exposed in all its glory of curves and peeping puss, pubic fronds emerging coyly from between soft thighs. They are now ready. Paula will be whipped, and Dorothy's tight little bottom will be caned. The men are so lucky!
Daisy's hand is on my arm. She leads me to the back and out of male attention. She produces a small metal clip. "No--oh no! Please!" My plea is involuntary.
"Don't be silly. You've behaved so well."
Am I silly not to want small metal jaws biting my nipple? Am I? Daisy's voice and amused regard tell me I am. Sulkily, I turn to her the nipple she desires. I shiver under the adjustment, then wince as my pink and protesting bud is clamped. The pain is horrible. It will lessen as I grow used to it but not much. Carefully, she snaps a light cord upon it for a leash.
"You don't need it, Daisy. I obey you."
I am kissed and fondled, and my pussy is palmed. Daisy has a magic all her own. I stop sulking.
"You don't need it, Daisy. I obey you."
"It's for effect, darling. Wear it proudly--please?"
I wear the biting beetle on my tit proudly. At least I try to, but the damn thing never lets itself be forgotten. It is a steady burn I must bear with fortitude. When Daisy tugs, I gasp and follow anxiously. If I can help it, the cord between us will never snap taut. It is a remarkably efficient way to leash a naked girl.
The Big T has many rooms. In a small lounge the man with the million dollars quietly sips a drink. He has the grace to rise. I stand before him, insolently naked, my breasts out-thrust as though one of them was not in pain. His eyes focus on my nipples and its leash. From Daisy's hand he accepts the cord by which I am controlled.
"Mr. Morton Dean, this is Coralie. She must be kept bound."
Daisy departs. My male admirer chuckles. He places a heavy chair to suit his purpose and ties the end of my leash to its back.
"Stand in front of me, Coralie. Don't slouch. I expect they've taught you how to stand, haven't they?"
"Yes, sir."
Morton Dean returns to his seat and his drink. I widen the space between my legs and inflate my chest. I know how he wants me. I am rewarded by an intent and approving scrutiny.
"Hurt having your tit leashed that way?"
"Yes, sir."
"Keeps you attentive, though."
"Yes, sir."
Morton Dean laughs at my subservience and waves it into limbo with a casual hand. His humor is dry. "You been programmed?"
I flush. I am defensive. I strive for the right note. "I'm sorry, Mr. Dean, but I'll be punished if I do or say the wrong thing. I'm frightened. I hate being punished."
"Hmmm, that's better. No fresh whip marks on you?"
"It's a long story. Mr. Burdock can tell you."
"Yeah, I know. Look, girl, call me Morton. You can give me the Mr. Dean bit when you're feeling guilty."
"Thank you, that's nice."
"Want me to buy you?"
"I--I don't know you."
"Yes, you do."
He's right, I do know. My admission is cautious. "If I must be sold and have a master, I'd be satisfied with you, Morton."
"Damn faint praise, girl."
"I didn't mean it that way. Don't you understand how impossible this whole thing is for me?"
"You wouldn't be standing as you are if it wasn't possible." Morton Dean cocks an eyebrow. "Not as willing as you act, eh?"
"If I'm not willing, I'm whipped!"
He laughs at my vehemence. "You'd like to escape?"
"I'd give half my life for freedom."
"You'll be saved a lot of headaches, girl. You'll never have a chance. When Burdock enslaves a girl, she stays put." I shrug my wry admission and ask, "Can I get you to take this thing off my nipple? I'll stand just as well without it, and I'll behave."
Morton Dean sits and sips, poker-faced, scanning me. I've made a boo-boo, I know I have. He rises heavily and plucks the clip from my breast. I gasp in agony and gratitude. "That better?"
"Thank you--oh, yes!"
"Stick out your tongue, Coralie."
My world shatters. I tremble. Surely he wouldn't... ! I protrude my tongue. The jaws bite abruptly and I writhe in agony.
"Stop that! Stand properly." Morton Dean returns to his chair.
I stand, my wrists twisting against the cords, my eyes pleading. I cannot speak. I am more surely tethered than before, and the pain is shocking.
"Hurt?"
I nod frantically, even though it makes me hurt more. "Not wise to prod at your master."
I make acquiescent sounds. I improve my posture. I fight against agony.
"Better on your tits, eh?"
I repeat my surrender. No shame is too great if I can get rid of this demon on my tongue. The sounds I make when I try to speak flush me into silence. I gaze upon my master longingly as would a dog.
"If you want it off, you can ask me. Tell me which nipple you want it on." Morton Dean's tone is casual.
He is teaching me a lesson. I'll learn it and do what I am told. Oh, freedom, where are you now! I ask that what he suggests be done to me. If he can make sense of the garbled sounds I make, it is more than I can do. He listens intently. He is pleased. Never did a maiden protrude her tongue more vigorously than I do now.
At least I have changed nipples. It is what I asked, but I doubt my wisdom. I will now have two tender breasts instead of one. Except for a trembling thank you, I dare not speak.
"You've got a bit of guts, Coralie."
I glow with an absurd pride. I have pleased my master and shown myself worthy. Damn me, I get more slave-like every hour! But what else can I do? Which way can I turn?
"I got a kick out of that, Coralie. If that makes me a bastard, then I'm a brass-bound bastard." Morton lets his words sink in. "What I'd like to do right now is take a riding crop to your pretty ass. Tie you properly first, of course."
I curl up inside. Pain on pain. Always pain. I want to ask if he wouldn't prefer fucking me to torture, but I do not dare. Cautiously, I state my case. "I know I'm helpless, Morton, and I'll be whipped from time to time--that and other things. All I can do is not to think about it and try to please. Am I a slave, Morton?"
"Sure, you are. Just figured it out?"
"It's something I haven't wanted to look at. I've been sort of a slave to Patsy Pendleton, but that was half in fun, even though I never did get loose."
"You'd never get loose with me. You'd be whipped often, and those other things, but never brutally unless you betray your slavery. Do you want me to buy you?"
"I don't want anyone to buy me. I want to go back to Patsy." Forlornly, I add, "Or given my freedom."
"I still want you, Coralie. Your feelings don't matter."
I stand. He sits. We stare. My nipple scorches steadily. Negligently, Morton Dean rises and unclips it from my breast. He lets it fall. "Not really my thing, Coralie. Cute gimmick."
I gasp my pain and thanks, and I feel better about Morton Dean. Having my nipple clamped by a steel spring clip for hours on end is not my thing either. His next command is abrupt.
"Kneel."
I have been taught this too. I seek the floor, knees far apart to show my crotch. I bow my head.
"Nice! You've been taught?"
"Yes, master."
Morton laughs. "Slipped out, didn't it--the master thing? Goes with the pose. I like it, but in its place. You may look at me."
Is this really me here on my knees? A month ago there'd have been no way! My bound hands mock me as I gaze up at another human being who can do whatever he likes with me. I do not speak.
"That was perfection." Morton Dean laughs down. "You hated every motion."
"Yes, master."
"Stand up."
The way I hasten to obey is disgusting. He holds a glass to my lips and tells me to drink the whole thing. I gulp and choke and gulp again. I long for my hands. My master unties my fragile leash and thrusts it and the hated clip into the palm of one of my tied hands. Holding my shoulders and drawing me to him, he kisses my forehead.
"I can't tell you yet what may come of this, Coralie."
I look up at him and shrug. I don't know either.
"I'll be back. Next time I'll whip you."
I stare levelly. If he wants to be a bastard, I can't stop him. If it is not Morton, it will be one of the others. I nod in acceptance.
"Go back to Daisy. You may get a bit of the show."
I am dismissed. I leave and do not look back. Halfway down the stairs it occurs to me that now is the best chance I may ever have to escape. I can walk out the front door and run. My steps are slow. I am naked, my hands tied behind my back, and it is night. Patsy told me of her own flight in the icy cold darkness and how the frigid air drove her back to the Big T to be punished. I shrug the thought away. There will be better chances; there just have to be! And suppose this time is just a trap! I continue my walk to where two innocent naked girls are being mildly tortured to please a group of men who have a lot of money.
The skins of Paula and Dorothy are now prettily striped. Daisy is slowly and methodically going from one to the other--the whip for Paula's back, the cane for Dorothy's bent seat. The sufferers send appealing glances around the room above tightly strapped mouths. Each is most cruelly gagged. Evidently their audience is in the mood for screams. When Daisy notices my return, she withholds her cane from Dorothy's derriere and comes to greet me. She is very wise.
"Why didn't you run away, darling? You could have--" I tell her why I did not run away. It is easy to be honest. She turns me around, takes the clip from my palm, and then unties my hands. Eyes twinkling, she hands me her cane.
"Your turn, darling."
Another kick for the boys. The pain of three naked girls to arouse erections they cannot use at the Big T. I shrink back from what Daisy offers. My exclamation comes naturally.
"No! Oh, Daisy, no, I simply can't!"
"One hundred strokes on your bare skin if you don't, darling."
"But they'll hate me!"
"No, they won't. They don't hate me."
Reluctantly, I reach for the cane. It's alive, I swear it is. It vibrates with venom. Unhappily, I say, "What about Paula's back?"
"It's nicely streaked. Use the cane on both their bottoms, and don't pull a single punch. I'll be watching." She kisses me with magic lips. "Run along, darling. You're so lucky." Am I? Perhaps I am. It is not my bottom that's going to bum with the pain of stripes. I advance towards the spotlight and the punished girls. They register dismay at the sight of me and what I hold. The audience applauds. I am sure it is more interesting for them to see a naked girl whip other naked girls rather than the whipper be chastely clothed. Daisy Ho is as erotic as all get out, but she is not nearly as erotic as I am now. I bow. I smile. Damn me, I'm a real bitch. It will serve me right if Morton Dean whips me properly next time he comes.
Paula is first. Her bottom remains virgin, although her back is striped. I cut at her twin chubbies with more force than intended. She reacts to everyone's approval, gazing upon me with dark reproachful eyes. Small sounds escape her gag, pathetic little noises I can easily interpret. Poor dear Paula would like me to desist.
I turn to Dorothy and her pert bottom below accusing eyes. Her adorable curvatures are already well marked. A girl's bottom lacks the space of her back, but I must mark it more with weal on top of welt. I wonder how far down on her thighs I can go before being considered out of bounds. I slice her squarely as I did Paula. Her pussy pouts at me reproachfully. It is already swollen from careless cuts. It has become immensely provocative. I doubt I can resist temptation to punish it a few times more. Dorothy squirms, twists, and puts on a real good display of feminine discontent, but I can tell her shoulders and wrists are hurting from the stress. I too have been as she is now!
I return to Paula and cut a twin beside the scarlet already well defined. A firm male voice startles us all.
"I want to buy that girl."
I may be scared of Burdock, but I am grateful for him now as he joins me beneath the lights. His response is terse. "Which one are you bidding on?"
"The girl with the cane, of course."
"She is not for sale, sir!"
It must be the cane, or the strip I did. It's crazy. Men shouldn't be allowed these vast sums with which to buy us girls. It's just not fair. I whisper anxiously, "What shall I do?"
"Keep on caning them."
It is Dorothy's turn. I venture across her thighs below the crease of her scarlet ass. From the way she acts it must hurt real bad down there. I want to say I'm sorry.
"A hundred thousand for the girl with the bent-over rump!"
Burdock had said don't stop. I turn to Paula. While I select the spot and deliver the scarlet brand, the bidding on Dorothy has reached three hundred thousand. When I cane her lower on her thighs, she goes so berserk the bids leap swiftly to half a million, and there it sticks. Dorothy has been sold.
Before I strike Paula for the third time her price has gone beyond a quarter million. I am excited by the electric atmosphere. I cane the lovely bottom far harder than I should. Paula's antics get her up to six hundred thousand. She too is sold. I learn a lesson: If you have a girl to sell, whip her while you ask for offers. I want to cry. I've been an absolute bitch. Now I'll be all alone behind the bars in Burdock's prison. I expect that, too, will serve me right.
I stand in diffident uncertainty with my cane while Daisy frees the new slavegirls, then ties their hands behind their backs. She removes their gags and leads them from the scene. Their parting looks at me are less than cordial.
The evening is nearly done. But I am a useful stop-gap. The glamour of Morton's million dollar bid gave me charisma, so Daisy ties my hands once more behind my back. I am getting so that if I was put into a room with Daisy I'd automatically turn and cross my wrists. I am told to mingle. Mingling means I get well felt up and collect a few sloppy kisses. I am careful to show gratitude for what I hate. When the last guest has departed, Daisy leads me by the arm to prison--the freezing walk to the chicken house, the doors and the sinister steps, and then the bars! From beyond the bars Paula and Dorothy welcome me with sulky stares. Daisy propels me through the door.
"They get picked up tomorrow, darling. I've left their hands tied so they can't be mean to you. Here, I'll untie yours so you'll be in charge."
I rub my wrists while the door slams shut at my back. Daisy has gone until morning. I am a prisoner with two girls who are probably mad at me. They stand nakedly, hands behind their backs, their voices accusing.
"I don't see why you had to cane us too. We thought you were nice."
"You've given me the most awful welts."
"Those guys only bought us because they want to hurt us the same way you did."
"You're probably one of them--just like Daisy."
I stand condemned, but my heart goes out to these two kidnapped girls sold into a slavery they have to fear, their skin striated by whip and cane, their hands bound, imprisoned behind bars. Their prospects are poor. I long to comfort them. I try to explain. They sniff in disbelief.
"This is our last night together. We could make each other happy."
"Go away."
"I can't. I'm locked in here same as you."
"Then leave us alone."
I am miffed. But I know what they need. In my room there is rope. My companions eye it with disfavor.
"Don't you dare!"
"I'll kick!"
Poor dears, they are so helpless. They back away from me like wild things cornered without hope of escape. At the first kick from a bare foot, I snare its ankle, trip its owner, and haul her to the bars where I tie it high.
"You rotten bitch, let my foot down! This is awful."
I turn my attention to Paula as she stands defensively at bay. I grasp her hair and compel her to my room. It's a real hoot how helpless a girl is when her hands are tied. After a few minutes and a few slaps I have her on her back on my bed and her feet tied way out to the bottom posts. Her pussy is delectable. It offers me the only welcome I've had so far.
"Let me go. You're being mean."
Paula knows I won't let her go, but has to say it. I pinch her nipples to make her eyes widen in a shocked realization of helplessness.
"Going to be a good girl, Paula?"
"Drop dead!"
I pinch harder and harder until she yelps and tries to writhe on her bound arms. Her capitulation fires my blood.
"All right, all right! Oh, do stop pinching! I'll behave." She should. I am about to pleasure her with the skills I learned from Patsy. Paula is in position to be petulant, but she still tries. "I'm not a lesbian. Coralie."
"Neither was I."
I play with her fur and with her pouting lips. Paula stirs restlessly, her legs straining against my rope. When my finger slips within her sheath, she moans, but whether in pleasure or protest I do not know, nor do I care. I curl myself between her prisoned legs and seek her stretched, open crotch. My lips embrace the hot damp swelling of her sex, my tongue questing.
Paula moans deliciously.
When I return to Dorothy, uncomfortable against the bars, I am greeted by the obvious. "Let me loose. What have you done to Paula?"
"Paula's happy."
"I bet she is! Untie me."
I free Dorothy's foot but retie it at floor level. I am in a pixie mood. I am not going to hurt them, and goodness knows I haven't been having all that fun myself. I heave Dorothy's gorgeous nakedness around like a sack of corn and spread her other foot out, tying it to a bar. She has a hard couch, but she'll have to put up with it. She is as obscenely spread as Paula.
"I know what you're going to do! Don't you dare!"
I dare. There are several approaches I can make to Dorothy's secret spot, which is a secret no longer. I try them all. Her caned bottom against the floor accentuates sensation. She is soon in a fine old dither of concupiscence. I glimpse advantages to the ownership of girls. I work very hard and make my captive very happy for the longest time. She makes me happy too.
In our prison we have no thought of men.
Still in my pixie mood, I untie my unwilling lesbian and help her to her feet. Dorothy is sulkily unsure whether she owes me or I owe her. She keeps a startled silence while I untie her hands. This is not easy against Daisy's knots. I doubt the two of them could have untied each other if they'd worked all night. Rubbing chafed wrists, she follows uncertainly to my room, then watches suspiciously while I untie Paula. The two of them massage gratefully but say no thanks. They are sure there's a catch.
I'm an idiot, but I want them to like me. I toss them ropes. It is now their turn. "Okay, tie me any way you want. Get even with me; I won't struggle."
They choose their rope but hold it with distaste. They look at me. "What's the catch, Coralie?"
"None. You can do what you like with me."
A rope falls, then another. Baffled, Paula says, "Oh, for Pete's sake!" And Dorothy contributes a dubious "Oh, shit!" My bed accepts the three of us with joy.
CHAPTER TWO - GIRL SLAVES
They're right about no escape. The shining steel bands around my ankles and the chain between are really quite beautiful. But the bands are wide and very snug, the chain is very heavy. The ensemble is lovely when I stand, implacable when I walk. I toss away thoughts of walking naked into this Rocky Mountain scenery with hobbled steps which are snubbed with every stride. I'll be tempted but I'd be crazy. I stand now dutifully before my master. Burdock is sardonic. "Have a good lesbian night, Coralie?"
"Yes."
"The girls are gone. Might get another this evening." His cocked eye is as sardonic as his tone. "Enjoy caning those tight little rumps?"
"Of course I didn't!"
"Bullshit."
It's his specialty. Tripping me, contradicting me, sudden questions. I have to watch out. He probes my weaknesses, showing me ones I didn't know I had.
"Well, I didn't!"
"I was watching. You loved every stroke."
"I felt a bitch."
"But you loved it?"
"Well... yes, I suppose I did."
"Want to do it again?"
No--no, really! Please don't make me."
He waves away my plea, I am only a slave. Burdock knows best. He becomes less sardonic and more serious. "I'm stuck with you, girl, until this Patsy thing's settled. Not sure when I'll get her back. Not sure, either, whether I want the two of you alone in that damn house. Can't waste half my time searching for kidnapped girls. You're sitting ducks there, anyone can grab you."
"I thought you were going to sell me to Morton Dean?"
"That's hanging fire, along with Patsy. In the meantime, you're here, I've got you. I want you to do some acts at the shows."
"Be whipped!"
"Hell, no!" He grins. "For a girl who's been whipped as little as you have since we first picked you up, you've got whip on the brain. The new girls get whipped, they need it. You can do better."
"I'm no showgirl. I'm no good!"
"Bullshit you're no good! You're a natural gift. Have you any idea what the Big T's done for you? You're no way that stupid wench we used to call Effie."
"I'm ashamed of myself."
"You must have hidden behind Gladys's skirts. You needed the Big T real bad. I'm not going to waste you." I get a sudden vision of myself and know he's right. Fretfully, I kick a chained foot. "Are you going to keep my feet shackled all the time?"
"Mostly. Leaves you free. Keeps you from running off." Steel enters his voice. "Get this straight, girl, I'll never give you a chance at escape. I know it's in your mind. Forget it."
"I can't forget it. Don't you understand, you've taken my life and given me one I never wanted. I'll wear your shackles but I'll hate them."
"Coralie, there'll come a day when I won't need a chain or a rope on you. You'll walk free, and you won't run." It may be bombast, but Burdock can do anything he likes with me. I keep thinking of this metal on my feet as leg irons. The impossibility of getting them off is affecting me, I'm sure of it. But I glimpse a single bright spot. My plea is sincere.
"Then please don't sell me, Burdock. I don't want to be whipped and tortured. Morton Dean was honest with me, and that's what I'd get. I'd a lot sooner work for you." I try to sound feminine. "Thank you for wanting me."
"Well, we see the light! I've watched you roll with the punches, Coralie. You don't know you're doing it, but you do it well. Did I ever tell you you're one of the most beautiful females I've handled and an outstanding piece of ass?"
"I don't want to know. It doesn't do me a bit of good."
"Morton fuck you?"
"No."
"Likely he can't. Whipmasters have trouble with their cocks. For them, every welt across a girl's skin is an orgasm. Plays 'em out."
This man is a strange mixture. There's a force in him I can't combat. But I can understand Patsy' adoration. If you loved him, you wouldn't stop halfway. Thinking of Patsy makes me ask, "Why do you kidnap us girls in the U.S. and then bring us here?"
Burdock's laugh is short and bitter. "Damn few girls like you up in this forsaken land. If you grab one, the roof goes off. The Mounties can keep an easy eye on things, there's so few to watch. But down home there's girls up the hoop. Nobody makes too much fuss if one vanishes. It happens all the time."
So he's American too! I wouldn't have guessed. Burdock's like the mountain, ageless and without a label, and I belong to him, without love. Bolstered by the privilege of employment, I become bold.
"Does Nancy know about me and the show? Does she know what you want me to do? Tonight, for instance?"
"Nancy knows. But we don't have an act. You'll think one up. Don't go too easy on yourself."
"Me! I'm no--"
"Stow it! You'll think up something good, or you'll wish you had." He's grinning at me. "You've told me what you hate most, so how about fifty with the whip if you blow it?" Incentive! I laugh bitterly inside. I'm no impresario, but he's got me, and I'll do anything rather than be whipped.
Pathetically, I ask, "What about sex? I mean, do I have to--?"
"Sure, you do. Don't overplay it. Use it where it fits." Burdock chuckles as he says, "I've wondered about what you've got between your legs. You don't get hysterical--" I shrug and gesture helplessly. Burdock's hit one more nail square on the head, and I don't have the answer. "I'm ashamed of that too." I make my admission slowly, groping my way. "I was never promiscuous before you had me kidnapped, but when a girl realizes what's happened, that's the first thing she thinks--that she's going to be raped. It fills our minds so much that we have to come to terms with it." I manage a small, sad laugh. "Sort of like the old-time marriages--the bride just made the best of it."
"Hmmmm, not bad. You're worth more than Morton's million. Oh, and one more thing--you'll have a lot of freedom with your feet chained the way they are. If you want to hobble off into the trees, go ahead. I'll enjoy tracking you down, and you'll be a very sorry girl."
"Yes, I'm sure."
"You'll be locked in the prison apartment with the new girls. You can save Daisy a lot of time by doing the explanations, getting them adjusted. If you can get 'em in your own frame of mind about their cunts, well and good--try." I give him a wry grin. "A bellwether?"
"Right! No illusions, eh?"
"You've frightened them out of me. I'm a couple of years older than those girls you sold last night. Maybe it helps." Burdock nods and waves me away. He has spent enough time on me. "Run along to Daisy. She's full of ideas." I'm halfway to the door when he adds, "Fifty lashes if you fuck up!"
I do not run. I walk carefully to a musically metallic accompaniment. I've no doubt I'll get used to chained feet the same way I get used to everything. Fleetingly, I consider Burdock's suggestion about running into the trees. He's a real bastard. But he's got me. He's got me good.
* * *
I am a success. Cigar smoke and rye whisky encompass me with male approval. From the moment I walked into the spotlight, clamped in this contraption of Daisy Ho's, I have been fervently desired, and that's what the Big T is all about--desire! The desire of men for us--for naked girls.
Daisy calls it a yoke. I carries historical precedent in many places around the world. I'd call it a portable set of stocks myself--portable, that is, when it's locked on me! It imprisons my neck and, off to each side, imprisons my raised wrists. It comes in two halves. I insert myself within one of them and the other is then closed shut to make me captive. It is most securely locked with a daunting large padlock. I can look to either side and salute myself with helpless fingers. That is all. I feel all armpits, breasts, and pubes. I can hide nothing. I cannot touch a thing.
The men touch me. I have been told to move among them and be obedient and very, very polite. This means I have to saunter cautiously because of the blunt ends sticking out a few inches beyond where my wrists are gripped. Should I turn suddenly one of the clients might be bopped. I shudder to think what would then ensue. My ankles wear their now familiar chains. I could be whipped right where I stand.
I pose, turning this way and that within the cruel isolation of the lights, before venturing into the smog of costly cigars. Everything I possess is open to eyes and hands--the men's, not mine! When they choose to engage me in conversation, I can feel the blood pulse within my throat, so snugly collared within the grasp of wood. I have to be grateful for the neck orifice being beveled and polished. I am not in pain. I am simply a pretty naked girl walking among men with her hands raised to the level of the neck. I bear the weight of my punishment best when I stand erect. This ensures good posture. We are all so lucky.
Half are brash and feel it an obligation to palm my puss and be vulgar about my secretions. The others are embarrassed by being so close to so much girl. They are shy and inclined to mumble, "Bet you're a lovely lay," or maybe, "How's it going, babe?" The brash ones are easiest. I don't have to feel sorry for them.
There are a few who desire me with serious intent. Their questions are rational and mostly unconcerned with sex. With them, conversation flourishes. I ask them to buy me and I tell them why, but they are married, or involved in some way, or simply don't have a spare million. One of them, a pleasant youngish man I've seen before, talks to me more than once. When I ask about buying me--and with him I'm serious--he comes out with something to set my heart thumping.
"I'd buy you like a shot if I could, Coralie, but I don't have their kind of cash. Anyway, I think they have plans for you."
I mumble platitudes, but he interrupts me.
"I don't approve of life imprisonment for you. That's what this amounts to. Would you escape if I gave you the chance?"
"Yes."
He nods. He fingers my hair, taking it back from my eyes. I am grateful. I can't touch it myself. I say, "Thank you," than anxiously add, "You're not setting a trap for me, are you? I'd be horribly punished."
"Do you believe I am?"
I throw caution to the winds and tell him no and that I'm sorry. He nods gravely, his voice a monotone.
"In the big hall there's a stand with a mirror and a drawer that's never used. I'll put a ring of keys in it. Use them as you wish."
My benefactor saunters away. I turn to follow but buffet a client with my yoke. When I am through apologizing and my victim stops laughing, the owner of the keys has gone.
I'm frightened. I wonder if those around me can hear the thudding of my heart. I am stern in telling myself I can't use the keys now, so I'd best forget them until I can. I'll have to be so damn careful. A naked girl has nowhere to hide a ring of keys. I'll have to think. But not now, not now! I smile abstractly at a paunchy male who drunkenly demands, "How's about a piece of ass, baby?" I do not share his hilarity when he adds, "Ain't never fucked a gal in a block of wood before!"
The real show does not get me out of my oaken adornment, but it does relieve me of male concern. I've been an amusing novelty, but now there's something else. I'm so damn glad!
But the something else is a girl, no doubt the one Burdock mentioned. She will partly replenish his stock and will be someone else to talk to down in the prison apartment. She's about my age, a beauty with auburn hair, and she's scared silly. Daisy controls her by a handful of hair and a whip.
The lovely body is already marked with scarlet. She twists despairingly at hands tied behind her back. The clapping is spontaneous. This is red-blooded fare, and they are he-men, every one.
I forget my own distraction to share a breathless interest. How can Daisy handle so much unwilling girl? But, of course, I know the answer,. So do most of those who watch. This is a hallowed ritual at the Big T. We watch Daisy snare stamping feet and draw them tight. We watch her free captive hands from behind a captive back, then whip their owner until she pathetically holds them out in front to be bound once more. We watch them tethered and rise until auburn hair is on her toes. Daisy had allowed retention of bra and panties but now tears them savagely from shrinking flesh. It is easy to see auburn hair considers this the absolute end.
The poor dear is baffled when Daisy unties the feet she has just bound. She does not yet know how big a part those feet will play in tightening the reins of that sea of eager masculinity before which she shrinks. I know how she feels. That first time naked, and with your arms way up--it's for the birds!
I stay and watch. I don't want to wander off and be alone while I'm locked in this damn yoke. There's no use going to the hall. I can't open the drawer or take the keys. But I don't want to watch auburn hair get whipped either. Burdock snares me with a warning eye. I stay right where I am to see the girl whipped and whipped until her tears run dry. She screams in anger and fear at an outrage she cannot understand. Throughout her agony her feet flail and stamp and kick in disbelief. They are the star turn. I cringe and flinch at each snapping cut across female flesh and pray it won't ever happen again to me, not ever again.
From time to time in her writhings, auburn hair sees me in my wooden yoke among the men. I can see puzzlement and curiosity flicker in her anguished gaze before she returns to her screams. When she has been sparingly whipped for a full hour, she is left to stand and absorb the stares, the pain, and the shock while I am taken down the fateful steps. I am locked behind the bars, helpless as I am, while Daisy tells me what to do. It sparks the mischief in me and stops me thinking about the keys waiting for me up there in the hall.
Auburn hair's cheeks are wet with tears and she is quietly sobbing when she is thrust within our prison and we are formally introduced by an enraptured Daisy. The introduction is incongruous, she with hands bound behind her back and me in my yoke. My shackled ankles don't matter much down here. Her name is Jane Berkley, and she views me with the same sympathy I view her. Daisy locks us in with a lot of sinister sound.
"I saw you there while I was being whipped. You poor dear, does it hurt?"
I assure her of the yoke's painlessness and ask if she'd like her hands untied.
"Could you!" She stares in surprise. "You seem so terribly helpless. These awful people...!"
I kneel. I tell her to back up against my right hand. I bend to get the yoke so I can reach her knots. It takes a long time.
"Oh, thank you, Coralie--thank you!" Jane is rubbing chafed wrists. Her eyes are troubled. "But what about you? That awful chunk of wood you're in--"
"There's a key over there on the wall. It's left like that to tantalize me. There's no way I can touch it."
