The Island (Chpt 6 Part 2)

Poor Cedric! He´d never been a captive girl. What I was about to do was no more than I expected. I did not want to do it. But I had no thought of fighting against the inevitable. I was simply about to pay the tribute that a few million other girls had paid before me. Cedric ejaculated a startled and shocked: “No! Oh no!” He was on his feet in a flash and had seized a gun from the holster of one of our captors when one of the other ruffians shot him. It was done with the indifference of any act that does not matter very much. Cedric fell and stared up at the sky he would never see again. Another of the four went to the truck, found a shovel, and began to dig a hole in the loose sand of a dune. Whilst I serviced the first of them, who thoughtfully pressed the muzzle of a revolver against my head to insure proper attention, I was able to see the body of the man who had tried to buy our freedom thrust into a shallow grave and covered over with sand. Poor Cedric! I suppose those words are his epitaph.



We were two naked girls. It would be silly to pretend that we were anything other than quivering in fear. We had witnessed the ultimate horror. What we were now f***ed to do with our lips and our loins seemed trivial compared to our loss. We performed the age-old rituals in a daze. But I expect with competent precision. At least we earned no blows. Our function now was to survive. Thus the human entity adapts so what it may live on.



Having fed upon the flesh of girls, our four captors toke no chances with their merchandise. We were tied again. Far more tightly than need be. Hands palm to palm, elbows crushed together. The cords bit with a personal animosity. Terry and I did not weep. We had gone beyond tears. We looked at each other in despair, unwilling to acknowledge what we had seen. We did not speak. There was nothing to say. We recognized our condition.



They fed us. We could not feed ourselves. The cords upon our arms made us utterly helpless. We were feminine torsos without arms or hands. Our impotence was deliberate. It pleased the four of them to tease us. To offer a tid-bit so that we opened our mouths, then eat it themselves amidst roars of laughter. But they did give us the least desirable bits of meat and bread. From their concern that we should eat we knew we were merchandise. They enlivened their meal by painting our breasts and nipples with some sweet we were not allowed to sample. They then sucked it from our skin. We sat erect with breasts outthrust. What else could we do? It did not matter. The four male a****ls did not matter. Only Cedric mattered. But Cedric was beneath the sand. Suburbia had given her son to the desert.



From our breasts there was an inevitable progression. We were told to lay on our backs and lift our loins. That our bound arms made it agony did not matter. We lay on them and stretched wide our legs. We were fertility goddesses playing a role milleniums old. They painted our vulvas with the sweet, being careful to open the labia to pour it within. Then each partook of the nectar and ambrosia we provided. A desert vagabond´s dessert! Whatever it was they enjoyed it. From the absence of cuffs and cruelty, what they´d consider cruelty, we knew we gave satisfaction. They threw us back in the truck.



You have never been jolted around in a truck while cords bite into your elbows. Be thankful! It is no fun. Between the pain and the memory of poor Cedric neither Terry nor I coeld contain our tears. We let them flow. They stained our cheeks. Our desert e****t laughed. Did not some conqueror say a maiden´s tears were the salt of the earth?



We knew not where we were being taken. We were utterly lost. It was early evening when we were unloaded again. I asked that our elbows be loosed, but was slapped for my pains. There is no better way to keep a girl humble than to tie her elbows together. She cannot fight. She will not even try. Our four e****ts know their job. Supper was a repetition of the midday meal. Our breasts, our nipples and our vulvas contributed to an erotic dessert. There were those among the four who had experience. Terry ans I are only female flesh. We had orgasms. We were deeply shamed. The cunning lips controlled us as did the cords. Our will was taken from us. Our senses were easy prey.



Men must always hurt a girl! We have discussed this before, so why bother? I expect the real answer is very simple. To ship a naked girl is to have an eternal orgasm. Much better than the real thing really.... Certainly for the one who holds the whip!



Pain is kept as the ´piece de resistance´. First we service them with lip and loin. It is easy to do. We do it well. While we endure their gasps and agony we wonder why the act merits attention. It seems to Terry and I that the act, for the male, is a defeat rather than a victory.
It is a defeat they seek to counter and nullify with pain. Our pain! They get revenge for their flaccid member we have made ludicrous. They do it in many ways, all of them terrible to a naked girl. Their favorite is the whip.



The whip is wonderful. It so easily becomes a live thing in the hands of a man bent on revenge for impotence or seeking to recharge the f***es he has spent. The whip or the cane. It does not matter.



Our e****ts have canes. They take us into the poor abandoned shed beside which the truck is parked. They throw a rope over a beam and loop one end on our wrists. Then they pull. If it has not been done to you it is a mystery. To Terry and I it is not. It has been done to us before. It will make our bottoms stick out to invite the cane as though we had asked for it. Up and up go our pinioned hands, our arms wrack our shoulders. We bend down and down to ease the strain. But we can only bend so far. When they have us on our toes it is considered the ideal pose for a girl. She can now be caned or whipped on her bottom, her thighs and her legs. Even her lower back is exposed. She is very vulnerable. Her breasts are most available. She will kick and lunge under the cane, but she will evade no single stroke.



