Odett Peters

The Island

Chapter 1

The pleading was done. Hope had been set aside. Dorinda sat in the little seat in the prow of the dingy, tense, angry and very much afraid.

"We’ll pick you up in a week," Mike assured her grudgingly.

She did not answer, but instead watched the phosphorescence as the oars disturbed the quiet water and the small craft cut its way towards the dark bulk of the island that had suddenly and frighteningly close in the silver darkness of the Aegean night.

"Have it all to yourself. Not a man anywhere. Ought to make you happy." Make’s tone was sardonic. It bit and hurt.

Dorinda refused to be baited. She did not want him to sense the tears in her voice. But, instinctively, her arms tugged rebelliously at the cold metal of the handcuffs that joined her wrists behind her back.

He saw the motion and jibed:" You don’t need hands, honey. No nasty man to save your honour from."

She turned and gazed at him with a cold hatred that touched his impregnability.

"You won’t starve," he complained defensively. "You can save the martyred look for the goats. There’s a few around." He guffawed coarsely, "Don’t suppose the old billy will want to make love…"

Her disdainful stare cut short his half hearted attempt at humor. His voice became acidly businesslike: "There’s berries and some fruit. You’ll manage. Besides there’s the house. It’s a quiet place. No one living there right now. But no telling what you might find if you can get in. Probably a few cans of this and that."

Dorinda’s only answer was to deliberately clink the chain that joined her hands.

"You can rattle those handcuffs all you like, honey. But you are going to wear them." Mike’s voice became grim. "Just a nice little bit of jewelry to remember me by. They’ll make things difficult for you. Bet hell, you’ve got all the time there is. You’ll surprise yourself with all the things you can do with your hands behind your back."

Driven by one last powerful stroke of the oars the keel of the dingy bit into the sand of the beach. The man sat, watching. His lips curled in a grin of bitter satisfaction. He made no move to help.

As though following a predetermined drill, Dorinda paused for the little craft to steady, then carefully rose to her feet and stepped out on to the sand, still warm from the day’s sun. It felt good between her bare toes. She took a couple of paces before she turned to face the man who was making good his threat to maroon her, naked, on a Grecian island. She knew what in doing so she conceded weakness. There would be no last minute reprieve. She should have trudged manfully up to the beach without this last meeting of their eyes.

"You’re a silly bitch," Mike assured her cheerfully. "Have fun with yourself." Already he was yards away from the shore.

Dorinda choked back the vitriol. He would only laugh. She stood impotently watching the dingy speed back to the yacht. A tense white statue in the night.

What does a girl do when she finds herself alone, sans clothes, sans hands, on an uninhabited island in the Aegean Sea! Dorinda considered her plight. She had never felt more vulnerable. Mike had shrewdly computed her hazards of survival and reduced her resources to the minimum by which she could sustain herself. Even if she lived on berries she would have to pluck them with her mouth. Her hands were lost.

Petulantly she tugged at the steel bands upon her wrists. They were snug. If she kept pulling them they would chafe. If only he had been content to tie her she might eventually have managed to free herself by some expedient or other. But Mike had laughingly explained that, without the key, neither she or anyone else could free her hands from their imprisonment behind her back. They would stay like that until he chose to return.

He had similarly, despite her pleas, imposed nudity upon her. It, too, was impediment. Bare feet must tread with care, bare skin must shun the wounds of bramble and brush. A naked girl must eye with dubiety any other human an unlikely chance might trust her way. Clothes are a form or armor. Without them a girl might find herself eyed with both doubt and desire. Dorinda knew that should a man come into view her first instinct would be to hide.

The rattle of an anchor and the muffled purr of a motor came clearly across the water. The yacht was under way. Dorinda watched it merge into the night. She cherished no belief that this was a joke, so that it would soon return to retrieve a frightened girl now amenable to its owner’s whims. Mike had said a week. So a week it would be. She wondered miserably if that which she now faced would indeed break her resolve. But thrust the thought aside. Yet it returned. The seven days could scare be other than a frightening ordeal. But what then! Mike could so easily leave her as she was and go away and forget her. He was capable of such an act. Dejectedly she turned her back upon the calm water and trod carefully toward the higher slope where she would find warm dry sand on which to spend the night. She would not explore Kyrexos in the dark.

Morning brought hunger and a disquieting confrontation with helplessness. She needed food. But what could she do to obtain it? Sand clung to her skin but she could not brush it off. Her captive hands could not reach her hair, so that she was forced to toss her head wildly to dislodge the particles and, hopefully, soothe the tangles. Angrily she made her way towards the trees.

The thought of berries was nauseating. Dorinda wanted food, real food! She decided to search for the house. Even with her hands fastened as they were she could probably contrive to open a can should she be lucky enough to find one. Kyrexos was little more than forty acres in extent. A mixture of uneven surface, bare rock and sparse woods of cypress and pine.

There were paths! Perhaps the goats had made them. Most were barely discernible. But the one she chose bore evidence of the work of human hands and the tread of human feet. She stepped out hopefully and soon found herself on a cleared road, a double track that vehicles had used. Dorinda followed it up an incline in the expectation of wider reconnaissance.

The vista was delightful. She paused to admire. A shallow wooded valley swept down to a wide sandy beach and the sea. To one side the house had been set upon the upper slope. Even from a distance it was evident that the mellow stone structure had been built by someone with both an aesthetic appreciation and a great deal of money. Its terraces and balconies had been contoured to make it a part of the landscape into which it blended. The chained girl gave a small sigh of relief. If she could find an open door or window, at least she would have shelter. Scanning the panorama she found no sign of life.

"Lovely view, don’t you think?"

Dorinda froze. The cheerful male voice had come form one side and slightly to the rear. She was shocked into inaction. It was too late to run, too late to hide. Whoever it was, he had already seen all there was to see. Why be coy? Besides, she had liked the sound of the voice, it was educated and English. She found herself with the feminine wish that when she turned around to face him neither of them would be disappointed.

He sat among the rocks, his sun colored skin merging with them so that she had been unaware of his presence. He wore only the briefs of a swimmer. He was looking at her with amusement but no surprise. Dorinda saw that he was just the right age and just the right build and just the right height. In spite of feeling all breasts and pubic hair she hoped he found her as beautiful as she found him.

"Good morning," she managed inadequately and blushed.

He quite frankly appraised her body. His eyes roving in search of defects, assessing her attributes. Piqued by the impersonal quality of his examination to her features, she demanded bravely: "Do you want to feel as well as look?"

His laugh was pure good humor. His words made no sense: "Good old Dave! Comes up trumps every time."

Dorinda was hungry and very unsure. If he decided to rape her there was nothing effectual she could do to stop him. At least he might feed her afterwards. If he was a gentleman the sooner the preliminaries were dealt with, the better.

"Who is good old Dave?" She inquired politely. "I don’t know him."