Jane does not ask if her actions are safe or if they will bring punishment. She gets the key Daisy has ostentatiously left in full view. She inserts it in the ponderous lock which holds me safe. It takes the two of us to lower the hinged timber to the floor. I rub my neck. For moments we stare, then clutch each other. Jane Berkley's tears flow afresh and wet my bare shoulder. We are two damsels in a shared distress.
I feel like a bitch.
"Those awful things they've got on your feet--won't they come off?"
I tell her no. My feet will remain shackled through hell and high water. I tell of their advantage and offer the hope that her feet will be shackled too.
"But it's so cruel!"
"Not really. It doesn't hurt. They simply stop you from running away."
"Running away!" Jane echoes my words as though they make no sense. "How can you run away from behind these bars?"
I tell her what I must. She stares incredulously before it sinks in. "Coralie, what they did! My back and... the rest. I never thought such pain was possible, and I didn't do a thing. It was them who kidnapped me."
"Are you from the U.S.?"
"Yes, Portland, Oregon."
I tell her some more. I can see how what I'm doing could help. Poor dear Jane visibly feels better, but we're still a long way from home. Exclamations sprout like fertile seeds.
"You mean, we can never escape? We'll never be free again?"
"I'm afraid not. We have to get used to it."
She gazes around. "What is this place we're in?"
I give her the tour: the gorgeous bedrooms, the lovely kitchen with the refrigerator, the huge swimming pool. Everything a girl could want is here--except freedom. She says she's scared to sleep alone, and that's okay by me. I tell her so. I lay her on our bed and anoint her back with a bottle of stuff from the bathroom. I'm not sure it helps, but the attention soothes her. I know!
Jane is still trying to find solid ground. "All those men--did they enjoy seeing me whipped?"
"Yes, they've watched me being whipped too."
"Naked? On our bare skin? It doesn't seem possible."
"Oh, it's possible all right. A girl gets whipped every evening. I hate to tell you, but you weren't whipped very severely, just enough to make you writhe and kick and scream. Most of it was shock rather than agony. You won't believe this now, but you'll find out that it's true."
"And then they sell us like animals?"
"Jane, you're a slave now. So am I. Men pay huge sums for us." I let the news sink in, then add, "It's one way to escape the Big T."
"You mean, the men who buy us let us go?"
"No, they simply keep us in a more personal captivity. A girl has a chance to get lucky. It's a gamble, but we're so damn helpless!"
I'm glad Jane is not a hysterical child. She mulls over the impossible and takes a hard look at her fate. She's still associating her whipping with punishment. She will have to be whipped again before she sees it in its proper perspective. She would not be talking as she is now had not her skin been striped with scarlet.
Gently, I ask, "Want to go to bed?"
She knows my meaning instantly, but she is shy. "Don't we have nightgowns?" she asks doubtfully. "I've never slept in the raw."
"Nothing. We have to be always bare. It's the first rule of the house."
"But why?"
"It tells us what we are, Jane. It makes it easier to tie or punish us."
Jane stares blankly, her voice strained. "It's--it's so impossible." She looks at me enviously. "You've sort of there--come to terms with it--but I won't, not ever."
"Yes, you will. After you've been whipped a few more times things will fall into place. It's damn awful but it works."
"But only three days ago I was--" She looks back at what she had been. I see her catch sight of my shackled feet and the vision fades. "It makes it so hard. They're robbing me of so much. Why don't they just kidnap prostitutes?"
"Those men you saw--the ones who watched you being whipped--are all millionaires. They want quality."
"Just to hurt us--to keep us prisoners? Surely they--"
"Oh, yes, that too." My laugh is bitter. "Before and after sale. But it's not their main concern. They get a kick out of ownership, making us do what they want."
"But--"
"Lay down, Jane," I say gently. "Lay down on your back."
Slowly, she obeys. "I've never done this before, Coralie. What is it about this place?"
"It's a female place, darling--nothing but us girls." I play with her interesting places. All are superlative. My fingertips explore and elicit her response. "Relax, Jane. Relax and close your eyes."
There is beauty in this love between two girls. It gives us sweet nectar and peace. I lead poor Jane into a new world of scented girl flesh and ardent thighs. How much better this is than the urgent thrustings of the male! Her flavor is most potent.
* * *
I'm so damn grateful to Daisy. She knows it all and has it all. I am not the first girl to need her help. She is bright-eyed and giggling as we set it up. I don't like the look of what we achieve, but she assures me the pain will not be great. She shows me why, and I have to hope she's right. In the course of our coming and going I manage to be alone in the hall. I open the drawer. The keys are there.
But I have a feeling this is not the day. If I run while setting up my evening's punishment, I'll be missed instantly. It is best to wait. Jane enters into this. I have become fond of Jane. She's a relief after Paula and Dorothy. There will be no other new girl today, and the apartment is frightening when you're new and have been whipped and are all alone. I will keep her company. Oh, sure, I desire her! Why wouldn't I--she's gorgeous!
Cigars and rye! Their odors trigger my heart. It is my time of punishment. Daisy leads me out beneath the lights to where the wooden horse awaits my flesh. It is cute. It has a wooden head and a caustic eye. The broad smooth round pole on which I have to sit out my penance is its body and only a couple of feet long, behind it is a rampant tail. Its base splays out with rigid strength, its weight more than I can move alone. I'm so glad we rehearsed!
Daisy handles me with panache. I cross my wrists behind my back for her, and she ties them tight. I lose my faithful shackles and stretch a grateful foot. It may soon be stretched beyond what it will want. It feels bare and unprotected with its anklet gone. I mount and place my pussy on its perch. Daisy works like crazy.
Leather bands replace shining steel, and from them ropes! The ropes are pulled way out to rings and tied. I am doing an obscene split. My pussy is not pleased. Daisy raises my hands way up to a waiting hook. I bend forward. She works the jack to raise my steed beneath my crotch. When my feet are well above the floor, she flits around, tensioning me as she desires. Everything is adjustable except me. I strive for gratitude that my seat is round and wide. If it was thin and sharp, I'd die. She kisses me gently before she leaves me to my martyrdom. The customers all clap.
I cannot move--I really can't. The boys think my posture is splendid. They gather close to test its authenticity. As my strained tendons are fingers and my taut tits tested, I console myself with the knowledge that this is not the real thing--not the horse torture of the middle ages at all but only a simulation. I gain small comfort. My pussy is crushed beneath my weight and wants to be elsewhere. Our evening is officially underway. I am glad Jane is not here to see my shame.
The gentlemen delight in me. I am sure I must be interesting in this unnatural stress. I don't feel much like a girl any more but much like a set of disassembled parts, my legs of in opposite directions, my hands and arms up out of sight. But I have to look up brightly and answer their fool questions with girlish eagerness. At least I am the center of attention. I wish I was not.
At the end of an hour I am cursing myself for not using the keys. I could be way off somewhere instead of sitting on a split puss, and it's not just my cunt. My wracked shoulders hate it and so do my wrists. I sigh and concentrate on what I'm going to do when I steal away into the Canadian wilderness and don't know which way to run.
A drink is held to my lips. I have no choice but to lap it up and look grateful. Maybe my pussy will be grateful too. My mind returns to my great escape. I wish I could ask Daisy a few questions, but she'd catch on instantly. She may love me a little, but she loves Burdock more. I'd be strung up and screaming in short order. My decision lies between the road and the trees. I can't flee through the density of the forest--my nakedness would be cut to bits--but I remember small paths. Suppose I run down one of them and creep back onto the asphalt after dark! If only I can get out of this damn wilderness before flagging down a car. I'm nervous about what the car might hold this far out in the boondocks. I have to get to the main road.
It's another glass and another man. I twinkle and let him pour the cocktail down my throat. If I get drunk, it won't matter. I can't fall off. I ask for another, and when its comfort warms me, I face the idiot with the clothespins without too great a shock. I strain up my head to look him in the eye and ask simply, "Please don't clip those things on me?"
"But I got them from Daisy." He seems to think this makes everything all right, and grins around for approval. "She says they won't hurt you much. I sure do admire them on a girl."
I'll get them, of course, no matter what I say. When I get Daisy alone, I'll sure tell her what I think, but maybe they go along with this ensemble. I sure wish she would've told me, though, and I sure do wish I had used those keys. I pour sugar into my plea.
"They hurt my nipples terribly, sir. Please don't."
"Give the lady another drink."
Oh, damn, they're in a real stag party mood. I don't stand a chance. I search out Burdock in the background but get only an approving mood. Daisy is not in sight; she'll be off someplace giggling. My fresh drink arrives and I down that too. It is not easy to drink when I'm tied the way I am, but the pain is in a good cause. My head bows, and this is convenient. It enables me to get a close view of the clipping of my nipples. I no longer protest. Burdock wouldn't want me to protest. If I actually managed to talk the boys out of their fun, they'd feel cheated. I'm only a slave.
They make a tremendous thing of it. You'd think that being wracked and sundered a I am would be enough, but it is not. They want my breasts embellished, and who am I to deny their need? I watch the hateful open jaws approach me slowly, nudge themselves along each side of the erect flesh they are about to bite, and then close on my right nipple and then my left. The arrogant little wooden horrors stick out from my breasts like pointing fingers. There is a general atmosphere of bonhomie in a job well done.
Darling Daisy was right; their hurt is bearable. She has stretched their springs. If the boys weren't all so high, they'd have noticed, but the bite is sufficient to make the pins point out, and that's really what they want. Wryly, I understand. It's damned erotic. While they finger my various assets and lament the inaccessibility of my cunt on which I sit, I close my eyes and dream about the keys.
My sentence is two hours. It gets the evening through to its piece de resistance, which is the whipping of poor Jane Berkley. When I am taken from the horse by several willing hands, I am stiff and sore but thankful. I am allowed to remove the clothespins from my breasts with my own fingers, but they are numb from the bindings and I hurt myself some more in doing it. Daisy is busy shackling my ankles. Dazed and tired, I wander among the men. They dare delighted that the part of me denied them on the horse is now open to their hands. When I wince in pain, it only adds piquancy.
This is not my day. Despite my early giggles with Daisy, the horse wasn't fun at all. I'm damn sure Daisy has never sat for two hours on the damn thing herself, so she doesn't realize its effect, but now the whipping of Jane Berkley doesn't go according to schedule either. Between the two of them, the whipper and the whipped, they get the clients so worked up their bids for possession of the whipped maiden start spontaneously. Daisy is proud of her skill and makes Jane spread her legs to get the thong way up between and even lightly flicks two pouting breasts as their owner slowly revolves from her tether up above. I feel heat within my own tender loins at sight of so much beauty writhing below the glare of the lights.
I know Burdock had not intended a sale. Jane is his only merchandise. If she goes, he has no inventory--except me!
But the bids reach a point he can't ignore. In a small measure of desolation, I watch the auburn-haired beauty bound and gagged by her new owner, leashed and led away. We manage to exchange only a single yearning glance. The crowd melts. Daisy's hand is on my arm.
Daisy is sweet. She knows my mood. She locks both of us in behind the bars and feeds avidly on my swollen mound. I am just as ardent, my lips seeking her lovely Chinese slit with a hunger born of a knowledge of loneliness to come. It is late when she steals beyond the door and locks me in.
I do not sleep late. Daisy does not come early. I swim, I bathe, I do my hair. I am a single lonely girl gobbled up in all the space of this huge luxurious prison, but my mind seethes. Today is mine. Surely there will be a chance to use the keys, but I am only human. I look around and remember happiness. I will miss my prison. Am I not absurd?
I go and look through the bars and test the door, but I am safely prisoned. I go to the kitchen and make breakfast. When Daisy comes, she shares it with me. We linger over coffee and dishes, and I wonder if she senses something. It would not surprise me if she did. I must be a bundle of vibrations.
"Another girl comes today, Coralie."
Good! This is normal. So is my question. "Daisy, what's going to happen to me?"
She shrugs and grins. "You won't be set free, that's for sure. You'll have to wait for Burdock to get Patsy back. He's found out where she is. It won't be long." She waves an uncertain hand. "I suppose you still belong to her."
"Do I?"
"I don't know for sure. I'm not sure if even Burdock knows."
It's all I can get out of her. We go upstairs. Within an hour I have a chance to reach the hall and the fateful drawer.
The keys are gone.
CHAPTER THREE - THE BOTTOM LINE
I mount the stairs to Burdock's office and I'm trembling. I'm plain scared. This has been the damnedest hour--the not knowing. All the things that might have happened about those keys, and not daring to ask. I can't figure any way to ask anyone. What would I need keys for! It's a dead giveaway. Now, Daisy says I have to go and see Burdock. She says there's no rush. Well... maybe not for him but there is for me. I have to know. If I'm going to be whipped, I might as well find out right quick. Of course, this could be innocent, this visit I'm making. The chain between my ankles clinks mockingly.
Burdock is busy at his desk. I am spared a glance. I am told to sit down. When he swivels to face me he holds the keys.
"Know anything about these, Coralie?"
Why can't I lie! I can't face what Burdock will do to me, and I'm scared to lie. I might lie to another man but not to him. He probably knows anyway.
"Yes, I know about them."
"What's his name?"
"Please don't make me tell. He's a nice guy, and he meant well. He's one of your clients."
"Hell, I'm not going to kill the asshole. I'm just curious. Why didn't you use 'em?"
"I felt sorry for Jane Berkley. I was going to be with her one more night until you got more girls. I didn't think she'd be sold."
"Hmmmm. Aim to run today?"
"Yes."
I am in abject misery. I feel six inches tall. I wish I could defend myself, but against Burdock I have no will. If I thought it would do any good, I'd throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy.
"Here, catch." He tosses me the keys. "Try 'em out." I don't understand, but I don't question. I fit key after key into an anklet until one of them turns. It is then that I venture, "Are you going to have me whipped?"
"Should I?"
"I--I don't know."
We stare. Within this cavern of guilt the phone rings its jarring summons. Annoyed, Burdock lifts the receiver and listens testily. He tells the caller to hold, then turns to me. "Snap that anklet back on. Go down and report to Daisy. You'll be whipped this evening." Distracted, he returns to what must be bad news.
I am halfway down the stairs before I realize I still hold the keys. I bend and use them, leaving my shackles on the stairs. I drop the ring in the drawer as I pass. I flee into the sunlight.
This is insane. I have to pray no one sees me until I reach the trees. But I'm going to be whipped either way, so I might as well take this chance. It feels so damn good to run and leap and tell myself I'm free. Free at last! Not even tied hands! Halfway to the main gate there's a path. I vanish into it.
I know what it means to run like a scared rabbit--I am one--but I can't run forever. I am soon panting, and the little path is narrowing so that I have to watch my steps. My feet are bare, so I must watch not to step on anything.
I can't tell just when the fear started. Not the fear of Burdock but the fear of the wilderness. It's creepy. There's no life--nothing! I was catching a glimpse of the road from time to time, but I've lost it, and this tiny path is playing out. I stop for a moment, but my heavy breathing in the silence threatens me. It's eerie. I could kick myself. I think longingly of the Big T and the glorious apartment. I don't give a damn about the bars. Right now I could care less. I don't care about ropes or chains or whips. All I want is out of where I am. Panting, I run. Soon I know I'm lost.
Patsy told me about the night and the cold. I've considered it. I can try the only thing I know. When shadows start I gather leaves, great arms full of leaves, dry and crinkly in summer heat. I make a huge pile of them, and by the time I'm finished night is close and the cold creeps through the trees and touches me. I burrow in the leaves, more scared of the forest than the cold. I am hot from exertion. Soon the leaves are hot too. I sleep.
Canada is a crazy place. They have scarcely any night this time of year. I stick an enquiring head out of the leaves, but the cold sends me back in. I sleep again. When I am awakened again, it is by the distant thud of footsteps in the brush. The steps are steady and determined. I desert my leaves and flee in pure panic. I am a hunted animal. Behind me are dragons and things that go thump in the night.
I'm a girl. I'm not made for this, and I am naked. Being naked is the worst of all. It leaves me without defense. Animals have fur and claws and teeth, but I have nothing. Finally I have to stop. In a place where the trees have thinned I stop. My breath is heaving and my heart throbbing. I listen.
The gunshot splits the air. I stare in disbelief at the shattered branch swinging where the bullet has cut it from the tree. I yelp in fear and flee once more. Someone is trying to kill me!
I can't see who holds the gun but he sees me. Whenever I pause in flight the shot barks and the bullet cuts down something by my side. I must be running in circles, for the shots come from all directions, or there's more than one man with a gun. I simply don't know. I am terrified and consider crouching down against a bush and letting myself be killed. I can't keep on running, I just can't. But life is precious. In blind fear and panic, the gun blasts drive me on. Finally there is a small clearing and shafts of sunlight.
Burdock is a dark monolith of male. He stands in front of me, the gun cradled in one careless arm. He does not pursue. He simply waits, knowing I will come to him as surely as a needle points to north. He does not shoot me instantly. He simply stands.
I am so frightened. Reason flees where my wounded feet cannot. What I do is instinctive. I stumble forward and throw my nakedness at his feet. I clutch, I claw in desperate need of the male. I want male protection more than I want anything else. Burdock can kill me if he so desires, just so long as he rescues me from the forest and the cold. My eyes are dry, but I sob and sob until Burdock stands me up, ties my hands behind my back, and carries me out of the trees. He is so wonderfully strong! It is then that I start to cry.
I don't know anything else. I am so exquisitely safe that I fall asleep. When I wake, I am back in my lovely prison in my own bed. Daisy leans over me, smiling wisely. Daisy knows everything. This is bliss. I go back to sleep. Maybe Burdock killed me after all and this is Heaven.
It is not Heaven, but it is good. Daisy has the kitchen going, and I eat and drink coffee by the gallon. The new girls have been delayed. How lucky can I get! Daisy and I alone with all this comfort! The forest was a nightmare. I'll never run again. Daisy laughs at my sincerity and assures me I will never get the chance. For emphasis she locks the shackles back on my ankles. I scarcely notice what she's done. She brings me up to date.
Patsy has been found. Burdock is away with her now. Soon they will be home.
It's not so long ago since Patsy Pendleton took me as her slave to that dilly of a house in the city, but it now seems so very remote. So much has happened to both of us, but Patsy's return will touch my life in one way or another.
Tremulously, I ask, "Will Burdock let her take me back to her house?"
Daisy giggles. She knows something, and I bet she's not going to tell me what it is. "Maybe he won't even let Patsy go back there. He doesn't think it's safe for either of you to live alone. " She eyes me shrewdly. "Would that be bad?"
Would it? I simply don't know. With the jackpot I've got myself in with Burdock I don't need to be worrying about darling Patsy. I glimpse the obvious.
"He wouldn't keep Patsy and me both here--would he?"
More giggles. "You think Burdock will sell you to some wicked man who'll whip you every day?" Her eyes glint with mischief. "Maybe he will, and maybe Patsy will want him to."
"She wouldn't. She'd never have to be jealous of me and Burdock. " My voice becomes wistful. "Their easiest solution would be to set me free. I'd never blow the whistle on Patsy."
"Don't be silly, darling. The Big T can't possibly have you running around loose. You'd let something slip sometime to someone. Besides, you're forgetting that you're worth at least a million in cash. Burdock "will never let you go. He likes you."
"But he'll punish me for what I've just done!"
"Of course he will. Parents punish the children they love, don't they? It's no different."
"Yes, it is. I'm an adult, and I've got a right to try to escape."
"You just had to try. I've sensed it in you. Silly girl."
"What will it be--my punishment?"
"He told you long ago, darling--a hundred strokes."
"It'll kill me!"
"Don't be silly. Remember, it's me who'll whip you."
"But a hundred!" I survey the impossible in bleak dismay. "It's horrendous. I dare not think of it!"
"You will then be a true slave, darling." Daisy kisses me and pats my cheek. "It'll teach you a lesson."
I am a very mixed up girl.
Daisy has wasted enough time on me. She has things to do. Before letting herself out of prison, she says, "You'll have to wear these, darling. You're in disgrace."
I let her lock my wrists in shining steel. Handcuffs don't matter much, not along with everything else. When Daisy is on the other side of the bars I ask the fateful question. "Daisy dear, when will you whip me?"
"Ask Patsy, Coralie." She blows me a kiss and is gone. Damn! I've really blown it! And now I'm not a bit sure where I'm at, except that I'm in prison and in disgrace. I look wistfully at the bars and at my chains. They leave me in no doubt about that. But I can still think of the forest and the cold and that pile of leaves and being so damn lost and scared, so I'm terribly thankful for being here--even with what's going to be done to me.
All this costly space behind locked doors! I wander through the rooms, picking up the emanations a hundred girls have left behind, adding my own. I debate a swim, but I'm scared and not sure it's even possible with joined hands and feet.
I think it is, but if it isn't, I'm so terribly alone. Idly, I wander to one of the big mirrors and examine what a million dollars will buy. I pose in my metal and discover some truly lovely poses which I store in my memory for future use.
Daisy is a darling. She comes with coffee. She tells me Burdock and Patsy are not yet back. We laugh about the ownership of me. Maybe I'll be split down the middle.
"Ever wondered about me, Coralie?" she asks without warning.
"Of course I have."
"But you've never asked."
"Gosh no, I'd be scared to. Don't you realize you're a sort of goddess figure to us slaves? Your authority over us is absolute."
"Hmmmm. Cut that in two, darling. I do what Burdock tells me. " She glints over the rim of a cup. "I'd have thought you'd guess. I'm a slave, just the same as you."
I wait a moment to see if she's kidding, but she isn't; she's dead serious. Now I can see; it explains so much.
"I don't believe a word of it," I say, trying to provoke her. Daisy responds with a giggle. "Yes, you do. I've always wondered if the kidnappers who supply Burdock picked me up by mistake. All the other girls have been Caucasian. Burdock won't tell me, so I guess I'll never know. Coralie, wasn't that awful, being strapped into a crate for shipment?"
"I expected to find myself in a brothel at the very least. "
"Well, yes, of course. I mean, what else? Instead, I got this job."
"Just like that?"
"Not exactly. After I'd been whipped half to death and spent days and days behind these bars all alone. It took quite awhile."
"But the other girls...?"
"There weren't any. I was Burdock's first. He needed me.
He molded me into exactly what he wanted. He used me every day and sometimes we slept in the same bed. I fell in love with him. Every girl falls in love with Burdock. It never seemed to matter how mean he was; I still wanted him. Burdock's so gorgeously masculine and safe. When he's got you, that's the end of worrying what to do next."
"But at the start you must have tried to escape."
"Did I ever!" Daisy laughs without amusement. "Burdock looked after that too. He made me stand in front of him, naked and marked, with my wrists cuffed.
He gave me that hard look of his. 'Aching to escape, eh?' he asked 'I can tell.' I was too scared to answer. I'd just been whipped and I didn't want any more. 'Okay, get it out of your system,' he said. 'Run along.' "'But I'm naked and handcuffed!' "'So what? You want to go... so go!"' Daisy stares at me appealingly. "You've been there, so you know what Burdock's like, Coralie. Suddenly I didn't want to go. Those awful mountains--great ugly faces of rock--they frightened me. But it was an order. I had to obey. I was frightened of Burdock too." Daisy shakes her head in rueful memory. "It was so damn crazy. I simply walked out the front door of the Big T into the sunlight, a naked little Chinese girl with her hands chained together in front. It was unreal."
Daisy and I stare. For the moment she is a damsel in distress same as me. I hear her words but I feel them too. The Big T has put its hand upon us both.
"I didn't run. I didn't need to run," Daisy continues reflectively. "I walked to the gate and the road in a sort of daze. I was a hell of a long way from home, but the sun was warm. It gave me courage. When I reached the road, I turned right. I should have' gone left--not that it mattered.
"I was picked up by a ranger or a warden or something.
He wore a uniform and looked at me with a mixture of lust and disapproval. He was just plain dumb. He was convinced nobody would handcuff a girl except the police. He said he'd deliver me to them and they'd put me in prison. He also said he wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole. Not that I had asked. I should have stayed with him, but he was such an asshole that when he stopped to tack up a sign, I slipped out of the jeep and ran into the trees on the opposite side of the road. I never knew if he searched for me. I suspect he decided not to bother, probably thought I was doing it on a bet." Daisy pauses and looks at me woefully.
"You know what happened then," she continue. "I wandered. It got dark and cold. I knew I was lost. I stood there shivering and scared out of my mind. This place is deadly after dark. I can see why the Americans never bothered with it. But, anyway, there I was, stark naked and with my hands joined. Handcuffs bother you when you run--there's nothing you can do with them except let them tug at your hands and hurt your wrists. I couldn't just stand and freeze. I was lucky. I found the road again. This time I didn't walk--I ran, all the way back to the Big T.
"Burdock had a roaring fire going in the big fireplace. He stood me in front of it with a glass of whisky. He had everything under control, including me."
"'Want another try, Daisy?' he asked " 'No, master.' "'Don't mind you running.' I remember how terribly assured he sounded to me then. 'Night will send you home. It's the wanting to run I have to get out of your head. How many strokes you figure it will take?' Daisy gives me a wry grimace. "You know how he is. But what a question! I gulped the whisky and picked a number.
"'Fifty, master?' "'Yeah, fair enough,' he said. 'When you want 'em?' "I told him to give them to me then. He didn't bother with roping me, just hung me up by the handcuffs. It hurt terribly, but I soon forgot that pain when the lash came curling and snapping on my bare skin. I leaped and kicked and went crazy under the hard cruel cuts, almost breaking my wrists, but what with the day, the whisky, and the pain I passed out somewhere along the line. I've never known if I got all the fifty or if I cheated him. I came back to life on the rug in front of the fire with whisky being poured down my throat. I remember laying there, choking and whimpering for a long time. My hands were still cuffed.
"'Kneel up, Daisy, and stop that noise.' "It surprised me how quick I was on my knees, but I couldn't stop the whimpering and the sobs. I'd been terribly whipped, and my wrists were hurting too. I buried my face in my hands. I felt terribly shamed.
"It was then that he dropped the bomb: He offered me a job. I accepted," Daisy sighs, letting the yesterdays slide away. "Was I crazy, Coralie?"
"No."
"I adored the man. I still do. He fucks me when he wants to, and he gives me all sorts of money. I'm rich. I can't ever imagine going away."
We seek the bed. We are accomplished lesbians. Daisy, aroused, is incandescent. Now she's left and locked me in alone. I am dazed and strangely content, but I still don't know where I'm going. I lay on my bed and dream. It is several hours before I hear the door.
It is Patsy, the girl who owns me.
I am hugged repeatedly. I can't hug back. I am kissed and kissed, and I do a lot better at that. She tells me scraps about the guy from Texas and warms me that she has tender nipples. We bathe in a glorious jumble of emotion. After a long while Patsy pushes me away to get a good look at me.
"I hear you've disgraced yourself?"
I hold up my hands for her to see. I confess everything. My longing for this girl I must call mistress is hot in my loins. I want her to want me. I want it bad.
"I have to be whipped," I admit to her.
"Oh, I heard about that first thing. Coralie, you're a ninny."
"Yes, mistress."
"Being humble won't do you a bit of good. I'm a good mind to whip you myself. Really, running away from me!"
"It wasn't from you, Patsy. It was something I just had to do."
"Okay, okay, I did it myself, so I can't blame you. All you have to worry about is Burdock. By the way, dear, did I tell you Burdock's going to marry me?' It is like a thunderclap. I take a stubbed step back and blurt out without thinking: "But why! He can fuck all of us any time he wants!"
"It's called love, sweetheart."
We become feminine. It is a time when girls come close. I can't imagine Burdock married, but it's something most men do, so why not him? As for Patsy, she's head over heels in love. I feel slightly superior the way we all do when confronted by a victim of the passion.
Patsy frees me of metal. I must accept disgrace and wear its symbol, probably until after I've been whipped. When we go upstairs, we leave the prison door wide open. It is a precedent. It won't stay open long. Burdock is as saturnine as ever.
"Thought the two of you had gone to bed."
"I've gold her about us, Dudley."
"Call me Burdock, not that fool named I'm saddled with. Burdock or Hank--take your pick. And this idiot of a girl is Coralie. We tossed Effie out the window."
Burdock is not exactly the loving swain, but rough stuff is what Patsy adores. Maybe me and Daisy too. It's sort of a challenge. Maybe one day we'll get tenderness out of this granite men! A hope to keep us on the bit.
"What do you want me to do with her, Burdock?" Coralie asks brightly. "Does she still belong to me?"
"If I catch you two nibbling at each other, I'll whip your asses."
"Yes, of course." She doesn't bat an eye. "But the poor dear's sort of betwixt and between right now."
"No, she isn't--she's in prison. That's where she'll stay until after the honeymoon. She can stay here for awhile, but be sure and put her back."
"Can I take her handcuffs off?"
"No."
Some men are changed by love, but not this one! I feel more deeply in disgrace than ever.
"Does Coralie really have to have that awful whipping?"
"Yes."
"Well then, Hank darling, can I be the one to whip her?"
"Hell no! All she'd get from you would be a few pink streaks." His chuckle is vintage Burdock. "Of course, if you want to take half--to help her out?"
"Of course I will!"
"Look, honey, I promised to whip your ass for letting yourself be kidnapped." Burdock actually sounds affectionate. "That ought to be enough. I'm going to make that little behind of yours bounce."
"I don't mind--honest!"
"You're just horny, that's your trouble. Think I don't recognize the signs?"
"Oh, Hank!"
Patsy is becoming nauseating. I hope I never get like this.
But I don't dare be caustic. Meekly, I implore, "Please don't let me be a bother. I'm sure you'll figure out something."