They cane Terry and me for a long time. It is probably all evening. Time passes very slowly for a girl in this predicament. What does it matter? A naked girl against a man´s joy! They are not comparable. Joy wins. Why not? It has logic. The cane cuts into the flesh of my thighs. I scream in desolation. The scream is expected of me. I deliver the male no more than is his due. I hear Terry´s screams as though they are far away. It is a very happy evening for the four men. Terry and I do not matter. We are slaves.



There comes a change. An air of purpose. Things of consequence are afoot. Our hands are lowered. We can stand erect. The agony is almost justified by the glorious relief. We stand, still helpless, letting it irradiate every nerve and sinew. Our skin is scalded from the cane. We do not care. The torture of the cord has eased.



Slave girls have no illusions. When our wrists and elbows are untied we are not surprised by the bit of wood and the loops round our thumbs. We do not fight. We do not want the cuffs and the blows. A girl hates the fist upon her face. She will do much to avoid it. We stand passive. But, oh, how bitter it is to watch our hands being drawn up and up by the rope that treats the bit of wood as a t****ze upon our toes only to find it is not enough. We stretch and strain and implore with our eyes as our toes leave the floor and our poor slender thumbs accept the punishment of our weight. We gasp ans moan. Our tortures are happy with our acknowledgement. We hang.
They gathered up their gear and went away. No backward glance of pity or of gratitude. We had served them. We were now litter upon the desert´s dusty face. We do not matter.



But we matter to us. We are still alive. The four men have had their sport. It pleases them to leave us hanging by our thumbs in agony. Their maleness is thus proclaimed. We will remember them! Terry and I realize we may remember them all our lives. Our lives may be close to an end. How long can a naked girl live, hanging by her thumbs? A couple of days.....?



As usual in torture, time does not exist. We do not know the hours by which we die. We hang, limp, helpless, in great pain. We do not struggle or strive to escape our fate. We are too utterly lost. Too totally delivered to pain and eventual death. The four are probably laughing at their final joke as they jolt across the desert road. They used us. We will remember them by the loops upon our thumbs. The hours pass slowly, but they pass. The darkness comes and goes. We do not sl**p. I suppose it is u*********sness. Nature is kind. But we may live a long while yet. We wish that we could die. .......quickly....... quickly!



Rabin and Thalia walk through the door. We do not believe. We scorn reality. In the phantasmagoria of the night we have seen many things. They are but one more, their concerned and anxious faces almost real. They cut the rope. We fall on the ground. We cannot stand. Thalia hurried to their car for brandy while her father cautiously saws at the strictures round our thumbs. We begin to believe that death has slinked away.



How pathetic we are. Our hands and arms are almost useless. But we throw them round the shoulders of those who have rescued us. The brandy is potent. Terry weeps on Thalia. I weep on the senior Rabin. They pat our naked backs in a tenderness of possession. Our gratitude is infinite.We tell our poor sad tale.They listen with sympathy.



Rabin says something in their own tongue. Thalia goes to the car again. When she returns she carries chains. e do not mind. We stick out our legs thankfully and watch as the metal bands are locked about our ankles. It is like coming home. Rabin will protect us. The chains will keep up from being foolish. When Thalia produced handcuffs we hold out our hands. But are turned around and our wrists are handcuffed behind our backs. We are slave girls far from home. Mr. Rabin will take no chances. We are thankful for his irons. In them we are secure. Thalia kisses us. She understands better than het father can. With tenderness and sorrow she tells us we are slaves. That, once more, her fathet owns us. We nod happily enough. We had not wanted to hang by our thumbs until we died. Even a slave girl does not want to die. We tell her we will obey. She hugs us hungrily. Her father smiles. It is not until we are in the car and speeding back to slavery that we wonder. Is such coincidence likely! The pieces all fit. Had Rabin planned it all?



We will never know.



"Is most happy ending." The rustle of paper money could be detected in Mr. Rabin´s voice.
"Damn right, old timer," Mike approved. "Hands clipped tight behind?"
"Are most tight. Dear girls will not escape." Mr. Rabin beamed on all.



Dorinda wondered if two girls had ever faced so great a quandary. It was in her mind to plead with Rabin not to sell them back to the coarse oaf who had been the instigator of their distress. She had never felt more like a piece of merchandise that at this moment standing with Terry. The two of them blatantly sold by one man to another.



"Got the ´Quest´ a clean bill of health," Mike assured them genially.
"Been searched, been checked, been questioned. Everything on the up and up. Safe to have you back aboard. The heat´s off."
"What doe you want us for?" Terry demanded glumly.
"Oh sweetheart! What doe you think?"
"To screw us, I suppose. Perks for your crew. So much a month and free tail. That the only way you can get help?"
"Mr. Sandos most kind man," Rabin rebuked. "He will give large party. Such lucky girls."
"Where´s that handsome daughter of yours?" Mike inquired.
"Alas. Is visiting today and tomorrow with Aunt. You had thought to invite to party?" Mr. Rabin seemed flattered. Perhaps he scented a rental.
"Too bad. Give her my regards." He looked at his watch.
"Should get going. Let´s get these two little treasures fixed up."