He was still amused. "Bet the blight’s used another name. What did he call himself?"

"I was put here by a man named Michael Sandos. He’s never been called Dave that I know of. I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else."

"Why the handcuffs then?" Obviously he thought he had scored a point.

"Do all your female guests arrive suitably retrained?"

Dorinda felt she could afford to make her voice appropriately tart.

"If you buy one from good old Dave they certainly do."

Evidently he expected her to understand the cryptic reference.

"Well, I haven’t been bought from good old Dave!" Dorinda said with finality. "And, in case you might be interested, I’m hungry. And I’d be grateful if you could get these damn things off my wrists. After that, d’you think you could manage something for me to wear?" Her words surged against an intangible barrier she could sense but not define.

He said it with an emphasis that consigned her other requests into limbo.

"But I can’t eat with my hands like this," Dorinda wanted to come to grips with whatever was floating in the air.

"Don’t worry, we’ll feed you, dear girl."

"We?" She looked at him quizzically.

"Terry and me. She is my sister. Proper little baggage. Bought the place a week ago. Just moved in. Of course there’s Hislop and Amity." He chuckled. Hislop’s the butler cum handy man and Amity is the housekeeper. They probably sleep together. But then, Terry and I do too, so who are we to complain? Delightful menage. You’ll love it."

He was probably joking. But either way it sounded better than Mike had planned for her. She fluttered her shoulders and rattled the single link between her wrists. She knew she made a pretty picture of impotence. "They’ll all accept me like this?"

"Of course my dear girl" Matter of fact, young Terry is in a bit of a bind herself at just this moment." He grinned apologetically as though he shared some amusing knowledge. "Had to keep my hand in y’know, until you showed up. And Terry’s dying to get her hands on you

… When she can, of course!"

He gave her a broad, boyish wink of shared understanding.

Dorinda understood nothing accept a mistaken identity which her companion refused to recognise. It all sounded a bit risque but probably harmless. "My name is Dorinda Matson," she offered tentatively.

He advanced beaming, hand outstretched. "Mark Edmond," he announced brightly. Then, looking at his inappropriate member, "sorry and all that." A moment later, with complete naturalness, he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was quite a long kiss. Dorinda enjoyed it. She knew that if she had not been handcuffed she would have returned the embrace. When it was done she stood breathless and aware of another blush, his skin had felt warm and alive against her nipples. Mark took her arm in a brotherly clasp. "Breakfast ahead," he announced heartily. "Young Terry’s going to get the surprise of her life…"

It was Dorinda who was surprised. Terry seemed unaffectionately happy and unaware of anything untoward. She was very young and very beautiful and very naked. She stood against the fluted pillar on the terrace, a picture of grace and insouciance in no way marred by the silver chains that lifted her arms and held her wrists on each side of the column. Her nipples and the lips of her sex had been painted bright scarlet. Her pubic hair had been shaved into a perfect Cupid’s heart: the effect both startling and delightful. Her smile of greeting was as radiant as her voice: "Darling, I’m so glad. Now poor little me can shed her shackles again. Look at what Mark’s done to me. Isn’t he awful…!"

There was a delightful simplicity about brother and sister. A sort of puppy-dog exuberance that gathered others to the fold as though a shared enthusiasm in eccentricity was to be expected. Dorinda was far from naive, and not without knowledge of things outre. If the Edmonds played fun and games she was prepared to be tolerant. But she was demandingly aware of her handcuffs, her nudity and her appetite.

"I think Mark is very nice," she said evenly. "I’m just hoping he can get these handcuffs off me and give me something to eat. I’m hungry."

Terry surveyed her with curiosity. Dorinda had the feeling she had said something odd and out of place.

"Oh, I’ll feed you, darling," the happy captive assured her cheerfully. "But of course, you’re joking about the handcuffs…."

Dorinda had had a bad day and an uncomfortable night. Now she was confronted with what appeared to be light-hearted lunacy in which there was an undercurrent of the inexplicable. She was unsure weather to be pleased or frightened. She allowed herself to drift with the tide. Handcuffed as she was it became an easy decision.

She allowed herself to be daintily fed by a solicitous Terry. A Terry freed from captivity, but still innocently naked. All eager moppet deliciously enjoying a situation she seemed to understand. Dorinda strove to find comfort In the knowledge that, without a key, handcuffs posed a problem. It was not until the meal was done, that she had interrupted hew companion’s constant flow of chatter to try, once more, for a return to reality. But it was to Mark she turned. He had sat watching the two girls with a detached amusement, allowing his pert sister to take the floor.

"Perhaps you have some tools. Hacksaws or something," she inquired diffidently. "And I’ve heard that oil or grease might make them slip

…" She looked at them both appealingly. "I sure would like to get them off and get some clothes on." Even as she uttered them her words sounded lost.

"But darling, I’m sure we have a key!" Terry sounded surprised.

It was on the tip of Dorinda’s tongue to irritably demand: "For Pete’s sake use them!" But instinct curbed her waspishness. So far they had been kind. She tried again: "My hand must have been behind my back for fifteen hours…" She gave them both an expectant smile.

"Oh pouf! That’s nothing," Terry declaimed. "This awful monster kept me handcuffed for a week once."

"You had been a bad girl!" Dorinda hoped she had struck the right note.

"She’s always a bad girl." Mark contributed fortably. I sounded like a commendation.

"Well, I’m not a bad girl."

Her hint was broad. They ignored it.

"He doesn’t really mean I’m bad. He’s just sort of generalising. I’m not bad at all. I just like bad things." Terry giggled as though she had told all.

They were illusive as shadows. Dorinda was tired of their game. Best come to grips with whatever she must face. She caught Mark’s gaze. "Please unlock these handcuffs," she requested pleasantly but very firmly.

The silence made her feel like a child who had asked for a prohibited slice of cake. She could have sworn the glance exchanged between brother and sister was one of puzzlement. It was Terry who responded in a mildly reproachful voice.

"But darling, you don’t really expect to run around free, do you?"

"And why not?" This time the wasp was buzzing.

"Well… wouldn’t be right, would it?" Terry fluttered her hands as though dealing with an obstinately obtuse child.

"What on earth is wrong with wanting to use my hands and wear some clothes!" Dorinda demanded angrily.

The response shattered whatever equanimity she still possessed.

"I think the poor dear wants to be whipped." Terry offered her observation to her brother as though in explanation of an anomaly. "She’s probably shy," she added kindly.

"Now see here…! Dorinda sat up straight pulling futilely at her imprisoned wrists in instinctive anger. The motion thrust her breasts into a flattering prominence. She bore Mark’s appreciative scrutiny with flushed cheeks and an inward tremor. "I do not wish to be whipped," she assured them with flat finality. "Or anything else either," she added without being quite sure what she referred to. Having enjoyed her breasts, Mark’s eyes raised to meet her own angry stare. He was obviously puzzled. "Do you mean to tell us that absolute clod never briefed you on the drill?"