"Damn right." Burdock glares. "You get your hundred, but not before the honeymoon. I've already told you. Give you something to look forward to in prison. A couple of weeks anyway."
A reprieve! Two whole weeks! Anything can happen in that time. I am almost joyful until Burdock fixes Patsy with a baleful eye.
"On the subject of your little ass, honey--"
"Of course, Hank dear, anytime."
"Like right now?"
"Sure, why not? We've just come home."
I'd love to kick her but I can't. Burdock gropes his way through feminine concupiscence. "Homer Wyant never give you a proper licking?"
"Not really. You know what his thing was."
"Tits!"
"Mine will be sore for a week."
"So will your ass. Bring Coralie along to watch."
"But, Burdock, Coralie's my slave--or she was!"
"So? The slave gets to see he mistress get her ass whipped. Mistresses can't have all the fun."
"Oh, Hank...!"
Poor darling Patsy. She's ashamed to have me watch. Ineffectually, I try to help. "No, really, I'm not that keen. It's private between you two."
"Want your ass whipped as well, Coralie?"
I follow them. I have learned obedience.
Patsy wears clothes. In all this excitement I've failed to notice. She strips as though she can't wait. Naked, she asks, "Will I be needing them after?"
"Hell no! Fold 'em up."
Patsy folds her clothes carefully. She is now a housewife.
I wonder if she quivers half as much as I do. Her cheeks are flushes, her eyes shine. She is very lovely.
"How do you want me, Hank?"
"Over the bench with your ass well up."
Patsy does not have to worry about her ass. The bench is designed for the protrusion of feminine asses. She positions herself, and I'm sure she's close to orgasm as Burdock buckles the straps. Wrists and ankles, ankles well apart, arms stretched well out beyond her head. The one over the small of her back is a real dilly. When Burdock tugs it tight, the bottom of his wife rears up like sprouting com. Patsy's pussy is compressed hard upon the sly curve the bench provides. On this piece of furniture a frigid old maid would get herself a climax within three whacks. I am almost envious.
Patsy is face down, but she can turn her head sideways and give us both a cheerful grin. "Darlings, I can't move. Oh, jeepers, Hank, this is going to hurt."
Burdock absorbs the "darling" without visible shock. I wonder if he knows how cloying we females can be. His masculinity dominates both us girls without the bat of an eye. His humanity is terse.
"Said I'd whip your ass, honey. Well, I'm going to use a strap instead, got to have you so you can sit."
"Thank you, darling."
He's right. Patsy's horny as can be. In this mood she'd view a cat-o'-nine-tails with fervid affection. The leather Burdock now flexes in his hands may not compete with the cane for marks, but I bet it hurts. It lands across the darling derriere with a solid crack. When it slides away, the scarlet imprint starts to form. Patsy turns her head. She does not want us to see either her tears or her orgasm.
"One," the master says.
I don't think Patsy's been sentenced to any particular number, but Burdock is counting. He's got a number in mind, or will he be satisfied with making her scream? Watching her welt, I can be sure that after awhile she will.
"Two."
These thwacks are startling. I bet Daisy can hear them upstairs, and I bet she's listening too. It's one thing to strap the bottom of Patsy Pendleton, but definitely something else again to strap the bare flesh of Mrs. Patsy Burdock. Normally, the more intimate skin of a bethroned young woman becomes inviolate and remote. The ring makes her immaculate and out of reach of whip or prick. It is not so here.
"Three."
The poor darling is surging against her leather bindings. I can tell. In Patsy's position there's not much difference between pain and a good sexual explosion. Either way she cannot move. This bench is marvelous. I hope I never get put on it.
"Four."
I'd love to walk around and see what she's doing. All we get here are her responsive gasps. But I'm not sure I should. I have to remember my disgrace. I am no longer privileged. I'm not sure whether watching a girl's bottom strapped is a privilege or not, though. Maybe it is. I'm getting shockingly horny myself.
"Five."
This could go on and on. Patsy must know this, but she has not yet screamed. I always think it best to scream, if you're not gagged, because it tells the man he's getting to you and you're ready to be a good girl. A good scream is wonderful when you're being hurt. I bet the poor dear is keeping as quiet as she can because I'm here watching. A mistress should never scream before her slave.
"Six."
Patsy turns back to face us. That means she's had her orgasm. Now she's only crying. The tears seep slowly from her eyes. She looks through them lovingly at the man who beats her bottom. Love is wonderful. I'm glad I'm not in love.
"Seven."
She's hoping he tears will make him relent. She should know better. He must have seen more female tears than any man in North America, and he's been the cause. I'd think him impervious to tears by now. That lovely tight round bottom is red all over. Golly, I'm glad it's not me!
"Eight."
I shouldn't feel so complacent and superior. I'm chained, and in two weeks I'm going to get the most awful whipping ever. It will make what Patsy's getting now seem fun--I think! I don't really know, though. Burdock's smart. He knows I'll be anxious about it the whole time down there in the apartment behind bars.
"Nine."
She's clenching her teeth, I know she is. She's willing herself not to scream. She'd scream for Burdock but not for me. I feel like a bitch the way I'm loving this! But my conscience blames Burdock. He made me do it. Oh, shit, I've heard that before! My owner is making the small whimpering sounds that presage the screams.
"Ten."
Patsy screams.
It's over. Burdock tosses the leather aside and kisses the naked girl he has marked with it. She whispers, "Thank you, darling." I feel like I'm intruding but dare not leave. I gaze, hypnotized, at the punished scarlet flesh. I could swear the sentenced bottom has swollen from the blows. I listen in disbelief as Burdock tells this girl who loves him she can stay strapped as she is for awhile to let her pain sink in. Patsy does not demur. I hope I never fall in love.
My master's hand leads me to Daisy. Daisy knows what to do. She takes me to the chicken house. She allows me to stand for a moment absorb the scenery. It may be beautiful, but I shiver and know I will never challenge it again. It gobbles up naked girls as birds do butterflies. Daisy turns the keys and leads me down and down. I may not come up again for two whole weeks. It seems like an awful long time. The iron bars give me greeting, the door still open wide. Daisy pushes me inside and clangs it shut. She kisses me through the bars and goes her way.
Something is over, but I'm not sure what it is.
I stand, my arms listless in captivity, my feet united by a chain. I look at the bars and at the barred door, and ask myself if this will be my life--this and going upstairs to be punished. But my punishments will form the nucleus of the evening shows. It's wonderfully convenient--for Burdock, not me.
Will Burdock give me the same freedom he allows Daisy? I doubt it. He senses in Daisy the fatalism of the Orient. She has come to terms with her situation and is happy with them. She likes her captivity, and she loves her master in a strange abased love generated by Burdock's whip. But I am Caucasian and never to be trusted. Caucasians are temperamental and likely to rebel, so I will always be chained--always! I envy Daisy.
I go to my room and cry.
I don't think Patsy owns me any more. I am not sure she any longer owns herself. I picked up an undercurrent. Burdock still sees her as a slave. He's marrying her out of possessiveness and because she was kidnapped. You never value anything until it's gone. Now he's got her, but he's also got me. And he's got Daisy too. Soon he'll have the new girls to do with as he pleases. Burdock is sincere about marrying Patsy, but how can the door darling compete? Or how can he stop desiring us and fucking us as he's been doing? We'll still be around!
My mirror still shows the same me and the same metal on my wrists and ankles. I gaze pensively, wondering if I'll look different after I've been whipped. Certainly my back will, but I'm thinking of more than marked skin. Daisy truly believed herself changed by being whipped. Perhaps I will be changed too. Right now I do not seek or want escape, but that may change. Might I not be happier if the rebel was expunged forever? It may happen.
The new girls are Beth and Joan. All girls begin to look alike to me, but these two are sweet. They are timid and scared out of their little panties they lost long ago. When Daisy guides them down the stairs, they wear blindfolds, their wrists crossed and tied behind their backs, and their necks tied one to the other by rope. Daisy pushes them inside with me and cautions them to stand still or fall into the pool. She winks and waves at me, then goes away. It seems I have a job to do. My pulse quickens. These quiet young girls will be better than being locked in here alone. Poor things, they're still quivering from Daisy's favorite act, the frightful clang and lock of the door.
"Please don't hurt us," one of them ventures.
"We haven't done anything wrong," the other adds.
I feel gloriously omnipotent. I come alive. I take off the blindfolds. The sweethearts blink and gasp at me, looking around in sheer astonishment. They shrink from the pool; it is not what they had expected.
"Hello," I say briskly. "My name is Coralie. Welcome to prison."
They absorb me slowly. They are terribly frightened and not a day over nineteen. The boys upstairs will lick their chops when they see these two. They may be old before they've been properly whipped. I decide to be a bitch. I won't hurt them, but as they stand there, twisting against tied hands and tossing their heads against tied necks, they are delectable. For a short while they are mine.
"Please untie us. We've been tied for so long!"
"Is this really a prison?"
"Why are you all chained up? Will we be chained up like that?"
I pinch a nipple. Its owner looks startled but follows where I lead; the other girl comes too. She has to if she doesn't want to strangle. I take them on the tour. I recite the first lesson in slavery. I untie their necks, and they politely tell me thank you and wriggle their hands suggestively. I ignore the wiggle.
"Are you a trustee or something?"
"Guess you could call me that."
"Then why are you handcuffed? Only criminals get handcuffs--and prostitutes."
I tell them what I really am and what they will soon be. They don't believe a word of it. They have that irritating teenage superiority which knows it all.
"You're kidding! This is some sort of jail."
"Nobody would kidnap us; we don't have any money." I tell them about the evening show and how they will be whipped as an introduction to the Big T. It would help if I had whip marks, but I don't at the moment. What they need is a good look at Patsy's bottom.
"You have to be joking. There isn't such a place. The police would never allow it. But who did kidnap us anyway?"
"Please be a nice girl and untie us. We'd be ever so grateful."
"How grateful?"
They get my meaning. They blush. They are delicious. "We don't do that--what you mean."
"It's unnatural. We wouldn't dream--"
"I can make you."
"Don't be silly. You can't. Please untie us and give us some clothes."
"You won't ever wear clothes again. They don't give me any."
While they look at each other in consternation, I examine their figures. They are up to Big T standards. Firm cones for breasts, almost no tummies at all. Their pubic hair will pass, but it is not as rich as mine.
"But girls always wear clothes!"
"You shouldn't look at us the way you're doing. That's not nice either. Please untie our hands. You could easily." I produce the riding crop. "Want me to use this on your bare skin?"
"You wouldn't dare!"
"You couldn't possibly!"
I deliver two sharp cuts to two bare bottoms. The owners of the bottoms dance, but are not easily convinced.
"You shouldn't do that. It hurts!"
"We won't do that nasty thing."
My heart goes out to them; they're good kids. I expect I could make them lay down and open their legs if I'm cruel enough, but I'd sooner they surrendered on their own--and I do have to live with them. I have such power over them at this moment. It would be easy to forget that I'm a prisoner too. There are two of them and only one of me. I'd best be cautious.
"If I untie your hands, will you behave? There are two of you and one of me, and I'm chained. You could be mean if you wanted."
"We'd love you to pieces."
"We would never dream...." I untie their hands. Beth grasps my hair, and Joan picks up the crop. A moment later my bottom is nearly slice in two. The little darlings are not as innocent as they seemed.
"I'll hold on to her, Joan. Give her another good one. She hurt us."
I suppose I did hurt them, and I expect I deserve what I'm getting, but the second slash I get almost makes me faint. She has let me have it all out, and she doesn't know what she's doing. These two little sweethearts could flay me alive, and Daisy can't hear me scream. I knee Beth in the groin.
I swirl and grasp the crop from Joan's startled hand. I hop to the bars and hurl it out beyond reach. Chained the way I am I can't use it effectively, so it's better bone. I turn, prepared to fight.
"We're terribly sorry. We didn't think you'd mind."
"Did it hurt so much. You kicked my pussy."
"You won't tell us, will you? Will we get punished for it?" There is something engaging about these two, a misleading naivete. I don't need to tell on them, although the marks on my skin will tell the story for me. These two will be punished, but not on account of me.
They are taken from me for the evening show. Daisy sees the crop out in the passage and the scarlet lines on me, one of them now purple. She nods wisely and makes the girls back up to the bars to get their hands cuffed behind their backs before the door is opened. I'm surprised they don't rebel, but perhaps the prison and me have affected them. They regard Daisy with awe.
It's bad when I'm alone again. My disgrace hangs heavily on my spirits. Damn it, I'm going to miss the show and my part in it. Only bits of it were painful; most of it was not. The adoration of the men was something to scorn at the time, but I loved it. Of course I loved it--I am female! Now here I am behind these bars, alone and chained while all the cigar smoke and whisky scent is wasted on a pair of teenagers with immature breasts and sparse pubic hair. Burdock's being mean. If he would take me up and punish me a little for his customers, I wouldn't mind. It would be a lot better than sitting here and kicking my chain. I'd never have thought I'd feel this way, but now I do. It shows how far I've gone along a road--how much of me the Big T owns. I throw myself morosely upon my bed.
I hear the door and am instantly up and alert. It's Patsy, and she knows why I'm forlorn. Her arms are loving. I wish I had mine.
"Burdock's a bear," she tells me happily. "But when Daisy told him about these kids and you and the rigid crop, he got a bright idea. It tickles him. You have to go up and whip them. They're all ready for you."
My heart leaps, but I perceive a fault. "I have to live with them afterwards," I say doubtfully. "They'll hate me. Do I have to stay in prison with them in disgrace?"
"But where else can we keep you, darling?"
"Couldn't I roam around upstairs?" I make metallic sounds. "I can't possibly escape. Not that I'd ever try that again anyway."
"Leave it with me." She pats my cheek in apology for the cliche. "I have to go easy on Burdock or I get whipped myself. He has to be handled with great care."
"How's your bottom?"
Patsy grins, turns, and flips up the scanty thing she wears. Her lovely scarlet has turned to purple. That strap he used was not kind at all. Patsy sighs ecstatically. "He's so wonderful--only giving me ten. I expected a lot more."
"But if you're engaged and getting married and going on a honeymoon, is that any way for him to treat his bride?"
"We're not exactly an ordinary couple, darling." I get another hug. "Don't forget, you're not an ordinary girl any more either."
"But your house and all that money! You don't have to be whipped!"' "Don't I?" she asks wistfully. "I'm not so sure. I'm not sure about the house. I'm only sure of Burdock and that he owns me more totally than ever before." She kisses the tip of my nose. "He owns you too."
I thrill to the familiar scents and sounds. I have given up feeling ashamed. I can't possibly be ashamed all my life. I am about to whip two saucy girls, but it will do them good. The enjoyment of these men is largely aesthetic; they are no boors. When the evening is over, no one will have been hurt. Joan and Beth will have smarting skins, but that is all. My rationalization is supported by the welcome I get from the gentlemen. They've missed me. It is a nice warm feeling to be missed. They admire the metal I wear and kid me about my escape. My escape seems to be no secret. If I am to be ashamed at all, it should be over running away from this affection. None offer to help me in another try.
Beth and Joan are in the spotlight. I almost have to laugh. Daisy had told me of the need for variety in this punishment of girls. She has achieved it. Beth is strapped to the same bench on which Patsy got her ten. Joan lies on her bound arse on the rug. Her feet are raised and splayed apart, just sufficiently high to display her own open crotch in an admirable exposure for the whip. Neither girl looks happy. As a final artistic adornment, Daisy has draped the wicked leather across Beth's tight cheeks--the leather with which her bottom will be made to bounce. Chastely, within the crevice of her cunt, Joan bears the shame of a silken thonged whip. I really must be a bitch; my heart pounds excitedly.
There is no rush. There is never a rush at the Big T. My handcuffs are taken from my wrists and I am given a tray. I suppose everything is in the mind. It's just like old times. I dispense the drinks and call the clients sir. Beth and Joan are also in no rush. They know what is to be done to them, and they are willing to wait forever. They are not well postured for view, but their eyes follow me in taut anxiety. They know!
When showtime comes, I discard my tray and clink my hobbled pathway to the lights. There is discreet applause, setting my blood to racing and to flush my cheeks. The purple streak across my bottom comes into its own. It is noted. There will be questions. The whispers from the bench and from the floor are urgent.
"Please don't."
"We'll never do it again."
I whisper, "Keep quiet."
"Don't whip my pussy. Please don't."
"I can't move. It will hurt something awful."
The preliminaries are over. I pick up the supple strap. It has weight and seems alive. I thrill at the feel of this thing used to punish Patsy, who was once more mistress. Beth strains hard to raise her head and look back over a pinioned shoulder, but she can't. She can only look sideways at her expectant audience. She is shocked and turns her head to stare at nothing. I crack the lovely leather across her pert rump.
Shock holds Beth mute while the imprint of the leather rises on he flesh. I know what it is like. A girl not does not believe it's happening. You don't think to scream. Casually, I put the leather back upon now smarting skin. I turn to Joan.
This is different. Joan stares up at me full face and I look down between her parted legs. I pick up the whip to bear a pretty puss, a neat and girlish slit within the cleft of thighs.
I have never done this before! It is not long since I could not have dreamed of whipping a girl's open crotch. I dream of it now. The sweating female lies bound before me, her loins well up above the floor.
The whip is pure artistry. It cannot injure, but I am sure it will hurt terribly upon those potions of a girl it is designed to cut. I swing it with a wild abandon of delight.
Beth cannot move, but Joan can. She goes berserk in futile writhings, tugging at the rope by which she is raised and held. The ropes to the ceiling hum as she tautens them, raising her rump by flexing her knees, then relaxing again in hopelessness. When she opens hurt eyes, I turn from their reproach.
Beth awaits my return. She has watched Joan receive the whip. She urgently pleads, "I can't bear it, Coralie--I simply can't! Please... not again!"
I splat the leather, and the twin cheeks bounce. Beth yelps and moans and makes her bindings creak, but only her head can move. I pull her hair away from anguished eyes. Returning to the small whip, I practice splaying its silken thongs across my hand. The audience watches breathlessly, and so does Joan. I walk around, straddle her head so she must look straight up at my cunt, and splay the thongs to lash the inside of a soft tumescent thigh. Joan howls.
I strap and whip my little girls at a leisurely pace to keep them in suspense and to draw out their time to fill the evening's expectations. Even punishing them slowly will leave them well marked after a couple of hours. I don't suppose the little dears know how long the blows will fall. Fleetingly, I see myself spread here beneath the lights to be cut by the hundred lashes of a whip. My hand is lighter for the vision, but I doubt the girls will know.
It is Patsy who takes me back to prison. It is late, and the girls are already there. Alone in the hall, we pause.
"Darling, Burdock wants me to sell my lovely house. He won't let us go back."
Patsy Pendleton is distressed. So am I. I sense shadows. "Don't do it," I whisper vehemently. "He can't make you."
"Yes, he can, and you know how!"
"But if he loves you--"
"I know." Patsy is troubled. "But that's part of it. He thinks we're not safe--"
"Hire a security guard, or, better still, get live-in servants. You can afford it, Patsy."
"But I love him! You're talking as though I want to go back and be alone with you again."
"Well, don't you?"
"Oh, darling, yes, you know I do. David Herron willed it to me, and all that money, because he loved me. I owe him. I'm sure he'd hate me selling my house."
"Good! Put me in a car with you drive like crazy. Patsy, please!"
"Oh, I know. I've thought of that. But I'm weak and Burdock's terribly strong. Besides, he did save me from that poor sad guy from Texas."
"Not the way you told me. You got loose and phoned for help."
"Well...." Patsy grasps my arm determinedly. "Back to prison, Coralie. I love the guy and nothing's going to happen until we get back. Don't worry, I'll think of something." There comes a tiny catch in her voice. "But I love you too. Don't ever forget that."
Following me within the bars, Patsy fingers a handcuff key, but I won't have her getting into trouble over me. "No, don't!" I pull my linked hands away. "I have to be handcuffed. It's because of my disgrace."
"I don't care. " Patsy repossesses me and fits the key. "I'm not going to have you in there helpless with those little bitches. Besides, you're in authority."
She pockets the metal I had worn. It will be warm from my flesh. We hug and kiss. Then the door clangs and she is gone. Poor darling Patsy! This shouldn't be happening, not to either of us. I was her slave, but I am now in prison while she'll be far away. We might both be happier if she was chained in here with me. I don't see why Burdock would marry any girl--it's crazy!
The girls have chosen their room. The lay on their bellies on the bed, quietly sobbing. Darling Patsy has done another thing for me. The ankles of each girl are handcuffed together. They cannot walk. They cannot molest me. They'll have to crawl or shuffle or hop. When they hear me, they turn their tear-stained faces.
"Look at what you've done to us! We've seen in the mirror."
"Please don't punish us again. We'll behave."
They are so pathetic, and they still haven't grasped the right of it. Now they think I'm part of the management. It was I who whipped them, they note my freed hands. I sigh thankfully in relief.
"That girl handcuffed us. They're not supposed to go on our ankles. Please take them off, Coralie."
"We can't walk."
"You're not supposed to walk. And anyway, I don't have a key."
"You took your own off." The accusation is sulky.
"No, I didn't. Someone else did. I've been partly forgiven."
They sit up, resting on one hip to relieve their tenderness. They dry their cheeks. I don't have the heart to tell them they'll be whipped again tomorrow. Perhaps they'll be sold and I won't have to bother about them any more. They are poor company. I look at the scarlet symbols of their shame and I don't feel bad about it.
It's wonderful to have my hands. The mental and emotional effect of being handcuffed all the time is devastating. There's a lot of things they don't stop a girl doing, but they're always there, whispering what you are, snickering of shame. I search the kitchen. There's not much for breakfast, not for three of us. We'll have to wait for Daisy. But I make coffee. Coffee's something else that's wonderful.
I put three cups on a tray and clink my shackled steps find my fellow prisoners. They are subdued and grateful and painfully polite. Watching them hop to the bathroom makes my day.
"We've tried and tired to get them off. We can't."
"You're not supposed to. Handcuffs stay on."
"But they're on our feet; it's all wrong!"
They gaze at me beseechingly. I'm sure they'd sooner wear handcuffs on their wrists. So would I. But with them they're convinced someone's made a mistake. They're weird.
Daisy brings groceries. She ships coffee pensively while I cook. The girls hop around trying to help but only getting in the way. Daisy breaks the news.
"They're gone."
I can understand the absence of goodbyes. Who wants 'em! The honeymoon is in Hawaii. Apparently there's a shuttle service between the city of oil and the islands. Daisy and I contemplate what ought to be romance. "Where are they getting married?" I ask abstractly.
"They didn't say. I was scared to ask."
Our eyes meet. We both think the same thing. There's something better now between Daisy and me now that I know we're both slaves. It suddenly occurs to me that she has to be in charge. There's a hired hand out and around the ranch, but he rarely comes near the house, and there's the cook. Daisy looms large. She shrugs.
"It's only for a couple of weeks. The place runs itself."
"But the shows...?"
"They'll run themselves too, but I'll need your help, Coralie."
"I'm not supposed to be let out of prison."
"Burdock rescinded that. He can't leave me entirely alone." Daisy grins impishly. "He's allowed you the freedom up upstairs from supper to breakfast. I'm supposed to lock you in here for the day." She twinkles. "I'm going to, though. You'll sleep with me at night and help around the house during the day."
"You'll be punished."
"He'll never know."
We glow. We enjoy the contemplation of a new freedom. The two girls don't know what we're talking about, but their respect for me grows. Daisy and I leave them the dishes and go upstairs. Burdock's presence is heavy through the whole place. The Big T is saturated with the emanations he emits. They make me nervous. I should be downstairs in prison.
Daisy sighs. She produces handcuffs. "Turn around, you idiot."
The handcuffs behind my back take away my freedom. They also take away decision. I will have to do what Daisy says. We both know the absurdity of this, but we understand it too. She tells me I won't be able to do much the way I'm now fixed, but in a day or two my conscience will stop bothering me and then I can get my hands back. We giggle. It's a delightful game between two girls.
"There's something else, Coralie." Daisy is unconcerned. "Burdock wants to get rid of those two downstairs. Will you play auctioneer? He wants you to. You're really good on a platform, y'know."
More giggles. Things look better and better, at least for a couple of weeks. I wonder if Daisy's thought of what I'm thinking.
"Daisy, why can't you and I get in the car and go? What's to stop us?"
She shakes her head. "Never give up, do you?" I am turned about and the cuffs on my wrists are tightened an extra notch. They are now very tight indeed. "That'll stop you for now, silly girl. I've already told you I won't leave this place. I'd be crazy. So would you. I won't let you. I'd intended to take your shackles off, but now I won't. I'll keep you handcuffed too unless I get your promise. Here, maybe this will help." It hurts my wrists, but I manage to grasp the missive. Its bears all Burdock's direct simplicity. It's like he's in the room.
'You run--Patsy gets your hundred. Daisy gets a hundred more."
I give my promise.
Daisy says that's a lot better, but I can wear the handcuffs for a couple of days to help me settle down.
We have a real fun day. My handcuffs and I follow Daisy around like a puppy dog. We have frequent coffee. I forget escape. We also plot foully against the two maidens down in prison. We should be ashamed of ourselves, but we are not.
I know this is only a reprieve. The honeymoon will end for all of us. Patsy and Burdock will come back, and I bet there'll be problems. Certainly their return will compound mine. I wish I could forget what Burdock's sentenced me to. Oh, shit!
We lounge comfortably while the cook does our work. The Big T is always spotless. We gather the stuff for the show and giggle over it. There's no need for us to go back down under the chicken house, but we do, just to be mean. We don't open the door.
Beth and Joan are lonely and scared again. They shuffle and hop. Disgustedly, they get down on all fours and propel themselves to us with their hands. Watching their kangaroo-like progress, I get the damnedest idea for a show.
"May we please go up in the sun for awhile?"
"It's so lonely down here, it's creepy."
"Why are you handcuffed again, Coralie?"
We ignore their questions. But we're a pair of bitches, we simply can't resist telling them of their stellar roles in the evening's production.
"But we were whipped yesterday!"
We explain that only certain portions of them were whipped. Both their backs and Beth's thighs are virgin. "But that's not fair! Why don't you two get whipped?"
"My pussy's still sore from yesterday."
"Those men didn't ought to see us all naked!"
Poor darlings! We go back upstairs.
CHAPTER FOUR - KIDNAP PRONE
Daisy and I have things so well prepared that Burdock's absence is scarcely noticed. With the handcuffs gone and only my feet shackled, my stature grows. Once more it is borne upon me how the Big T and I have become inextricably joined. Damn it, I belong here, and I love it. Daisy hovers while I do the drinks and get my cunt handled and my tits tweaked. It may be my fancy, but these indecent intimacies now have a more reverent touch. I play my tray with verve.
Our captive maidens are upset. I am sure they would complain of discrimination if they dared. Beth lays on her prisoned arms as Joan did yesterday. The rest of her ensemble is to have one foot noosed and hauled well up until her bruised bottom clears the floor. I am sure it's an exasperating pose. She flopped around quite a bit at first, but now awaits her fate in dismal resignation. Joan stands on one foot, her other way out and up so high she'll split if it goes any higher. Her right hand and arm are leashed up taut to the ceiling. She's welcome to do what she likes with the left. One picks up the impression she doesn't know what to do with the damn thing. If it was mine, I wouldn't know what to do with it either. Their wails and lamentations are well past. They have been shown gags.
The clients are welcome to examine these interesting contortions of the female form. They may handle the merchandise. After all, it is for sale. Two maiden pussies and four girlish breasts receive the homage of male hands. The captives stir restlessly. Both blush.
"Nice to see you again, Coralie."
The voice is familiar. It belongs to Morton Dean.
"I'm not for sale," I say anxiously. "It's nice to see you too."
"Hear you've been away."
He knows damn well where I've been. I concede a short absence.
"Didn't get whipped yet, I notice."
That's the trouble with nudity: a girl has no secrets. I tell him that I haven't been whipped yet but expect to be whipped soon. He nods affably. We may as well be discussing the weather. But we are aware of each other. He's a good looking hunk of man. I doubt he's impotent the way Burdock hinted. I wouldn't want to belong to him, but, apart from that, he's very nice.
"Burdock away?"
Caution dictates my casual answer. "Yes, just for the evening. He'll be back."
"Sorry he wouldn't take my million."
"Nice of you to offer it. I'm flattered." I bestow a salesman's smile. "Why not buy those two there under the lights? You'd get them both for less."
"Those little quail? Two insipid for me."
Morton Dean, my one-time admirer, melts away. I turn my attention to an anxious little man who asks if it might be possible for him to paint my bottom green while the boss is absent. Really!
The time comes. Maiden eyes gaze anxiously as I approach. My pulse thuds to muted applause. This time I hold the whip. It is the one to be used on me when they honeymoon is over. It won't kill a girl unless it's used on her all out, but it still hurts something horrible. I pick Beth first. I slice her thigh. She screams. In disdain I turn from her flailing limbs and thrashing torso. Joan hisses.
"Don't you dare!"
I lash a scarlet line across her naked back. She, too, screams. It appears that we waste no time. I turn to the anonymous blur of faces and say my piece.
"Should you find them worthy, gentlemen, you may bid." A mere fifty thousand! The girls register astonishment at a sum so vast. I turn Beth over, a possibility she had not envisioned, and lay my scarlet across the whiteness of her shoulders. Her bound arms preclude the rest of her back. She may have to be retied. She saves me the trouble by flopping back over in her writhing response.