The fixing up was both painful and humiliating. Two Ping-Pong balls. Two wide strips of tape muted two pairs of pouting lips. A black band tight round the eyes. A strap joining the elbows. Ankles tightly corded. Dorinda knew herself no more than a package. When she was placed on the floor of the vehicle, her bound ankles were crossed over Terry´s and tied again so that they were trussed together in their silent darkness.



"I am much hoping we will meet him again," said Mr. Rabin. The door of the truck slammed.



Dorinda´s elbows hurt. The motion of the truck was uncomfortable. So was the position they were f***ed to sit in. With all four legs tied together neither could move without affecting the other. The van was warm and stuffy. They drove for an hour before they stopped, the door opened, and Mike´s heavy jokularity broke their silence.
"Howl all you like now, sweethearts. No one to hear. May as well have a look at each other too. Got a little ways to go yet."



There came the sound of tearing tapes and gasps. Gratefully, Dorinda raised her lips for release and spit out the Ping-Pong ball joyfully. When the band was whisked away from her eyes she found herself blinking in astonishment at Thalia. The door slammed. The truck resumed its journey to their new establishment.



"I have been k**napped," said Thalia equably.
She was bound as they were bound. She had been mute and blind as they had been. She was still partly clothed. But what she wore was torn as from a struggle.
"On my way to my aunt´s, they grabbed me." Her eyes omplored them to share her astonishment. "I have never beenn so tightly tied. It hurts. I suppose he takes us to his ship?"



Dorinda could have laughed. The Arab girl seemed unconcerned, only curious. Thalia was not easily ruffled.
"What on earth does he want you for?" Terry broke in. Thalia grimaced.
"I expect he wishes to fuck me. Or perhaps to get money from my poor father. But I do not think it is for money." Her eyes widened in memory.
"But you were telling me: He likes to whip pretty girls, does he not?"
"I´m afraid he does."
"Then I will be whipped."
"Darling?" Dorinda was puzzled, "doesn´t this bother you?"
Thalia laughed gaily. "I find it exciting. To be bound. To be the captive of bad men. To know that things will happen. .....If it were not for my poor father..... He will worry."



She saw their incredulity and was contrite. "Forgive me. Life has not been exciting. I will be expected to marry. Then it will be even less. This is an adventure. Your Mike, he will tire of me finally and let me go. I will return to Daddy. Will I look as much like a zebra as you did when you came to us?"
"Almost certainly. Oh, darling, I´m sorry!"
"Do not be." The Arab girl laughed at Dorinda´s concern. "Poetic justice, is it not? I punished you. Now it is I who will feel the whip."
"He won´t just give us a medaleither, y´know," said Terry glumly.
"So we are all whipped! Darlings, don´t be sad. I am not."
She looked at them ahrewdly. "I do not suppose your Mr. Sandos will be more cruel than some of Daddy´s customers? Or me?"
"Mike´s got his own ways. He degrades a girl. And he´s got a crew...."
"I am to be the plaything of a pirate crew! Darlings, I know girls who would give much for such a fate."
"Dont´t joke about it," Terry wailed.
"But I´m not joking." Thalia looked at them earnestly.
"You see, a Moslim girl´s life is very narrow. She does not have much fun. Even I, whose father gave her so much liberty, even I was finding life very dull before you came," she added, wistfully. "I was so glad to see you. My father has had other girls, many of them. But none like you."



Dorinda saw the irony of it all. Everything was comparative. It depended on where you were born, or how highly sexed you were, where you went to school. Perhaps you became a lesbian because of the inadvertent touch of the fingers of a girl. Perhaps you loved the whip because of an infant spanking by someone your smaal eyes found colorful. She hated Mike because of his coarseness, his crass male insensitivity. Yet, she realized, this Arab girl might find a battle of wits and bodies with such a man stimulating. She felt better. Goodness knows, her plight was shocking by the standards of some. But Thalia´s vitality was infectious. The coming duel would be interesting to watch.



Terry brightened up too. She twinkled at their fellow captive. "Look darling," she said brazenly, "where we are going there´s a word we are up against all the time. It´s an ugly four letter word. It´s Mike´s favorite sport - after whipping our bottoms, of course. Do you want us to use it when we have to, and we´ll have to! Or do you know a nicer one?"



Thalia considered. Her eyes were dancing. "Was there not a most famous quotation from a Miss Gertrude Stein about a rose?" She laughed in joy at their discomforture: "A fuck is a fuck is a fuck!" She laughed delightedly. "There is no word like it. Not anywhere.
Dorinda felt a great gladness that this vital creature had become a part of their lives. Her ready acceptance of carnality had a reassuring earthiness about it. "Alright," she challenged, "the thing between our legs. How about that?"



