Thus, Mike is pleased on both counts. But the alarming thing about Terry´s predicament was that she was sitting astride the rail of the ship ready to fall into the sea. She had no hands with which to save herself. Then I saw the rope on her ankle. It pulled her foot out sideways and helt her tight so that she did not go over the edge. Her other ankle on the opposite side of the rail was held by a handcuff. I wondered why, until I saw that it held her foot so that she could reach nothing solid with it on which to find support. Her punishment was to sit like that, always on the brink. All her weight resting between her legs upon the rail. The rail was wide enough that the darling was not tortured. But I could tell that she was in pain. I would not have wished to sit like that. Not a woman...... But, who knows! Perhaps one day I, too, will sit in such a way.
Terry is a darling. She is adorable. She was hurting very much, but when she saw me she smiled and called out: "Why darling, isn´t this gorious? I´m drinking in the ozone."
The English have a joke about the ozone. They refer to it a lot. But I have forgotten why. All I could do was smile as though I was sure everything would be alright, and then that big hand on my arm shoved me up some steps. I was quite sure everything was not alright.
"A pleasure, dear girl. Your father and I are old friends."
"Then send me back to him."
We glared at each other and then laughed. He with genuine enjoyment. Me ruefully, knowing I wasn´t going to win. He motioned me to a chair and lounged back himself. His eyes were very shrewd.
"I´m curious to see which role you are going to play:"
"Role?" I said it disdainfully.
"We all pick one, y´know," he grinned at me confidingly.
"Take me now: I´m a brass bound bastard. But I do a very good Hearty-man-of-the-world act. Fools even you girls the first tome. Now, you´re lucky. You´ve got a fine choise. How about the Arab Princess: ´My father will flay you alive!" That´s a good one.
"You went to Girton, didn´t you? So you can do the cold English virgin freezing me with silent contempt and mentioning that I wouldn´t dare do it if your b*****r Jack was here. Then you might try...."
"Oh shut up, you silly ass! I´ll just be me," I broke in on him. After seeing the girls I felt I might as well die for a sheep as a lamb. I´d soon be suffering some awful indignity anyway. It jolted him. He knew I´d seen the jolt. "You do want to be whipped, don´t you?" he asked cozily.
"How about me whipping you? Be a nice change."
I don´t know what got into me. The courage of desperation, I suppose. That Brig had frightened me. On the "Quest" a girl got punished before she did anything. But the effect of my bravado was startling. He sat up, alert. "I´ll be damned," he exclaimed heartily. "So that´s your thing!" "I do not have a thing."
"We´ll let you whip Cuthbert. Do him a world of good."
"Anyone with a name like Curtbert deserves to be whipped. But don´t look at me." I was getting out of my depth. He chuckled. "Done much of it?"
I am not naive. I knew what he meant. I wished I´d kept quiet. "I am not whipping anyone," I told him imperiously as though I owned the ship. "Now, release Terry and Dorinda and give us all a decent breakfast."
My breast heaved. It was fear, but I hoped he´d mistake it for something more useful. He sat back and gazed at me silently. I could not tell whether he was pleased or angry. I was getting ready to tell him to get on with it and have me flogged, when he reached out and touched a bell. It was Myron who showed.
"Breakfast for four in thirty minutes. Release the girls. Show Miss Rabin to their cabin. She wishes to wash her hands." He dismissed us with a wave of his hand and turned his attention to some papers on the desk.
I wasn´t sure who´d won.
"We´ve been promoted," Terry told me cheerfully.
"Last time, we got the Brig," Dorinda said.
It was a delightful cabin. I could understand Mike keeping a girl off balance by giving her luxury half the time and torture of degradation for the rest. He´d be amused.
Terry was making an intimate examination. "The hair´s still there and my thingummy´s just the same." She seemed reassured, and looked at us seriously. "It´s awful having to sit on your quiff like that. You´re positive nothing can ever be the same again."
I washed myself and straightened the rags that had survived my k**napping. My hands were free. I wondered why. Both the others were handcuffed. "Leaving you free to slap his face," Terry opined. It was delightful. Luxury. A gorgeous day. A time to savour and enjoy. A girl wonders why men have to be the way they are: the way Mike is.
He was so bl**dy charming. Terry and Dorinda knew him. But he had me floundering. I refused to think. I enjoyed. Everybody helped. I wondered if I´d ever be as adept with handcuffs as the girls. The way they did everything was far prettier than if their hands had been free. There was a daintiness and percision.... I could see the day when they´d be all the rage.
"What are we, Mike?" Dorinda asked matter of factly.
"Prisoners, guests, or slaves?"
"Trying to make up my mind about that, honey," Mike admitted. "Got any preference?"
"Whichever hurts less", said Terry brightly.
He laughed, delighted with her. "They´re all a pain in the ass, sweetheart," he roared at his stupid joke. We smiled politely. I suspected ours was a command performance.
"While we´re down on that subject," Terry continued puckishly, "I´d suggest you didn´t put me on that rail again. You may lose a useful facility."
Mike bellowed again. He bellowed easily. "All hair and no hole, eh," he chortled.
"Slave girls are a valuable asset," Dorinda pointed out meekly. "You may wish to sell us back to Mr. Rabin."
They knew his language.
His funny spot was tickled again. "Like to see the old boy´s face. You two and his daughter. Neat package. SPECIAL PRICE." He grinned at me.
"Think he´d buy?"
"If I was included he would buy. Otherwise I do not think he will ever deal with you again."
"Never mind, honey. You´re worth every penny I don´t get."
He swivelled his attention. "What you girls suggest for the Princess´s initiation?"
"Five strokes," Terry said promptly. I guessed it was his minimum.
"Ten," said Dorinda, more conservative. From their tone I deduced I´d be lucky if it was only twenty.
Mike pretended to consider. "Bit old hat, don´t you think?"