The back of Joan is exquisitely available. I slice a line below the one already proclaiming agony. We are rewarded by decibels of sound.
"A hundred thousand for that one!"
"A hundred and fifty for the two!"
"See what you're worth," I whisper gently before bringing my thong hard down within Beth's waiting crotch. Her free leg flails. Behind me Joan's unfettered arm seeks desperately for employment. An unrestrained limb frustrates its owner, but it is a joy to behold. I swirl and belt the naked Joan with a crimson circle around her waist. She is highly vocal. The bids now hold emotion.
"Two hundred for either of them!"
"Five for both!"
Burdock may yet be proud of me. If my distressed damsels fetched no more, the half million is not so bad. Extreme youth is not appealing to the middle-aged. Most of our clients have reached a point where they find young girls a bore. After my imprisonment with Beth and Joan I can endorse such sentiment. I return my attention to the waiting flesh.
I am forced to knock our damsels down to six hundred and fifty for the both of them. I am pleased. Burdock will be pleased. The damsels themselves have lost interest in their worth. Their punishment continues. A sale must not rob those who have not yet bid. I ply my whip with all the skill I can muster. That skill increases with each snapping cut. Girls have to many places... !
At the end of the evening I am toasted by the boys. My name is now known to them all. Our merchandised maidens watch apathetically with envious eyes. I am sure they feel at the nadir of their fortunes. Perhaps they are. I wish them well. They stand forlornly against the wall, bound tight for shipment. They dare not move. I take them drinks. To them I am still a mystery. They are picked up, one by one, by willing hands.
I cannot think how long it has been since I enjoyed this much freedom. I remain hobbled, but that is all. Escape has been banished. Daisy and I milk each other dry. It is late the next morning when we rise.
We have no prisoners to tend, but for fun we breakfast together in the prison apartment. We even lock ourselves in and giggle in speculation over what might happen if we toss the key outside beyond the bars. I suppose the cook would rescue us in time for the evening. It is an experiment we do not try.
In the sunlight we walk as far as the gate and the road, but I find no pleasure in this freedom. This place holds menace, the mountain waiting to pounce, the bitter cold fugitive to the sun. Memories crowd me in nightmare sequence. I shiver and turn back to the house, stumbling in hobbled speed, my chain protesting urgency. Behind me Daisy follows, laughing.
The Big T embraces me in warmth. I will be its happy prisoner for life. Outdoors might thrill me somewhere else, but it certainly does not here. Daisy tosses me a magazine and goes to the kitchen. I sigh in deep content.
I hear nothing, not a thing. The reeking rag is thrust against my face, strong arms restraining my own. I sink away, not even seeing whoever has crept up on me from the rear. When I wake, I am in a cocoon of vibrating darkness--the trunk of a car. I am tightly bound in the same fashion as the girls the night before, but my feet are drawn up to my hands. I am already too stiff and hurting to search for knots. Below me wheels are speeding on the road.
* * *
"Don't tell me it's a surprise, Coralie." Morton Dean smiles down beside the opened lid. "You didn't think I'd give you up, did you?"
Inside I moan. Outside I say, "No, I suppose I never really did."
"Too good a chance to miss. Burdock gone. If he doesn't give me too much static, I'll give him the check. If he makes waves, I'll set you free." Morton chuckles. "Didn't see a soul. Likely enough no one will know who's got you."
"Burdock will know. He'll guess."
"Not much he can do about it."
We gaze at each other. I should have known. Burdock should have known. Lamely, I say, "These ropes are hurting me."
"Yeah, I'm sure they do. Good way to keep a girl--no fuss."
Why doesn't he lift me out of here? Morton Dean is savoring every minute of this, licking his chops over me. I'm a prize. I wasn't fooling about hurting, but this is a guy who likes girls to hurl, so I'd better get used to it. I've lost everything. Daisy and Patsy and the Big T may well have vanished from my life. This is a guy who plays for keeps.
It's quite awhile since I've been bound like this. It's hateful. It reduces me to nothing, just a bundled package of sex for Morton Dean. Mentally, I join women's lib. My current kidnapper drinks in my twisted nudity. I don't blame him, I'm all here for his enjoyment. Why shouldn't he gloat--he's got a million dollars worth of breasts and pubic hair in his trunk and large areas of feminine skin waiting to be marked. He's got it good.
"Hate me?"
"I--I don't know. I liked you that day we talked, but I wish you hadn't done this. Look, please untie a bit of something. This really does hurt."
Morton unties my elbows. I say thank you, but I am still hogtied.
"Nice thing about you, Coralie, is you can talk--no hysterics. You're frightened and cheesed off, but you still see me as human."
"Gee thanks! You mean, we'll chat while I'm whipped?" He nods, confirming a thought of his own. "I can beat that sarcasm out of you, Coralie. Not sure I want to, though."
"I'll be a lot more interesting if you don't."
"If you're wondering why I'm leaving you in there, it's simply an intriguing situation--a bound girl naked in the trunk of my car! I'd be the envy of a million men."
"But they'd want me for sex; you want me to whip."
"You sure about that, sweetheart?"
Laughing, he picks me up as though I was a bag of feathers, then puts me back down while he unties the rope joining my hands and feet. He unties my feet, but they remain shackled with Burdock's lovely steel. Morton's got free leg irons along with a free girl. My hands are tied.
"You may as well walk, sweetheart."
It's an underground garage, huge with monolithic concrete. Cars are scattered around but without any sign of life. Morton's hand in my hair guides me to an elevator. Lights flicker from G on up to twenty, then go one more to P. The door slides open.
The view is tremendous, the space vast. Morton enjoys my gasp.
"The penthouse, sweetheart--total privacy. I own several buildings like this, scattered around. Burdock won't find you easily."
Money! Oh, damn, how can a naked girl with her hands tied behind her back fight all this wealth? I can see why men like Burdock and Morton look on girls as bartered amusements. With all this power they can't possibly take a girl seriously. Behind us the elevator door closes. I am trapped.
"C'mon, I'll give you the tour."
Morton's so deliciously civilized. He unties my hands before pushing me into the bathroom. He tells me not to hurry. I don't. I'm a much prettier girl when I emerge, but I cringe as I see he's still holding the rope. I shrug and turn, crossing my wrists in the old familiar gesture and making the old familiar gasp as they are knotted tight.
"Didn't expect liberty, did you?"
"Of course not. I simply hoped...." It is all lush and rich and wonderful, and there's miles of it. An awful lot of space has been wasted on rooms wherein I can be caged or whipped or tortured or chained... or whatever. There is also a black hole for when I've been really bad. I think a girl may as well expect a black hole somewhere. It emerges from some dark abyss in the masculine mind. Apart from this black solitary place the views go on forever. Fancy being married to a man with all this money!
I am taken out onto the patio. There seems to be acres of it and a garden with real trees and a little pond, all the trim-rope and steel is not."
"You've never been loved?"
Morton's chuckle is not really cynical, just wise. "Sure, I've been loved. That's why I've got the cage, and that's the reason your hands are tied."
I drop the subject. Wealth has given Morton Dean freedom. He's probably no different from what any man would be, given all his cash.
"What are you going to do with me, Morton?"
"You know. I told you at the Big T."
"I had hoped you were only kidding."
"You know damn well I wasn't. I'm giving you drinks and conversation before I whip you. Don't be so impatient." My fear--my worst phobia! Morton has read my mind. "Don't worry, you won't be skinned. I've got the right whip and the right technique. You're in good hands. In case you're wondering, yes, there's a lot of other stuff I'll try out on you. Should be interesting."
I sip and empty the glass. When he places the second beside my bound elbow, I think aloud. "Won't I ever see another girl, again?"
He's ready for the question. "Do you want to, sweetheart?"
"It's going to be awful lonely when you're off on business."
"Hmmmm, a compliment! So you'd like another girl around?"
"That's not what I said."
"How'd it be if I kidnap Daisy? She's damn near alone out there."
I shrink up inside. The poor dear's in enough trouble already without coming here and being whipped every day along with me, but I consider the ease with which she can be captured. It is frightening.
"No, please--let her alone."
"Doesn't have to get her ass whipped. She could look after you, and I bet she's a good lay."
"Don't be vulgar on my account. A slave gets used to the facts of life."
I am consumed by a terrible desire. I want Daisy here with me so damn bad, but I mustn't let Morton see. He can't be serious. I won't let him be serious. "You could have one of your floozies drop in for coffee sometime," I suggest pathetically. "I'd be satisfied with that. Don't whip me for asking."
"I don't know any floozies."
"Sorry--lady friends."
"Hoping they'll let you loose?"
"I don't ever expect to be free again. I kissed freedom goodbye with Burdock. I'm sure your girls are well trained. Anyway, you can chain me to something they can't move."
"The girl who's well trained is you." Morton's gaze rests complacently on my breasts. "More likely it's intelligence. You've got it. You're in a jackpot to send most girls hairy, but you're not treating me like a monster."
"You're not one."
"Thanks." He lifts his regard. "Not even when I'm going to whip you in a little while?"
"I wish you wouldn't harp on that, or do you want me in a quiver? If you do, I have to warn you that I'm not at my best when trembling."
Morton Dean is nodding, docketing his new possession. Despite feminine wiles he'll have me tagged. With a start, he notices my glass and refills it for the third time. "Here, I want to get you feeling no pain."
"Then why give me any?"
"You know damn well why. The pain I'll give you--and the way I'll give it--is as far removed from dropping something heavy on your foot as chalk is from cheese. " He's right, of course, These men are always right. They make the rules. But Morton holds my interest. He's got a mind, and if I can stay on the right side of it and hold his interest, things may work out. Anyway, it's my only chance. On the spur of the moment, figuring I've got nothing to lose, I stand up and make my voice jaunty.
"Okay, Morton, take me and whip me and get it over with."
"Sit down!"
His command cuts my feet from under me. I flop. There's still something in my glass. I bend and sip it eagerly. I'm trembling for real.
"Don't ever take initiative, Coralie. I won't go for it. Understand?"
He's reduced me to nothing. "Yes, sir," I say.
"I value your conversation, girl. No prods."
"I'll obey you. Please don't be angry. This isn't all that easy for me, y'know." I try and look appealing. "I'll be grateful for any help you'll give me. Honest! I'm not being abject."
"All right, forget it. I'm asking a lot of you. If I didn't figure you had it to give, I wouldn't have bothered. Want another drink?"
"Good heavens, I've had three!"
"You know your capacity. If you can handle one more, I'd like you to. What I'm going to do is a sort of instruction. I'd like you to be relaxed."
"I'd like to be relaxed. Thanks. Let's try it."
My heart is thumping. I'm a little girl who's been reprimanded. I suppose I did come on a bit strong, but what the hell! I'm full grown--an adult. Why should I have to watch my words and sit here naked with my hands tied behind my back? Why? Why? Why? But, oh jeepers, I'm scared.
Morton unties my hands.
"Okay, sweetheart, escape."
"It isn't possible, is it?"
Morton shrugs and takes a seat beneath a huge parasol. "Go ahead, satisfy yourself."
I have nothing to lose. I clink slowly around the perimeter with its waist-high pediment. Here and there I look over and down, then shudder. I try the elevator, but it has no controls. I'm not all that interested. I know Morton Dean will never let me get away, but it's a funny feeling--all this and still a captive.
"Don't figure you're suicidal."
"I'm not. You won't even have to restrain me."
"Oh, come now, sweetheart." He laughs. "Can't have you throwing dishes over the side or waving sheets. This is a place to relax in the sun, so long as I'm around."
"Do you want to tie me again now?" I make to turn. "Skip it." Morton gazes on my nakedness with pride. "But look, I'm a busy man. You'll be alone quite a bit. I'm going downtown right now. It's just as well I be noticed today. I'll always make sure you're safe while I'm gone."
"I bet you will."
I've seen this cage on the tour. You get them in pet shops, only this is heavier, all black welded mesh. It sits on a platform draped in white. It is the only thing in the room. Beyond it is plate glass and the view. The cage is big enough for a girl. I'll be a pretty parrot. I fight a hysterical need to giggle.
"Get inside, honey."
I sag. Everything's crazy and hopeless. I'm just a pet in a cage. Good gosh, what next! But there's no use fighting. There just isn't any use. I insert my head within the tiny prison, and the rest of me follows cautiously, inch by inch. "Hands behind your back."
"Look, Morton, you don't need to do this. You don't need to put me in here."
"Do it!"
I know steel when I hear it. I cross my wrists. There's room but it's cramped. I expect someone measured a girl before they made it. Morton reaches in and ties me with hard decisive motions. He doesn't have much room either. He closes the steel rimmed door on me and snaps a padlock, then another. It only needs one to keep me safe; the second is psychological. I squirm and twist until I manage to sit, but I can't sit upright, so I have to bow my head.
"Okay, Coralie?"
"Not really."
"You'll make out. I won't be gone too long."
"Why have you tied my hands? It would be bad enough--" Morton Dean grins and chuckles. "Because I'm mean, honey, just plain mean."
Alone, my mind crowds into chaos. Poor darling Daisy, she'll think I've escaped. She'll hate me and be thinking up all the punishments she'll get when Burdock returns. I wouldn't blame her for running away, but she won't. She'll stay on at the Big T, do her duty, and take her lumps. She even forgot to handcuff me. Oh, damn!
I've vanished. As far as the Big T is concerned, I've disappeared without a trace. I don't know where they'd even start looking. Morton Dean couldn't have handled it more neatly. I'll never see Patsy or Burdock or Daisy again. Tears are spilling over. I brush them away on my bare knees which are bent right up to my face. It's real handy.
I'm angry. I get my feet against the tiny door and push. I'm exactly braced for it. Nothing moves. Now I try the mesh. It doesn't move either. I can't touch the locks. Morton was right, he was mean to tie my hands--real mean. Tied hands make this cage twice as bad as it needs to be. I do the only thing I can; I look out the window.
I'm not sure what to believe about Morton. He said he'd whip me every day, but he could have been fooling. I can't forget the things he just showed me. I can't believe he's had them made just to scare a girl. But he must surely have had other girls in here. It's unlikely I'm the first. But what does it matter? I wriggle and shift, but the cage laughs at comfort. It was made to hold me and that is what it does.
It seems a long time before Morton Dean returns, but it's most likely only been a couple of hours. He's a kid with a new toy he doesn't want to stop playing with. Because I don't have hands, he has to help extract me from the cage. It would be a lot simpler if he untied me, but he obviously doesn't want to, so piss on him!
Morton Dean is a man of decision. He lays me on my bound hands and fucks me right there--just like that! He is very far from impotent, but I expect I'll enjoy the next time a lot more than this time.
"No beefs, honey?"
"What's the use? This isn't my first kidnapping, y'know." He is pleased with things so far. A girl can always tell. I lay on a bound arm while he kneels and looks down. Talk about pride!
"You deserve a drink."
I am picked up and carried into the sunlight. While he goes back for the cocktails, I choose a chair and table beneath a parasol. The tall glass placed beside me contains a straw. I bend to it eagerly.
"You must have had other girls here, Morton."
"Never said I didn't." He reviews whole platoons of females in his mind. "But you're my first ownership. I own you. Feels good."
"If a girl loves you, you own her."
"Not the same thing, honey. Love is cruelly fragile, but after I'd got adjusted to Burdock and Daisy and the Big T. Life's giving me a raw deal.
The fresh drink is beside me again. Morton resumes his seat. "Resentful, Coralie?"
"Yes. Mostly I'm frightened."
"You'll feel better after I've whipped you."
It's right out of this world--two people like us talking this way! Talking about whipping me as though I was getting a ride downtown! And I go right along with it. Oh, damn and double damn! Bizarre as it may sound, he's probably right. I want to lay my head on his shoulder and cry.
Morton nods sagely, the vibes I get are good. An undemanding silence absorbs us until my drink has gone. He rises instantly. I follow. This is it! We don't need words now.
There's so many rooms he can afford one for each thing he does to me. The ropes from above are its only furnishings except the lovely rug--and the view! I may tire of the view. It spells isolation from the world.
A band on each of my wrists, strapped tight, and there's a ring. The hanging ropes capture the ring and my arms raise and stretch out to the sides. I wonder if he can hear the pounding of my heart.
"Unoriginal. You'll have a good deal of freedom of motion. But perfect for my purpose."
I'm not sure what his purpose is. At this moment I hate men with all my heart. If only they were not so much stronger than girls! I look up at my outstretched arms. He is right, I will be able to wriggle and plunge outrageously as the lash bites my skin, but no doubt that's what he wants. My heels are just barely off the floor, I'm only half on my toes. I am ready to be whipped.
"I had this made for me." Morton dangles a cluster of thongs before my eyes. "Looks wicked, eh? And this one too. Does it look innocent?"
It just seems like a strap, not as heavy as the one used on Patsy. Striving for calm, I tell Morton I'll give an opinion after he's used them on me.
It starts right away, no preliminary wait. The strap slaps across my bottom with a surprising amount of noise. I don't go berserk, I don't do anything. I just stand tense and horrified at what's going to be done to me. Heat spreads, flesh tingles.
"Not too bad, eh?"
"No. Thank you."
Crazy, crazy! Why do I offer thanks? Well, it didn't hurt all that bad. Morton hits me again. I twist a bit, quiveringly expectant. The third is a scorching blaze of heat, but I do not scream. I wonder if I can get through this without screaming. I tug and twist against my tethered hands. It sure does help.
"Try the whip now, Coralie."
Just like that! Like being offered a new drink. I gasp, my head rears, my nostrils flare as the thongs splay across my unmarked back. But I do not scream. My silence is not heroic; it is a surprised silence, waiting for the truly awful pain to come. Lashes bite me twice again before Morton Dean comes back into view.
"Well, Coralie, what do you think?"
I don't know what to think. Apologetically, I tell him so. His response is never what I expect.
"You're very lovely like that. I should fasten you like this for an hour every day."
"Well, can't you?"
"Forgive me, I'm forgetting I own you."
Does he ever! I've never felt more helpless or exposed. When Morton palms my cunt, I'm not surprised. Every man gravitates to cunts as metal does to a magnet. Girls hold magic between their legs. We repeat the ritual: three with the strap across the cheeks of my bottom, three with the whip across my back.
"Caught on, Coralie? Tell me."
"You can whip me a long time before I pass out--is that it?"
"Forget the passing out."
"I'm sorry. I'm sort of lost. It hurts but I can bear it. Is that what you want?"
"Pretty much."
"Do you want me to scream?"
"Is that an offer, Coralie?"
"Yes. I mean, it's not hard to do under these circumstances."
The strap flails, blow after blow, across my bottom without pause. I scream in genuine distress.
"You see, I can always make you."
"Yes, Morton."
"So scream when you have to. Don't ever fake it. I'll know."
I'm panting and sweating. That series of blows reached a crescendo I couldn't cope with. I hang from the ropes, grateful for respite.
Morton goes back behind. He strikes me again with the whip. I still have plenty of unmarked skin. Anyway, I wouldn't bleed for quite awhile, even with blow on top of blow. I writhe and moan. It's the only tribute I need pay.
"Often think about whipping a girl," Morton continues musingly. "A man tries to get an endless orgasm out of her--her motions and the sounds she makes. Do you agree?"
"Probably. It sounds reasonable."
My bottom blazes under the strap. I yelp and writhe. The ropes holding me are quite willing for me to writhe. They tether me but in a strange compassion.
"Suppose I whip you all afternoon, Coralie?"
"I--I simply don't know. Oh, please, Morton... not on my first day! Please!"
"You've had it."
I hear him, but I don't believe him. Wonderingly, I look back over a bare shoulder. Morton holds his strap and drinks in my reddened skin. I feel like a bit of a fraud. I also feel a vast relief. He grins at my concern and walks back to where I can see him easily.
"Yes, your first day. Thought we'd try a few other things as well. Had some of 'em made especially for you."
My heart plummets again, but I manage to respond. "Yes, of course."
"You sound almost eager."
"I have to, don't I? I'm a slave."
He nods. I realize he's feeling his way with me, as I am with him. This is a different deal than Burdock and the Big T. Oh, damn, I'm going to have to learn everything all over. I stand passively while Morton plays idly with my interesting places. He has the master's touch. My heat flares, but not where I've been whipped.
"One more thigh, though. I want to test you for self-control. Hold one foot out sideways."
I know what this is going to be. I long to close my legs and plead against the whipping of my cunt. It's not fair to do that to a girl. Men don't get their genitals whipped, so why should we? I stick out my leg as far as I can. With the special whip, Morton strikes up under it. I howl and dance around in pain.
"Hurt, eh?"
"Beastly--it's horrible!"
"Good to know. Now the other one."
I quench questions and pleadings. He does not want them. I repeat my servile offering of flesh for pain. He hits me in the same place on the opposite side but this time from the rear. I yelp in shock and cannot keep my leg from its own acknowledgement of anguish. With the critical eye of a ballerina, my new owner watches me dance.
"That's all, Coralie. Could you have kept it up?"
"Only for a little while. It's a beastly pain in there." I writhe in front of him, uncaring.
"You come up to expectations."
"Happy to give satisfaction."
We share a spasm of laughter at the absurdity of our dialogue. I'd be much happier if I didn't know about the other diversions Morton has waiting.
"Have to find a key to those shackles, Coralie. You did okay with 'em, but there'll be times...!"
I'm sure there will be. For the moment I burn enough up there in the moist cleft no man is supposed to see. My pulse quickens as my arms fall and the straps are unbuckled from my wrists.
"Chained feet are handy at a time like this, Coralie."
"I suppose so, but I don't know where I'd run." I sniff disdainfully. "I'm not making any breaks unless I figure they're sure fire."
"Sensible girl. I'll lay a trap for you sometime. This way, my dear."
The room holds a pillory. It stands starkly in sole possession. Soon it will possess me. It is unlike those weathered chunks of oak you find in English villages. It is functionally modem. Morton introduces its qualities with a grave pride. All I see at the start are the pathetically small holes into which I must fit.
"It's been beveled and polished for your wrists and neck," he explains helpfully as though demonstrating a domestic appliance. "You'll note it is within the two uprights from floor to ceiling and can be widely adjusted. Look."
An unseen motor responds to the pressure of my master's finger on a button. The stocks slowly and portentously rise within channels oiled against friction and sound. Another button and they descend like the blade of a dignified guillotine. I already hate the beastly thing.
"On your toes or on your knees, dear. Versatile, eh?"
"Oh, Morton! I suppose it's marvelous, but do I have to be put in it?"
My protest passes unnoticed. Another button separates the stocks, widening them to receive me. "I'll want your reactions to this, Coralie. Sometime after I've got you safe I'll leave you alone. You won't know whether I'm in the building or gone, and you won't know the time or what'll happen when I get back. Savvy?"
"I'll go ape!"
"You know you won't. How about getting into position?"
He's less direct than Burdock, but I know a command when I hear one. I look at the waiting monster. I could swear its orifices have shrunk. I look at the grave male face. I shrug. I clink to my fate and insert myself within. When it closes upon my neck and wrists, I become a part of it. Warm girl flesh is now within polished oak and silent steel. I cannot move. The tiny holes are precise to my dimensions.
"Extraordinary effect. Pity you can't see yourself." The male voice behind me sounds intent and absorbed. "It's a dismemberment." Morton comes around front. "Ah, there you are. I was afraid I'd lost you."
"Very funny!"
Morton disappears again. He spanks my bottom but not brutally. He palms my puss and the thong's scorch to either side. "I want to get those shackles off," he says testily. "Be right back."
He is not right back. I try to twist and turn. I can't. This damn contraption has no sympathy for girls. I sense its hostile relentlessness. I could easily get frightened.
"Well, here we are!" I can't see Morton Dean, but there's a click of keys. "Damn funny if one of these doesn't fit!"
I don't care whether one fits or not. Up here in this penthouse and the roof garden it doesn't matter to me if my feet are chained. These lovely leg irons are my only legacy from Burdock, and I hate to part with them. It would appear a slave finds nostalgia in strange ways. A month ago suggestion of getting my ankles ironed would have driven me up the wall.
I feel the busy fingers. It's damn odd, this being divorced from most of me. I'm shockingly vulnerable back where I can't see, but suddenly there's an exclamation and an anklet falls, then the other. My feet are free! Somehow I wish they weren't. The motor exerts a fresh insistence on the back of my neck.
"Stretch 'em wide, honey."
I have to in order to keep my neck from breaking. When the motor stops, I am well bent and well straddled, and far from happy. My opened bottom rears far too high for complacency. Morton Dean's fingers explore what I unwillingly offer. My pussy sticks out behind.
It's impalement. I might have known. But I can't play virgin outrage. I mean, this is the second time, and I wasn't a virgin to begin with. Male hands grasp my hips, I don't have to do a thing. The thrust is a steady penetration into my womb. His damn thingummy must be a mile long. I'd never have believed it, and I can't move.
When my penetration is over, and I can't say I got much out of it, the motor raises me again to what is presumably the normal stance for a girl imprisoned in a pillory. Gratefully, I close the distance between my feet. The shackles claim my ankles once again.
"Save looking for somewhere to put 'em, Coralie. I sort of like the way you do your little goosestep."
Morton Dean comes around to where we can see each other. With surprising gentleness, he grasps my hair and lifts my face to where he can plant a chaste kiss on my forehead. His "Thank you, honey" sounds sincere, almost reverent. His remark is not.
"You're quite something. You sure you don't have a little girl inside there playing tricks?"
"I've never met her. I expect it's from the way you had me fixed."
"I'll look for her again sometime." He frees my hair to allow my head to resume its humility. "I'll leave you to your thoughts."
Morton Dean is almost to the door when my plea explodes in urgency. "Don't leave me, don't leave me all alone."
"You're going to say something rude about my invention?"
"I'm frightened."
"What the hell for?"
"I don't know. I'm so helpless, and it's unnatural for a girl to stand and stand like this all day."
"It isn't for all day."
"Well, for a long time then. I can't move."
"Yes, you can." He is once more in view, amused, faintly irritated. "You really do look sweet, y'know."
"I don't feel sweet. I feel silly and indecent and scared."
"No one's going to fuck you in that thing but me, honey. You've just got a touch of claustrophobia."
"Look, Morton--please!" I put my heart into my anxiety. "What good does it do you to leave me alone like this? You can't see me or touch me or do the other thing. Why not chain me some way or lock me up?"
"You've got more imagination than that, Coralie. Figure it yourself: All the time I'm out and around I'll know you're here, I'll be getting mental pictures of the way I see you now--altogether beautiful. You wouldn't want to rob me of that?"
"No, I suppose not."
"Thanks." He kisses me again and then is gone.
Looking from left to right, I greet my hands. They wrinkle their fingers back at me in rueful acknowledgement. They are so snugly held they don't seem part of me but are an extension of the wood. I sigh and survey the hours I may have to wait.
I've nothing to think about while I stand. Morton's got me. He'll hurt me mildly but persistently for as long as I'm beautiful and young. I don't know what he'll do with me then. If he's going to retire me with a pension, I wish he'd tell me so I have something to look forward to.
I wonder if I can persuade him to put a period on my captivity--a year, two years, whatever. I mean, even a month is bad enough, but I'll never get away with that. He could sentence me to servitude and then give me a bit of all this money--it wouldn't hurt him--but I bet he will refuse. It would be making a deal, and I wouldn't be unwilling. He doesn't want me willing; he wants me always thinking of escape. I'll have to match my wits against his, but I don't want to. I want to go back to the Big T.
That's strange now that I think of it: I want the Big T. Why didn't I want freedom?
This is a weird way to be fastened!
I have to escape, I simply have to.
I can wiggle my hips.
It tells me there's still something there.
Hours pass. I cry and fight against an illogical panic. Morton Dean will leave me like this all night. He has been run over by a trunk and I won't be found for days and days. He will strap my bottom when he gets back--if he ever does. My bottom's so beautifully positioned for it. I weep in absolute desuetude.
If only everything was not so tight! Nothing hurts, but I can't even twitch. This thing I'm fastened in is alive, I'm sure of it. I can feel its malignancy as something tangible. I counter it by looking out the window at the blue sky. I can only see sky, but it's innocent and free, and I am not.
Morton's back. I can hear doors and movements. He didn't bother to close the door to this room. I can't see the door, though. Oh, damn, I'm fastened the wrong way. There creeps up on me that awful awareness of being watched. Someone I can't see can look at me all they want, at least my nether portions. Morton isn't the type to creep up behind and give me an awful cut with something. He's not like that--or is he!
I tense and hold my breath. Suppose it isn't Morton! Suppose it's a burglar! And me like this! I stir restlessly, weaving my hips, raising and lowering a leg.
"Hello, Morton," I say doubtfully.
There is no answer--nothing! But there is movement, I can tell. The nape of my neck tingles beneath the yoke, but something touches me. A finger traces my spine from my prisoned neck to the cleft of my bottom. It finds my nipples and explores my pussy.
The hand is female!
CHAPTER FIVE - WHIPS AND LIPS
She comes around front. Laughing eyes, she's curious and enjoying herself. Naturally she's beautiful. With Morton Dean, what else? Her voice is as charming as the rest.
"Hello, Coralie. Morton asked me to drop by. My name's Tiffany."
Nobody can possibly be named Tiffany but I don't care. Very simply I say, "I'm so glad you came. Please get me out of this."
"I'm not supposed to."
"There's buttons you push--"
"Yes, I know, but I won't be pushing them. I'm terribly sorry."
"Why not?"
"Morton told me not to. He said you'd ask. I really am sorry, Coralie. He's had me in spots like this often enough. You get so damn lonely."