"Darling," Thalia was laughing with pure enjoyment. "That is a cunt. Why must you seek synonyms? It is a delightful word. So beautifully explicit. You are so silly to be ashamed. The English tongue has such delightful words. Why must you seek to clothe them in corsets?" She looked roguishly at her fellow captives. "Come, I will help you. A simple Moslem girl will lead the sophisticates: I have a cunt. It is a beautiful cint. It will be fucked by a man named Mike." She laughed joyfully. "See how easy it becomes. Remember those first French lessons: My aunt has a green umbrella. This is the pen of my father. Just that simple. A k**napped maiden must learn a new lenguage. If she does not she will be forever distressed. She will have no communion with the man who has taken her. So she must say, perhaps only to herself, but she must say it: I am a captive girl. I have a cunt. He who has taken me will fuck my cunt. I have tits. He will bite them. I have pubic hair which he will pluck." Thalia laughed at their dismay. "You see? A simple Moslem girl may teach you...."



"You didn´t learn that at Girton?" Terry challenged.
"Learn, learn. What does it matter where we learn? We are girls. We know these things. I have a cunt. With it I can change the map of the world." Dorinda was enthralled. Here was a woman! Here was the epitome of Women´s Lib. Yet how they would hate her! Few, if any, of them would admit to possessing a cunt. They would call it something else. But then only if they were f***ed to. They would like to see themselves as a statuesque feminine image without orifices. Sanitary and chaste.
"Don´t yoy hurt? We do." Terry probed.
"Of course I hurt, darling. I hurt beautifully and wonderfully. I hurt because a man had bound me. Bound me tight. And why has he bound me? Because I am his desire. He wants me enough to risk his life and his fortune to possess my body. Darlings, wake up. Here we are, tied tightly and in pain, the three most lucky girls in all the world."



Dorinda sought to clear her mind. She felt like a c***d in school whose bafflement with trigonometry had been solved by a lucid teacher. How absurd life was. She and Terry were being taken to a fate worse than death..... almost. Thalia greeted the same destination as an exciting experience. Was everything only a state of mind?



"You are going to hurt worse than you ever dreamed possible," she warned.
"What if I do? I will also live more than I have lived."
"You´ll hate him!"
"Why? He is male to my female. He will hurt me, yes. Tell me of any woman to whom a man did not bring pain. Tell me."



Dorinda had no answer. She wished she could share Thalia´s avid curiosity. It was like watching the first steps of a c***d who has not yet learned the pain of its first fall.
"When you are screaming in agony, what than?" She was ashamed of her cattishness.
"Well then, darling, I will scream." Thalia seemed enamoured of the prospect.



She was very beautiful and very much alive. Dorinda hated to think of her soiled. But that word, too, was comparative. She and Terry had been soiled. By the standards of a past day they would be beyond the pale. She did not feel soiled. Most certainly Terry did not. So that label, too, could be cast aside.



"You are not going to like being naked, are you?" she asked mischieviously.
"You are naked." The new captive judicially considered the question.
"Very well, I will not like it the first time. I can understand that whether they strip you, or whether you yourself shed your clothes the first time must indeed make a girl long for six hands. But I have a very nice body. I will be proud of that." She gave her companions a sly shrew glance.
"Is not a girl who is beautiful always a little proud....?"



They bumped along uncomfortably, busy with their thoughts. Dorinda wondered why they must be so tightly tied. There was no need for it now. The strap at their elbows was pure punishment. Mike had probably casually forgotten, or wanted them in a subdued frame of mind on arrival. Thalia, too, must have been irked by the discomfort. She surveyed her companions´ total immobility and announced: "Darlings, I am going to untie you."



"How?" two voices demanded in unison.
Thalia grinned wryly. "I don´t know," she admitted. "But I shall try. It is something to do. I am tired of bouncing about like a ball. You two can do nothing because of the way your feet are tied. But I´m not fastened to anything."
"It will hurt," Terry warned.
"So it hurts. I will bear it."
"But we are all handcuffed," Dorinda protested. "Even if you got everything else off we can´t get free of them. We would still be helpless."
The Arab girl chuckled. "Darling, do not worry. I, too, have no hope of freedom. But I want to see the look on that big man´s face if he opens the door and finds three girls who are not in pain...."



Dorinda and Terry watched entanced. It was a diversion. None of them had anything to lose. The elbow straps bit brutally. It would be good to be free of them.
Thalia´s approach to those she would rescue was in reverse. Thrusting with her bound feet, she was able to get her fingers against the cords that joined their legs. She could not see what she must do. But they could. Her handcuffs clinked busily as she tugged and puhed under their direction. That first hurdle was easy. The cords fell away, leaving each girl seperate within her own bonds. Thalia was jubilant. Her face intent, eyes shining.



"Now, darling," she said to Terry. "You lay on your side so that my fingers can reach the strap that hurts."
Once more a painful panting contact was achieved. "You see," Thalia exulted, "we are going to win."