"I´ll sit on the rail," I said firmly. "I do not mind the loss of a facility."
He gave me his full attention. "Ever occur to you, honey, it ain´t yours to lose any more?"
"What do ypu suggest then?" I demanded.
He grinned as though I´d fed him the question he´d been waiting for. He turned to Terry. "Tell her. Honey."
She looked at him, uncertain. Then understanding dawned. "Oh, Mike.Don´t do that to her. She´s new. Besides, it´s horrible. Even for me it´s horrible."
I expect my face was a big question. Terry turned to me and vehemently protested. "It´s rotten, awful. He did it to me. I don´t mind too much. But not you! Oh Thalia, not you.......!"
How silly we girls are! I was excited. Whatever it was that was planned for me had not left a mark on the delightful c***d. I was ashamed at this excitement. I hoped big Mike had not seen it. I think he knows far too much about how silly we are.
"I will sit on the rail," I said firmly. I will climb on there all by myself. I will offer my hands and feet to be tied." I looked him very squarely in the eye. "That would please you?"
It did please him. He looked at me with the air of a man who has made a good buy. "I´ll be damned. You´d do it, wouldn´t you?"
"Naturally. That is my function now, is it not? To be hurt so that you have fine erections. Is it not said that a woman´s work is never done?" He liked it. Men are as foolish as we. I babbled on at randon. "The closer the hurt is to the hair between our legs or to our breasts the more rigid the result. Am I not right?"
"I think you´re bluffing," his grin was still pleased. "This cool and collected bit. Ain´t you overdoing it?"
"A slave cannot bluff her master."
"Oh come off it! You three little tricks have got nothing in your minds right now except how to manage Mike. Poor old Mike! I scarcely got a chance with you three kittens scheming away."
"You can always whip us. It wins all arguments."
"It´s a lovely idea, k**. A consolation for poor old henpecked Mike. String you up and watch the stripes spring up on your skin."
"How lucky we are to serve."
He wagged an admonishing finger. "You´re too big for your britches, girl. Anyone but you would have got hoisted about the time we ate our g****fruit."
"You prefer me to be dumb and quiver?"
"You got a point," his eyes glinted at me. "Y´know, you are going to make an interesting study for poor old Mike. After you´ve had ´bout the twenty-first stroke, we´ll pause awhile and have some nice bright conversation. Like we´re having now. O.K. sugar?"
I am not really very brave. Our little breakfast was so delightful that talking about my body being lashed by a whip was like speaking of Mars or another century. But inside I cringed. This big man, just by snapping his fingers, could make terrible things happen to me. I could believe that what he had just said could become true within the hour. I was busy thinking up some appropriate quip when Dorinda broke in.
"But, Mike. You can´t keep three girls like us forever!"
Heavily, he turned his attention upon her. "That will cost you five, honey. Speaking out of turn. You know better. You get ´em after breakfast. No use spoiling our digestions. But don´t let it slow you down. Chatter, but no beefs."
Poor Dorinda! She looked so ashamed. She made no saucy retort. Just pouted and delicately used her chained hands to butter a piece of toast. I knew she must do something or she would cry. I wondered if, a week from now, I too would have nothing to say when told I would be whipped.
I noticed that Terry ignored the incident as though it had not happened. They were slaves. It showed. I was not yet a slave. I would try not to be a slave. I realised that behind those two girls was much of slavery of which I did not know. I wondered what had been done to them to make them think as slaves. They were so attuned. I had seen it in them when they were the slaves of my father and of me. Such beautiful slaves! How willingly they offered themselves to be bound or to be chained or to be whipped. It is an art. To submit and to think of naught else but submission is a craft, a technique, to be learned and treasured. It makes us doubly female. But I did not want to be a slave. If it was indeed my fate, I wondered if it was Mike who should break me. He was so gross. But so very male....
There was no trial. But there was a sentencing. Each girl should learn her losson! Julie´s agony must be shared. It was in the big hall. Two lines of naked girls. Each variously chained. None free. In the centre the prisoner without defense, hands still cuffed behind her back. It was but a little while since she had toiled up the beach. Beyond her the Judge. There was no anger. No vindictiveness. Only a task.
"You tried to escape?"
A flutter of wracked shoulders and locked hands. "I do not know."
"Don´t be absurd. You risked your life."
"I wanted to go home."
"Aren´t you happy here?"
"Yes, I am happy."
The prisoner obviously fought a battle within herself. She raised her head and flung defiantly at them all: "Because I´m a bl**dy fool, that´s why!" She surrendered to tears.
A girl was delegated to deal with her distress. A girl whose ankles, only, were chained. A girl armed with twohandkerchiefs. When she retired the voice demanded. "Do you plead other than guilty?"
"Nothing to extenuate?"
"You will be branded."
Dorinda saw Julie´s nakedness tense.
"You will be caned for as long as seems judicious."
Were there tremors in the flesh of the naked girl who stood so straight to learn what she must bear!"
"You will spend a week in the dungeon without company. Each day you will be painfully confined."
The indrawn breath. The closed eyes!
"On release you will again be beaten to the limit of your tolerance."
A trembling of lips that must not negate.
"All this to be witnessed by those who love you."
It was done.
"But you´ve seen the brands, haven´t you, darling?"
Scarlet was amused by Dorinda´s horror. "There´s at least six of the girls who have them for trying to escape. Any girl who has a go at it can be quite sure of a brand. Mark of distinction, really."
Dorinda had seen the brands. A large "H", but had asked no questions. In this community it was not impossible....!
She had wondered if she herself might be required to wear one. Now she was to witness the burning of the flesh.
Julie was strapped so that she could not move. A table with straps and buckles strategically placed. She turned her head from side to side as though in wonder at what was happening to her. It was all the motion she could make. Beside her was the brazier and the iron. Every naked girl in the company quivered at the sight. They stood waiting for the High Priestess. It would be by her hand that Julie would be marked.