I stamp down in irritation. It wouldn't hurt this gorgeous creature to let me loose, and my feet are chained. Instead, I ask, "Are you one of his--?"
"His girls?" There is a trill of laughter. "Yes, I suppose I am. Informal and spontaneous with me. He tells me you're for keeps."
Damn this polite drawing room shit! This girl can give me my life back. If she can only realize that, her power is god-like. Just to press a button, and the key to my shackles will be somewhere around. I put it to her straight.
"But you're my first hope, my only hope. If you don't set me free, I'll be his prisoner for life. Don't you understand, I've been kidnapped by force!"
Tiffany kisses me soothingly. I suspect she kisses everyone. "I find this tremendously interesting," she gushes. "When Morton had me in spots like this, I used to while away the time by pretending I was the way you seem to be. You know--no freedom." She giggles. "It was positively cunt crinkling."
"Not when it's real!"
"You mean, you don't like this? You're not into it?" She sounds pained and shocked.
"Well, if you like it so much, why aren't you standing like this instead of me?"
"I would be if he asked me. Poor darling, let me get you a drink. You're bushed."
She flits away, leaving me to wonder if this isn't some subtle cruelty Morton's thought up--a girl to set me free who won't. Anyway, she's back with a chair, a tray, and two glasses. I mustn't be rude. This is a hell of a lot better than being alone, and she remembered to bring a straw. I suck through it greedily.
"I've known Morton for years. We met at one of the societies. I came home with him. On and off, he's been tying me and whipping and fucking me for the past three years. Isn't it marvelous?"
We are not on the same wavelength. I try and tune in to her. "You mean, you like this? You do it because you want to?"
"Of course! You mean, you don't?" She gazes upon me like I'm something from Mars. "It's the wildest turn-on! "Not for me. I want to go home." Tiffany is seeing me for the first time. Her features soften and she hastily offers me the straw, watching as I empty the glass. "You poor darling, I've never realized a girl could feel--well, the way you say. It's so absolutely wonderful.
"Then how about letting me loose, and I'll fix you in here?"
"Darling, I'd love to, but, well, I do sort of owe Morton. I mean, he'd be real mad at me after he's got a girl he really owns. He's often spoken about having a slave."
"Couldn't you have volunteered?"
"It's not the same, is it, Coralie? The thrill of the chase and ail that. The one time I offered Morton explained about how a man feels. I almost cried, I had got myself so worked up"
"You'd have surrendered yourself to slavery for life?"
"Mmmmmm... oh, darling, you're making me all goosey! It's awful how few men are eligible. Most can't afford me."
"Afford? Good gosh, I haven't cost Morton a penny. He kidnapped me for free, and he's going to keep me naked, so all he has to spend is on a bit of food."
"But, Coralie, this building--it's worth millions, and only very rich men can afford membership in the Big T. Yes, I know about the Big T too. I've always been after Morton to take me out there, but he won't do it."
"I don't think Burdock allows female members."
"I didn't mean as a member, darling. I wanted Morton to do an act on me. Jeepers, up there under the lights in front of all those men! You must have been popping your cork all over the place!"
"Not really... but, well, there were moments."
"I bet there were! But, talking about ordinary joes keeping us--you can't be serious. Most of the poor twits are married, and where could the others keep us? A little bungalow somewhere with the neighbors watching? In a garage? Why, Coralie, that lovely thing you're fixed in must have cost thousands, and those chains on your ankles... I tried to buy some once. Wow!"
Tiffany is a delight. She's something I've never run into before. Gosh, I wish I was out of this contraption. I'd like her to take me home. I'm cheesed off with men and their silly games. Timidly, I try again.
"My chained feet stop me from running or fighting. You'd be quite safe letting me out of this thing for a little while. I'd let you put me back afterwards--I promise."
"If you keep on asking like that, I'll go away and leave you, dear. I simply can't bear it."
"I can't bear it either."
"Yes, you can." Tiffany lifts my chin and kisses me spontaneously. She has a feminine gift for such gestures. The kiss is longer than it need be. It's really worth the kink in my neck. "Tell you what," she bubbles brightly. "I'll have Morton take you out to dinner. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"He can't. I'm not like you--I'd run away."
"Hmmmmm...." Tiffany's eyes glint mischievously. "But suppose you had an incentive to come back here and be a good girl?"
"Not for a million dollars!"
"No, I can see that, but suppose there was a girl who'd be terribly punished if you didn't?"
My heart takes off. Tiffany's a witch. Her green eyes glint with mischief. "But why would you? Morton would never--"
"Yes, he would! He's a man of subtlety, not like your Burdock. Morton would get a real charge out of having you bound in public by invisible bonds--me, that is."
"But you'd do that for me?"
"No, dear, for little old me." Tiffany radiates delight. "Darling, don't you get the drift? This can be the cunt crinkler of a lifetime. I'll be tied here, knowing I'm going to get the most awful punishment, something I can't possibly bear, if you don't come back. Mmmmmmm!"
"But, Tiffany, how can I promise? I simply don't know."
"That's the gamble I take--that's the thrill of it! I'm betting on you being a sweet thing who won't want me branded, or given a hundred strokes with some awful whip, or something worse. Well, you know what men are like!"
She's so eager her eyes alight with a vision I can't share. If I was Morton, I couldn't possibly be cruel to such a sweetheart. "But don't you see," I complain, "you and Morton are friends, so even though I run, he can't possibly be mean to you."
"That's what you think. Morton and I never renege. We can't! If we did, the whole edifice crumbles. Look, Coralie, I'll admit I'm not being all that altruistic. You see, supposing you did run, I'm wondering if Morton might not come back here and see me the way he's seeing you right now. He'd be seeing me frightened."
"Would you be?"
"Well... of my immediate prospects!"
It's plausible enough to get me excited. I can't imagine Morton agreeing, but Tiffany knows him better than I do. There'd be a tremendous charge in it for all three of us. At the worst, I'd be wined and dined. I haven't a thing to lose. I'd come back with Morton, and that won't be easy At least I think I'd come back. I couldn't be enough of a bitch not to--could I?
"Suppose he puts you in this awful thing?"
"Yummy!"
Oh well...
Morton watches. He's enjoying me, picking up my excitements. I'm thrilling to this atmosphere of wealth and privilege and this marvelous gown Tiffany produced for me from Morton's vast wardrobe. My breasts are cupped in a bra, my pussy wears panties. It's been so long!
"Piquant, eh?" Morton raises his glass. "To the most beautiful girl in the place."
He's right, I am. I love it. Girls like being told they're beautiful. If, in the middle of some awful punishment, I was told I was beautiful, I'm sure it would help--a little. "Thank you for bringing me. I know the risk."
"The Big T bunch don't come to this place. As for the other...." He shrugs. "Seems like you've got two people betting on you. Forget Tiffany, and enjoy."
I cannot easily forget Tiffany. I see her as I saw her last--fully dressed but with arms and hands tied high. She stood helpless but at ease. If I do not return, she will be stripped and whipped brutally. Her face wore a small, secret smile. "Not sure it's real, Coralie?"
"Who would be! I'm still trying to cope with that girl." Morton laughs. "Wouldn't be true to say she's one in a thousand. There's a few of 'em left around. She's the best, though."
"Why don't you make her happy and give her my job?"
"No analysis at dinner. Shut up."
"Oh, all right. This is so wonderful. I've never been this high on the social scale. Morton, isn't this a lot nicer than having me in that thing?"
"No, it's not. Neither is an absolute. They both have their place."
"It seems awfully absolute to me--being a slave."
"I'll concede that. I don't know any way to reality except the way I'm doing it with you. Tiffany's a dream, but she shatters it by willingly offering something to which force and compulsion is implicit."
I digest Morton Dean's wisdom along with the marvelous wine and dreamy food. I can understand how he and Tiffany are trapped and limited, but I mustn't be thinking of any of this last while as normal. It isn't, it's crazy. Maybe they all have too much money and get bored. Of course, I can understand this wish for a slave girl. I think it's part of man's consciousness. It's not that long ago since men really had them.
"Why don't you take her out to the Big T to be whipped?" I ask innocently.
"Burdock prefers his own girls. He wouldn't be proving anything with Tiffany. With the others he is."
"But just to oblige a friend?"
"I haven't asked." He chuckles. "I'm possessive. I value Tiffany. She's in no way ordinary."
The Big T! I suppose I'll never see it again. Poor Daisy will be frantic, but Morton Dean can't phone, and he's not likely to let me. For him, it's good the way it is. Everything boils down to should I run or go back to captivity with him. I don't know either he or Tiffany well enough to guess whether he'd really hurt her on my account. If I had to bet, I'd say he would. But then there's the angle of how much hurt she can take. She may be back there quivering in an erotic hope I won't return and she'll be in for the high jump. Oh, jeepers!
"No trip to the powder room, Coralie?" Morton Dean has been reading my mind. "I'm no more sure of you than you are of me, y'know." He grins understandingly. "If you want an assurance, you've got it. I'll give Tiffany the full treatment."
"But if she's a masochist--"
"She isn't! She'll endure the first bit bravely, but she'll hate the rest. I'll have her screaming." He frowns. "Damn it. I'd hoped you'd enjoy this outing, but the decision is spoiling it for you. I'll tell you straight: If I were you, I'd run."
"Give me an incentive for it then. What had you planned for me tomorrow?"
"Wouldn't it be more prudent to ask what I've planned for you tonight?"
"I suppose it would--sorry! Do I sleep with you or in a cage?"
"That's better." His grin is comfortable. "Flippancy irons out the rough spots. I like it. Drink some more wine. I'd thought of having Tiffany share my bed while you're tied to the bedpost and have to watch."
"Score one for you," I say to him, feeling frustrated. "Then what?"
"I'll likely wake in the night. I'll chain your ankle to the bed so you can sleep on the floor. I believe in a girl getting her proper rest."
"I'm lucky I belong to you."
"Glad you realize it. I've had doubts."
"I don't want to belong to anybody, but that's beside the point. Please continue. This far I can face."
"In the morning, the pillory?"
"That again! I'll go to the powder room right after coffee."
"Just kidding. What I will do is tie your hands and elbows tight behind your back and allow you the run of the place while I'm away. While I'm there too, for that matter. The telephone will be locked away. And, tied like that, you can't do a thing to attract attention."
"Is that all?"
"By noon your elbows will be in agony. You'll be pleading. If you're properly abject, I might free you for lunch."
"I'm still 'not going to the powder room."
"And I'm not making this up to stop you. Being my plaything is not full-time agony."
I've still so much to learn about Morton Dean. If Tiffany likes him, he can't be all that much of a bastard, and he hasn't mentioned whipping me. I'm so frightened of that. I affect nonchalance.
"And my afternoon?"
"I'm addicted to frustrating girls, as well as whipping them. You can stand against a wall with one hand cuffed up above your head. You just stand. You'll hate it." None of what he speaks of is torture. It's just the denigration of a girl, the abasement of a youthful female into a puppet whose limbs can be changed at will. She can be made to sit or stand or whatever. And she'd better be damn good and polite the whole time. Being Morton Dean's slave will be an endless bore. It's a twenty-four hour thing interspersed by being whipped or some way hurt. I drive weariness from my voice.
"I'm still with you. No powder room."
"Tiffany will be grateful. She's ticking her neck out for you."
"What about you--suppose I ran?"
"I didn't have you yesterday, sweetheart. If I don't have you tomorrow, life will go on."
No love business, no vows of desolation if I disappear. That's a nice thing about Morton--a girl's something to whip and no sloppy sentiment. But I'm surprisingly piqued; girls are sometimes as ridiculous as men. Still, I have to be thankful for this evening. I'll be happy if it kills me. It's not that hard. When my time runs short, I actually do need the little girl's room.
"May I, Morton? Not if it's going to--"
"Run along."
There's the five dollars Tiffany slipped into my bag. I suppose it's really Morton's bag, not mine. I buy silver at the desk. Under a strange compulsion I dial the penthouse. There should be no answer, but the voice is Tiffany's.
"What are you doing loose?" I demand.
"Coralie! I wondered if you'd guess. It's a trick. Please forgive me."
"But I don't understand."
There comes a trill of laughter. "Nobody understands Morton except me, darling. Are you free?"
"Yes, I'm free."
"Then run like hell!"
The phone goes dead. The dial tone mocks me. I have one decision left. It doesn't seem a bit hard. I dial the Big T Ranch. What I'm really dialing is Daisy's arms.
* * *
Her name is Eleanor. She's a legal secretary. She's twenty-five and sure there's been some mistake. She stands in awkward nakedness and looks down at me where I lay upon the bed. She seems to think it's all my fault.
"I don't understand any of this. What did you say your name was--Coralie? Well, Coralie, this is too absurd--adults like us. Why are your hands tied behind your back like that?"
"It's sort of a long story."
"Would you like me to untie them?"
"You might as well. Then I can make breakfast."
"Breakfast! In this place? It's some sort of prison--at least I can't get out."
I turn on my tummy and let her tug at Daisy's knots. I am engulfed in a delightful lassitude. I scarcely remember Daisy tying me hands last night. I was asleep before the last knot. It had been a long, long day.
"Unlawful detention, that's what it is." Eleanor is still tugging. "Someone's going to prison for a long time."
"Yes," I agree blandly. "We are."
"It's not a matter for levity," she says crossly. "I shall demand someone in charge to explain."
"Daisy will be down after awhile. The real owner's on his honeymoon. Gee, thanks!" I get up and rub my wrists. "C'mon, I'll show you around."
"Like this--naked! We absolutely must put something on."
Poor dear. From a lawyer's office to this! I must try to be kind. "We have to be naked; it's the rules," I explain innocently. "And anyway, there's no clothes."
Eleanor speaks of torts and misdemeanors as we go to the kitchen. I get the coffee going. I am very happy.
"The two of us could surely overpower that Chinese girl when she comes. I really must get back to the office."
"We couldn't. She's a karate expert. Anyway, she and I are lovers."
"I beg your pardon!"
"Yes, we're a pair of lesbians. Do you take cream?"
"You can't be serious."
"I'll make love to you, if you like. Look, I'm doing bacon and eggs. Do you want--"
"I wouldn't dream of it. Yes, I'll have some, thanks."
"The bacon and the eggs--or me?"
"The food, not that disgusting thing."
The poor creature has become red-faced. I'm not being kind at all, but to be back here's such a relief. "I'll get Daisy to help me tie you down sometime," I tell Eleanor blandly. "Then your conscience won't be bothered. We'll put a pillow under--"
"Please stop. I can't understand you at all. Do you work for these awful people?"
"I'm just a happy prisoner. Isn't this a gorgeous apartment?"
"It's a prison! Those bars--"
"Well, cheer up. I'll whip your bottom this evening at the show."
"You'll do what?"
By the time Daisy arrives for coffee I've got Eleanor partly educated. She's not sure what to believe, but she gets the drift. Daisy is as happy as I am. We both wallow in a vast relief, but Burdock's shadow is heavy on us both, and she feels guilt.
"I shouldn't have had you running loose up there."
"If he hadn't found me, he would've taken you."
"Anyway, no more freedom for you, Coralie. I'm having Hiram the hired man dress decently and play security guard until Burdock gets back. I wouldn't be surprised to see him show up unexpectedly. This is his life, and he'll soon get bored with what he's doing."
"Morton Dean's got those lovely ankle chains of mine."
"I know. Hiram's going to rivet Burdock's favorite set on you today." Daisy giggles. "They're a bit heavy."
"I hope you two know what you're talking about," Eleanor says unapprovingly.
We assure her we do.
"Is Eleanor the only girl we've got for tonight?" I enquire anxiously. "You'd better use me."
"I need you for the drinks. Then, later, we can whip Eleanor. We'll fix her some cute way. That's all they'll get this evening, so make it good."
Eleanor rises haughtily. "I'm not the least bit impressed."
"You finished breakfast?" Daisy asks, an edge in her voice.
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Then turn around and cross your wrists behind your back."
"I'll do no such thing!" Eleanor is genuinely aghast at such impertinence. "You need not think--" I don't know how Daisy does it, but in about four seconds flat Eleanor's on her face and Daisy's knee is fast into her back while her hands bind the protesting wrists very tight. Daisy doesn't even need my help. I watch in admiration.
"This is an outrage." Eleanor struggles erect and shakes herself like a ruffled hen. "You've tied my hands."
"Yes, we noticed." Daisy delivers her sweetest smile. "You don't have to stay in the kitchen if we're bothering you."
"But I can't walk around naked with my hands tied behind my back."
"Why not?" Daisy asks in mock innocence.
Eleanor searches for a devastating answer, but she can't find one sufficiently withering. She sniffs and flounces from our presence. The last we see of her is a pair of tied and angry hands. Poor darling, whoever buys her will need a sense of humor. She might amuse Morton Dean.
"Coralie, will you mind very much being a prisoner here while Burdock and Patsy are gone?" Poor Daisy is concerned.
"After yesterday it will be heaven."
"Wrists and ankles both?"
"That's how I started my punishment. May as well finish that way. Besides, we can't be sure about Burdock. If he shows up--"
"Okay. We'll do the dishes, then go and get your feet chained."
Delightful! Just us girls. I think of Morton Dean and shudder. It's not that he's so bad, but he's male and portentous and it all means so much to him. He should take his Tiffany and be grateful. Soberly, I tell Daisy, "Don't ever give me freedom again, just a bit for the evenings. If I ever quibble, use that Masonic grip on me; it's cute."
Hiram has been around the Big T a long time. He's seen a lot of naked girls. He's impersonally polite and calls me ma'am. In the same way he'd shoe a horse, he irons my feet. Daisy and I watch the rivets splat down under his hammer so no key will get me loose. I'm sure Hiram would brand me in this same impersonal detachment if requested.
"There y'are, ma'am--nice and tidy. You won't be doin' no runnin'."
I'm not sure I can even walk. These are really truly irons in the full original sense, they don't pretend to be silver or gold. They've been put on me to snub my steps, and this they do most admirably. They are out of the dark ages with a modern finish, they're not really ugly. I expect I'll get used to their weight. We depart the blacksmith shop, giggling, Daisy's anxious hand beneath my arm.
Eleanor does not approve. Her raised eyebrow is censorous. "Really! You are quite something."
Daisy locks me inside but stays beyond the bars to watch. "What have you done to deserve that?" Eleanor asks. "I tried to escape. I've been sentenced to a term of imprisonment in chains."
"Barbaric nonsense. I'll be glad when the manager returns." Eleanor sniffs. "I'll give him a piece of my mind."
"My hands are supposed to be chained too." I turn to an enraptured Daisy. "We forgot the handcuffs."
I offer my wrists. It is easy for Daisy to reach through the bars and circle them with shining steel. Their busy diking as she clasps them tight elicits a gasp from our visitor with the tied hands.
"Those things are for policeman and criminals, not girls." I shrug. I hold up my joined hands for Eleanor to admire, but she scrutinizes them with horror. They label me delinquent.
"Horrible! Do they hurt?"
"Not if I don't try and get them off."
"Care to try a pair?" Daisy suggests from the passage.
It's the second time Eleanor flounces from our socially dubious presence. Daisy and I wink and grin. Then she goes upstairs.
For a minute I stand beside the pool. I am back to square one, but how many squares are there in my past and in my future? I gaze idly down at the metal by which I am restrained and punished, as it were, by love. I feel a thrill. Tiffany has bequeathed me something, or perhaps I am glad to be as Burdock would approve. I kick a foot to make it give me a metallic reprimand.
I clatter my way to my room. Yesterday tired me and today I am beautifully relaxed. I am happy with the metal locked on my wrists and ankles. At the Big T it carries virtue. I am exactly as Burdock ordered me. I will lay on my bed and dream.
But Eleanor is waiting with her forceful sentiments, twisting incessantly against tied hands. With a body like that I don't know what she was doing in a lawyer's office. Since there is no management to complain to she complains to me.
"I simply must get back to the office."
"Go ahead, it's a couple of thousand miles south."
"The phone--"
"We're not allowed to use phones; we're slaves."
"That's too, too ridiculous. The company I work for is Peabody, Thwait and Peameal. I shall speak to Mr. Peabody with a view to an action."
"You'll never see Mr. Peabody again, or the other two either."
"You're not a bit helpful."
Poor girl, her legal omnipotence is in for a shock this evening. Eleanor is a classic case of a girl closing her eyes to reality until she's been whipped. I relish the thought; I hate lawyers!
"What do you expect me to do?" I demand, exasperated.
"I'm more of a prisoner than you right now."
"No, you're not. You can still do things, even with those awful objects on your wrists. I'm entirely helpless. I suspect you're secretly in cahoots with the management."
I wonder what Burdock would think of being called the management. I bet he'd whip Eleanor's ass but good! Casually, I take her one more step.
"Don't be too mad at this place, darling. You'll likely be sold today or tomorrow."
"What was that?"
"A girl with a body like yours sells quickly, and there's bound to be one of the fellows who'll love your beefs."
"Sold? Men?" She absorbs the enormity of what she's heard. "You mean, men will see me like this?"
"They certainly won't pay money for you with clothes on. They want to see what they're buying."
"You're joking!" Eleanor gazes around in desperation, presumably for Mr. Peabody or Mr. Thwait or Mr. Peameal. "You can't possibly sell me. If some brothel wants to pay you a thousand or two for my person, I'm quite willing to top the sum in order to get out of this predicament."
"No brothels, Eleanor, and you won't fetch less than a quarter million."
Lawyers respect cash. Eleanor opens her mouth and fails to shut it. After a short lapse she returns to battle "You mean, some lecher will pay me that much for the privilege of performing coitus?"
"No lecher, no coitus, and it's not you who gets the money; it's the Big T."
"I could never agree to such a thing."
Eleanor is hard going, but I have nothing else to do. Mischief prompts me. "You'll be tied so you don't have to agree to a thing, darling. Your pussy and your breasts will spark the bidding. They'll be well exposed."
"I don't believe a word. You're just being mean and unkind. If they sold girls here, they'd have sold you long ago instead of keeping you imprisoned."
"All right then, what do you think is going to be done with you?"
"It's sex--I'm sure it's sex. They're white slavers. But they won't dare touch me when they find out who and what I am. It would be different if I was a girl from the working class."
"You'll be sold to a man who'll keep you in bondage. He'll tie you and whip you and do whatever else he wants. If he has sex with you, you'll be lucky."
I'm ashamed. I'm not being a bit kind to poor Eleanor, but she really is a pain in the ass. I'm only telling her the truth. "No gentleman would ever do such a thing to me."
"Could be they're not gentlemen."
"Anyone with the money you speak of would have to be. Look, Coralie, would you mind untying my hands?"
"Daisy tied them, so they stay tied."
"But I can't do anything!"
"There's nothing to do. We can make love with your hands tied, and these leg irons won't stop me."
"Don't be disgusting!"
I suspect if I played with her tits for awhile, I could get her over her inhibitions, but why bother when I've got Daisy? Patiently, I return to my lecture.
"There's an awful lot of men who love to whip naked girls. It's a sort of endless orgasm for them."
"Rubbish."
"And the girl makes the same sounds and motions as when she's being fucked."
"Kindly stop. I cannot abide that appalling word."
"Then there's the dominant male thing, they like to make us obedient and submissive. Burdock, the man who owns this place... well, I'll do anything he tells me."
"I'm beginning to think you utterly perverse."
"I'm the way you'll be in a week or two."
"Never!" Eleanor realizes that never is a long, long time. Contemplating infinity, suddenly her voice becomes human. "Oh, Coralie, I'm so terribly frightened."
I open my arms, or a reasonably handcuffed facsimile. Our legal secretary bobs her head and comes up gasping within my embrace. We kiss and kiss, but more importantly, our four nipples friction frantically in desperate need. Without hands, she is easy to handle even though I am chained. I push her back upon my bed and repossess my handcuffed wrists. I smooth away her lovely fur to make a passage for my tongue. This is not a seduction, it is the comforting of girls. Eleanor moans gorgeously.
CHAPTER SIX - THE PUZZLED PRISONER
We are proud, Daisy and I. Burdock is gone, but no one knows the difference, least of all our star for the evening. Eleanor stands, naked, beneath the glare of the lights. Her right hand wears a leather wristlet but not pridefully. It is strapped very tight and sports a ring, which is tethered and drawn high above to cause our nude secretary to stand awkwardly, one side higher than the other. It is as though she reaches for something unattainable. Her left hand is her own, but she does not know what to do with it other than to cover bits of her femininity one at a time. Because of the stretch she finds her cunt hard to cover. Mostly she cups her right breast as though fearful it may escape.
Eleanor's eyes rove the male faces in shocked disbelief. She has raised a leg to shield her pubic hair, but the applause this maiden gesture evokes prompts her to return her foot to the floor. Her pussy pouts in this rare airing of its charm. Frequently, she raises her attention high above, not to heaven but to the leather around her wrist and the rope from it. I am sure she is hopeful it will fray, but it will not. Her condition is eminently satisfactory.
I do the drinks. Even handcuffed, with my legs ironed, I am an accomplished waitress whose private parts may be handled with impunity. It is all great fun. My leg irons are widely approved. If I was up for bids, the offers would be flying thick and fast. It is gorgeous to be desired but beyond the consummation of male lust.
I come and go. I remain a mystery to the girl beneath the lights. When I go to her and hold a glass to ruby lips, she sucks it up in avid haste and pleads for another, no doubt seeking the respectability of oblivion. Her words come in an urgent whisper.
"They can see my you-know-what, Coralie!"
"But they can see mine too, dear."
"That's different! And they can see my breasts too! They look at my breasts all the time."
"They're very lovely; I look at them too."
"But it's not right--it's not decent. I can't hardly cover a thing. Coralie, please let my arm down."
"I can't possibly, dear. I have to whip you quite soon now."
The poor dear gasps in her usual conviction that this can't really be happening. Eleanor is constantly having to catch up with events she thought could never happen. Without sincerity, she whispers, "You wouldn't--you wouldn't dare." I pour another drink past those pearly teeth. I really do feel sorry for Eleanor, but she's such a stuffed shirt. I promise myself to whip her so she has no shame left.
To get her through the interim, I announce, "If any gentleman would care to feel this girl, please come forward!" They are a very orderly bunch, these clients of the house. They all intend to get their hands on Eleanor somewhere but they form two lines and yield precedence. Two gentlemen paw her at one time, sampling the merchandise, testing its resiliency. Eleanor does not believe this either. She stares stonily ahead,' her eyes glazed in horror, while from time to time she emits gasps to rival orgasms. She is goosey and being goosed!
Daisy and I have decided Eleanor should be gagged for this, her first whipping. Her screams would be acceptable, but the other incongruities which might emerge from her lush red lips might be a turn-off rather than a turn-on for our clients. They will not wish to hear about Mr. Peabody, Mr. Thwait, or Mr. Peameal.
I yield to Daisy. She takes the stage and makes a big deal of pulling off Eleanor's panties. The men know what's coming but Eleanor does not. She watches the stripping of this intimate garment with disapproval. Legal secretaries keep theirs on. Once more she cannot believe what she now divines.
"Keep that smelly thing away from me--don't you dare!"
Daisy makes a big thing out of it. She places a tiny table on which rest scissors and tape. When Eleanor threatens to kick it away, a riding crop is added to the small collection. It drapes its sinister length over each end and captures our victim's full attention.
"What are you going to do with that?"
"Make you behave."
Poor Eleanor now turns her stricken gaze upon the approaching briefs. I am sure Daisy has dug up an old pair out of the wash. An obvious defect is now voiced.
"They're filthy."
"Yes, aren't they?"
"You're going to stuff them in my mouth, I can tell."
"To stop you screaming, dear. You should be grateful."
"I won't let you. Keep away!"
Eleanor has one free arm. I grasp its wrist. There is not much the poor girl can do, but I sure do have to hold on.
"The least you could do is use a clean pair--glug... glug."
Eleanor is so shocked and so busy tasting Daisy's flavor that it is easy to make a neat job of the tape. Its silver sheen is most becoming beneath the imploring angry eyes. Daisy smooths it firmly. When I release the hand I hold, it rises instantly to the sealed lips. I cut it with the crop. It falls away.
"We want you as you are, Eleanor. You pull that tape off, you'll be sorry."
She rubs cropped knuckles against shamed flesh, but her eyes acknowledge the reprimand. Our legal secretary is now ready to provide the members of the Big T with feminine response to pain. I scorn the crop but move the table back and away. I have the wicked strap and lovely whip. What more could I desire?
The meeting between Burdock's strap and Eleanor's prudish cheeks produces a ringing crack to fill the hushed room with percussive sound. Eleanor stares, shakes her head, raises a foot and puts it down again. Her free hand reaches tentatively behind. I am sure she is not truly believing this either. The imprint on her rump is as though painted with a two-inch brush. I make her turn so that its darkening pain may be shared by all.
I alternate between the whip on her back and the strap across her indignant rump. Secured as she is, her motions and gyrations evoke applause. She is obviously saying something over and over, but she says it to Daisy's soiled panties, not to us. Her eyes gaze upon me with deep reproach.
But this whipping of a girl's back and bottom are not new. The reputation of the Big T must be upheld. I dive and grasp an ankle and raise it high to reveal shocked pussy lips and pussy hair and a widened anal cleft. I walk around in a circle with my prize to share this hidden treasure with our guests. Eleanor swivels on a single foot, her free arm waving and reaching in dismay. With the special whip I cut hard under and up.