Dorinda, the only one who could see the pinioned arms and questing fingers, gave directions with bated breath. It was exciting. It was good even to be rid of the tie from which they were already free. The concerted effort once again brought results. The strap fell away. Terry whooped in glee and sat up. Her wrists and ankles were still in thrall. But she contrived to lean over and enthusiastically kiss the girl who had wrought the miracle. "Only my ankles! Here they are, darling."
"We are going to have fun with your Mr. Sandos," Thalia said confidently.



The three girls were on their feet, glorying in their relative freedom. Each was still handcuffed. But their pain was gone. Thalia scornfully kicked one of the hated straps that had joined their elbows. She did a small dance of joy on the swaying and uncertain floor.



"He may not be all that pleased," Terry suggested doubtfully. "He´ll probably put the damn things back on just to teach us a lesson."
"So what!" Thalia kicked this way and that, flexing her cramped limpes. "For now, I do not hurt. I think that for girls who are as we are there had best be no thinking of next day or next hour or next week. Oh, how dearly I would love to unlock these things upon our wrists!"
For a little while she amused herself by testing the grip of the metal that joined her hands. She pulled and twisted, her face intent. "I know I cannot get free," she acknowledged, "but it is good to try. If I am to wear such bangles, it is best that I find out what I can doe or cannot do with them. With these now I cannot do anything at all." She paused, thinking. Then sought her companions with dancing eyes.



"Darlings?"
"Yes?" She had their full attention.
"We have a little time together now, alone. We do not know what your nasty man do with us when our journey ends...."
Her lips pouted. Her eyes glowed. She discarded words.
"Oh darlings, yes. We must! I´m crinkling already......"
Dorinda laughed in joy.
Three girls made love.
The truck bumped its way toward the Sea.



I did not get my victory. I think that men must never let us win. It is important to their self esteem. But I was very angry. He was just pretending not to notice that we were free of his bits of straps and cords. He said no word at all. I knew from this that he would not be easy. The girls had told me. Terry and Dorinda are afraid of Mike. Perhaps I will be before he is through with me. If he ever is through with me. There is that to think of too. For a little while, bound in the truck, I was excited. That thing that was done to me when I was fifteen was not like this. I was very frightened then. I expect I should be very frightened now. But the girls make it so different. Pure romance: three lovely maidens chained and captive. The perquisites of a Pirate Prince! How silly a girl can be. Even a girl like me. Rabin´s doughter! I deserve to be whipped. Mike cheated me of everything. I expect it was because of those rotten straps and cords. So I must be made to know I am a nothing. Just a little curio picked up along the way. He does not strip me. He does not strike me. He does not ask questions. He just motions with his hand and I am taken down and locked in what he calls the ´Brig´. I do not like his Brig. It is awful! I must have claustrophobia. The tiny iron box with its rivet heads was a terrible place for a girl all alone. I did not know what he had done with the others. I had been taken from them. To tell me very plainly that I was never going to escape he had my handcuffs removed, my hands pulled round to the front and locked very tight in heavy chains that joined my wrists and linked them to the wall with a tether that stopped me getting near the door. I could sit or stand or lay down on a miserable little shelf. That was all.



They call it ´softening up´, don´t they? I was chained in that b**stly little Brig for part of a day and all night. When I was handcuffed and taken to Mike´s office I knew I was not quite the same girl who had ridden in the truck the day before. Even a little journey from my prison to my first interview with the man who now owned me was designed to put me in a properly receptive frame of mind. At first on deck it was glorious. All my happiness came back. The Quest is a lovely boat. The Mediterranean is a lovely sea. For a moment I forgot my handcuffs nad the big fingers on my arm. But then I saw Dorinda.....



I had never seen her clothed. She was not clothed now. But what was being done to her made her seem doubly naked. She was hanging from the rigging by her wrists. They were spread out above her head and tied with many strands of rope so that she just hung there high above the deck, her body swaying freely as the boat moved in the swells. As a final touch of cruelty, perhaps for the sake of shame, a wooden rod was tied to her ankle so that it spread and seperated her legs. We on the deck who looked up saw first, and most of all, her pubic hair and that which it was supposed to hide.



He had his own sense of the dramatic. He must have given orders. When the breakfast things had been cleared we all gravitated, a sort of fitting in of jig-saw pieces, to a space on the deck that suddenly became a stage. We were all audience. There were no actors. The three man crew drifted into seats on a hatch or a box. We girls stood or sat as we pleased.We were a semi-circle facing the Rail, against which Mike lolled. A very casual M.C.
"You got a little job, honey. Fetch it."



My heart bled for her. Poor, poor Dorinda! She did not deserve this. It was on my tongue to intervene. But instinct told me that even she would rather I kept silent. But it was very cruel and very humiliating, this thing that she must do. She did it well. Before those men she must have hated it, but she kept her face serene and went to the companionway. When she returned she carried the cane. A cane I knew would hurt very much: I have used such things. She knelt before her owner. She was more beautiful than she knew. She kissed the cane as though it was flesh. Then offered it that she be beaten. Slowly then she placed herself where all could see, bent down, arched her back and clasped her ankles so that the link of her handcuff was very tight. Mike struck her very hard. I winced. It is a sound all its own, the thud of a cane upon a girl´s flesh. Her bottom flowered it´s scarlet band. Poor darling Dorinda! How naked and alone, and how very slender she seemed there, exposed to all. I knew. I would not wish to be as she was.