"I’m not who you think I am."

They were full of surprises.

"Over to the column," Mark tersely ordered his sister.

"Oh no darling! Please…!" Terry wailed.

Mark rose to his feet. He had suddenly ceased to be a boy. Terry gave him a penitent grimace, shrugged her shoulders and resumed the pose in which Dorinda had first beheld her. She offered her wrists for the fetters. When the metal bands circled them she pulled as though to assure herself that she was indeed securely chained. "I hate you," she said to her brother without conviction. She turned her mischievous eyes toward Dorinda.

"You watch your P’s and Q’s," she warned. "He’s quite merciless."

Dorinda yearned to run. But what was the use! There was still hope that she was involved in no more than a mild behavioural oddity. But she viewed brother and sister with new and startled eyes.

"I wanted to be in on it," Terry complained petulantly to her brother. "You’re an absolute beast, darling." Suddenly, perkily, she thrust her tongue out at him in a provocative gesture of defiance.

Quietly, without haste and without anger, Mark lifted his sister’s left foot off the floor and fastened it to the side of the marble by a shackle, already provided. Terry must now perforce stand on one foot. I a little while it would become a real punishment. "Little girls should be seen and not heard," he admonished without anger.

"Oh, Mark! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Oh, no, not on one foot

… Please!" Her captive ankle struggled against the metal that held it a foot from the floor.

Mark laughingly bent and kissed the pouting lips. "You asked for it, darling. You know you did."

"Oh, all right! So I asked for it!" Terry admitted.

The siblings smiled at each other in pure love and perfect understanding.

Mark grasped Dorinda’s arm. "Come along," he said cheerfully. "I think we need to have a little walk."

Dorinda could not have agreed more. But she felt little optimism. The sight of the naked girl chained to the pillar made chaos in her thoughts. It was too unreal! Terry, instead of struggling and complaining, contrived to make herself quite beautiful. Perhaps she posed? Or possessed some unnatural grace. Standing on her one free foot she leaned negligently against the stone to which she was chained. The one raised leg by which she was being penalised enhanced the appeal of the picture that she made, as did the seemingly effortless raising of her arms to the shackles that held them so invincibly. She radiated the perfection of line and posture of an artist’s model. She was very beautiful. She gave the departing girl a smile of encouragement, her own condition forgotten. "Don’t be awkward, darling," she advised. "Or you’ll hurt when you sit down." The silvery peal of her laughter followed them from the terrace.

It was a pleasant room. A lounge in which perhaps a nude girl with chained hands might not seem too incongruous. Dorinda sat stiffly in the big arm chair to which she had been guided by a firm but friendly hand.

Bit early for a drink, I suppose," Mark smiled at her appraisingly.

"Handcuffed girls can’t hold drinks," Dorinda pointed out reasonably, but with a hint of sarcasm.

"No they can’t, can they?" Mark agreed as though grateful for the reminder. He remained standing. She flushed under his scrutiny.

"Couldn’t I be draped in at least something?" She pleaded with deliberate coyness.

"No." He disposed of the request as though surprised she had made it.

"I think I could talk better if I wasn’t so… so exposed."

He dismissed the subject with an impatient wave of the hand. But his smile was again that of the boy she had met upon the road. "Young Terry’s a chatterbox," he confided. "She has to sparkle. We’ll get to wherever we are going better without her."

"So you just chain her up and leave her standing on one foot?"

"What else? Besides, she loves it. Surely you saw that."

Dorinda had seen it all too clearly. It made her next question inevitable. "I am supposed to like it too?" She clinked her handcuffs.

Mark gave the question considered thought. "Actually I suppose not," he conceded. "We explained this to Dave at the time. The thing that really matters is that you are here. Crossed the Rubicon, so the speak."

"I was dumped here by a miserable S.O.B. out of spite. I was never offered a Rubicon to cross. I don’t know your Dave," she told him flatly.

"Remember little sister’s warning about hurting when you sit down?" Mark answered nonchalantly.

Dorinda tensed.

He laughed amusedly at her motion’s admission of vulnerability. "For the moment you are saved by a discrepancy of a couple of days. You weren’t supposed to show up this soon. So I’ll listen to your story. Let’s have it."

She told it in detail. "Mike’s a bastard!"

"Sounds like a resourceful type. A bit crude perhaps. Makes hard work of things… This marooning lark…! I’d have you behaving in thirty minutes."

"Behaving?" His use of the word was suspect.

He laughed at her groping for what was, for him, obvious. "For a girl, behaving is doing whatever a man wants her to do." "You don’t really mean that." Dorinda chided. She prayed inwardly that indeed he did not mean it.

"I was never more sincere."

They stared at each other in confrontation. Between them an invisible gage had been hurled upon the rug.

Dorinda temporised. "This girl your Dave is to deliver: what is she? What do you expect of her? If you’ll tell me we won’t be so at cross purposes."

"Of course, love. Sensible girl," Mark draped himself in a chair facing her and eyed his guest as though striving to gauge the effects his words would have. "Frightfully simple, really," he said airily.

Dorinda listened. The way Mark told it made everything sound exquisitely simple. Frightfully so!

"The fantasy had always been there," he explained musingly. "It was the same for Terry as for me. We were born with it as though we had carried it along from some other life or some other place. It was colored by that same wonder with which a child sees its first bird in flight or the branches of a tree against the blue sky. For us it had the beauty and rightness of all natural things. Scoff if you want. It was so. I suppose Terry was about six years old when I first tied her to the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. I wondered why she did not cry. But, for both of us it was the birth of an aesthetic glory most people never know."

"Aesthetic… tied to a tree!" Dorinda protested.

His boyish grin was accusatory. "I watched your face when we left Terry chained to her column. You glimpsed it then."

"She’s an exhibitionist with a gift for posing. She is also very beautiful." Dorinda felt her defence slipping.

"You don’t really believe that’s all you saw," Mark told her discerningly. His voice has become earnest as though she must be made to understand. "As children we played. She was always the damsel in distress. But I was never the knight in shining armor. The fantasy cast me in a different role. I was The Male: the Male to whom all females must submit by right of conquest. The wicked baron who chained the poor girl in his dungeon. He never did get as much publicity as good old Galahad. But without him there would never have been a romantic legend."

"Terry was entrancingly attuned. She always resisted in about the right degree to maintain validity. The degree of resistance always briefed me as to what I should do to her. When adolescence came she accepted the same joy with which I used it. We found her striated skin that same quality of golden wonder that had pervaded the enactment of our fantasy from the start. It was about that time that we also became lovers…"

"Whips and incest! What are you trying to prove?" Dorinda’s defences were still sliding away from beneath her feet. But she made her protest vehement.

"You don’t try to prove the Taj Mahal or Lake Louise in the moonlight. They are there. That’s the beginning and the end. Each is an entity with its own appeal and compulsion. So it is with our fantasy."