"They never gag them," Scarlet whispered. "Their screams stop the rest of us. You wait."
Harriet´s advance matched that of a Sovereign to her coronation. Her clothed condition emphasised the nakedness of her slaves. Julie saw her approach and groaned.
There was much testing of the iron. There was a minute inspection of the thigh where it would burn through the skin to proclaim for life the ownership of she who pressed it home. And then the act. Dorinda saw the smoke and smelt the burning flesh. She saw the naked torso and limbs strain against the bonds, yet move no whit. Watched those agonized moments as the steady hand held the iron the requisite time that its work be perfect. Then heard the screams. The lovely wonderful screams that went on and on and on....
Each girl who listened learned. They would not seek escape! Each knew herselve a slave. Dorinda wanted to be a slave. A slave much loved. She did not wish to wear a brand.
It was the next day. Julie wore a neat bandage round her thigh. It would not impede the cane. Passive, without hope, she placed her loins against the bar of the pedestal which would hold her. Ankles firmly strapped, she leant over and down, her bottom rising as she went. Down, down, arms strained, hands reaching, then straps around her wrists. Tight, so very tight! Now the small of her back, the narrow waist. How wonderfully the leather band exerted its f***e, curving Julie´s slenderness until, when the buckle was clasped, the lush rotundity of her girlish bottom seemed all that was left. It stood up like a beacon, pleading for punishment.
To demonstrate the immobility achieved, the girl who had cinched the straps bent and pinched both the victim´s nipples. The head jerked. Nothing else moved. Next she thrust against each hip. There was no motion. She sought to agitate each of the two cheeks. They were stretched taut. She stepped back to her place among the watching girls. Harriet sauntered forward with the cane, her lips curled, not in cruelty, but in amusement as her eyes sardonically surveyed the lines of hushed femininity, each depicting on her features the emotion engendered by the scene.
"Could be any one of you," she suggested genially. "Don´t all look so damn solemn. Relax and enjoy it. Make believe this is you." She tapped the waiting bottom with her cane.
"Make you feel real good when you realise it´s Julie instead," she chuckled at her pleasantry.
. Dorinda did indeed, mentally, place herself where the frightened Julie was. She realised that the girl to be caned had been reduced to zero. No one had spoken to her. Hands had compelled her, not words. The straps had diminished the girl she had been whilst, at the same time, they enlarged that portion of her she least desired in view. Soon she would scream, but the screams would emerge from somewhere below the rearing flesh that would be mute.
The first blow sang and cut.
Julie had not recently been caned. Her flesh was virgin. The scarlet weal demanded. Each girl paid it tribute with a gasp. Julie made no sound. Dorinda understood the protocol dictating silence for at least the first.
At the second slicing scald Julie screamed. Her screams were continuous then throughout her time upon the pedestal. They were interspersed by pleadings, by sobs, by tears. Harriet acknowledged the vocal accompaniment with amused nods of confirmation, but paused not for a second in her rhythmic flow of shrewd and searching strokes. Julie´s bottom was for beating. It was beaten.
A cringing Dorinda saw the weals become a grid that slowly merged into a single area of red and purple. Here and there were overlaps upon the hips. On these were small drops of bl**d where the cane tip had bitten a wound. She lost count of numbers or of time. She thought only of how it might be known or decided when the time had come to stop. The time came. Julie had to be helped to stand erect. She was led away to antiseptics and the dungeon.
Terry´s eyes sought Dorinda´s beseechingly. "Oh, darling, I´ll never, never dare." A tear started upon her cheek. "We´ll never escape. We´ll be here allways...."
Each day the girls were filed in and out of the dungeon so that no nuance of Julie´s punishment be lost to them. For these occasions Julie was gagged so that she might not plead. But her wide hurt eyes above the gag were as eloquent as her lips. Julie would never do it again. Never! Each day they found her in a new and different discomfort. It was strange Community dominated by the genial but demanding Harriet whose zestful enjoyment of all she did and caused to be done infected and governed the girls whose lives and actions she controlled. When Harriet played games it was pure fun. When she punished it was without animosity. Terry and Dorinda soon discovered that the incessant canings were now a feature of life. A girl might be caned for a disdemeanor. Or she might have to bend over for no other reason than that Harriet was in the mood. Either way the pain was about the same. The woman who used the cane took a mischievious delight in always, with complete candor, explaining either the fault to be punished, or the fact that there was no fault at all: she simply felt an appetite for that particular girl´s bottom. Even Dorinda and Terry soon found themselves accepting these inflictions as a natural order of things.
Harriet´s "Sports Day" was her favourite device for arriving at a compromise in the motives that employed her cane. It was a Gala affair widely patronized by friends much in the manner and style of the Garde Party of many memories. Whilst "The Girls" were the principal competitors there was also guest participation in certain of the events. In all cases there was a prize. It was in reverse. The loser got six of the best immediately on the spot. It was an incentive to win or to be runner up. There was enthusiastic applause, both for the winner and the awarding of "The Prize". Except when required to be on the starting line the girls were encouraged to mingle with the crowd. The sporting nature of the affair had attracted the English contingent in f***e.
"You mean you´re ashamed for them all to see you doing it. Go on, man. Be a real bastard. Enjoy yourself."
There was no gainsaying Harriet. Dorinda sighed and touched her toes. She heard the familiar whrrr..... The cadaver was nervous. He was not adept. His first stroke had vigor without accuracy. It bit into the softness of a thigh. Dorinda squealed and stood up rubbing.
"Hurts more there," Harriet adjudged. "The girl´s excused."
The crowd went about its affairs. There were curious glancesaplenty, but not the circle of avid faces Dorinda had feared. Once more her fingers sought her toes. Cyril hit her again in the same place.
"You doing that on purpose?" Harriet asked heavily.
Cyril was distraught. "Really, I´m most frightfully sorry. Not much experience, y´know." His eyes roved blankly as though seeking confirmation of his amateur status.