He was so unkind. He need not strike her so hard. She was only a girl. No need to make her sway under the impact of each blow. But, of course, Mike would always strike like that. Somehow I knew. She could not forbear to make small sounds. Once she apprehensively looked round and back as though to speak or to plead. But quickly bowed her head again to wait for the next stroke. She quivered and twisted, but was always still and receptive when the cane found her. When the five were done, she did not clasp her bottom or rub her wounds. But, once more, slowly and with grace she knelt before the man who had whipped her. "Thank you, master." Her voice was low but clear.



With surprising gentleness he raised her to her feet and kissed her hand. For a moment they gazed into each other´s eyes in a communion I could not interpret. Then the slave girl Dorinda rejoined the audience. She did not sit down. There fell then a silence. No one stirred. Dorinda had been a preliminary. The stage was bare, waiting. It took a little time before I felt his eyes. Then I became aware that the three men were looking at me too. They knew something I did not. Shamefacedly, the two girls looked from me to him and back again. Suddenly, as though someone had switched on a light, I realised the stage was set for me.



There is a much used sentence in fiction and on the stage in which someone declaims: "The time has come!" I had known it would come. It was here! I was not ready. I never would be. I had asked myself what I would do. But I had no answer. I could obey or resist. I would not resist, then men would enjoy handling me. So I would obey. But how? A puppy dog. Or try and hold on to being me..... No one helped me by speaking. There was not even an order to disobey. That Mike....!



"Am I on stage, darling?" I inquired sweetly.
Mike simply pointed with the cane to where Dorinda had received her strokes.
So I was to be caned like a schoolgirl in front of all! It was a beginning. No worse than I had feared. I shrugged and walked out for my initiation. Always there is a twist. I stood and looked at my master. I did not want to bend. Once more the silent cane gave a message. It did not reach me. It was not the motion given Dorinda. He flicked it up, not down. I was about to ask what I must do, when he did it again and I understood. My hand flew to the fastening of my dress, our eyes locked. He nodded. It was time for me to strip.



I had forgotten I wore clothes. It is just as Terry and Dorinda forget that they are naked. Now I was to be naked too. How clever Mike was! To make me do it in front of him, and that absurd Cuthbert, and drooling Alfred, and lusting Myron. I did not want to do it like this even in front of girls. I feared to lose my courage and my poise along with the bits of cloth I must discard.



It was Mike who compelled me. So I kept my eyes on him alone as I did away with my last defense. The others were not there: just he and I. It was easier. I stepped out of my dress, my poor little slip of a dress that had cost so much.



This time I read the message of the flicker of the cane. Mike was so clever, so cruel. He would more than strip me naked. Obediently I tossed my dress overboard to the hungry sea. I was a girl who had no need of clothes, not the right to wear them. Thus a slave is born.
Certainly now my naked flesh would be caned. How fitting a finale! Would I receive five, or ten? Or would I be broken to a grovelling nothing? As I tossed my last precious possession over the rail I sought the order that would shame me.



"Round here, miss."
It was Myron. How incongruous the respectful, Miss! Yet his voice held no irony. How perfectly natural that a girl guest on the "Quest" be tortured. He held pliers and very thin wire. I held out my hands and pretended interest. But it was not pretence. I was curious, along with the fear. A single loop twisted tight on each wrist. But not so that it cut. After the first securing twists were done a smaller loop was fashioned firmly, the loose ends snipped away. Very neat and tidy. I wore thin wire bracelets with a ring. Mike broke the long silence.



"Still game to climb that rail, honey?" Oh so suave!
So I need not bend down. Bending down suddenly became precious. I relinquished it with sorrow.
"Where would you like me, darling?" I made it sounds as though I could hardly wait to feel the thing between my legs.
"Can´t risc losing you overboard," Mike assured me jovially. "Fixed something special."



It was simple. It was special. It was all mine. Two trestles. Between them a plank, on edge. Three feet from the deck. It would destroy me. I had seem them used. Yet I had gaily promised to climb aboard. I kept my promise. Very gingerly, very cautiously I climbed upon my perch. Once astride my legs clamped tight. I leaned my weight upon my hands. They buckled the anklets. How awful when they stretched my legs to either side! I knew I would split. So far. So tight. Now I could never leave the thing on which I sat. I could not even fall. But, still, I rested my weight upon my hands. When my hands were taken from me I would start to die.



My hands were taken. I did not die. Girls do not die when tortured. The torturer prefers them alive Clips snapped into the loops on my wrists. Up went my hands and arms spread wide and high. Much care was taken. I was to lose all freedom. But my wrists must not be cut. Ropes were made snug, everything shipshape. A talkative young lady was being punished.