"And I suppose your parents approved these small pleasantries."

"We had to keep it under cover as we grew older. Awful bind actually. But they died in an accident not too long ago and left us quite a lot of money. That’s when we decided to buy The Island."

"Seems to me you have your heat’s desire. Why bother with some other poor girl?"

He shrugged. "Human perversity, I suppose. Always one more river to cross. Young Terry is absolute perfection. She and I have wondered how amusing it might be to have one that wasn’t."

"You mean kidnap?"

"Well, that is where good old David comes in. He is one of those resourceful blokes you go to when you want the impossible. Put enough money in his hand and he’ll produce it for you. We made only one stipulation. She had to be beautiful." He paused to give his next words weight. "You are beautiful."

The dark chasm had widened.

"Know what I think?" Mark asked good humoredly. "I think Dave persuaded you, and that everything probably went along OK until he hit on this quaint notion of setting you ashore to deliver yourself nicely stripped and handcuffed and ready for action. In the night you got scared and decided you had made an awful mistake and wanted out. Right?"

"Wrong!" Dorinda declared with all the emphasis at her command. "In a couple of days you are going to have an extra girl on your hands."

"Stretching coincidence a bit thin, don’t you think?"

"I have to agree to that," Dorinda conceded dejectedly. She looked across at him brightly. But don’t you see, a couple of days will prove me right."

"Suppose I have to concede that unlikely possibility too," he admitted unwillingly. "Seems sort of a silly game…"

"So, couldn’t be real nice and treat me as a sort of guest in the meantime? I like you both. You might like me. Please unlock these handcuffs and give me something to wear." She put all the feminine appeal at her command into her plea.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Get the old cerebrum working, love. You’re not that dim."

"Spell it out." Dorinda said resignedly. "Maybe then I’ll believe."

"Oh, you will, ducky. You will." He was exasperatingly cheerful. "You see, darling, the crux of your situation is that it does not really matter whether you are Dave’s girl or someone else’s. If your story is true it puts you in about the same boat that Dave’s girl will be when and if she arrives. As far as Terry and I are concerned you are a simply first class bit of good fortune."

"You mean I’m kidnapped. First Mike, than you?"

"Let’s call it displaced, shall we. Sounds less mercenary."

"Either way I am a prisoner?"

"Yes."

"What about the other girl when she comes? Will you free me then?"

"No. If one is good, two might bet better."

"What will you do about Mike when he roars up here looking for me?"

"If the apocryphal Michael shows up demanding female flesh, we may hand him the extra girl. Or give him some sort of fairy tale. We think you’ll do nicely for us."

How neat it was! Dorinda knew herself trapped by circumstances no one had contrived. Taking this engaging young man at his own face value she could understand the plausibility of his thinking. Now that the truth was out she relaxed into the depth of the chair and struggled absentmindedly with her handcuffs.

"What are you going to do to me? Chain me up to see how pretty I look?"

"Oh, that’s just part of it," Mark exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm. "You’re not a natural, are you’ I mean, not like Terry and me."

"Good heavens, no!"

"That’s all right then. "He sounded relieved. "Think what a marvellous time we’ll have training you."

Dorinda groped for the right approach. "What about conscience? Do you have any? What right have you to make me a prisoner? You can’t possibly expect me to play your silly games?"

"You will, y’know," Mark sauntered over to a cupboard. When he retraced his steps he was flexing the slender length of a wicked looking riding switch. Calmly he offered it for inspection. "You’ll do whatever this tells you to, darling," he chuckled. "Terry always does."

Dorinda cringed. She was naked and afraid. She knew nothing of pain. But looking at the thing he held she knew it foolish to suppose herself impervious to what it might do to her. She was bewildered. "But… that’s cruelty! You are spoiling something good. Out on the road, there where we met, I liked you. I was glad you’d found me – even though I was… like this. With most men I’d have wanted to run away. But I didn’t with you. Please…"

Mark resumed his seat, one leg draped over its arm. The riding crop resting across his knee where she could never be unaware of it. "It’s a bit of a poser, dear girl," he admitted. "You see, we really do want you to understand. We don’t want you tot think we’re a couple of absolute bastards: we like you too. I’m in a similar position to some johnny who can play the piano by ear, or a chap who can do a long division in his head. They were born with it. They can never explain it. They can never get rid of it even if they wanted to, and they don’t want to. See what I mean?"

"You feel that just because you’re obsessed with this… This ‘gift’ shall we call it, that any inconvenience or pain I may suffer is purely incidental and should be borne gladly…" She looked at him beseechingly. "That I am… That I’m well… Sort of privileged to be chosen?"

"You put it rather well, old girl!" Mark admitted wryly. "Not fair to expect you to digest out fantasy all at one sitting… hence the handcuffs. There’s one thing I want to avoid in speaking of the fantasy and that’s to be flippant. We British… you’re American, aren’t you! We British tend to use flippancy to get us over the hurdles. But it’s not appropriate in this. Honestly it isn’t."

It was hard to be angry with him. Dorinda listened quietly. Tension dissolved.

"The word transcendental comes to mind," Mark continued thoughtfully. "Terry and I are governed by this thing I am trying to make explicable. It is the most powerful force in our lives, except perhaps our love for each other. But even there I’m not sure… The nub and essence of understanding it is to face the fact that we are driven by a force, a compulsion that gives us an extra dimension in life beyond the norm. We still move within the framework that contains others. But we have been given an additional faculty of sexual expression. Even that does not say enough, because above and behind it always is a glimpse and awareness of an ineffable beauty, something subliminal."

His voice trailed into silence as though the effort of expression had wearied him. He sat, pensive and distant.

Dorinda knew he would not break the silence. Her heart went out to this man who would always be a boy. She might fight him. But nonetheless he had managed to evoke a picture in her mind. She knew herself within the grip of something she was ill equipped to cope with. She wished the whip was not so blatantly evident. Was it only by the medium of its bite that she would fully understand?

The sat mute for a long time. Each busy with their own thoughts. It was a beginning and an end. Dorinda no longer believed in anything other than what Mark had just told her. She would not escape. They would not let her go. No one would rescue her. The handcuffs became vividly real upon her wrists. No wonder they had refused to unlike them. What was she now? What was her status? A captive… A slave… some sort of plaything, a sexobject? What about sex?

"What are you thinking?" Mark asked irrelevantly

"Am I a slave?"

"Yes." He had a gift for monosyllables.

"What must I do?"

"You mean to avoid this?" He held up the black white.

"I suppose so," she admitted grudgingly. "I can understand that it is implicit in the question of obedience. That’s what slavery is, isn’t it? Total obedience? I’ve been looking at the damn thing ever since you produced it, knowing it won’t be the least bit heroic if you use it on me."

"I will use it on you." He said it not as a threat.