Dorinda rubbed feverishly with one hand and flicked away a tear with the other.
"Well you´ve had some experience now," Harriet advised sarcastically. "See if you can´t hit her arse for a change."
He did. A blow filled with irritation and the pent up frustrations of a lifetime. It bisected Dorinda´s proffered cheeks with a solid thunk. Its agony was the old familiar one she knew so well.
"Right on target. You´ve got the range, Cyril old boy. Three more to go." Harriet had regained her good humor. Cyril reëstablished his maleness by vigorously lapping the docile bottom with three that undoubtedly could be described as of the very best indeed. Within her pain Dorinda so labelled them.
More tea was undeniably indicated. Whipper and whipped made their way to the Marquee. The caned girl sipped. The man who had done the caning gulped his cupful gratefully.
"Needed that!" he admitted. Then looked down at the naked girl in contrition. "Expect you can use it too. I say, old girl. I´m frightfully sorry. Don´t know what got into me. Dashed bad form. I bet you´re hurting?"
"Of course I am," Dorinda said cheerfully. "But I´m used to it. Please don´t worry. I´ll be alright." She offered a wry grin. "At least, I will be so long as I don´t lose again." She felt sorry for Cyril.
"You mean she´d give you six more on top...? He was aghast.
She found pleasure in his incredulity. "She´d give me those six and six more as well if I lose enough." she assured him, amused by his consternation. She enjoyed his male concern for her skin. "Harriet´s a stickler for the rules."
The two of them drifted away from the crowd. Dorinda noted their direction as being towards the trees. She wondered and looked sideways at her companion. Surely not.... Not Cyril! But she was not to know. The public address system announced a race. "I´m sorry." She gently touched his arm. "I have to go."
Dorinda never knew the details. But two of the female guests had been persuaded to enter. There was much chaffing and a good deal of vociferous betting. It was obvious that neither entrant was enthused by their e****t´s confidence in their athletic prowess, but were good naturedly allowing themselves to be pushed forward with much banter and repartee. Dorinda suspected the group of having imbibed something stronger than tea. Two pairs of high heeled shoes were reluctantly discarded and left lying on the grass on the way to the starting line.
The race was routine enough. But for Harriet´s girls as deadly serious as any other. None wanted to be last. Dorinda leaped across the grass with a firm determination. The outcome was predictable. The naked contestants were all younger than the guests. They were in better condition, their incentive was keen. Above all they were naked. A naked girl is likely to run better than one who is clothed, even though the clothes be scant. A panting guest, flushed and embarrassed, was the last to breast the tape.
"Hard luck, old girl."
"Damn good try, Betsy."
The consolations came thick and fast. Money changed hands. Repartee was swift and cruel. One of the girls thankfully merged back among her friends. The loser stood defiantly uncertain of her next move. Harriet, armed with her cane, came to her rescue.
"Over you go, darling."
Betsy started as though shot. She looked appealingly at all concerned. Dorinda guessed she had been aware of the penalty but had not expected to face it. Or that, even as a loser, she would be excused. "Ha, ha. Very funny," she said unconvincingly.
"Face the music, old girl," a voice taunted.
"Six of the best," said Harriet as though it was indeed a prize.
Betsy instinctively clutched her bottom. "I wouldn´t dream of such a thing," she retorted righteously.
"One extra for quibbling," Harriet announced.
There was polite applause and cries of "Where´s your sporting bl**d?" and other similar appeals. Betsy´s scarlet features turned this way and that seeking moral support. There was none. Quite the reverse. She could have no doubt of what was expected of her.
She faced Harriet and said flatly: "I won´t do it."
"Another extra for contempt!" Harriet was enjoying herself.
The watching girl felt sorry for Betsy. True, she had entered the race knowing its rules. True, she should now be a good sport and accept the penalty with good grace. But she seemed so alone standing there. Shame at what she was expected to do and to endure before this audience was probebly her greatest inhibition. Dorinda was glad such an ordeal was not her´s.
With a gesture of resignation, Betsy bent over and touched her toes. There were hoots, much laughter, admonitions.
"On the bare, old girl. On the bare!"
"Off with your pants, darling," Harriet demanded peremptorily.
Her face reflecting a welter of emotion, Betsy removed her shorts. Directing a look of pure venom at her party she then discarded her briefs. She was naked from the waist down. Her pubic hair pouting as defiantly as her other lips above. There was spontaneous applause that gathered momentum as she bent over and presented herself to Harriet and the cane.
It was a shameful performance. Betsy felt herself imposed upon. She felt shamed. She was deeply shocked at the flashing pain so far worse than she had dreamed.... Each stroke brought a break in position, a declaration of Independence, a refusal to continue, remonstrance. Comments from the crowd were constant. Few flattering. But, one by one, each under protest, Betsy paid her eight strokes. Immediately they were done she dragged on the garments she had been f***ed to relinquish, and with stoney face, looking neither to right or left, strode through the crowd in the direction of the wharf and the shelter of whatever craft had brought her to Harriet´s Island.
"Bad show, what?" Dorinda allowed Cyril to guide her back to the Marquee. The emotion packed incident had produced dry throats.
"Staff of Life." Cyril approved, putting down his empty cup. "Damn girl made a spectacle of herself."
"Well, what would you have done?" Dorinda demanded quizzically.
Her companion considered, then delivered a judgement worthy of Solomon. "Couple of the girls could have held up a sheet, y´know. Got her six with a bit of privacy. Not easy for a girl like Betsy to expose her, her what dýou call it, in public."
"You mean her cunt?" Dorinda asked innocently.
Cyril was shaken to the core. It took another cup of tea to restore him to the point where he could ask: "I say there, do you girls actually use words like that? Though it was just us chaps."
"I used it," Dorinda said mischiefiously. "After all, us girls have to call our various parts by some sort of name. I´ve always felt that vagina sounds obscene."