I back away to share this emotional moment with the rest. Eleanor is inspired. She flails and kicks and writhes in a choreography all her own. Ballerinas would watch in awe. Her free hand strives desperately to reach her wounds, but her cunt is out of reach and must suffer without the solace of her palm. When the applause fades, I resume the strap, her bottom now a fiery red.
With the last guest gone, Daisy and I hug. We have done well for our absent master. He will be pleased. We then turn our attention to our semi-suspended merchandise. Eleanor represents a small but precious inventory we must take good care of. Before I get handcuffed again I hug her ardently and tell her she did well. The fact she could not have done otherwise does not matter. We nip at her tit, then remove the gag. The fact she does not have a word to say speaks volumes. With Daisy and I busy with fingers and lips, her orgasm is predictable. It comes swiftly and with explosive force. Her protest is confined to a single "Oh no, you mustn't" before she dissolves in moans.
In the dark of late night the shadow of the cruel mountain lies heavy upon two girls alone in this high valley in the Rockies of Canada. True, there is Hiram and the cook, but we remember Homer Wyant and Morton Dean. If Morton came with a couple of men, we'd have no chance. We'd be roped and tossed in the trunk of a car in the space of minutes. Giggling, Daisy decides to go to prison. She will spend the night with me. No predatory male will find us there.
We have Eleanor for company. She stands before the big mirror taking inventory of marked skin. We assure her she is beautiful and will fetch a huge sum. She sniffs.
"You didn't have to whip my pudendum."
It takes me a minute to catch on. Pudendum has the fine ring of a legal sound like torts and hereinbefore. "Are you speaking of your cunt?" I enquire innocently.
"You know perfectly well what I mean. I was treated abominably. I will never agree to another such outrage."
We assure her we would. We watch her wilt. For Eleanor the hands of men are worse than the kiss of whips. We tie her hands to keep her out of mischief for the night.
"How do you expect me to sleep with my hands tied behind my back?"
"Try it, you'll be surprised."
In a sort of horrid fascination, Eleanor watches Daisy handcuff my wrists. I am sure she believes only a policeman should impose such a forensic bond. I remain as much a puzzle to her as I ever was. We escort her to her room, then make love in mine.
Hiram proudly shows us the opened back door. Someone used burglar keys in the night to get inside, but fled when confronted by a man. From the description we have no doubt it was Morton Dean. My tummy curls in dread. Somewhere out there he's waiting. My fear is sickening. When we are alone, I lift my handcuffed arms over Daisy's head and draw her close. I whisper fearfully, "Don't ever let him get me, darling. If he gets me now, he'll never give me a chance to escape again."
She soothes me like a baby and whispers, "Darling, you're forgetting Burdock. Even if Dean got you, Burdock would get you back. You know he would."
"No, I don't. Morton Dean may have more money than Burdock, and that's what counts. He's terribly rich." Daisy's magic comforts me and gets me through the day with a decreasing apprehension over hard male hands. She hasn't been kidnapped by Morton Dean, so she doesn't know. But if he manages to take me, he'll take her too. Oh, damn!
It is the evening and Eleanor is in place, not willingly but nonetheless ready. Encouraged by our success with one of her hands and arms we now have her restrained by a single foot. If is well up in the air where she can't reach, but the rest of her is frustratingly free and in this prelude to the night she is busy trying to dispose of all of it to some advantage and with the least possible exposure of her private parts. For our members she makes an interesting hors d'oeuvre to the main course she will provide later.
I've grown accustomed to the leg irons and their clatter. Thus confined, I must be doubly careful with my tray of drinks. To trip would be unthinkable, but is probably hoped for by all present. In my concentration I don't pay too much attention to faces, but I freeze at the sound of a voice. "Won't run far in those things, Coralie."
Morton Dean is a member. He is entitled to attend. It seems an outrage, but he's within his rights. He takes his drink and smiles in a way I know too well.
"Tiffany sends her love. She's recovering nicely."
I catch my breath. I've nothing rehearsed for this. Who would think he'd have the gall?
"You didn't do that awful thing to her?"
"Indeed I did."
"But when I phoned she was free. She wasn't tied the way we left her. She apologized for it being a trick, and told me to--"
"You underrate our lovely Tiffany, my dear. She is of unimpeachable honor and yielded herself for her prescribed punishment without complaint. She even confessed what you've just been scared to tell me--for that little lapse she got an extra ten."
He is still the smooth, controlled tycoon, unfailingly polite, dedicated to the whipping of a girl. I try to move on but am restrained by a calm hand on my bare arm.
"I want you back, Coralie."
"Please! Don't make a fuss. You know I belong to Burdock."
"Horseshit! You'll come back with me this evening."
"Like hell I will!" I flare it in his face.
He lets me go. Altercations are not for Morton Dean, and I must serve, but as I pass his way again he gives his message.
"I'm holding Tiffany. I'll brand her tomorrow unless you're there."
"You can't! Morton, you mustn't!"
"I'll brand her with your name, those seven letters: C-O-R-A-L-I-E." Morton dismisses me with a wave of the hand and turns his attention to the girl on the stage.
He won't do it--he can't! It's a set-up like the other. I bet Tiffany hasn't even been whipped. It's all too impossible and bizarre. I just won't play! I go about my duties, but his presence disturbs me. His threat intrudes upon me a vision of smoking female flesh and the hot iron. With a trayful of drinks I trip and sprawl.
The applause gives me fresh heart.
We cannot repeat the gag on the same subject two nights in a row. I explain to an apprehensive Eleanor she may scream as much as she likes but a moderate tone would be appreciated. I pick up the whip. There will be no strap tonight as her bottom is well positioned for the slap of leather, but the whip is versatile. It has an endless appetite for the flesh of girls and is quite impartial as to which portion of her skin it marks. I wrap it around the upper thighs of her suspended foot.
She has been laying face down on the rug, cupping her breasts with free hands to prevent the carpet's pile exciting her nipples but now she whirls the other way and uses them to cool the scarlet burn I have just imposed. She whimpers in self-pity.
The boys applaud this tie. It is immensely adapted to the exposure of the female form. Eleanor can roll. She can do push-ups with a single foot. She can kick as much as she likes. Her hands can reach to comfort every stroke. But she cannot reach her rope nor can she stand. I am glad it is not me who squirms there on the rug, pleading for pity with my eyes, reaching for any agony I cannot always touch, after the first few strokes during which she is a frenzy of motion revealing enchanting vistas of feminine secrets she welds her nudity face down on the rug to expose as little as possible. She cuts her losses, minimizing them all she can. She has not been a legal secretary for nothing.
Eleanor does not scream. I admit I'm not trying to make her scream. In all of this I hold my hand so that the cuts and bites are faintly bearable. At the Big T no girl is flogged unless she's given cause. The sounds she's making are most acceptable--small wails and gasps and yelps as the whip snaps. I am compelled to admiration. This lovely nude creature before me on the floor, her leg obscenely raised by relentless rope, was a young woman of consequence not long ago. I am sure Peabody, Thwait and Peameal valued her highly and are concerned by her disappearance but see her now. One has to feel sorry for Eleanor, but why not feel sorry foe Daisy and me too?
"Fifty!"
The bid disturbs. We have not asked for bids, but the nakedness I whip is cruelly erotic. If I was a man, I'd lust for it myself. Eleanor looks back over a startled shoulder in shock. I suspect she thinks the bidder means fifty dollars. I can conceive her anguish!
"One hundred thousand dollars!"
I am sure Eleanor does not wish to be sold, but I sense her relief that her true worth is recognized. She turns for a better look, and I take the opportunity to crack my thong into a space revealed. She yelps and returns her more intimate portions to safety. I continue my slow and measured whipping of a nude. My leg irons clatter as I move from one advantage to the next, but this is appropriate music.
There comes a pause in the bidding. I think they want to watch the performance a little longer before getting serious. A gentleman lifts his hand and politely suggests we turn our subject over. Eleanor immediately says she could never consider such disgrace, but I take her free foot and flip her over as one flips a pancake. She is now desperately trying to cover three private places with two hands. My whip flicks the one she cannot hide, her reaction makes me swell with pride.
"One-fifty!"
"Two hundred!"
I hope Eleanor is duly impressed. Her motions suggest she is. She gazes up at me with the hope I'll allow her to turn and hide her charms from the males and from the thong. I signal negative and place a neat small weal above her pubic hair, a place on a girl generally neglected.
"Two-fifty!"
The price of my whipped girl has now reached figures to be taken seriously. I flick beneath a breast and get three hundred. I whip our distressed legal secretary very slowly now and allow the bids to mount. At four hundred thousand Eleanor is gone. Forgetting pain, she raises herself up and stares in incredulity.
"All that for me?"
She is not being modest. She is still back in her law office. Mr. Peabody would never have paid so great a sum for any girl or facsimile thereof. She views her purchaser without favor. I'll admit I wouldn't wish to be sold to him myself. He looks ordinary and has a paunch. Eleanor twists blushingly and suggests, "Couldn't you try and sell me to someone else?"
"I'll top any bid." Her purchaser is firm.
The boys have enjoyed Eleanor but do not wish to boost her price. They turn their attention to whiskey, cigars, Daisy, and me. Poor Eleanor has to stay as she is for the balance of the evening, but her purchaser is privileged to dialogue.
"I hope you don't intend to engage in sexual congress," our treasure says frigidly. "I could not possibly consent."
"You talking about a piece of tail, girl?"
"Please, there is no need to be vulgar."
"What you need is that little ass of yours blistered real proper. " Her owner looks down assessingly at his purchase. "You got a lot to learn, young lady."
"This purchase is illegal. No court would uphold--"
"You telling me!"
"Your wisest course would be to free me."
Poor darling, she sure does try. I turn my attention to our guests and leave Eleanor to her fate. He seems like a kindly man. Some quirk of memory reminds me of Burdock's sentence still to be executed on my flesh--one hundred lashes here beneath the lights. I shudder, but I it still far away--I think!
Burdock's inventory of girls, like me or Eleanor, are delivered most prosaically by a panel van, within it wooden crates with girls inside. With the normal perversity of life a shipment now arrives when Eleanor remains on display and the members in no mood to depart. The driver grins. In his business he is accustomed to what he describes as "fuck-ups." He suggests we put the new arrivals on display, but first there is the invoice to be signed. Daisy and I take care of this as though we were getting a shipment of potatoes. I have stolen a couple of drinks and find it hard not to giggle as I sign.
They are delightfully strapped and gagged. I was shipped thus, and so I know. The crates are wonderfully constructed for this trade in girls. I could never have escaped, nor can these two. How they cross the border is a mystery I do not know. When the lids are raised, our inventory replenishments stare up in a secure expectation of rape. What they need most is a bath, a hair-do, and a cup of coffee. Daisy enlists Hiram's help and takes them down to prison. They are piquant black and honey blonde. I stay and hold down the fort.
When the parting comes, I am overwhelmed by guilt. I could have been so much kinder to this bewildered girl. Eleanor weeps quietly as she is bound for shipment. Her arrogance gone, she gains in beauty and presence. She becomes immensely female. I would like to take her to a private place now. I can tell her purchaser is pleased. He gives me his check and I give him the rope. He binds her wrists, elbows, and feet. Eleanor does not demur. It would seem that at long last she is believing what she sees and the things she has been told. The night is chilly, so the purchaser wraps his nude bound beauty in a blanket before depositing her in his car's trunk. I kiss her and tell her she'll have a wonderful life. I suppose it might be true.
A pixie thought intrudes: I could have asked to go along. Eleanor's new owner, or one of the others, would give me a ride to the city. I'm sure one would, but the leg irons on my ankles laugh the thought away. They are riveted and are thus part of me. For the first time I sense their potency. Even a willing male might fight shy of a girl thus handicapped. He could not free her without a vast embarrassment. I shrug the thought away, but the bond between me and the Big T feels heavier than before. I am most definitely its property.
Our lovely prison has become a bunker against the intrusion of Morton Dean. Daisy has become as nervous of him as I. They had exchanged polite words, but she had sensed his steel. I am troubled about Tiffany, but can be sure of nothing at all. Daisy tries to comfort my concern.
"He won't brand her, darling, but even if he did, she'd love it before and after. You can't possibly donate him your life to stop it from happening."
"He's got a fixation on me. I'll be glad when Burdock gets back. In the meantime...." We shrug it off. We have two new girls to train, or at least inform of their changed status in the world. We say good night to Hiram and retire to the most luxurious prison in the world.
The vivid contrast awaits our coming--ebony and gold! If we sell them together, the bids will be fervid, but right now they're scared. They stand together. A handcuff links one's right wrist to the other's left wrist, so they have no choice. It is a tiny bond, but it will enable the two of us to handle them if they decide to fight. Daisy carries her riding crop as a wand of office. She had already handcuffed me before we came down. The Big T's fresh inventory views the crop, my handcuffs, and my leg irons in total bafflement.
For Daisy and me this an old story often told. We take them to the kitchen and have a coffee clatch. What we cannot tell them they can learn from the whip next evening. They soften and unbend and shed their tears when they glimpse their destiny. The handcuff bothers them. When we desire our bed, we take them to their own. We chain the ankle of one to a handy right. We cannot have them find us in our sleep. When we have gone, they will have much to talk about. During the darkest hours I wake to the sounds of metal. The poor creatures are trying to free themselves. I drift back into oblivion.
I have given up trying to move silently. I simply can't. Every move I make evokes a mischievous lyric from a link. When I get up in the morning, Daisy rises too. We laugh it off as being on the chain gang even though Daisy bears no chains. We discuss whether Burdock will take the irons from me after I've been whipped.
"But, darling, he may never give you those hundred strokes. Patsy may have softened him up. Anyway, it's me who'll whip you, and I'll make the strokes as light as possible."
"But... a whole hundred!"
"He's being mean, Coralie, but there's nothing we can do. You do actually want to stay at the Big T, don't you?"
"Yes, of course. I'm the same as you about Burdock and this whole thing. My home in the States is a million miles away, it's drifted into oblivion. This Canada country is as isolated as the moon. What of it scares me to death. This ranch has become my whole life, and you, and Burdock... I'm frightened of what's out beyond."
Daisy and I view each other in a wry acceptance of our two, but not so different, captivities. I kick the heavy iron on my ankles and admit, 'I'd feel naked if Burdock took these off."
"He'll be mad about those lovely silver ones; they cost a fortune. But he might be able--" Our conversation dies. We are aware of a presence that should not be here. We turn and confront the naked figure of a girl standing in the doorway. Her hands are behind her back, presumably bound, her cheeks show signs of weeping, she looks at us with love.
It is Patsy Pendleton.
She is suddenly in Daisy's arms. Daisy is the only one of us with hands. Patsy is hugged and patted while she sobs as though her heart is broken. Above her bare should Daisy cocks an eyebrow at me in mute question. She makes a motion I interpret easily.
Untying a bound maiden is one thing handcuffs do little to deter. I tug at Burdock's knots on Patsy's wrists. They are unkindly tight. This whole binding of her hands is unkind.
I peel away the rope and massage the weals. When the sobbing stops, we become informed. What we hear is delivered in short bursts of resentment, interspersed by wails.
"I don't believe it.
"He's been absolutely impossible.
"We never did get married.
"I wish I could die."
I wish I wasn't chained! How the hell can I comfort a girl the way I am? And Patsy's supposed to own me. I'm her slave, but right now she in no way resembles an owner of slaves. She is a distraught girl in urgent need of love. When she turns to me, I raise my joined hands so she can duck beneath my handcuffs into my embrace. I hold her tight.
"It was a terrible mistake.
"It's my fault. I should have known.
"Burdock was like a caged tiger the whole time.
"He doesn't need a wife.
"All he needs is a slave, maybe not even that. Burdock doesn't need anything when he's got all these girls he sells.
"Daisy, he'll be wanting you upstairs. He's real mad."
I'm glad the new arrivals are chained in their room. They are something Patsy and I don't need as she blurts out the news of disaster. I listen and comfort her. This whole thing boils down to Burdock. He's suffered a momentary lapse into sentimentality over Patsy's kidnap and recovery. She had been so besotted with him she hadn't thought straight. But what the hell--no girl thinks straight at the Big T. Burdock does the thinking for us all, every one of us. When Patsy had been kidnapped and gone, Burdock fucked me gorgeously. I had wondered then how he could ever be satisfied with only one.
"But, Patsy dear, why are you down here in prison? Why don't you go back to your house?"
"Because I can't, that's why. And I can't take you back there either. I thought that's the way it would be, but when we got home late last night, he made me strip. He tied my hands the way you saw, and then he put me in here. He told me straight off I was back to being a slave and I'd best forget freedom. Oh, Coralie!"
This changes everything. Burdock now has more slavegirls than he needs. The answer is all too obvious. He will not waste two lovely girls in Patsy's lovely house; he will not waste us here. I cannot face the other possibility. To keep our fears at bay I drag my onetime mistress to the kitchen to put on the coffee and take juice to the new arrivals. They are rested but subdued. They want the bathroom, but Daisy has the key to their chains. The only help I can give is a covered pail. We discreetly leave them this primitive plumbing and return to the making of breakfast.
"But, Patsy, you're rich--that lovely house and the money .?"
"So what? I'm as much a prisoner here as you. I wore those leg irons once, and he'll likely rivet another set on me now. Darling, I'm just a naked girl in prison, that's all." Since Patsy is not yet chained, it is she who takes the cups and plates in to the black and the gold. Daisy's failure to return is food for thought. Poor darling Daisy. Perhaps her life too will be affected by this breakup of a marriage that never happened. Bitterly, I question what right Burdock has to mess up lives like this, the lives of girls. It's not fair, and he's so damn omnipotent. Look what he intends to do to me!
The food helps. We are doing dishes when Daisy shows up. She does not look happy. We are wanted upstairs. It's an order. Awkwardly, she says to tie Patsy's hands the way they were; she has the rope. Patsy shrugs, turns, and yields her wrists. Nothing matters.
We march to meet our fate.
CHAPTER SEVEN - THE HUNDRED STROKES
Three girls, standing in line before their lord. One free and clothed, two nude. One of them is chained, the other bound. We are innocent of wrong but about us clings the odor of delinquency. Burdock lounges in his favorite chair. If it was a throne, we would make a pretty picture for a Roman or Gothic tale.
"So you got yourself kidnapped, Coralie." He bestows on me his full sardonic attention. "And you lose my shackles--huh!"
It is Daisy next. "You let her be picked up under your nose. Thought I told you to keep her in prison."
We offer no excuses. We wait. He ignores Patsy. "What the hell do I do with these three dumb broads!" He surveys us comfortably. He is omnipotent. "Got any ideas?"
We shuffle. We have ideas but keep them to ourselves. We await sentence.
"First thing is I got me three girls, and I only need one." Now it's coming. I start to tremble. I cannot bear the thought of what's coming. If I could walk properly, I'd throw myself at his feet and plead for us all. But we wait, each girl in a silence of her own. Our master is confronted by three dark patches of pubic fur and six female breasts. How lucky can he get!
"Daisy's done a damn good job. You other two get sold." We have had the bomb. Now comes the aftermath. Daisy is relieved. I'm not surprised. But Patsy is shattered. In shock, we stand like dummies.
"Seem to recall something you were waiting for, Coralie. Tell me what it is."
"I was to be imprisoned in chains until you returned, then to get a hundred lashes. It was because I escaped."
"Hmmmm, don't see any reason to change that. Seems fair enough. Put her in the show, Daisy. We can sell her the same evening. Oh, and Daisy, whip Patsy the same. Sell them both."
Stupidly, I say, "Burdock, we've all loved you. Please don't sell us."
He swivels his big guns in my direction. "Damn nice of you, Coralie--what do you suggest?"
"Give Patsy her house back."
"And you in it, I suppose?"
"You can afford it."
"Damn it, girl, you think I'm selling you for money? I simply won't send you back there to get yourselves kidnapped again. Hells bells, I can't leave either of you without some guy picking you up." He glowers. "This asshole Morton Dean, for instance, just walked onto my property, bundled you up, and popped you into the trunk of his car like I didn't exist."
"We could hire a guard."
"Huh! Likely pick him up too."
"But to sell us--"
"Damn it, it's a way of getting you a home where you'll be looked after. The guys who'll bid on you aren't all sadists."
"But why not--"
"No!" He thunders out the negative. "I absolutely won't free either of you, and you know damn well why. Forget it. "
"But why whip Patsy? She's done nothing to--"
"Being a girl's reason enough for a whipping." Burdock glares up and down our slender line. "Not sure you all don't need your little asses whipped every day."
I'm not improving things, so I shut my mouth, tears welling up in my eyes.
"Okay, okay, so I'm crank." Burdock is faintly apologetic. "Real reason Patsy's getting her hundred is to get her off to a fresh start. She's been top of the heap. A good whipping will start her off at the bottom again. She needs it, and so do you."
That's that. Patsy and I are both disposed of for life in a single sentence. In addition, we will be cruelly whipped, and there's not a damn thing we can do about any of it. My clenched fists are unconsciously tugging at my handcuffs, and I kick restlessly against the iron on my ankles. Irritably, Burdock barks.
"For Pete's sake, Coralie, go and find Hiram and have him knock those things off your feet. You stay handcuffed. Go along too if you want, Patsy, and if you're thinking about running, you can forget that too."
I rattle slowly on my mission. There is no joy in it. Patsy walks at my side. We are a dejected and defeated pair. We are bound and chained, close to helplessness. We don't even have much to say. Burdock has said it all.
"He's turned us into nothings, Coralie. Oh, damn, I don't want to be sold!"
I tell her of Morton Dean and Tiffany. Her perception is instant. "He'll buy you again, he's almost certain to. Oh, darling...!"
I am thinking the same thought. He will punish me terribly. He will buy a badly whipped girl and carry on from there.
Patsy thinks aloud.
"There's the faintest chance I could be lucky in who buys me. But this whipping business, it means the men it excites are the ones who'll bid, and that means we get whipped the rest of our lives. Darling, when you get those irons off your ankle, if you want to run, I'll run too."
I love Patsy. She's adorable, and she doesn't deserve any of this. But her experience could easily have been mine or Daisy's. Burdock is our nemesis; our cunts betray us. Anyway, right now I can't run at all, and I have to walk with slow, snubbed steps. We find Hiram and go with him to the forge.
"Getting yourself sold, I bet," he says wisely. "Mind if I feel you both up a bit? I don't get much chance, y'know."
We invite Hiram to "feel us up." He is one of a million Canadians who will never have a girl. He tells us of the shortage of girls in this sterile place and how much money they cost. We scarcely notice his hands cupping our cunts. Our thoughts are elsewhere. I am surprised he does not want to fuck us too. But Hiram is a gentleman, and the privilege he now enjoys takes him to a promised land. While Patsy provides his hand with sustenance, I sit on a box and raise my ironed feet up on his anvil.
When it comes to the pounding out of the rivets from my bonds, the poor guy is enraptured by what he sees between my raised thighs. Once again he tells us how rarely he is thus privileged. I allow him to use his hand on me once again, then use my own cuffed members to cover the facility by which he is intrigued. He is about to use a heavy hammer and I don't want him distracted. One single misplaced blow !
But Hiram is adept. He has a punch thing he places on the rivet head, and when he strikes it repeatedly with his huge hammer, the rivet slowly gives way and disappears. It's fascinating, especially when I see how impossible this would be to any man who did not have a forge. I have been really and truly a prisoner. When the last rivet falls beneath his blows, he pleads once more. As I willingly spread my legs for his lascivious hand I know his power. This poor oaf would die for possession of my body and its parts. I suppose Hiram is a dirty lustful man, but all I feel for him is sorrow. We leave his forge intact.
Alone and out in the sunlight, I insist on untying Patsy's hands. She's nervous about it, so when she is free I let her tie the rope around her middle for future use. We stand there in the hot summer sun of a Canadian midday and gaze around at the familiar scene. The mountain and its glaciers sneer at our frailty, and each of us remember the dark of night in this fearful place. We shudder. The jeep is there, parked and waiting. It is the only thing by which escape is possible. We go to it, but there is no key. Dejected, we return to the ranch house and our slavery. We see ourselves as docile and spineless, but what the hell is there we can do?
"Not burning up the asphalt!" Burdock affects surprise. "Thought you'd be halfway to the border by now."
We ignore his jibe. We both know where we're going. We stand, two naked girls, submissive to his will. Thoughtfully, he unties the rope from around Patsy's tummy, then rings for Daisy. She must have been waiting. She handcuffs Patsy's hands like my own and leads us to prison. "What can I do?" she mourns.
She can do nothing but our master's will. We tell her not to worry. We are grateful that our hands are chained in front and not behind. When she unlocks the barred door, we walk dutifully inside. She closes it and locks it very quietly behind our backs. The valley, the mountain, and freedom are all in another world.
Sulkily, they admit to names--Smokey and Lynne. They sit with feet dangling in the water on the rim of the pool. They would like to swim, but are still joined by handcuffed wrists. Their skins are wet. They've been practicing and have learned to float even though linked. We cannot add to their fun, so we leave them to it and seek our bed. I drink in the muskiness between Patsy's moist thighs as though starved.
* * *
Burdock must have been busy on the phone. The big room with its blazing fire contains the biggest gathering of members I have ever seen. It's a good thing I have Patsy's help with the drinks. It's almost exciting to see the speculation in the eyes of those we serve. It intrigues them to know we are to be terribly whipped and then sold. Most have come to know us, but this adds spice. The ones who cannot pay our price or take us home indulge in fantasy. No doubt we are to be raped and tortured a hundred times during the first round.
In prison, Patsy and I have had plenty of time to ask ourselves what we will do when our time comes. If we fight, Daisy cannot handle us or bind us as we must be bound, but Burdock can, and there's the answer. The Big T has become a part of us. We don't want our parting to be an untidy scramble of arms and legs and expletives. We'll behave. The end result would be the same either way. We are the star turn. Lynn and Smokey will not be placed on view to dilute interest in the two maidens who have loved Burdock and are now parting from him for the last time. I wish we hated him, but we do not.
I search for Morton Dean. When he comes he hands Burdock a heavy package. "Sorry about these, Burdock, but thanks for the loan. They do a lot for that girl. You ought to make her wear them this evening."
I am taken beneath the lights in a cameo prelude to the big event. I pose my cuffed hands behind my neck and allow Daisy to lock the lovely silver steel upon my ankles one last time. I am sure Morton Dean is right; their shining craftsmanship enhances any girl. The soft applause confirms his taste as I walk with studied care to where I left my tray.
Morton Dean is there. He hands me my tray with a small suave bow. "Seems like I have to write a check for you after all, eh? You play hard to get, Coralie."
There is no doubt in either of our minds that he will buy me Drearily, I ask, "How will you punish me?"
"Damn it, you'll be a hospital case by the time I get you. " He cocks an enquiring eye. "What the hell did you and Patsy do to earn a hundred apiece?"
My services are required, the questions go unanswered.
I take my drinks among men who, in simple wonder, finger my flesh where it will soon be wealed, their breathing heavy as they dream of ownership. I seek among them a master who will be kind, but how can I tell? Wealth has turned them all into gentlemen.
Morton Dean is direct. He grabs my arm to halt my clinking walk. "Look, Coralie, I don't want you hysterical when the bidding starts. I don't want you using my name or pleading not to be sold to me."
"Don't worry, I won't."
"Look at me."
I stare as directed. He's deadly serious. "How bad did I hurt you?"
"Not that much."
"Then isn't that the answer?"
"It's those awful things waiting for me to be fastened in while you're gone. Everything's so... so... forever!"
"How about I buy Patsy to keep you company? She can stay in a cage while you're... occupied?"
Poor darling Patsy, the girl who had owned me and had been rich. Vehemently, I gasp out negatives.
"Very well, I'll marry you."
While I stare in disbelief, I am dragged back to my work.
Burdock knows his girls. He has told the three of us to put on the show, and this we do. If two of us are the show itself, it makes no difference. We are trained in what we do, and it is not our first time. This will simply be more terrible than those other punishments in our past. Daisy goes out there below the lights and makes the introductions. To either side of her a trapeze bars hangs waiting.
I go to her first, clinking, frightened, smiling. We make a big thing of unlocking the handcuffs from my wrists so I may place them within the loops of strap at the bar's ends for Daisy to buckle and pat approvingly. My arms raise. Taut, I manage a slow turning of my nakedness as merchandise to be admired. The handclaps break the electric tension in the room. My heart thuds.
It goes the same with Patsy. She'd been experienced before I'd even been kidnapped. I doubt if two more beautiful girls had ever been shown on this stage. Our eyes meet in longing from between raised arms. We face the gentlemen, but as we are whipped our contortions will turn us around about to deny our privacies, every inch of us open to view. That's the purpose of this tie, it is immensely versatile. I hope none can see the way I'm trembling.
Daisy gives me her first cut. I make normal responses of gasps and motions. I hope to hold off screams for the first ten or fifteen strokes. I am beautifully positioned for the lash and can easily turn to watch Patsy get her first mark too. She kicks in anguish. That is something I can't do.
The lashes marking my skin come slowly. There's a normal pause and then the time it takes to whip Patsy. We are going to be tied this way for a long while. I close my mind to the inevitable. I cannot close my eyes to Morton Dean. He is very much there and waiting.
Daisy is being clever. Her arm flashes, the lash spans and cracks across our skin but it's less than agony. It is hard to define the anguish of being whipped. Daisy takes us to the limits of pain but not beyond. She's a sweetheart.