"Why? I’m sure I’ll be a coward. One good swipe and I’ll crawl." She looked at him hastily and anxiously. "Please don’t think I’m a natural crawler. Honestly, I’m not. If I could fight you and get away I would. But I’m so damn helpless. They way I’m fixed you can do anything you like with me. I’d be crazy to invite a whipping over pride… or, because of distaste for something you demand of me."

His boyish grin was back. "Thinking of good old sex?" "I suppose so." Se felt a faint blush rising. " I may as well be honest about it. I am no novice, I've used my mouth and tongue. Were you hoping for a virgin?"

"We'd be too great a shock for the poor child. As I said: for Terry and I you are perfect. But you'll still be whipped."

"But why!" It was both an expression of curiosity and rejection. "I honestly don't think it's possible to be a slave without being whipped. The whip creates a state of mind, and by continued use sustains it. I don't expect you to be pleased about getting marks on that lovely skin. But I think you'll come to recognise the truth of the precept."

"I expect you can bludgeon anyone into anything." Her eye was on the crop. Mark chuckled and held it up for a better look. "Terry and I are as curious as you. Its something new for us too. You are our first slave-girl. We think we know your mental processes and how to deal with them. After all, Terry's reactions have been a lifelong study for us both. But, admittedly, it's an experiment. We are looking forward to it." He eyed her quizzically. "I'd like you to look forward to it too….But I expect that's a lot to ask?"

"You might talk me into it." Dorinda confessed demurely. "But I'm scared to death of that whip. I wish you hadn't showed it to me."

"Well, look at it like this." Mark tried again. "You know how a snake sheds it's skin once a year. We think you are going to have to shed yours. You know, the protective veneer of custom and usage. We think you'll find that becoming a slave is more a case of forgetting rather than learning. There's bound to be an instinctive resistance: that's where the whips comes in."

"Could we talk about something else?" Dorinda's voice was apologetic. "That awful thing frightens me so I can't think straight. I have to accept that you are going to use it on me. But don't let's harp on it."

"Slaves do not direct the topic of conversation." She felt her heart miss a beat. It had started! She gazed at Mark imploringly. "You mean I'm a slave as of right now? That I have to do what Terry said:

"Mind my P's and Q's. Honest! I will try and be what you want. But please help me. I don't want to stop liking you."

Mark came and gently kissed her lips. It wasn't a brotherly kiss. "You are very sweet." He said, " I don't want to stop liking you either." Without a pause, he went to the wall and pressed a button.

The woman was trim and neat, thirtyish. Attractive in her way. A Cockney, Dorinda guessed. They had there own peculiar stamp. She evinced no surprise, simply a respectful attention. "Dorinda, this is Amity. She will be the first one to give you help." Mark's eyes twinkled at her bewilderment. "Do as she says. She's quite nice." As Dorinda left the room she turned for one last communion with the man whose possession she now presumably was. " I'm absolutely lost, you know." She confided in faint desperation. Mark was smiling pensively. He was again the rather exiting young man she had met upon the road. Amity's hand guided her gently through the door.

"Bit lost meself, Miss." Amity advised cheerfully. "This bit's me first go, like. I know what to do. I'm 'oping you knows the drill." They had advanced part way through the house when the captive planted her feet firmly and stopped. Amity seemed human. It was worth a try. "Hold on a moment." Dorinda pleaded. "You may as well know that I haven't the faintest idea about any drill or much of anything else. I feel as though I've been let lose in a lunatic asylum. I want these handcuffs off my wrists. Can you do that for me?" "I'm going to in a minute, Miss." Amity looked at her charge doubtfully. "You ain't going to give me no trouble are you?"

Dorinda plunged. "Do you realise I am being confined against my will?" "Oh yes, miss. Proper lark, ain't it?" "Its kidnapping. You could go to prison. Please let me go." "Suppose you have to try, miss. Seeing we just met, like. But I got my orders. Me and 'Islop thinks the world of the master and misses. Get up some rare tricks they do. But we wouldn't 'urt 'em for the world. You'll have to do whatever they want you to. This way please." Dorinda knew the full demoralisation of nakedness and chains. This woman, no bigger and probably no stronger than herself, could handle her with ease. Could hurt her terribly should she now essay to struggle or to run. She was close to tears as she allowed the firm fingers to guide her to where they wished to go. It could have been a pleasant room. But it was bare stone. Its only furnishing were not reassuring to a girl without clothing. They consisted of a large wooden chest in one corner and a rope hanging from a pulley in the centre of the ceiling. Dorinda's apprehensive eye followed the latter to where it ended at a small electric winch on one wall.

"Aven't really got started 'ere yet." Amity sounded apologetic. " You mean the rack and the thumbscrews haven't arrived!" The prisoner was feeling less co-operative by the minute. She knew that had Mark's smiling features been present the view would have seemed less sinister. Amity tittered. " Don't suppose they'll go that far, miss. No need really."

"Is that rope hanging there for the reason I suspect?" Dorinda asked grimly. Amity looked embarrassed. "Fraid it is, miss." She produced a key ring on which there were a number of very small keys.

"Specs one of these will do the trick…." She stepped back and looked doubtfully at the girl who wore the handcuffs. "I want to bring them 'andcuffs round in front, miss. Question is, what you going to do when I unlock them?"

It was all quite absurd! Gentility in slavery. She remembered hearing once that the English made a fetish of having things 'nice'. Their police were always frightfully polite. Here now this woman who was to all intents and purpose her wardress or jailer kept calling her miss. Everybody expected to much of a girl whose clothes had been taken from her and whose hands had been chained behind her back!

"I'm damned if I know!" She grinned ruefully at her cockney companion. "Since we are all being polite I'll tell you straight that I ever get the beastly things off my wrists. I won't want them back again!"

Amity sighed. "Must be a funny feeling, ain't it, miss? I mean, being undressed and all. And them 'andcuffs! Wouldn't like them at all, I wouldn't. But my! You d 'ave lovely breasts and nipples. Really smashing." Dorinda dealt with this verbal montage as best she could. "It's a rotten feeling to be stripped naked by force and kept that way for everybody to have a good look. And these blasted things on my wrists that hold my hands behind my back make me twice as naked. I can't cover anything. They make me as helpless as a babe in arms. I suppose I could kick you right now. But it would hurt my bare toes more than it would hurt you. But thanks, anyway, for admiring my breasts and for not calling my nipples tits. I hate that word."

"Get us back to square one." Said Amity pensively.

"Are you waiting for me to give you my word of honor that I’ll be a good girl and not fight?"

"Oh thank you miss. Would you?"

"Why the hell should I!" Dorinda was trying to come to grips with an elusive inconsistency hard to define. "it’s like asking me to help out at my own execution, or to walk out on thin ice to prove it won’t hold up."