"Another race starting any moment now, I expect," said Cyril in full flight.
Dorinda had no mercy. "What do you men call a girl´s breasts and nipples?"
"Could we talk about the weather?" Cyril bleakly waved the white flag.
He was saved further tribulation by the P.A. announcing the next event. A three legged race for all comers. The female section of the team alone subject to penalty. It was with evident relief that he e****ted Dorinda to her next test.
Three legged races are fun. They are popular. They lend themselves to the party spirit. This one had been enthusiastically supported by the male guests who, Dorinda felt certain, were more anxious to hold, and be attached to, a naked girl than for the sport itself. The result of much partnering left her standing without Terry who had already been allocated. Together the two girls would have had nothing to fear, separated they faced risk and hazard. Dorinda stood, feeling foolish, while the P.A. invited a partner. It was bound to be Cyril. There was an inevitability about Cyril. He came bounding up, pink cheeked and certain of ensuring her victory. She showed what gratitude she could muster. After all, if she had to be paired with a male, he was probably as good as any. She joined in the hilarity as, with arms entwined, they watched a referee bind her left ankle to his right.
Had it not been for The Prize it would have been good fun. The fettered males roared their enjoyment and gave much verbal encouragement to theit naked partners. No records were established. It came closer to a melee than a race. It did not take long for Dorinda to realize that her partner was in distress....
In extenuation of Cyril´s failure it must be borne in mind that tussles with naked girls had never been a part of his previous experience. To be actually holding one, and a very beautiful one that, was a shattering event. To have their legs tied together was an erotic dream. Further must be considered the fact that the girl to whom he was so intimately attached had, but a short time before, presented him with a naked bottom to be caned. All in all it is understandable that his libido should respond. Dorinda knew, without doubt, that her partner had a hard on. P
oosibly his finest ever erection.
Erections and races do not mix.
Races create motion. Motion engenders friction. Friction itself generates.... But let us draw a veil. Cyril and Dorinda lost the race.
It cannot be said that Cyril´s partner felt anything but irritation and dismay. Her bottom already had twelve. To add his new Prize to the rest made a formidable infliction. An infliction which a girl would, normally, have received only had she been a very bad girl indeed. She would accept her penalty. She would not complain. She was mostly concerned that the pain should not be such as to cause her to disgrace herself before so many: particularly Cyril. For some reason she did not wish Cyril to see her grovel and plead. But it was Cyril himself who became her greatest cross. He was bereft, shamed, abandoned to guilt. She had gone to Harriet, and was obediently awaiting the nod that she position herself, when his distraught voice was raised.
"I cannot possibly allow it."
"Go away, Cyril," suggested Harriet amiably.
A ribald voice from the crowd did not help. "Off with your trousers, Cyril old boy!"
"But the poor girl. She has suffered enough.... All my fault."
"If you don´t dry up I´ll give her twelve." There was an edge to Harriet´s voice.
"She could never stand the pain. It´s altogether...."
"Shut up you silly ass!" Harriet broke in on his plaint.
"This poor little girl could stand twenty if she had to. Couldn´t you, Honey?"
For Dorinda the conversation had taken a turn in the wrong direction. But thus appealed to she must respond. The Island had its code. She made a somewhat mechanical: "Of course I can," and then turned to a much disturbed Cyril. Placing her hands on his chest she looked into his hurt eyes and said, as sweetly as she could, "Please Cyril. I want to be caned. Can you understand? I want my six of the best. Please don´t fret so. It just makes it more difficult." She made her eyes imploring. "I don´t want twelve...."
For a moment they stood thus. Then, with a muttered something that no one understood, Cyril turned and made for the Marquee. He could not bear to watch. His need of tea had never been so great. Pensively, Dorinda bent into her pose.
Between it´s occasional eruptions into revelry, The Island was a peaceful and beautiful place in which to be. A girl whose feet were not chained could roam at will. She could romp in the surf with others whose hands only bore the chains of slavery. Or she could find a pleasant spot overlooking wood and beach and sea, and there dream her own private fantasies and memories.
Dorinda cupped her chin with her handcuffed hands. To have them chained in front was, for her, almost freedom: so used had she become to the metal bands upon her wrists. Her eyes roved upon delight. Her thoughts were of Mark. Always of Mark. She could not forget Kyrexos. She had given up hope, but not her dream. It was hard to comprehend her new ownership. That her life would be spent here without hope of escape. Always chained by chains that were not Mark´s chains, scourged by a whip that was not Mark´s whip. She wondered how she would have borne her slavery had Terry not shared it. Yet how cruel it was that Mark should have had his beloved nymphet of a s****r stolen from him forever. A small Eden violated by an oaf named Mike.....
"What´s his name, honey?" Harriet´s voice was softer than usual.
"Mark....Oh....!" Dorinda was engulfed in Chagrin.
Harriet laughed. "Don´t be shy, c***d. That we love a girl doesn´t mean we cannot love a man." She examined her slave girl musingly. "Are you happy on my Island?"
Dorinda was confused. How speak of such things without hurting or being hurt?
The older woman sensed her quandary. "Don´t be scared to talk, darling. I won´t use this on you. I promise." She held up the ever present cane. "I only carry it just in case."
Dorinda grinned apologetically. "If I say that I am as happy as a slave can be, I seem to have qualified it enough to make it negative," she admitted. "But slaves can be truly happy. I often am." She lifted her handcuffed wrists and clinked the link back and forth. "Take these, for example, most of the time I forget I have them on."
"D´you want them off?"
"No. I would feel no more free. I belong to you. Wearing these helps me remember."
"You going to pine for this man all your life?"
"I don´t know." Dorinda raised an amused eyebrow at her Mistress. "Maybe you shouldn´t have bought me. All your other girls except Terry came to you sort of psychically attuned. But I was a pig in a poke. Men and thoughts about men don´t belong on this Island."