Burdock probably knows. His sentence would leave him with two unconscious girls to sell, and that's not practical. What is happening is a masterly performance of unsuspected skill, just enough pain to make us writhe and to mark our skin. Soon we will scream, but number nine has cracked around my waist and I have not yet screamed. I writhe and moan, my shackles clink like crazy as my feet protest. I glimpse the possibility that I may survive.
Sex lurks somewhere in this whipping of girls. It makes me angry to know this betrayal by my flesh. In my writhings I look down to behold rampant nipples and the sheen of sweat, my belly taut as are my breasts. But it is the smell of female by which I am most betrayed. My musk surrounds me in its own pungency which gets stronger with every whip stroke. Daisy is picking it up. I can tell by the flare of her nostrils as she returns from Patsy to whip me one more time. But Daisy emits her own Chinese perfume as she bathes in ours. I think I can pick up Patsy's too, but I'm not sure. I pray the men are beyond our range.
It is expected for the girl who wields the whip to cup our pussies in her hand from time to time, then hold up her glistening palm for male approval. We then must lick it dry for her before we are whipped again. We are accustomed to this and find it innocent. So much we once denied in that misty long ago of freedom has become commonplace. After awhile a naked girl finds no prurience in nakedness. Patsy and I separate our hot thighs for a Chinese hand, then do our duty with our tongues before our whipping is resumed.
We play with numbers. We are girls who are whipped. Five strokes is one twentieth of our sentence, ten is one tenth.
These groups of figures, meaningless in themselves, lead up step by step toward the cessation of the whip. We treasure them, each a victory like money in the bank, our flesh absorbs them in the manner of ticking something off a list. I have passed my fifteenth stroke and have not .screamed, but as the count mounts my unmarked skin is less. As number seventeen cuts upon an already flinching weal I scream. But my whipping does not stop, even though Patsy adds her scream to mine. It takes its omnipotent course to twenty strokes for each of us.
When you're being whipped, any pause is wonderful. I hang against my strapped hands and pant sweatingly against my pain. I know it will start again, but this now is so very good. After a few moments I toss the dank hair from my face and turn to Burdock. It is unusual for Burdock to take a part in these agonies. He believes girls are best left to girls. But Patsy and I are different. I expect we should feel flattered, but I am only curious as he places the small podium with care to obstruct no view. He raps a gavel for attention.
I don't care how long Burdock takes over his damn speech, I'll willingly hang like this for an hour so long as nobody's whipping me. I'm not paying attention, but I get the message. The house is now open for bids on Patsy and Coralie. Terms are cash, and the house reserves the right to withdraw either of us up to time of sale. Our whipping will continue until we have expiated our sentences. But should a change in ownership become final our new owner can terminate or extend our punishments at will. He's thought of everything. He's Burdock.
Our misery picks up where it left off. We flinch under the cuts and scream more often. I pay less and less attention to Patsy. My own pain gets all I have to spare. I weave and turn and twist so not all of Daisy's strokes find my back. She does not want to whip my breasts or loins, but I am my own enemy. The different hateful pain drives me to one more turn. Thirty passes, then forty. If we live long enough, I may see our halfway mark. When, after centuries of pain, it actually comes we have an intermission.
I stand and pant. I toss my hair and quickly scan the sea of male faces, any one of which can buy me should he wish. Morton Dean is there in the front row, enjoying what is being done to me. He approves and smiles complacently in knowledge. I look up despairingly at strapped wrists. I am halfway through my punishment--only halfway. Never will I try to escape again.
"One million for Coralie."
Morton Dean's bid is without emotion. He simply wants to own me. It tells me nothing I don't already know. Burdock notes it down. Good gosh, he's just made a fortune out of only me--one single girl! Gratefully, I down the drink daisy holds to my parched lips.
"You're doing so well, darling."
I look deep into her Chinese eyes and wish the two of us were far away. I'd settle for the prison. It provides a surprising privacy. I put my heart into two words: "thank you." But they are not enough. I repeat them over and over while our faces are close. She nods and tilts the glass until I've emptied it. She cups my cunt, and I lick eagerly. She turns and goes to Patsy.
There are sounds at the big front door. Burdock leaves the podium and strides to play host. He opens the door and pulls it wide. Someone enters and I don't believe what I behold.
It is Tiffany.
She is naked. She is insouciant. She has matters well in hand. Male concern is still with Patsy and me, so Tiffany and Burdock become a dark comer of their own. She talks feverishly. He listens and does not throw her out. Gradually, he smiles.
I don't believe this. It can't possibly be happening, not at the Big T. No female gets in here unless she's a slave, but Tiffany still talks and what she says must hold magic. Burdock's smile turns to an amused grin. He nods and grasps a handful of her gorgeous hair. I can almost hear his words.
"Okay, if that's the way you want it."
Burdock leads Tiffany beneath the lights, her white skin glowing. It bears no recent marks--Morton Dean lied. She stands erect, emphasizing her loveliness, while Burdock intones.
"Gentleman, a change. Tiffany has asked to take the place of Coralie and accept her punishment. I have agreed. You may bid on her. Coralie is withdrawn."
Simple and concise. My arms come down. I stare stupidly at my hands as Daisy tugs at straps. I can't think of anything to say to anyone, not a thing. As Tiffany stands eagerly to take my place she whispers savagely, "I'll fix the son of a bitch. I'll fix him good." Daisy leads me through the watching men to the dimness beyond. We kiss and hug, her whisper as baffled as my own. "Don't ask me, darling. I don't know, I just don't know." She flits back to her job. I stand, completely free except for the silver links by which my feet are joined.
Before Burdock beckons, I have watched Tiffany strapped as I was strapped, the raising of her naked arms and the tautening of her exquisite nudity. She is now ready to receive my remaining fifty strokes and is obviously happy about the whole thing. I go to my master.
"Got yourself a break, girl. Not sure you deserve it. Here, give me those hands."
Burdock snaps handcuffs on my ready wrists. He is preoccupied by what he sees and knows things I do not. He tells me to resume my tray and make the drinks strong. He says not to rush; We have lots of time and I can take in the show.
Quietly, I mix drinks. The metal on my limbs deny escape. Not that I'd think of it with my back scorching the way it is. I sigh in relief but feel an acute sympathy for the girl who has already received two of the stripes I should have had. I insert myself in among the men who feel my whipped flesh and smell my musk. I stay away from Morton Dean. If he wants a drink, he can get it himself.
Realization comes slowly. I watch Tiffany, and I watch Morton Dean. Poor darling Patsy will get her whipping regardless. The bids on her are already well above one million. No one has yet bid on Tiffany. I think they feel she is too good to be true. The count is now at seventy. Tiffany has had twenty strokes on her satiny skin, but she has not yet screamed. She stares steadfastly at Morton Dean. He can buy her or lose her forever.
He stares fixedly. I can guess the convolutions of his mind. He values Tiffany. She's been a part of his life for a long time. She offers him everything his heart desires, but because she is willing, he turns her down, using her as a convenience only. But now, if he lets her be sold to someone else, she's lost to him. Some other man will take pleasure in what he scorned. I can almost see his wheels going around.
"One million for the new girl."
Morton is burned by his own flame. He's in a bind. Tiffany writhes beneath her twenty-second stroke, but her lips are silent, her gaze still on him. He has to buy her--he just has to! For the moment he can't buy me. Burdock knows Tiffany down to Mr. Morton Dean for one and a half million dollars. Her purchaser signifies his wish for her to receive the balance of my hundred strokes.
The two naked girls have twenty-eighth lashes to go. It would be a harsh punishment in itself if anyone but Daisy held the whip. But even with her skill it will be bad enough.
I'm thankful it isn't me. These handcuffs of Burdock's inhibit my finger's wish to explore my weals, but I'll be able to see them in the big mirror. I'm suddenly conscious that I may not be sent back to prison. My status has fallen victim to Tiffany's desperate gamble. I am thankful she won, but the price she'll have to pay seems far too high. But what of me?
Surely Morton Dean will forget me now. He's spent his money and he's got his girl. By whatever laws that govern these transactions he can use her as he wants. She is totally his. She can never escape his bonds unless he wants her to, and that is very unlikely. Surely, possessing her, he will not want me.
But who will want me now?
I am ashamed of my musk. It is simply something I can't control. It has a barnyard effect on the men--they sniff and bid. I am a walking aphrodisiac. When members palm my pussy, they no longer wipe their hands on my hips or raise them for my tongue. They now treasure them as they would a loving kiss. Once more I see the power we girls hold over the men who hold us in thrall.
Patsy is sold for two million and one hundred thousand dollars. I don't think she even hears the bid. Burdock picks up his podium and returns to his favorite spot. The count is now ninety. The whipping of the girls is nearly over, but tomorrow there will be Smokey and Lynne. The Big T is a brooding monster always to be relied on by any rich man hungry for feminine flesh. But no sex--there's never any sex. What you do with her after you've bought her and taken her home is your affair.
With the one hundredth lash across bare female skin, the evening is over. Favorite parts of me are patted by admirers who are glad I have not been sold. Male hands carry my musk out into the chill of Canada. I am glad I won't go too. Checks are being written as the two whipped girls hang wearily against strapped hands. Patsy is past caring, but Tiffany cares a lot about Morton Dean. He frees her and binds her arms savagely behind her back in a net of cords from wrist to elbow. Tiffany would not escape if she could, but that is not the game. Morton Dean is mad. He picks her up, glares around at me, and carries her away. An obliging member will drive her car back to town, there is a freemasonry among these men who adore the binding and whipping of girls.
Only Patsy is left. Her new owner is talking earnestly to Burdock. I pay him no attention. Owners have ceased to matter. But I start a clinking passage to my love. Halfway to the lovely nakedness hanging helpless in her ropes Burdock calls my name. I shrug. I yield precedence to Daisy, her arms loving. I go to stand beside my master as his onetime wife-to-be is bound for transit to her new captivity. Ankles, wrists, elbows--it is the familiar tie to reduce us to a feminine bundle, and then the gag. Patsy speeds an appealing glance in my direction before she is borne away.
I should be taken back to prison, but Daisy has vanished.
I stand with Burdock in the huge deserted room alive with memories. If he feels them, he gives no sign, his voice as sardonic as always.
"Got off easy, eh?"
"Yes."
My affirmative is timid. I'll probably discover I've been forgiven nothing. I long to ask what will be done with me, but I think he's still figuring that one himself. Tiffany really dropped a bomb at the Big T. She's made me more redundant than before.
"Could probably sell you tomorrow."
"Yes, master."
Burdock picks me up and carries me to his bed. Why shouldn't he--I belong to him. He can fuck Daisy anytime, but I may soon be gone. He throws my nakedness on the covers so that I bounce. Daisy has told me of this massive four poster and its rings and fixtures to ensure girls an uncomfortable night. But I'm in a dither of lost love, lost hope, and lost freedom. I don't much care about the bed and its fixtures.
"Figure that Tiffany girl can hold Morton down, Coralie?"
"No, he'll be back, he's got a fix in his mind about me. He's known Tiffany for years. All he did tonight was prevent someone else from buying me. He likes her around, but he'll still want me."
"Hmmmm, better sell you to him then. Doesn't have to be by auction, I can give him a call."
There's something in Burdock's voice. I think he's testing me, or maybe just fishing. But what I do now is almost involuntary. I throw myself off the bed to the floor at his feet and clutch at him in a frantic need.
"Please don't sell me, Burdock, not to anyone. Being sold is horrible--it's the absolute end."
He plays idly with my hair. Men love the hair of girls. It is a strength we do not use enough. His question is reflective. "So, I don't sell you, what then?"
"Keep me at the Big T. I'm happy here, and Daisy needs the help."
"Yeah, in bed. I know you and Daisy."
"You enjoy me, master."
"Huh--only screwed you once. Here, stand up. Sit on the bed."
I am halfway to my feet when Burdock picks me up and plunks me down. He unlocks the silver shackles from my feet and sets them aside. He looks around. "Hmmmm, this will keep you out of trouble."
It's a collar and chain. I lift my hair for the metal circlet. Its lock snaps and the chain drifts off from it to I don't know where. It will make certain I am here when Burdock wakes. I lay back on the covers and dispose myself. I'm thrilled to bits. I am a conquered girl and the warrior who takes me now is smiling.
It is Daisy who wakes me, playing with my nipples and gazing down with love. Burdock has long gone, but I am still safely chained. She bends and kisses me. "I'm so glad," she whispers. "Oh, darling, I'm so terribly glad."
She is glad about me still being at the Big T, but I may not be here for long. Thoughtfully, she fastens the shackles back on my feet and unlocks the collar from my neck. I tell her of Tiffany and Morton Dean. We go downstairs.
"That asshole will pick you up today, Coralie," Burdock tells me irritably. "He's like a crazy kid. He'll pay anything or do anything to get his hands on you."
I can't help it--I simply dissolve into tears. I already kneel on the rug at my master's feet so now I bury my face in my hands and gently weep. It is the end of everything.
"For Pete's sake, do you have to do that! It's not the end of the world."
"It's the end of mine."
"Horseshit! All Dean wants is to own you. He's got a thing about ownership. He likely won't even whip your ass."
"Yes, he will. He'll punish me horribly. You're forgetting I ran away. It hurt his pride."
"You ran away from me too. By the way, I still owe you fifty on that one."
"Then give them to me and keep me here with you always."
"You in your right mind, girl?"
"I'm in love with you. I'm sorry if that offends you. Please don't sell me--please, please, please!"
I've touched him, I can tell, but Burdock needs more than a touch. I suspect there have been other chained girls before me on this rug. His tone is gruff.
"I've told Daisy to keep an eye on you. I don't want you hobbling off down the road."
"Why don't you put me in prison?"
Burdock shakes his head at me in rueful recognition of something unforeseen. "You got it bad, honey. How'd it be if I free your feet?"
"I don't care."
Burdock chuckles. "You seen that midway show with the big flat wheel and the mouse they shake out of a box to see which hole it runs into? How'd it be I play that trick on you?"
"I've told you I won't run away," I repeated wearily. "I don't mind whether I'm chained or not."
"But you've forgetting--you wouldn't be running from me, you'd be running from Morton Dean. He and I made a deal, he owns you now."
He's taunting me, having his fun. Where the hell would I run? Out there in the wilderness a naked girl doesn't have a chance. I dry some more tears and tell him so.
"Could loan you the jeep, honey, and there's that car of Patsy's. She won't be needing it."
Damn him, he's got my attention. I cock a doubtful eye. "I can't--not naked with no money. I don't even know the road."
"You'd have given your eye teeth for it not so long ago. How about I give you all those things?"
I am still in a whirl from yesterday, and this makes it worse. I hear my sad little voice as I say, "Thank you, Burdock. I can drive back home to the U.S. if that's what you want."
"Drive where you please, honey."
I keep right on crying. Nothing's going right in my world. I'll blow this freedom thing, I'm sure I will, but I don't want to be a captive for life to Morton Dean. I just hate the idea.
If it was not for him, I'd sit tight and Burdock would do what he damn well pleased with me. I sob. Burdock pats my bent head and goes away.
"But, darling, think of it--he's giving you your freedom!" Daisy is excitedly urgent. "You're the only girl he's ever done that with. You ought to be happy."
"I want to stay here with you."
She tinkles laughter. "You want to stay here with Burdock, that's your trouble, same as mine. But get yourself south of the border and you'll feel better."
"But there's something...." I dry my tears and put-my arms around my Chinese darling. "He's sold me to Morton Dean he s made a deal. He tells me I'm now Morton's property, but he's letting me run away. It doesn't jibe."
"Does it have to? These man, you can't figure them. Why worry?"
I stand, bereft, while I lose my lovely shackles. It's not that I like chained feet, but they're Burdock's, and they've spelled security for me for so long. Daisy put them carefully in a drawer. It is the end of an era.
I've forgotten about clothes. Daisy dressed me as though I'm a doll. I hate the things I'd once have loved. The bra cupping my breasts is pure punishment, and the panties friction my whipped skin distressfully. I take the purse, the money, the coat, and everything else in a daze. I ask about Burdock, but he says no goodbyes. Daisy takes me to Patsy's little car and gives me the keys. Neither of us feel like making love.
Daisy and I say our goodbyes in a sudden awkward diffidence. But we don't need words. I start the motor and, for the first time, feel a surge of power and excitement. I'm going home.
I drove off down the road.
CHAPTER EIGHT - CAUGHT AND CAGED
I never thought of myself as a crybaby, but I've wept myself dry since I was put in this cage yesterday. The cage is not very big, but I can turn myself around by clawing at the mesh with handcuffed hands, and I can manage to kneel the same way. But I can't stretch my legs, I just can't. My knees are howling with pain. Morton comes to gloat but not that often. Mostly I'm alone.
The room is bare. Nothing but the cage with me inside. I enjoy the Morton Dean view, which is mostly sky from my elevation. I look at the drifting clouds and go over my disaster again and again within my mind. In the end it all boils down to Burdock's morbid humor and the fact that he hates goodbyes.
I really regained happiness in Patsy's little car. I checked the sun and, sure enough, I was headed south. As the miles sped by I got more and more excited and started to think up things to tell the folks. The truth was too way out to even consider. I was giggling at the thought when the road narrowed. It wasn't that much of a road to begin with, and now it was a single track. When I turned a bend, there was a log squarely in my path.
Morton Dean and his buddy each opened a door. I didn't have a chance. Defeated and hating the whole damn thing, I was disgustingly abject.
"Okay, okay, don't rough me up. You don't need that rope, I'll do what I'm told."
They must have rehearsed it. They never said a word. One held me while the other stripped me bare. Then I was tied horribly.
"Morton, it's too tight, far too tight. You don't need rope down between my legs!"
It was strange, being bound by men who would not speak. Morton was just plain mean. He and his pal passed rope ends back and forth and tugged them with male strength to make me squeal. I knew all about elbows and wrists, but this cording of my cunt up to the bands around my waist didn't do a bit of good except to hurt. They got a charge out of it--called it a crupper. They paid no attention to me at all. "Trunk or back seat, Morton?"
"The trunk. Hogtie the little bitch."
"And a gag?"
"Sure, why not?"
By this time I was so damn helpless they did what they liked with me and I couldn't say boo. My bound feet were tied up to my bound hands and the panties they stripped from me were shoved into my mouth to fill my cheeks, four strands of rope made sure it stayed put. Mutely, I stared up and back at the two male faces grinning down at my predicament. They were pleased as punch, a pair of dirty small boys being mean to a frightened little girl. I heard them move the log. I heard the helper start Patsy's car and drive away.
It was a beastly ride. I'd been tied to hurt and hurt I did! All I had to look forward to was an endless imprisonment I didn't want. I tried to feel mad at Burdock for the disappointment, but girls don't stay mad at such a chunk of granite very long. I did not try to wriggle loose. Hell, I couldn't even twitch. When Morton carried me up to the penthouse, I was too depleted to do anything but stand meekly while he peeled away the ropes out of my skin.
"Into the cage, Coralie."
"Must I? It's so tiny."
"Plenty big for you. Get in."
I let myself be handcuffed. I wriggled inside. I've been in here ever since. Morton doesn't visit much, but what he says is potent.
"Part of your punishment, Coralie."
"Couldn't it be all of it? It's hateful in here. I don't even know what I'm being punished for."
"Yes, you do." He positively drools as he drinks in his caged possession which is me. "And there's the fifty you got excused from yesterday. We'll pick up on that sometime."
"What have you done with Tiffany?"
"None of your business."
That sort of brings me up to date on Morton. I've been alone a long while this time, I guess he's downtown. Jeepers, I wish he'd let me out, I sure don't want to go through another night in this rotten little cage. I just knew it would be this way--punishment, punishment, punishment. That's all he knows. Poor Tiffany! Poor me!
Morton's so silly; all these girls, all potential love, and all he does is punish us. I could easy say he doesn't get his money's worth, but from the expression on his face when he sees me in this cage... well, maybe he does! "You're the most beautiful girl in the world, Coralie." He's snuck in while I'm dreaming. I state the obvious: "I'd be a lot more beautiful if you'd let me of this cage, Morton."
"The only way you get out of there is the way I've told you--the bathroom."
"Then, please, may I got to the bathroom?"
He's got half a smile as he unlocks my little door. The only reason I get this break is because he knows how I'll hate to get back inside. I'll also fix my hair and face a bit, he likes me pretty. I guess he figures there's always the chance I actually need to go. Anyway, he waves me airily away and tells me to hurry back.
I daren't play tricks. He'll be alert for them. When I'm finished with myself, there really isn't much else I can do but go back to the cage. On my way I pick Morton up in the lounge. I'm damned if I'm going to padlock myself inside. I'm not even sure I can.
"Couldn't we have a drink together, Morton?"
"No."
"How about a little walk in the garden? I'm frightfully stiff."
"You look perfectly okay to me."
I shrug. It was worth a try. I lead the way back to my small prison and insert myself within the mesh. It's far from easy. From within I watch the padlock snap.
"How long are you going to keep me in here, Morton?"
"You'll see."
He's going for a drink, I'm sure he is. It's that time of the day. It wouldn't have hurt to the S.O.B. to share one with me. I mean, he's got me, I can't get away and I have to do what he says. But I'm forgetting: I'm not just being put in a cage, I'm being punished at the same time. Oh, shit, he may keep me in here for a week!
I wonder what he's done with Tiffany. This place is so big he can easily keep us apart, and I think he'd do this just to be mean and make sure we don't eat each other the way girls in prison are apt to do. Of course, he could have the poor girl fixed in one of those contraptions in that other room. I'll get there eventually myself. I wonder if she'd get the hots like she says--I wonder! Oh, damn!
Out at the Big T Morton offered to marry me. That's crazy! I mean, why would he? I certainly wouldn't be for the idea, but I'm wondering if I couldn't be married against my will. All Morton would need is a friend who has the authority to perform marriages and a couple more friends as witnesses. He could marry me naked the way I am. If I made a fuss, one of the witnesses could whip me until I agreed to say yes and sign the book. I've got a terrible suspicion it would work. I expect I'd spend my honeymoon in this cage or stretched out on Morton's rack.
But this gorgeous penthouse and all this lovely money--a wife has to get something, doesn't she? She's got some rights. If he's going to keep me in a cage afterwards, why bother? I sigh. The whole thing's a silly speculation. I don't know why he brought it up. What's more, I don't know why I keep thinking about it. But there's a little fantasy that goes along: Morton in the divorce court, and me folding a big fat check and walking out to freedom.
We can dream, can't we?
"Dinner, Coralie."
Ha ha ha, big deal! Morton feeds me through the mesh. It's quite possible, although I do have to stretch and strain.
I end up on my knees with my face against the metal latticework. He does not feed me too much because I'm not getting any exercise in the cage. I drink through a straw. It's a far cry from that time he took me out. When my little meal is done, I ask pathetically, "Please won't you unlock this cage? I don't want to be left in here alone."
Morton, too, is kneeling, our faces close. Most men would want to kiss me, but he does not. He's still chasing his phantoms.
"Coralie, you must feel some guilt about your behavior." He draws out a long pause. "Don't you?"
"Not really. You lied about Tiffany."
"You'd have felt better if I'd punished her?"
"If she hadn't answered the phone, I'd have come back to the table and gone home with you."
"But your phone call, that was distrust."
"So I've got a suspicious nature--so what?"
We stare with only the mesh between. What I say sounds pitiful! even to me. "Please take me out and fuck me. You can put me back in afterwards."
Morton backs away, offended by my blatancy. "You want out that bad?" he asks incredulously.
"It isn't that at all." My voice is cracking because I know he's not going to understand. "It's just so lonely and scary and hurtful in here, and I want someone close and warm and alive. Please, Morton, don't be mad at me."
Morton collects the dishes and goes away.
I'm here for the night for sure.
During the night I scream. It's not hysteria, it's mostly anger. I know it won't do me any good. Even if Morton could hear me, which he can't with the door closed, but it makes me feel better. I scream a lot until my throat gets sore and my fingers hurt from tearing at the mesh. I sleep a little afterwards from relieved tension, but I bet there's a latticework of marks all over my bottom where I've been sitting on the wire, and the handcuffs infuriate me. I can't reach things or even bits of me. I don't need to be handcuffed in this cage. It's just mean, that's all. I can't get them off, they're far too tight. I can't do a thing here in this solitary darkness. This cage is a living thing. It delights in what it holds.
* * *
"Oh, there you are, Coralie. I might have known!"
The first thing I see are whip marks. Tiffany has them all over the place. Then I see her anxious eyes. "Are you all right, darling? He hasn't--"
"Not yet. That's still to come. You don't look a bit all right."
"Yes. Morton punished me horribly. He's never been that cruel. Oh, Coralie, I'm so sorry about this whole thing. I thought I'd stop him from buying you, but now look at us! Gosh, he's mad!"
"But you're free! He's forgiven--"
"I don't know, dear. He fixed me in one of those weird affairs of his, and it came loose so I got free. But I'm suspicious. God, I wish I could get you out of that cage!"
"The key's on the wall over there."
Tiffany drags me out and we make love right there on the floor. We care for nothing save to assuage the isolation in which we've been imprisoned. I bury my face within her thighs and drink in her scent with a great thankfulness. Her taste is sweet. We moan ourselves into a land reserved for only girls.
"Darling, I've got to get you away."
"But, Tiffany, what about you?"
"Me too. Morton hurt me more than I could stand. He was beastly mean to me. We'll both run like crazy, if we can run at all."
We cannot run. We should have guessed. All the doors are massive and all are locked. The phones are locked inside a room. We consider knotting sheets, but one look over the balustrade kills that. We consider setting fire to the sheets and throwing them to the winds, but we're just plain scared, and we don't have any matches.
"He planned this, Coralie. He left me like that so I could get free. Now he'll have a lovely excuse to punish us. He loves to have an excuse."
"Had I best fix you back in that thing then, Tiffany? Maybe I can lock myself back in the cage."
"You can't, I've tried. I've been around here for a long time, remember? I've spent a lot of time in that cage. Hell no, there's two of us! He can't beat us down unless he's really brutal. Let's talk to the idiot, maybe we can get him to see reason. I want out of here now as bad as you do."
We feed our courage with illicit cocktails. It's so beautiful to sit on the patio above the world and relax. Not that we relax much--we're too busy concocting arguments. Mine is that I'm fed up to here with this crazy Canada and want to go home to the good old U.S. A. I don't for one minute expect Morton will listen.
It takes two double martinis to make Tiffany remember that if you knock on the plumbing with a hammer, it's bound to attract attention. We have to settle for a large soup ladle and are busy tapping on the bathroom pipe when Morton Dean comes home.
"Learning Morse code?"
It's what you'd expect him to say. We stop tapping and turn to face this man who owns us. I don't know about Tiffany, but I'm really scared now. I can liken the glint in his eye to a rattlesnake about to pounce.
"Anyone tell you you could walk around?"
Tiffany has the guts, her voice doesn't even tremble. "We've decided we've had enough, Morton. You play too rough. We only hung around to say goodbye."
"You hung around because you couldn't get out."
"Well, there was that too."
"You've earned yourselves the punishments of a lifetime."
"We've decided not to have any more of those, Morton, if you don't mind. We're both going home. Coralie lives in the States, you know."
Morton Dean turns to me. I suspect he considers me the weakest member of the revolt. "Go and get back in your cage, Coralie. I'll lock you up in a minute."
I almost obey. It shows how I've become used to taking orders. Instead, I simply say, "Sorry, I've had enough."
"You two think you can get away with this?" Morton stares with real incredulity. "Hell, I could knock you both senseless with two blows. When you woke up, you'd be in real trouble."
We keep silent.
"I'll whip you both half to death and keep you tied for a month. " Morton looks from one to the other of us as though he's made a generous offer. He adds icing to his cake. "I'll brand you both to boot."
"Please don't talk like that, darling," Tiffany says in genuine concern. "How can you expect girls to endure this sort of thing day after day?"
"Because I paid good money for you both. There's no way I'll turn you loose. Tiffany, go and get me handcuffs."
"We won't get you handcuffs, Morton, and we'll stay together. You're not going to get the best of us one at a time. " Morton is half amused and half angry with his two defiant slave girls. He waves a disgusted hand. "Well, anyway, give me credit for not being brutal. I could have you both in bad shape in short order if I wanted. In the meantime, have fun." After he's slammed the big front door to the elevators we go and check. It's locked tight. We are back to square one. Tiffany ejaculated a heartfelt "Damn!" In the penthouse's sudden silence we stare at each other in dismay. It is as though someone's declared war and we must build defenses. We go to the kitchen and check our food. There's not much--a couple of days' worth, and then what? I make coffee. Coffee always helps.
"He holds all the cards," I mourn dejectedly. "He can starve us into submission if no other way."
"Morton won't stand for long delays; he'll do something," Tiffany says flatly. "We should have jumped the bastard-hit him with something heavy."
I mustn't tell Tiffany how scared I am. Two naked girls will never get the best of Morton Dean, not unless we use some sort of trick. If it wasn't for her, I'd probably surrender rather than get beaten, but Tiffany's got so much courage.
"Don't let his threat bother you, Coralie. He hardly ever follows up on them. If he did get us again now, he'd punish us, sure, but nothing like he says. Damn it, I didn't do much good going out to the Big T." She sighs. "And it seemed like such a good idea. I wish we were both out there now. "
"Burdock doesn't want us. He's always loaded with girls. He sold me outright to Morton. I'm sunk either way. Once a girl's hands have been tied behind her back that first time, she may as well forget freedom forever."