Amity considered. "Well, look at it this way miss." She offered thoughtfully. "Don’t know how it was with you in America, but when I was a kid and I had inked my brother in school I had to go out in front of the class and ‘old my hand out to get it ‘it with a cane what ‘urt something cruel. The last thing I wanted to do was ‘old out that ‘and. But I always did."

"But you knew what you were getting." Dorinda protested. "I’ve been told I’m in something that goes on and on, and I don’t know where it goes. I’m scared. I know it sounds silly and… And sort of ungrateful. But it would be a lot easier for me if you all used force to do, or make me do whatever it is you think you have to. Where did the idea get around that I have to help and like it?"

"It’s like I was saying, miss. They’re a rare pair, they are: Miss Terry and Mr. Mark. Got something up their sleeve, they ‘Ave. One of them there psychological efforts I expect. Does a lot of practising on Miss Terry, Mr. Mark does. Rare old games they get up to."

"Oh, his sister."

"She loves it, miss. Don’t you believe different! Don’t mean to say you’ll love it too. But you are a different subject, see. Different background and attitude. E’ll get them there reactions out of you what ‘e can’t get out of ‘er. Tell the truth, miss, me and ‘Islop sort of looks forward to seeing ‘ow you’ll be in a month’s time."

"So I’m an interesting experiment!" Dorinda’s words dripped frost.

Amity ignored the ice. She had become animatedly involved. "That’s ‘ow it ‘ud be best for you to look at it, miss. Bloomin’ awful for you to feel put upon. See. I ‘secks that’s why no force ain’t been used. Mr Mark, ‘e’s up to some little dodge ‘h though up for himself. Not that Miss Terry ain’t capable of thinking up some pretty pickies too."

"I suppose I’m a sucker," Dorinda sighed. "And, mind you, I’m not promising a thing, but if I promise to be good this time, what happens then?"

"Oh miss, you got it all wrong." Amity looked distressed. "You don’t ask questions, see. You don’t tell me what to do. Or make no bargains. You’re a… I ain’t a’going to say, not yet I ain’t."

"You mean I am a slave?" Dorinda cocked an eyebrow.

Suddenly they both laughed.

"Sounds silly, don’t it?" Amity tittered. "I mean, you ain’t behaving right for one thing. ‘Cepting you ain’t got no clothes and you do ‘have them ‘handcuffs. I ain’t never seen a gal ‘what acted less like no slave nor you."

"Thanks."

"But that’s the point, miss. You are just what the doctor ordered. They want to make you over, like." Amity turned a most serious gaze upon her captive. "I wouldn’t laugh, miss. Honest. I wouldn’t! Me and ‘Islop thinks they knows what they’re doing."

"How about taking the handcuffs off me on trust?"

They measured each other. There was no enmity in their assessment.

"I’ll unlock one cuff miss. You can ‘ave a good stretch."

"Oh no you don’t! I want both wrists completely free from my stretch. You have no idea how I’ve come to hate those bits of steel."

Once more the eyes questioned. Amity grinned. "All right, love. You win. I got a good feeling about you…" She busied herself with the keys. A few moments later Dorinda was free. Her companion stood back, the shining cuffs with their single link dangling from one hand.

Until that moment the captive girl had not realised how badly her shoulders had ached. It was pure bliss to raise and flex her arms. She did so again and again in an ecstasy of sensuality. Even closing her eyes to better savour freedom.

"You do ‘have a loverly shape, miss, if you’ll excuse me saying so." Amity’s tribute sounded entirely genuine.

It ended as all things must end. Dorinda did not push her luck. Nor would she evade an issue.

"Well?" she asked innocently.

Amity held up the wicked bits of metal. "In front please, miss."

"Do me a favor," Dorinda pleaded like a little girl asking for candy. "Let me hold and feel those rotten things for a moment before you lock them on me. It’s an urge I’ve got. I won’t try anything, I promise."

Dorinda took the handcuffs from a quite willing hand. She sensed that her companion understood her strange need to hold and to handle the potent bits of steel that could so totally render her a helpless captive. She played with them. Examining them in a way she had never been able to. She had never actually seen them before. Locked behind her back they had been invisible. She slid the cuff round and round though its ratchet, savouring the series of clicks until it had completed its circle. Savouring her momentary power over the things that had prisoned her so long and which were about to prison her again. It came almost as a surprise when she realised that somehow in the past minutes while they talked she had come to accept the inevitability of offering her wrists that they might be once more locked within the metal bands.

Yet when the moment came it proved to be one of the most soul searching acts she had ever performed. Only by a compulsion of will could she return the shining circlets and hold out her hands. Every instinct cringed as she watched Amity cuff the proffered wrists. She winced at the small clicks as notch after notch was pressed home to make the inflexible metal snug with a dreadful intimacy.

When she was done she knew relief. Decision had been taken from her. It was Dorinda’s first glimpse of that small beneficence of bonds. Her first lesson in a new school. In fascination she held up her linked hands and found an unexpected beauty in their joining. The handcuffs were no longer a dangling shapelesness. They had become potently a living part of her from which she could never escape.

"I suppose now I have to walk over to that rope?" she inquired helpfully. She felt sure she had divined its purpose. She had read the books..

"Yes please, miss."

Once more she must offer her hands and watch as they were secured. She rejected a silly instinct to run when she was left standing for the few moments it took Amity to reach the wall and press the switch. Unreality flooded her as the rope tautened and the prisoned hands began to rise. She followed their brief journey almost with disbelief as, starting from the waist level, they came up before her eyes, above her head, and stopped only when her nudity was as taut as the rope itself. Her heels were still on the floor. She was not suspended. But she must stand very straight and more helpless than she had ever been. She felt all breasts and pubes. Her first reaction was thankfulness that no male was there to see. But this was replaced by a tingling knowledge that Mark might walk in at any moment. No doubt she was stretched and exposed like this for some purpose! A sinister phrase from fiction drifted into her mind: ‘Held for questioning…’ It was a position in which few girls would be stubborn.

"Coo! You do look lovely, miss." There was actually a trace of envy in Amity’s voice.

"Let’s change places then!" For a moment Dorinda managed to feel playful- "I’m sure you’d look just as good. I expect it it’s a very flattering pose for any girl."

The cockney girl meditatively ran caressing fingers up and down the planes and curves of the pinioned girl. Her touch was soothing. Dorinda found she could not resent the intimacy. The touch was reverent as in the handling of anything of beauty, an exploration of tactility.

"’Ow does it feel, miss? A bit draughty like?" She stood back and admired the living statue she had helped create.

"O Amity. I’m scared! I’ve never felt so vulnerable."

Amity tittered. "You mean if there is a gentleman around like! Get there’s a lot of blokes would give all they got to get a good look at you like this."

"Amity…? Is Mark going to see me?"

"That would be telling, miss. Remember? No questions."

The captive girl twisted in frustration. There had remained in her mind throughout a nagging memory. "Amity, don’t be angry. But before he called you Mark was playing with a whip… He was just trying to scare me, wasn’t he? I mean… he was just joking..?"