"You belong, Honey."
"So far as being a slave goes, yes. Much slavery was imposed on me before I was brought here. I seem to have been adaptable. It´s made me wonder."
"This man business. Don´t think I don´t know all about it. I´ve had my own aches. And there´s more of the girls with memories than you´d suppose. They tell me sooner or later."
She chuckled reminiscently. "There was one poor k** who came here on the rebound from a blasted love affair. She felt so terribly guilty about carrying a torch for the guy.... she hadn´t expected to. It crept up on her. She had no wish to go back. But he was under her skin. So she made a pact with me. Whenever she found herself with the blues about him she would come to me, confess, and I would punish her. Believe it or not, it worked."
"How could she be so honest?"
"Because she wanted to be, of course! Don´t get the idea she came to me for her penance every day. You know how these damn moods take us. We can go a week or a month, and then all of the sudden, bam! We are dropping tears all over. With this girl it took about six months: gradually lengthening the intervals. When it got bad enough she would come to me. She never knew what penance I would impose. It wasn´t always the cane. I think we were completely honest with each other. It made a tremendous bond. You know: the way sharing something does."
"Her pain must have been a sort of counterirritant?" Dorinda was intrigued.
"That´s a medical term that probably could apply to thirty or forty percent of her cure. Remember, she felt guilt about me. She saw herself as betraying the trust I´d imposed in accepting her slavery. So, for that, she wanted true punishment. She´s a very clear-headed girl."
"Do I know her?"
"Were you thinking I should ask for penances?" Again the raised eyebrow and bright eye.
"Only if you wanted to very much, honey. It´s something that has to come from the girl. It wouldn´t work if I thrashed you every time I caught you making calf´s eyes at the moon."
Dorinda could see the logic. There was almost temptation! Harriet amusedly watched the expressions flit across the lovely face.
"Careful, darling. I won´t make a pact with you until you have thought about it a lot. It would be something very real for us both." Harriet laughed companionably. "There´s something showed up that other time. The penitent still gets her usual quota of stripes. So when I come to add the penances it can be more than her little bottom has room for. So you´d have to figure on a good deal of imprisonment and what goes with it."
"But wouldn´t a girl sitting in the dungeon think even more?"
"Not if she´s hurting enough," Harriet said grimly.
They sat together, sharing the view in a way they could not share their thoughts. Finally, apropos, of nothing, Dorinda allowed a question to slip past her guard. "Have you ever thought out why you love caning us?"
Some of the boom returned to Harriet´s answer. "Same reason as Mike and about a million others, I suppose." She laughed good naturedly. "Makes me feel good. I have the money. So I do it. I´m not sure we can pin a real significance on it. But one hell of a lot of people have asked that question of a lot of people. It means so much to a lot of us that you feel there just has to be a good answer." She grinned confidently.
"Believe it or not, back when I started out on this Island and got my first few girls we actually ran a class. We all sat down once a week and went at it hammer and tongs. Kept the little dears handcuffed, of course, but apart from that it was a free-for-all, no penalties for frankness." She paused to reflect. "The damndest things came up."
"For instance?" Dorinda´s interest had been captured.
"That´s the hell of it, love. I´ve got you ready for big answers. But there weren´t any. Just a lot more questions. The drama was in the telling. Those girls had got themselves into more jackpots than we could sort out in any half dozen sessions. From being a class, my bright idea ended up as a sort of confessional." Harriet laughed. "We wallowed in it, of course. We all had an emotional involvement in what we were listening to. So each story reached out and grabbed us in an individual way. Hate to say it, but some of those tales got me so horny I had to take a girl off someplace, cane her can, and do a sixty-nine."
Harriet gestured deprecatingly. "Not your thing, maybe. Terry would understand. But here´s one I remember pretty well, I´m going to tell it in the fist person. So now I´m s*******n. remember that. Here we go:
"You´ve got the money. What about me?" I wasn´t scared of his gun anymore. I was wondering what he looked like under the mask.
"What about you, k**?"
"What happens to me? You´re not just going to go, are you?"
"Disappointed because I didn´t fuck you? They call it **** at your age?"
"Well, if you don´t do something to me they´ll think I was in on the steal."
"I can bat you with a flowerpot. But, hell, I ain´t going to do that to some k** babysitter."
"I´m not a k**. Please do something to me so they´ll know I didn´t help." I suddenly had a gorgeous idea. Real hot pants. "I know where there´s a clothesline cord."
He looked at me as though he´d just noticed I was there.
"You want to be tied up?"
"Oh yes!" I expect I sounded more eager than I wanted to. But no more eager than I really was.
He laughed at me as though I was a k** wanting candy.
"O.K. Go get it. Run!"
I ran. I was scared he´d be gone. He wasn´t. His lips twisted in amusement when I dragged out the old wooden chair with arms.
"You do this regular, k**?"
"You´re the first, honest! Do me tight."
I glued myself into that chair and lay my forearms along the rests. I kicked off my shoes. He looked at them. "Why you do that?"
"I don´t know." I was frankly excited. I really didn´t know. He seemed to find everything I did and said vastly funny. I wished he didn´t see me as too young. Without much concern he went to work with the rope.
A fire started to burn inside me as I watched. It was so beautiful. I knew I´d been waiting for this moment all my life. I´ll always remember the day I nagged at him, and his amused tolerance of my demands. He cinched my tummy in first. That was easy. Then he tied my ankles. But I had to tell him the proper way. Not just down on the legs, but bend the knees and bring the foot back up each side and then tie the ankles to the rungs. It shucked my dress up so he could see my pants. He hadn´t looked at the books the way I had. So I had to explain about just two or three stands for each tie and then how to really make them into a neat tight circle. He grumbled about having to get a knife so as to cut off the short lengths and loose ends. I was very insistent about loose ends. It had to look as though me and the cords and the chair were all welded together. Why? I don´t know. I´d always dreamed of it like that.