I have told you of my knowledge of this that was being done to me. It has many names. Usually the girl´s wrists are tied behind her back so that her hands cannot help her as she sits and longs to die. But Mike´s way was worse. It would be! Ith my hands fastened high I was cruelly exposed. I had to sit straight, my breasts in shaming prominence, my weight where I did not wish it. But the mental torture was the wire upon my wrists. Had it been rope, how gladly I would have tugged on it to ease the pain below. But not the wire! My first tentative tensioning told me to desist if I did not want the bl**d running down my arms. I would hold my hands high. They would tire. I could not ease them. They could not ease me. I must hold tense. I must sit.



I sat upon the plank that was between my legs.
Everyone had a good look at me. Then, save for the girls, my audience dispersed.



"Mike won´t come near you," Terry told me. "If he did it would give you a chance to plead."
Mike thinks of everything.
"Should we leave you alone, darling?" Dorinda was troubled. "You must be in agony and we can´t help."
They could not help. Their hands were handcuffed behind their backs.
"They let us wander," Terry explained. "We can´t get into mischief. When they feel like it they fuck us."
The hated word! Or the beloved word! It could not be done to me like this. Perhaps it would never be done to me. I hurt too much to live. My four-letter words were consumed by fire.



. "If you go, will the others leave me alone?" It was hard to speak. "No, they won´t, Dorinda said miserably. "We won´t k** you. You´re on display. They can do what they like with you the same as they can with us. The way you sit is Mike´s idea of showing you who´s boss. He can whip us anytime, and he will. But he likes special ideas. He calls ´em cute notions."
"Oh damn!" said Terry. "Here´s Cuthbert now."



The youth with little chin carried a hammer, a couple of nails, a square of pasteboard and a whip. I was sure all were bad. He was happy with his word. I prayed his acne might be chronic. He showed me the little sign. It read: "Please whip me." He nailed it to the plank on which I sat. On the other side he drove a nail and hung the whip. He reached out and pinched my left nipple. He walked jauntily away, whistling.
"They did it to me," Terry said. "Cept I didn´t have to sit. They whipped me when they felt like it. Not much. Just enough to keep me worried. They did a bit of the other too. But it´s awkward standing up with the girl tied, so Dorinda got most of that business."



Incredible Terry! Forever chaste. The eternal maiden. Could I bear torture? She told me that I could. We were just three girls to whom pain would happen. We would dilute it with our screams. Sometimes in between we would be happy. Was this slavery? It was slavery under Mike Santos. I was alone. They knew what was best. How darling they were. I wondered, glumly, how I looked. Was I still beautiful, or was I stretched so that I was no longer a girl. No longer anything. I could not get a good look at where I hurt. The pain was so enveloping that I was not sure exactly where the plank sliced me. I believed it cut everything we cherish. The sophisticated Miss Rabin knew great shame. Mike had contrived shrewdly this thing that I must suffer. How I hated the threatening wire upon my wrists.



"Bit hard on the cunt, eh, miss?"
It was Alfred the cook. He bent over and examined where I sat, as interested in the mechanics as I was.
"Please let me loose. I can´t stand it."
He nodded sympathetically. "Nobody´s whipped you yet?"
The same thought had entered my mind. "Please take a message to Mr. Sandos. Tell him I´ll do anything. Tell him I´m sorry. Tell him I absolutely must be taken off this thing. It´s injuring me."
He took the whip off the nail. My eyes followed it, hypnotized. "Please don´t whip me. I´m hurting enough already. Please....!"



Without noticeable emotion he cut the thong up under my strained thigh. I screamed. Nothing should hurt so much. It was a nightmare of the unexpected. He cut my other thigh in the same way, the thong curling full circle, its tip finding a speck of bl**d. I screamed again.
"Makes lovely marks like that, it does," said Alfred conversationally.
"Like you been wearin´ your nylons too tight and too long, only better."
He grinned amaibly. "Bet you thought I´d give you a good cut across your back?"
He was right. That is what I had expected. "Please get the captain," I sobbed. I had not been able to keep back the tears. I was in full retreat.
"How come you never been whipped?" Alfred had time on his hands.
I gave him an agonized stare. "Aren´t you going to help me?"
"`Course not. You know I ain´t. You´re just talkin´ so you feel better."



"Nobody can bear this..... and to be whipped......!"
"You´re doin´ nicely, love. Don´t take on so. Bit new on the job, I take it?"
"Help me escape. My father will make you rich."
"Never had no luck with fathers, Alfred mused. "My experience is they got more shotguns than cash."
"You can fuck me when this is over."
"I´ll do that anyway," he chuckled. "That there crack of yours ´bout escaping: the boss says to give you a real stinger every time you make the offer. Any particular spot you´d like to get it?"