Amity laughed delightfully. "You know very well he was not joking, miss. That there whip is for pretty girls who ask too many questions."

Suddenly she kissed her prisoner lightly on the lips. A moment later she was gone. The door closed. Dorinda stood naked and alone.

A quailing Dorinda felt quite certain Amity had gone to produce a whip with which to prove her assertion. Would she return in a moment and send the lash curling round her shockingly available person? How awful to stand and watch yourself whipped, denied all defence! But as the minutes passed the captive found her mind possessed by other imperatives.

Escape! That was the first thing in any prisoner’s thoughts, was it not? But she wasted little time on it. From the moment Mike had set her on the sand and rowed away, she had been robbed not only of liberty but of hope. There is no escape from an island. She was faintly ashamed of her tractability with Amity. She could have fought. She was unsure if her compliance had been dictated by the compulsions of helplessness or from her instinctive liking for those cheerful people who held her captive.

Her wrists were beginning to hurt. She stood on tiptoe to easy the strain. She guessed that if she was left long in this position she would come to feel very sorry for herself.

Why were they unkind? Why must she be their slave? She felt guilt in being infected by their rational approach to a treatment of her that was nothing short of outrageous. She could not use the word criminal in thinking of any of them. But they had kidnapped her! Actually she had been delivered into their hands neatly stripped and chained. They had accepted her as a gift. She posed herself the question that she now be confronted by a couple of rescuing policemen, would she press charges? She knew she would not. So where did that leave her?

It left her thinking of Mark Esmond. He had reached out touched her with that power men have over women and which women have over men. In love? Nonsense! She scarcely knew him. But a girl did not have to know a man to feel what she felt. He would stay in her thoughts as she had first seen him. A golden Apollo enjoying her nakedness.

The whip!

Dorinda considered thus with urgency. Hung as she was she would be a ripe offering for its lash. It could find her everywhere. She could deny no part of herself. But it was too unreal. It was out of character. Or was it? She had a memory of how Terry had suddenly dropped banter and obeyed, of how Mark had become when he had shown her the black horror and assured her earnestly that she would feel it. She suspected unhappily that she might have to be cut by its thong before she could sentiently accept its reality.

The whip would make her a slave! That was the theses. Unhappily Dorinda glimpsed plausibility in the postulate. She did not feel slave now. She felt herself only a frightened girl, stripped, her hands chained high above her head. If Mark was to have his way there must come a division, a sundering, a confrontation! She considered humouring him. In his boyish moods it would be easy to make a play of his desire. To enact a charade. To kneel in submission and call him ‘Master’. Even to do the same for Terry, and for Amity and Hislop. If she must. But she had little hope that a voluntary surrender would satisfy. He would mould her as his fantasy had moulded him He would make her a dream come true.

She felt an erotic excitement.

Terry cam in like a breath of spring. She wore clothes. Not much, but enough to be considered dressed. "Darling, you look gorgeous! If only we had an artist! That pose should be immortalised." She did a small dance round and round the tethered girl. Her eyes feasting. "I say love, you do have a super shape, y’know, Mark’s damn lucky. How about lunch?"

Always to be caught off guard. Expected to be whipped she was given lunch. "Lunch? Like this?" She was annoyed at sounding shocked.

"Of course not, silly. I’d have to stand here and slip bits and pieces in your mouth. Up on the terrace, where we had breakfast." The captive’s heart leaped. Hope revived. A moment later her hands were once more free. Gratefully she rubbed the chafed wrists, then held them out questioningly to her exuberant companion.

"Not now, darling. Having you handcuffed makes a lot of work for poor little Terry. Come on, let’s make you devastatingly beautiful."

The bedroom of a wealthy girl. Closets full of clothes. A bathroom to put the Romans to shame. Pyramids of cosmetics. Suddenly Dorinda knew how naked she had been. How terribly bereft is a naked girl. Robbed of her armour, her secrets and her pride.

But she was not naked now. Terry was a fairy godmother with miracles galore. Dorinda was quite sure she had never before been so expensively bathed or clad. Never had she been given such perfumes of felt such nimble fingers so cunningly enhance her loveliness. When she finally stood before the mirror both girls gasped in approval of a svelte someone, enchantingly feminine, they had not previously met.

"Mark’s a lucky blighter," Terry was reverent.

Dorinda floated on a cloud of female ecstasy.

Mark’s radiance when he beheld the vision was her victory. Dorinda knew that she had captured him in bonds quite different from those she had so recently shed. She glowed and forgot about whips and handcuffs. Her moment was now. Terry flirted around them like a ray of pure sunlight. She was irrepressible.

Mark still wore only the briefs. On Kyrexos he would need no more. It was his island. His kingdom. Dorinda supposed she could add that she and Terry were his girls. If all he wanted was a slave, he already had a radiantly willing one in his sister. ‘Young Terry’ The way he said it spoke of love. She adored him. They allowed her chatter to envelop them in gaiety. Dorinda wished the moment could last forever, Mark amused and amusing, but faintly preoccupied.

No one of the three of them was anxious to bring it to a close. Each had their won reason to prolong the mood. When, finally, brother’s and sister’s gaze locked and held Terry said, flippantly: "I suppose it’s schooltime."

"Yes," Mark agreed heavily. "I’m afraid it is." He turned courteously to Dorinda. "Do you mind…"

She knew it was not a question but an order.

Meekly, with all the grace she could muster, she followed him from the room. As they left, Terry held out the silver handcuffs. As Mark thoughtfully tucked them in his belt, Dorinda reflected that the shining things had become a symbol of her new life.

The bare stone room had seemed appropriate when she, too, had been bare. Clothed she felt awkward and out of place in it. She felt foolish, not knowing where to stand or what to say. Mark solved her dilemma.

"Strip." It was an uncompromising word.

Dorinda revolted. Having gained the harbour of clothes, and such glorious clothes! She cringed from the thought of surrendering to him. "No," she told him flatly. "Please don’t make me."

Mark nodded thoughtfully and went to the big chest. When he turned he was carrying the black whip, or its twin.

"Please…!" Dorinda appealed desperately. "Don’t spoil it. We all felt something good at lunch. Don’t make me hate you."

"Terry doesn’t hate me. I whip her often."

Dorinda had no answer.

"I have explained it to you once," he continued patiently. "I won’t do it again."

Dorinda looked longingly at the closed door and the wide window. But realised, farcically, that she could have run better in bare feet than in the high heels with which she was now shod.

"All right then. I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do. I’ll even try and do it well. I’ll try to please you. But if I do that may I wear some little thing… anything at all?" she implored.

Mark considered. "Very well, your briefs."

It was a small victory. But it sustained her. She posed in front of him. "Do you want me to strip tease or just undress?" She wondered if she had anything to lose by provoking him.

"Please yourself." He was watching her with amusement. She supposed his great experiment was under way.