Next he tied my elbows back in tight to the angle of the chair. This left my hands sticking out nice and straight on each arm where I could see them. I could hardly bear the ecstasy of watching him loop and tie them down. By now, he´d got infected with my own excitement. He was taking a pride in his word. I don´t think any girl anywhere had ever been more neatly and tightly bound to a chair than I was. When he had both my wrists tight on their seperate wooden arms he was going to call it a day. But I begged for my shoulders. He shrugged and said: "O.K. baby, it´s your hide," and went to work on them. I told him how to do the underarm and cross at the back so there wouldn´t be anything over my chest. I think that´s a beautiful way. When he had tied the last knot on I couldn´t move anything but my head and fingers.
He stapped back and admired what he had done, as though making a discovery. "Dammit, girl," he said grudgingly, "I think you got something. You look a damn sight prettier than you did running around loose." He looked at me shrewdly. "You get hot pants out of it?"
My pants were more than hot. They were wet. I was at that age when a girl is still making discoveries about herself. I was almost panting when I demanded the obvious. "You´ll have to tear my clothes."
He treated this in about the same way as my other importunities. "Let´s humor the k**" sort of thing. But I could tell he enjoyed tearing my dress off. It took quite a bit of tugging on accopunt of the ropes. But he was strong and the cotton stuff wasn´t so it was soon in rags on the floor. My pants were easy. He jibed at me when he saw my wet hair. My bra took only one good yank. I was naked in front of a man, and I couldn´t move. It was the most wonderful moment of my life. My breasts aren´t floppers. They weren´t big then. But they were lovely firm cones on which my nipples were screaming aloud for attention. When my burglar friend looked at them I knew for sure he was wishing the same as me: that I was spread-eagled on a bed.
"Horny liitle bitch, aren´t you?" he sneered.
I looked up at him adoringly and gasped, "Thank you." I meant it. I was so grateful. He must have thought me a little idiot. I suspect he was a bit peeved at the way he´d let me use him to get something that he could see, now, I must have wanted pretty bad. He disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back he clipped a spring clothespin on each of my nipples.
It was a shock. It hurt. I gaped up at him. "Why?"
"Just a finishing touch, k**. Something from me to you."
A moment later my burglar was gone. I had never seen his face.
Consider my predicament. I sat there, melting with desire, but suddenly demandingly conscious that my joy or my ordeal had really only just begun. It had taken him fifteen minutes to tie me. The Johnsons might not be back for hours. How was I going to like just sitting there and waiting? Suppose the baby woke up and howled! Suppose the house caught fire! Suppose....! You know how the mind works. However, none of the terrible possibilities could roll back the throbbing glory that tingled in every crevice of my body and my mind. I knew I was the happiest girl in the world. Sure my nipples hurt! But I couldn´t keep my eyes off them. I was fascinated by those clothespins. They had become a part of me, sticking out up and jauntily: small erections! The knowledge that there was just no way I could ever take them off was devastating: devastatingly wonderful!
Oh sure! I thought of what it was going to be like when they found me. Imagine! In their living room! A naked girl with her legs spread so wide her quim would stare them in the face. I knew that was the first thing they would see. My twat! I giggled and squirmed inside at the thought. But the killer would be the clothespins. Those clothespins on my nipples were right out of this world! They would knock the Johnsons right out of theirs. I could hardly wait.
But, of course, I did wait. The cords began to hurt, especially those on my shoulders, and my nipples settled down to a steady burn. But it was lovely gorgeous pain! I´d never known pain could be like that. I was a mixture of new and strange and conflicting emotions. I did not want it ever to end. I knew that, no matter what happened to me now, I would have to make this happen to me again and again for always.
I was intrigued about the Johnsons. But more from what I´d feel when it actually happened: that was what made me quiver with anticipation. Naked for my first time before adults: spread wide open. The question and the being untied. It would be another experience all over again. There was also a little rational query lurking: would I be a heroine, or would they think I´d made a botch of my responsibility? I was not sure about that one. But I refused to worry. I did a bit of struggling just to find out that I couldn´t move at all and had no hope of getting free. Then I settled down to wallow in pure sensation. I was terribly, terribly happy. They were like two great big question marks with wide eyes.
"What the hell goes on here!" Johnson demanded.
"I don´t believe it!" Mrs. Johnson said emphatically.
They didn´t recognize me. All they saw was my gaping pubes and those clothespins.
"What sort of game d´you think you´re playing?" He was angry.
I told him about the burglar.
They left me sitting while they scurried around and confirmed that they indeed had been robbed. I didn´t seem to be a heroine yet. All my lovely gorgeous sensations were fading fast. I felt even less of a heroine when they came back. Mr. Johnson made a move to untie me. I think he was going to unclip the clothespins first. Then his wife said: "Hold it, Phil. Something odd...." Her voice was hard.
"Stand back and look at the whole thing," she demanded.
"It´s too damn pretty. Look at the way she´s tied. Somebody took a lot more trouble over that than any burglar would. Look at the knife and all the bits of cord that have been neatly clipped. Can´t tell me a burglar... And her clothes: they are torn more than need be...." She turned on me furiously. "You little bitch, what´s a big deal?"
There I sat with my clothespins.
I wanted to get loose now. The glow had gone. I was scared. I started to cry.
"Call the police, Phil. They can see her just the way we found her."
The police. With me like that!
The officers enjoyed every moment. Polite, considerate. They sat me on the chesterfield, wrapped in a blanket. Mrs. Johnson grudgingly gave me a pair of step-ins. Her bras were no good to me. Then the questions.
The end of it was that the officers didn´t like it any better than the Johnsons did. It was decided that they´d take me downtown and call my parents. Then came the juicy bit. They had to get me there. All the Johnsons would part with was the blanket. I was not a friend of the f****y anymore. So it was thought best to wrap me in that and put me in the back seat of the officers´ car. But I was suspect. I had to be secured. It was the second most heavenly moment for me when they turned me round, took my arms, and locked handcuffs on my wrists. I was sorry I could not see the lovely metal things at my back. But oh, the feeling! I started to melt again...."