"Poor darling, you're really down. Let's make love." We walk together, two girls hand in hand. We have so much time to use, so we explore each other's crevices and slits, and slyly seek responses hitherto untapped. Tiffany introduces me to her armpits and the small of her back. Under her tutelage the whole of me becomes one large palpitating erogenous zone. I explode in crescendo after crescendo of fierce flame. Then we sleep. When I wake up I'm alone.
It's no big deal. She's probably in the bathroom. I give her time to return, but she fails to show up so I go in search. Tiffany is not in the bathroom or in any of the obvious places. I try the patio and garden without success. My search in this huge isolation becomes an eerie quest and fear creeps up my spine as I go from room to room. I picture Morton Dean in one of them, waiting. On sudden impulse, I tiptoe to the least likely room of all.
Tiffany is in my cage.
In desolation she stares through the heavy mesh. She is gagged with an exquisitely efficient sealing of her lips beyond which no sound will pass. Its straps are padlocked at the nape of her neck. Her wrists are handcuffed behind her back. She shrugs at me in utter helplessness.
The key is gone. All the keys we had are gone. I try the padlock, but it's closed tight. I walk around the cage and its lovely prisoner but cannot help. I can't get in any more than she can get out. I can't remove her gag or free her hands. Somewhere Morton Dean is laughing.
I'm not handling this well in the least. I'm so stupid. I can ask the questions and Tiffany can nod or shake her head. Feverishly, I begin.
Yes, it was Morton Dean who put her as she is. Yes, I was fast asleep and she hadn't wanted to wake me. Yes, he'd jumped her in the kitchen. But Tiffany's eyes remain anguished. I ask the inevitable awful question.
"Tiffany, is he here in the penthouse still--right now?"
"Yes, I'm here. Nice effect that--Tiffany in the cage." Morton Dean is lounging in the doorway, looking at his captives with benign regard. He's got us. He can afford to be benign. Oh, damn his male strength! I bet he'll handle me like I was a little girl. He grins and dangles a pair of handcuffs before me. "Over here, sweetheart." Complacent, lord of the earth--the dominant male! Sobbing in outrage, I fling myself at his slouched figure, clawing with both hands. But before I touch him he slaps my cheek and knocks me to the floor. I crouch, shaking my head, dazed and astonished. Morton still smiles.
"Care to try again, Coralie?"
I leap to kick his groin. He grabs my ankle, pulls me to him, and slaps me down again. This time I stay down. We don't say anything while he cuffs my hands behind my back.
I start to cry, but now I have no hands to dry my tears.
Morton goes back to the door. It gives him a good view of us both, me on the floor and Tiffany in the cage. "Something I want you two girls to know," he says equably. "I set this up. Left Tiffany so she could get loose. Never figured you'd fall for it."
We glare at him.
"Test your behavior. You're both in deep shit."
The son of a bitch! I sit up, raise my knees, and bury my wet and stinging cheeks within their sanctuary.
"Your mother an ostrich?" Morton asks affably.
I don't answer his jibe. The handcuffs he's snapped on my wrists seem to weigh a ton and are far too tight. My tears continue.
"Another little item you'll be interested in, girls. When I left awhile back, I didn't go outside. I simply slammed the door. It's a real old trick."
"Good enough for a couple of dumb broads," I mutter bitterly. "You really are a bastard, Morton."
"Hard words from a handcuffed girl, Coralie."
"What's it matter? You're going to beat the hell out of me anyway."
"Ah, how true!" Morton's in good humor now that he's got us helpless. "Glad to hear you're properly attuned."
"I'm not attuned. I'll scream and hate you all the time you're doing it to me. Serve you right if I jumped over the side of the building."
"You won't, and neither will Tiffany. Doesn't she look sweet in there like that?"
"She's hurting, same as I was. Let her out."
"Perhaps--maybe when I have you ready to be whipped. She can watch."
I am picked up and carried to what I think of as "that awful room. " We girls get carried a lot. I think they do it to emphasize how puny we are compared to their male strength. Morton stands in front of the post with the crosspiece in which are the holes for my wrists. He raises the top half. It's like the damn thing's imploring me to put my wrists in its slots.
"When I free your hands, will you put them where they belong?"
"No."
I'm sick of being a nice girl. It's never done me any good. I want to claw Morton's smiling face. Miserably, I watch him pick up the crop.
"Well?"
"Yes, all right."
He defeats us so easily. Oh, shit! But what's the sense getting myself all cut up before my whipping even starts? I stand sulkily while my hands are freed. Then, hating myself, I raise my arms and fit my wrists in the tiny holes that always seem too small. Morton brings the top half down on them and snaps the lock. "There you are," he announces briskly. "You look delicious. I hope you don't mind a brief wait."
I toss my hair. It's the only answer he's going to get. Morton in a facetious mood is a royal pain in the ass. He departs and leaves me standing with my arms straight out, seemingly amputated at the wrists. My hands are on the other side someplace out of sight. I am waiting to be whipped.
This is when it hits me. I'm so damn naked, and I can't get away. All the threats and promises about being whipped are quite abstract and remote until this moment. But now it's real. It's going to happen, and there's nothing I can do about it.
I wonder if I'll get that awful fifty strokes and what sort of whip he'll use. I hope he gives them to me slow. If he really goes all out on me, I could pass out, and then my wrists would break as I slumped. They're in that wood awfully tight. I'm going to hate this something terrible.
Here they come. Poor Tiffany! He leads her by one cuffed wrist to the wall where he snaps the other cuff into a ring at the level of her waist. At least she'll be comfortable while she watches as I'm punished. She's still wearing the locked gag and uses her free hand to finger it hopefully.
"I expect you two would like to talk. I'm going for coffee."
The bastard! I'm quivering like jelly. How in hell can Tiffany say a word? I have to look awkwardly back over my shoulder to even see her. "Well, anyway, we made him take us by force," I say, in a one-sided conversation. "We didn't just surrender. Is he going to whip you after he's through with me?"
She nods affirmatively.
There doesn't seem much else to say. I stand and gaze along my arms to where they disappear into the wood. God, I hate being whipped!
"I'm not as much of a bastard as you girls like to think. I could use a worse whip, and I could use it harder than I intend to." Morton Dean makes this terse announcement before he starts on me. "Fifty lashes."
I'll count. If I concentrate on counting, it may help. Anything might help. I don't want to scream. It would be awful for Tiffany to hear me scream my way through a whole fifty strokes. I'll hate it when I have to listen to her. That's number one. Oh, wow, that hurts!
Number two.
It's no good. I simply can't concentrate. All I want to do is writhe and heave against this chunk of timber by which I'm held so neatly to be whipped. It doesn't matter how I struggle, my back and my bottom are still there, all ready for Morton's venom. I think he's right about what he. But, gee whiz, it hurts, hurts, hurts!
Girls should never be whipped by men. It debases us, reduces us to marked skin and screams. Ohhhh, was that eight or nine? I just don't know. I wish I could stand still, but I simply can't. Burdock had the right idea: A girl should whip another girl. Darling Daisy was perfect, but I'll never see her again. I think that's ten... and eleven. This will go on forever. Twelve!
This is just what I was scared of. I don't want to belong to Morton Dean. It will be one whipping after another, and I'm already terribly marked. Seventeen! I haven't screamed, but there's so many it goes on and on and on. I think that was twenty.
He's got all sorts of things like the little cage, and I hate it, sure, but a girl can't be whipped all the time. And there's all those things in the big room--those awful stocks and stuff. Was that twenty-five? Now twenty-six and twenty-seven! I simply must escape!
We made a lousy job of escaping, Tiffany and me. I think that was thirty, but I screamed. I may as well scream now and be damned to him. Thirty-two! He gives me so little time between. Thirty-three!
Morton's enjoying every stroke he plants across my bare skin. I take a quick look over my naked shoulder to see him quietly smiling, and there's poor darling Tiffany staring as he whips me. That was thirty-nine. I wonder if he'll gag me when he chains my wrist to make me watch. Forty... forty-one.
I'll make it. I should have screamed a whole lot earlier. It's silly for a girl not to scream. She always comes to it before the end. Forty-four. Or maybe he won't make me watch. Forty-five. He may put me straight back in the cage. Forty-six. Imagine sitting in that little prison hurting all over this way!
Fifty!
I stand and pant. I don't say thank you or anything. I don't ask to be set free. I'm all sweaty and I can see where the lash has curled around what I can see of my wrist. It's where I've struggled and tugged, and I didn't even known. I don't ever want to be whipped again--not ever. Morton's raising the yoke to free my hands. I let them fall. There's no fight left in me. I'm worn out with pain. I stand, catching up on my breathing. I'll do whatever he says.
I've got to escape.
My wrist feels the familiar bite, but I don't get Tiffany's ring in the wall. No, Morton has a better idea. Now he's got Tiffany's hands locked for her whipping. I can see the ring at the end of the cross bar by which she's held. Morton clicks my handcuff into it and here I stand almost face to face with the naked girl he's going to punish next. I can't leave. I'll be right close so I can hear and see every blow she gets. Morton is a real asshole. But now I do not tell him so. I am cowed. Maybe tomorrow.
I watch Tiffany's gag unlocked and the awful wad of stuff pulled from her grateful mouth. Morton must want her to scream. He grins at my apprehension but sets the beastly thing aside. Tiffany and I are close enough to kiss and we want to desperately but we are scared. Morton is omnipotent in his power. Where the devil did we get the idea we could get the best of him?
"Feeling sensible, Coralie?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll soon have Tiffany feeling sensible too. It's what is called whipping you into shape. I'd suggest you don't get in too close."
It is hateful but fascinating to be so close. I am obliged to hold one hand up to the end of the yoke, so I slide my other up to grasp the cuff that does not hold my wrist. I clutch with both hands and am glad of the support. I'm weary from my pain.
"Look, Coralie, none of that closing your eyes. You'll watch every stroke or get one too. Understand?"
"Yes, Morton."
I watch. It is like being whipped myself except I do not feel the pain. It is good to be so close to Tiffany, but it is also an invasion of her privacy. When a girl is whipped, she retires into her world of pain and wants no visitors. Being whipped is really a very private thing. I stand motionless, holding my chain. It is the least I can do. If she looks at me, I'll smile.
The whip strikes bare skin with a beastly splat. I hadn't heard it too much on my own back--I was too preoccupied with the pain--but I hear it now and wince. Quite soon, as her pain builds, I see the tiny drops of sweat from within Tiffany's armpits trickle down her flank. I look at myself and behold the dried traces of pain. Tiffany's breasts bounce with every blow. I wonder if mine did that. What a feast of eroticism a whipped girl is for the man who wields the lash!
And it's going to last for always.
I'll never get free!
Tiffany is screaming now, and I'm glad. I want her to scream. She's going through the same reactions that I did--we're tremendously alike. I rest against my chain. I do not move.
I would love to hold her now that her whipping is done--to weld my nakedness to her sweat-drenched flesh, sharing our musky smell.
But I am led away.
CHAPTER NINE - THE FINAL WEAL
I've seen the room before. It has twin beds, sort of like a hotel. They are nicely finished, and the whole effect is splendid, as befits this penthouse.
"Please, Morton, not on my whipped back!"
"No beefing, Coralie. Get yourself arranged."
There are things the quilt had covered, but now it is stripped away and put in a cupboard. The invitation is of stark and deadly intent.
"But you've just whipped my back and bottom, and they're hurting horribly. Please don't make me lay down on them. I suppose you're going to fuck me, aren't you?"
"Of course. Now lay down!"
I simply don't have what it takes to fight. Anyway, I'd lose in the end. I'm going to get to lay down. That's something, even if it hurts. I get up on the covers and arrange myself in the sacrificial posture all girls dread. I'm palpitating now because I'm so blatantly exposed. Morton will do other things to me as well as what he said. Metal bands find my wrists and ankles, clicking tightly shut. I am past decision.
Morton stands and admires his handiwork. What he's really admiring is my crotch. It's wide open. I can't close it. That's a horrible feeling for any girl. He walks around, then back and forth to get the full effect of my exposed body.
"Morton, if you'd just let me loose, I could make it so much nicer for you."
He chuckles. "You sound like a whore making a deal."
"You've turned me into a whore. The only difference is that I'm chained--I can't help myself."
Morton Dead nods slowly, enjoying my abasement. He takes a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and lays it beside my head.
"There's your pay, lady. Now let's see you earn it." He undresses, and I earn my pay, but I don't get the fifty. It lays here beside my helpless head, safe from my helpless hands. When Morton is dressed again, he prudently returns it to his wallet.
"I'll put it to your credit, sweetheart. When you're forty-five or so, I'll turn you loose. Then you can have it for your very own."
Forty-five! Twenty-four more years of this hell? I can't believe it! But suppose it is true...
Tears of self-pity stain my cheeks by the time Tiffany is locked to the adjacent bed. I watch as she is fucked vigorously by Morton.
Later, when we are alone, I ask, "What happens now, Tiffany?"
"We lay on our backs, that's what. I expect he'll work us over from time to time. Morton's amazingly potent." She makes a sound of disgust. "I won't ask about your back, darling--I've got one too."
Morton has to work quite hard with us. We get locked and unlocked for all the physical necessities. It serves him right. But there's never a doubt we have to lay spread out this way throughout the night. My shoulders don't like it, but we bear up well aside from that. Sleep is a blessing; we are both worn out.
It's morning, and when I come back from the bathroom,' my chains are gone. Instead, there are ropes. If it's possible to groan inwardly, I do.
"Make a nice change for you, Coralie."
"It's a horrible change. Morton... must you?"
"I'm afraid so. The wages of sin, and all that."
I let myself be bound. I know I'm going to hate this. Wrists are corded to the headboard so I can't move my hands, and my ankles are tugged down to drape me like a dirty sheet. Then they too get tied.
"Morton, no! Nooo... ! Oh, please, not so damn tight!" Like a bowstring, eh, sweetheart? You'll twang!"
"I can't bear it, Morton--I just can't! Not even for an hour."
"Just for the day, Coralie. Don't take on so."
"I can't possibly stand it."
"Afraid you have to. Would a vibrator inside help out? Have to be turned on for the whole day, though."
"That's horrible. No, thank you."
"Just thought I'd offer."
The son of a bitch! He's getting the damnedest charge out of doing these things to us. As far as he's concerned, this is what girls are made for--to make cute remarks and plead when they're hurt, and to act as receptacles for his sperm. I wish he'd run out of sperm. I'm beginning to lose count of the times he's screwed me, and being pierced when I'm tied this tight, it's the very end. Oh, damn, I can't even twitch.
It would be easy to say I hurt hatefully in the four places where I'm tied. And the hurt's getting worse all the time. But there's my back and my bottom where he's whipped me. My skin is tired of this tight pressure against the covers. It's screaming for release. All of me screams for release, and it's only just started. Tiffany and I have got all day--and "Think you'll be escaping again, Coralie?"
"No," I tell him. Then I add, "Let Tiffany go, Morton. You don't need both of us."
"She's being taught a lesson."
"But she's not a slave, not in the way I've been turned into one."
"She crossed me up. She also cost me a lot of money."
"Take it out on me, not her. She's fond of you, Morton."
"Would you like to be cinched a bit tighter?"
"No! Please don't! I'm sorry if I said something wrong." We stare at each other. Morton stands beside the bed. He sits, his fingers, straying across my nakedness.
"You're real mad, eh?"
I don't answer. Morton continues to do what he pleases with me. I throw my head from side to side and get hair in my face. It's my only move possible.
"You girls aim to do a bit of chit-chat through the day?" The grinning idiot is holding up the gag he had on Tiffany yesterday. "Not stopping communication, you understand," he says pleasantly. "Just making it a bit one-sided."
I must lay, stretched and immovable, while he stuffs my mouth and fits the straps. Morton straddles me on his knees and pulls my head around so he can tug the buckles tight. He holds the padlock before my eyes. He doesn't need it--not the way he's got us fixed--but I get it anyway. "There, all ship-shape. Have a nice day, girls."
Two pairs of feminine eyes follow him in loathing appeal, but Morton is gone, the door is closed. We turn to survey each other, acknowledging desolation.
"The rotten son of a bitch!" Tiffany puts her heart into the words, but they are the sum total of our conversation for the day.
My right wrist is handcuffed to the ring in the wall so I must stand and watch. Tiffany is to be punished. Neither of us know what for, but that doesn't matter, not in this house of Morton Dean's. The poor girl stands, naked as ever, in the center of the room. She has to because of the rope around her neck. The rope is loose enough, but ensures she will not leave. Morton Dean is offering her a shapeless thing of white rubber.
"No, I won't. You tried this months ago. I wouldn't then, and I won't now. It's horrible and it's got nothing to do with--"
"Put it on!"
"No! I simply refuse."
Same old story--we don't have a hope. Morton gets the riding crop and stands there flexing it for her to see. Either way he wins, either way she loses. Poor Tiffany, she's staring at the crop with loathing. Morton's treatment of us has long gone beyond the limits of the games she liked to play. He's cruelly casual.
"Well?"
"Morton, don't use that thing on me, it's not fair." She fingers the rope band knotted around her neck. "You've got me so I just have to stand. I don't want to be whipped. You've whipped me enough."
"You don't have to be. Obey! Now!"
She drops the rubber object to the floor and buries her face in her hands, her voice muffled. "I simply can't; it's horrible."
Morton deliberately crops Tiffany's hips. It hurts so much more over a bare hip, and no matter which way she turns she offers one to be slashed. After the fourth blow has cut her horribly she lowers her hands. Her face is lined with pain.
"All right, I'll do it," she says, sobbing. "I should have known."
It's funny with us girls, but there's things we just can't face. Something to do with our upbringing, I guess. Some of the sex stuff--ugh! But we can't argue with a riding crop. It's like I said, once a girl's hands have been tied behind her back she's had the course.
They're a pair of heavy rubber panties and I guess instantly what's inside. Morton hands over a jar of lubricant. Poor Tiffany! She holds her punishment in disgust, and I can see why her tether is slack--she has to put them on.
"Nice and easy, we've got lots of time," Morton says expansively. "Don't see what you're beefing about. You ought to be grateful."
Tiffany wants to tell him just how grateful she is, but she's scared. Morton really laced into her with that crop and the four marks are vivid on her hips. Resigned, she uses lubricant and then awkwardly manages to insert her feet against the tug of the rope around her neck. She eases the rubber sheath higher and higher until the immense prongs point like cannons at her crotch.
"I can't possibly, Morton--they're too huge!"
"Do it." He flexes the crop again. "If you don't do it, I'll do it for you."
She doesn't want us looking, but I have no choice. Gingerly, Tiffany impales herself with a thrusting phallus big enough for an elephant and begins the task of inserting it deep within herself. Halfway along, she must do the same for the lesser weapon further back. She is hating every motion and is immersed in shame. Little by little, she copes with the hard thrusts within and the rubber without. The panties are like a second skin replacing her own. Soon it is done and the tight white sheath captivating Tiffany's hips steals unto itself the beauty which is hers. She can stop her tugging.
"Nothing to it. I told you." Morton Dean takes the rope from her lovely neck. "There you are--walk around."
The crop compels; it's the only reason she obeys. I can well imagine what walking with those things inside must do to a girl. Gee, I sure hope he doesn't have a second pair!
"Morton, it's bringing me to climax--you knew it would! Oh, Morton!"
"Keep right on walking. Don't you dare stop, not even when you pop."
The crop is king, and Morton Dean wields the crop. Tiffany walks. Her tribute to orgasm is to stagger and bend and writhe, but she does not stop her faltering steps. Morton a real bastard. He stops her only long enough to bind her wrists behind her back to keep her properly submissive. My turn is next.
It's a crank. It's a sizable affair and sticks out of the wall without any seeming utility. There's a couple of knobs and a dial.
"Especially for you, Coralie. Something to do while Tiffany walks."
My owner oozes goodwill, his humor labored. From one of my hands the cuffs still dangle. He fits the empty cuff on my mother wrist and closes it carefully. "You wouldn't want to run around naked, and you wear these so well." I look at the handcuffs on my wrists. I look at the crank on the wall. I try to associate the two but only manage to stammer, "But--but I don't see what I'm supposed to--"
"Let's say a thousand revolutions to start with, sweetheart" It's that simple. The bastard stands there smug and amused and in control. I go berserk and grab the crop.
"You stupid cow!"
Morton's slap knocks me sideways to the floor. My joined hands cannot grasp the crop against his strength. Laughing at the futility of my revolt, he uses it on me as he had used it on Tiffany. No matter how or where I roll or strive to rise, he cuts my hips with vicious strokes. In desperation, I leap to the crank and start to turn.
"That's better, Coralie. Seems you have a lot to learn. If you know what's good for you, don't stop working."
I'm furious and shamed. I want to kill! But, above all, I'm frightened. The pain was beastly and my seared hips warn me to behave. What I must do is about as demeaning a punishment as a girl can face. My master resumes his seat and Tiffany picks up her pace.
"The both of you, just carry on. Don't mind me."
It isn't easy, I can't turn, there's a tension designed to punish me. I must push down and pull up with each revolution. When I manage this, I note the dial reads "1." When I think of a thousand I quail.
"Morton, I simply can't!"
Two cuts with the crop encourage my efforts to where I discover something of a technique. I can well imagine the erotic stimulus upon my owner of my straining battle with the crank. If I wanted to reduce, this might be wonderful. I can see my muscles form and flow as I exert my strength. I'm sure I'm an interesting figure. But a thousand--good gosh!
Having Morton sit and sip and watch is as bad as the work itself. I exchange glances of hopelessness with Tiffany. I can tell she's working up to another orgasm, and I wonder what Morton's going to do to us when we both play and slump to the floor. It has to happen, and that crop hurts so horribly.
"You can get me another drink, Coralie. You have my permission to pause."
That's real white of him--the bastard! I'm sweating and panting and thinking of suicide, and the dial only reads two hundred and twenty. But I'm so grateful to stop I could cry, and for sure I'm not going to mess up on any little break he's willing to give. I say, "Yes, master," and make my handcuffed journey to the lounge and the bar. I drink the first cocktail myself in a few hurried gulps. I then make Morton's and carry it with slow reluctant steps back to him and to my punishment. When I kneel to make my offering, he scents my breath.
"Did I give you permission to make yourself a drink, Coralie?"
"No, master."
"Bend over."
Morton hits me five times across my bottom with his crop. When I am sent back to my crank, I am crying. This whole thing's just too much. Desperation is driving me to hysteria, but I turn and turn and turn some more. The dial records my anguish with slow precision and the handcuffs hurt my wrists.
Morton's let Tiffany go. Well, so he should! He hasn't lost her, she'll be around. But now that he's got just me I'll get his full attention. I'm getting it now, standing naked with my arms up in the air and strapped wrists. He likes tying me this way. It gives him a view of everything I have. I've been standing several hours, but it's a relief after the way Morton's been treating us the last several days. I'm just tired and bored; I'm not hurting. It must be noon. I just heard him come in.
"Still there, eh?"
"Yes, master."
What a fool exchange! But that's the way we talk, we don't get close to things. And, boy, am I polite! Morton uses the crop on me every time I slip. He could use it on me now. I'm beautifully fixed. Then, when I'm not fixed, I have to bend down and keep still for his beastly five strokes. He says I'm getting better trained everyday. I suppose, from Morton's point of view, I am.
"Thought we might discuss our wedding."
Just like that! He drops a bomb under me and lights the fuse. I've been hoping he'd forgotten this particular bit of nonsense. Rather than get my five stripes right off the bat I keep silent.
"I've made some arrangements, Coralie."
"I don't think I want to get married, Morton. Thank you."
"Nonsense, of course you do. That's what I've been arranging. I don't expect you to leap joyfully to the altar." I can't leap anywhere right now, but a thought does flower in my mind about being Mrs. Morton Dean. He can't possibly keep his wife prisoner--or can he? I've wondered about this before. And all his money!
"No decisions for you, Coralie. You'll be kept handcuffed through the ceremony, and the officiating minister is a friend of mine. He's prepared for unorthodox behavior."
"It's kind of you, Morton, but I'd rather not."
"You have nothing to say about it. If you become too difficult, you'll be severely punished."
"But aren't there arrangements to be made?"
"I've already made them. Tiffany is buying you panties and a bra--a piece of nonsense but the minister insists. Tiffany will be one of the witnesses--it will be nice for you to have a female attendant--and the other is Dudley Burdock."
"Burdock! Oh, no!"
"I thought it appropriate. Burdock was vastly amused. He'll be here. And, Coralie, I don't want too many of those exclamations."
"But what do you want to marry me for? You've already got me."
"I want the piquancy of thrashing my wife. The bond will make you doubly interesting. By the way, the Reverend Arthur Wannop is waiting in the lounge. He'd like a word with you."
This can't be happening! I am freed and then handcuffed. I tug on panties Morton has thoughtfully provided, and he helps me own with the bra. He leads me to meet the clergyman who will makes us man and wife.
"This is indeed an honor, Miss Camelot."
I bet it is! I'm nearly naked. The Reverend Wannop is tall, boney, and wears spectacles. Morton leaves us alone to talk by ourselves.
"I've known Morton for years. This will give me great pleasure."
"I suppose you know I've been kidnapped?" I blurt out. "I'm held prisoner against my will. Please help me."
"Exactly as Morton told me. I would never dream of coming between you. I am here to counsel you in bridal deportment."
"Counsel me in how to escape." I shake my handcuffs at him and turn to display my wealed back. "You see why I have to get away?"
"It is not for me to judge," the Reverend says. "I am aware that some young ladies find pleasure in chastisement."
"You're the only person who can save me. Take me with you when you leave, or call the police--please."
"Excellent, my dear! I am told a degree of authenticity is always sought in these situations. You do it so well."
"Help me! This isn't--"
"Sweet girl, isn't she, Art? Well, if you're ready?" Morton is the bustling businessman in a hurry.
The Reverend takes my hands and pats them gently. "I do hope you won't carry your little play to extremes during the ceremony, my dear. I will look forward to tomorrow." I see them leave. It's not until the big door slams that I think of things to say. But what's the use? I'm stymied. I don't really see how being married can make things any worse than they are. Morton's simply got me on the brain, but what I really want to digest and think about is Burdock. He's going to be here. We are going to see each other and speak. I mean, I suppose we'll be allowed that. I am flooded with nostalgic memories of the Big T and Daisy and all those girls--and Patsy, poor darling Patsy, who is now a slave like me.
Why don't I hate Burdock? I simply don't know.
First thing when Morton comes home is I get five scorchers. While I stand and try to soothe the wounds with a cuffed hand, he says irritably, "You tried the escape ploy again, and after I'd warned you."
"I thought a minister would have some decency."
"I briefed him ahead of time."
"Did you ever! He thinks I'm a kook."
"All for the best, my dear."
I sigh in resignation at the supreme male. What use is there now in argument?
* * *
I am prepared for wedded slavery by Tiffany. She supplies me with bra and panties, exactly right for the Reverend Wannop. She also did my hair. She's a darling, and I know she wishes it was her instead of me. At the last moment she clicks the handcuffs on my wrists very snugly.
I walk alone. They are waiting: Reverend Arthur Wannop, Morton, Tiffany. And there is Burdock, a chunk of Rocky Mountain granite within the penthouse splendor. Our eyes meet and my heart thuds the way it always did out at the ranch. Why did he have to sell me?
"You look very charming, Miss Camelot," Reverend Wannop says, taking in the bra and panties and other bits of me. "Morton is a very lucky man."
"That remains-to be seen." Morton's tone is gruff. "She needs a lot of training."
"Looks like she's had quite a bit already," Burdock says. "Look at that back of hers! Do you mind if she lowers her pants, Morton? I'd like to see her ass."
"Please!" The Reverend sounds pained. "If you don't mind?"
"Get 'em down, girl."
I obey Burdock. It's so lovely to take orders from Burdock again. I push the lovely silk down to my knees and protrude my whipped, cropped bottom for all to admire.
"Holy cow!"
"Really, this is most unseemly!"
"Oh, you poor darling!"
"Get them pants back up right quick, Coralie!"
I slowly obey my owner. The Reverend stares with mixed emotions until the last welt is covered by the silk. Burdock sums it up.
"You've been rough on the girl, Morton."
"She needs it. She's a rebel."
"Hmmmmm, that little ass of hers has had more than I figured. Morton, you're an asshole."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen--please!" The Reverend senses trouble. "I am sure Mr. Dean acts only for the best. If you will now take your places--"
"You call cutting up Coralie's ass for the best?" Burdock swivels his granite menace in Morton Dean's direction. "Like I said, Dean, you're an asshole." Burdock reaches in a pocket for a sliver of paper. "Here's your check--full refund. The deal's off."
"Now, see here, Burdock--"
"You want a fight?"
The two men stand, glaring at each other, but no one fights Burdock. Morton shrugs and pockets the check. Tension seeps away. Burdock grasps my arm, and strips away the bra and panties to make me nude. He bestows his craggy regard on the Reverend Arthur Wannop. "This girl here's my woman. Marry us."
"But, really, this is most--"
"You can do it, so do it. Tell him, Dean."
Tiffany takes Morton's arm. "It's all right, darling, you've still got me. We can get married when they get through. Tell him it's all right."
"It's all right, Art," Morton says wearily.
"And you'll marry me afterwards?"
"Oh, okay, Tiffany. What the hell!"
My arm is held tight, my heart thuds like crazy. The Reverend Arthur Wannop intones sonorously, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together...." Gosh, I'm so lucky! I adore Burdock. He's so terribly strong. The way he's holding me, I'm so safe.