I was nothing. To whip me was no great privilege. To mate with me could casually be deferred until tomorrow. He would whip that part of my person I would choose in much the same way he might give me a cigarette. Alfred was the perfect leveller. He left a girl nothing. I chose my back. I do not know if he used all his strength or not. The shock of the pain made me jerk my wrist once too often. The wire made its first cut. I groaned in misery. I lost all hope, all pride. To be so robbed by Alfred. How bitter..... I wept uncaring.



"A really lovely mark. Pity you can´t see it." Alfred´s voice seemed far away. I flinched as his finger traced the wound he had made. "You can stop making a fuss. I ain´t going to hit you no more."
What had I become that this clod could make me know such thankfulness. Not to be whipped again! Perhaps without the whip I could survive. I said "thank you", gratefully. How I loathed myself.
"No use hurting a girl too bad," Alfred said thoughfully.
"There´s always another day." He shambled away to his kitchen.



I was nauseated with the pain. I longed to die. We close our eyes when there are things we cannot bear. I closed mine. I had no coherent thought. I wondered if Mike Sandos knew of the awfulness of this thing. I longed to plead to him. Yet I was glad he had not seen my abasement before Alfred. I drifted in a welter of distress. I heard the voices. But it was as though I eavesdropped. What could voices have to do with a girl splayed asunder on a plank?



"But she´s bleeding, I tell you. If she faints those wires will cut her hands off.....!"
There were growling sounds. Male.
"She´s going to faint. Look, she´s swaying. Oh please! I can´t help her. I´m handcuffed." It was Terry somewhere far away.
There were many rumblings. Then Mike´s voice, incisive.
"If she comes off, you go on?"
"Yes! Oh yes. But hurry. Mike....?"
"Yes honey?"
"Please not those wires though.....? I don´t think they are very practical..... I mean, they´re not safe."
"O.K. Sweetheart. We´ll call the wires a mistake."



Suddenly there were hands upon me. Blessed hands. My arms fell. Stupidly I saw they were covered with bl**d. I could not move them. I was lifted and placed upon my feet. The plank gone. I was in paradise. I leaned into someone´s arms and put my head against a chest. It smelled like Mike. I did not want to move, ever again. If I moved I hurt. But it was a beautiful pain. I heard all sorts of sounds, odd words, exclamations, bustle. Then fire was poured down my throat and I was gently lowered into a chair. I opened my eyes. Mike´s face was very close. It was concerned. I was glad. He bent and kissed my forehead. How foolish a girl! My pain left. "Sorry, sweetheart. Error in judgment. Shouldn´t have been the first time. Too much too soon. No apologies, mind. I´m still a bastard. We ain´t setting a precedent."



I did not care. I was so lucky. Dorinda was bandaging my wrists. A single cuff dangled from one of her own. She must have been unlocked in a hurry. There was a basin of water and towels. I was being made whole again. She looked at me with love. I who had punished her..... It was not until Mike moved his bulk away from me that I saw Terry and remembered.....



She sat as I had sat. But her hands were cuffed behind her back. That was the only difference. The sign was there, and the whip. She was looking anxiously in my direction, ready to catch my eyes and smile.
"Hello darling," she called gaily. "Aren´t I a lucky girl? Riding horsey, horsey?"



She is in agony. Who should know better than I! Yet she laughs that I not be hurt. This darling, this most beautiful girl, she sits upon the plank and smiles at me. Oh Thalia, Thalia! I am forever shamed. I look at Mike. He grins and shakes his head. I look at Dorinda. She smiles and touches her lips with a finger.



I Am deeply shamed. I cannot look at any of them. I am so small. I want to crawl into a little hole. What would my fathet say! Absently, selfishly I feel the wound between my legs. I am intact. I do not know how this is so. But it is so. I am grateful. A girl loves her cunt. It makes her priceless in the eyes of men. She need feel no shame for being glad that it is in good working order. The feeling has come back into my arms. They have been cleansed of bl**d. Dorinda had put neat bandages upon my cut wrists. They no longer hurt. My hands are drawn gently behind my back. The handcuffs click. I have been told that I am still slave. I watch as Dorinda´s hands, too, are joined behind her. The task for which they were freed is done. She must return to bondage. Both of us are slaves. Our eyes acknowledge it.



You who read can tell. I am sure you can. I long to be ravished by big Mike. I am wanton, without shame in this one thing. My loins are aflame with more than the bruise of the plank. Mike does not know, or does not care. He nods, pleased that the job is done, and goes back to whatever he does in his office. Dorinda and I look at each other, uncertain what to say. Girls know so much. They have little need of words. I look at Terry. She has bowed her head and closed her eyes. She is steeped in pain: mine!



Dorinda nudges me with an elbow, and nods for us to go. My surrogate must be left without our prying eyes that she be not shamed with my shame. We steal away. I hurt as I walk. But it is a hurt I do not mind. I wish my hands were free. But what would I do with them? A slave has little use for hands. Not Mike´s slaves.....

To Be Continued...
Geri
www.bdsmfinder.com
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Categories: BDSMFetishHardcore
Posted by wastedaway
4 years ago    Views: 1,140
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4 years ago
excellent