There was a tinge of sadness in Harriet´s chuckle. "That was one of ´em. More or less as she told it to the class. I won´t say: ´heard one you´ve heard ´em all.´ That would not be so. But their stories were really only the particular path they had travelled in order to come face to face with themselves. Once they had done that they were ready to come to me. Grab you at all, honey? I mean the k**´s feelings?"
"Yes. It touches me. I don´t really want it to. But it does."
"You´d like to have sat in that chair?"
Dorinda grinned and gestured with her handcuffs. "I can see a distriction. No. I would not have wanted to sit in that chair. But once I was tied into it I´m affraid all my sensations would have been the same as that little girl." She looked at her owner quizzically. "Am I a half and halfer?"
"Honey, whatever you are you´re right. For me anyway," Harriet sighed. "I have to admit that sometimes these little slips of girls with their quaking quims are just too bl**dy juvenile. Old men like ´em young. But you are a hundred times more satisfying. I´ll always be glad I bought you."
"It´s sort of a nice feeling: being purchased. Makes me feel special."
"You wouldn´t want me to sell you again, just for the thrill?" Harriet was curious.
The mistress was satisfied. "Been thinking about you a lot," she admitted. thoughtfully. "How´d you like to share The Island with me?"
Dorinda froze. Her eyes were wide. The question was a small bomb.
Harriet enjoyed the sensation her question had created. "I mean it, sweetheart. We can think up a name. But be my second in command: my assistant: my companion. Stop wearing chains: be a slave mistress...."
Instinctively, Dorinda´s eyes flashed to her handcuffs before seeking those of the woman who had just made so surprising an offer. "But, how could you trust me?" It was her first thought.
"I consider that," Harriet admitted slowly. "I´d sooner you told me I could trust you. But if you say otherwise it won´t matter all that much. I mean it wouldn´t cause me to think differently. You would not be able to get off the island any easier in that capacity than you can now. Besides," her voice became sardonic, "you´d still be subject to the penalty for an attempt."
"A branded mistress?"
"If you chose it that way, darling."
"Would you still cane me?" There was mischief in Dorinda´s voice.
"Of course!" Harriet examined the naked girl shrewdly.
"You don´t even want me te stop caning you."
"Doesn´t that about put it in a nutshell?" Dorinda asked reflectively. "Only a slave girl would want to be whipped. There´s even more of the slave in me than I´ve been admitting. I wouldn´t make a good slave mistress."
"The offer stands, darling."
The two women sat, staring. There was no subterfuge between them. Nothing.... Suddenly, without volition, the naked girl was clinging in the arms of she whose property she was. Her loveliness wracked by sobs. Harriet feld her fiercely. A long time later the older of the two fumbled in her pocket. "The key, sweetheart. I´ll unlock those handcuffs."
Harriet felt the girl in her arms go tense. Breath paused. There was a stillness almost frightening. Then a wailing cry. Words burst forth with vivid emphasis between the sobs.
"No! Oh no! Don´t take them off.... please. Don´t take them off me ever. I want to wear them always and always and always....!"
It was Dorinda´s answer.
They walked back to the big house together. They were happy. They had explored, and found that which they sought. It was as though a quest had ended. For the rest of the day, and for the night, no one saw either of them again. The slave girl was dazed by her discovery of herself and of the bond which her mistress had woven. She lived in the moment, refusing to think back or to gaze ahead. When she was taken to the dungeon the following morning she was happy enough to place her ankles and watch them locked into the familiar grooves of the stocks. She was not bound. She sat upon her bench and dreamed of slavery. No one disturbed her. That night she was returned to her mistress's bed. She wore her handcuffs.
Harriet´s boat was not the size of Mike's, but it was big enough that it could not be beached. From its deck Dorinda recognized. The Island. Her heart thudded, almost painfully, as her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. It was with a sense of unreality that she stepped into the dinghy.
Harriet herself used the oars. They faced each other in the small craft. A naked helpless girl: a strong older woman with kind tired eyes. The love between them was almost tangible.
With a final heave of the oars Harriet drove the keel high on the sand. Silent, they stepped on to shore and, for but a moment, stood irresolute. Then she who was chained was clasped fiercely. Lips met and clung.
They could not speak. There was no need. All had been said. To speak now meant tears. Neither wanted them. They had agreed on what to do. The embrace ended, Dorinda turned and strode with purpose towards the trees. Harriet turned the dinghy and rowed towards the ship. Neither looked back.
There are degrees of happiness beyond the telling. Dorinda knew them all. She tugged at her handcuffs for their certainly that this was real. Her steps were quick up the path and on to the road. She almost ran up the rise to where there was the view. Mark stepped from the rock where he had sat so long ago. "Lovely view, don´t you think?" She remembered that they were the same words he had used then. He was still the smiling sun-flecked boy with glowing eyes. She turned her back and wriggled her hands.
"Unlock me please."
Taking her shoulders he turned her about and looked down into the imploring eyes. "No." The single word said everything. He found her lips and possessed her brutally. Then led her to the house.
On the terrace, against a fluted marble column, a naked girl was chained. A picture of grace and insouciant joy. "Hello darling," Terry chanted, "Look what the awful brute´s done to me already...."
With male amusement, Mark watched his s****r and his slave blend their lips, watched their fruitless tugging at their chains as they strove to clasp. Then he took Dorinda by the arm.
The chained sylph stood at her pillar and watched them go. Her eyes shone. "Don´t leave me too long before breakfast, darlings."
Terry's plea trilled after them unheeded. Her silver laughter followed as her master led his slave girl back into captivity. Terry settled herself contentedly within her chains. It would be a long, long wait.