She had never been a bride, but supposed this was how it was on your weeding night. Not wanton. But very female. The fact that he had seen her naked over a period of hours, strangely enough, in no way diluted the shock of baring herself before him now. She divested herself of each bit of fabric lovingly and sorrowfully. She had worn them for such little time. They made such a sad pile against the wall where she dropped them on the stone. There was nowhere else to put them. The tempo of male breathing told her she had accomplished her task not without skill and artistry. Without shame she turned, in all her glory, and faced him.

"What must I do, Master?" She hoped it was the right note.

"Kiss my feet."

It was an obvious start. Dorinda performed the slave obeisance with all the grace and willingness she could muster. She felt pleased with herself. If only Mark would play it as a game.. It might be fun. She knelt before him waiting.

"Now wash them with your lips and tongue. Swallow. Don’t spit!"

The game vanished unborn. He had breached her defence right at the start. Mark wore only the skimpiest sandals. His feet were well soiled. Obedience would degrade, perhaps nauseate. Tears came to her eyes. She had wanted so much to excel.

He saunted to the wooden chest. Sat comfortably leaning back against the wall and kicked off one sandal. She knew his searching eyes could read her thoughts. She followed, kneeling at his feet, yet certain she could not do what was required of her. She looked up at him piteously blinking back the tears.

"Would it help if I whipped you now?" he asked kindly.

The incongruity was a groad. With a bitter sob of determination Dorinda blindly and feverishly began the impossible.

But nothing is impossible. Telling Terry of it afterwards she coined the quip that one toe led to another and when a girl had sucked one she had sucked ‘em all. She was amazed at the detergent quality of saliva and the innocent pinkness of each toe as she released it from her lips. She hoped, miserably, that whatever it was she was forced to swallow would not poison her. It was probably just Kyrexos dust. The job was long. By the time her lips and tongue had cleaned both feet she had had time to reflect that a girl can make infinite adjustments if she is sufficiently frightened.

There was no rest. He stood up. "Remove my briefs. Clean what you find there. Do no more than that. Then replace."

Dorinda had expected this. She was aware of the importance men attached to this act. The order came as a less of a shock than the previous one. She dealt with her humiliation completely. In handling his swimming briefs she was obliged also to handle her hated handcuffs again. He made no move to help. He had placed them under the belt. She must leave them as she found them. Her fingers on the steel, she wondered how long to would be before she felt their bite again. She knelt back on her heels, hoping for approval.

Mark spat on the floor.

He must want to whip her very much. He would tax her tolerance until it broke. He had not spoken. But she knew what she must do. She bent swiftly and cleansed the spot on the floor with a willing tongue.

"Run and fetch me a drink, slave girl."

Dorinda looked up aghast.

Mark laughed at her surprise. "Why shouldn’t a slave fetch her master a drink? Run along now. You know the way. Terry will mix it for you. Don’t dawdle."

She was half way to the door when he added an afterthought. "Escape if you want. I’ll hunt you down in an hour. The penalty will be my initials branded on your thigh. I don’t mind a bit. A slave girl should be branded with her master’s symbol."

Dorinda fled.

"Is he being beastly to you, darling?" Terry was unashamedly quivering with curiosity. She listened intently as a shamed Dorinda gave details.

"I expect it could be worse, dear," she consoled musingly as she mixed the drink. "He’s made me do all those things, y’know. He thinks of the darndest things… I say, darling. Why didn’t you escape?"

"Thanks, I don’t want to be branded… Terry? Would he really do it?"

For answer the younger girl lifted her very short skirt and bared a thigh and a hip. Three letters were burned deep and clean.

"M.A.E. Mark Atherton Esmond," Terry declaimed proudly as though displaying an Olympic trophy. "He did it to me a couple of years ago when I got angry over something and stayed overnight with a girlfriend."

"You let him?"

"Didn’t have anything to say about it," the owner of the brand said complacently. "The dear boy tied me so I couldn’t even twitch. He’ll do the same for you. Saves a lot of fuss."

The incredulous initiate lifted the brimming glass and returned to her training and her master.

It was a long litany of order and compliance. It covered many acts and many attributes. It even embraced a demand that she recite a long speech extemporaneously extolling the virtues of her master and her own abasement’s as a slave. Dorinda felt sure she rated at least a ninety mark on that one. But Mark, throughout all her ordeal, kept a poker face – refusing to show either approval or displeasure. When it was done he said: "Stand up. Back a few paces. Then stand stiff at attention, facing me. Hands on your side. Head up. Breasts well out."

Dorinda obeyed. She had caught his emphasis on the word breasts instead of chest. She displayed her twin treasures as provocatively as possible.

It was a male pose. Thus strangely shaming to a girl. She exposed too much! Dorinda hoped he would not make her hold it long. It was also tiring. But she was doubly thankful for the brief covering, her master had allowed her to wear. She knew herself hungering for a word of praise. She felt she had earned it.

"You think you have been doing rather well and deserve a pat on the back, aren’t you?" Marked asked discerningly.

Dorinda flushed. Was she that obvious? "I did hope I’d please you," she admitted.

"Sort of puts you one up on me, eh?" His voice was thoughtful.

She saw the strap. "No! Please! I tried hard."

"Feel any different?"

"Just soiled."

He nodded understandingly. Still expressionless.

"Kneel before me. Hold out your arms. Ask to be handcuffed."

Dorinda suspected she had not won, or even emerged with honours. But slaves don’t win. They are not supposed to. Tears stung her eyes. Her future loomed less than rosy. The laughing boy had gone. The man before whome she stood so shamingly was implacably male. But there was no use resisting now. Hastily she knelt. "Please master, lock the handcuffs on my wrists. Obediently she proffered her hands and watched dejectedly as the were ironed.

"Over to the pulley!"

There was an inevitability about it. Dorinda stood, stretched taut, and wondered why they had not done whatever they had to do when she had been similarly strung up that morning. In spite of determination she shivered. She knew a leg was trembling and wondered if he could see. It was a terrible way to be fastened before a man.

"You know you are going to be whipped, don’t you?"

He was very serious.

"Yes." Now that the awful moment had come she was too weary of it all to plead. So she asked: "Why?"

"We have done what we have just done because it’s a sort of preamble we have to wade through. For your benefit, really. Didn’t actually change a thing, did it?"

"You mean it didn’t change me?" She saw his point and wished otherwise. She knew herself the same girl she had been yesterday or the day before. Her own words had summed up the total effect of what he had made her do. ‘just soiled.’ That was all. But she was desperately afraid. "You think that if you whip me enough I’ll become a slave in spirit as well as fact?" She knew her question held all the dubiety she felt.

"Any other suggestions?" He sounded quite willing to listen.

"That’s not fair. " Dorinda exclaimed. "I’ve never been whipped. I don’t know what that does to a girl, except cut her skin. I’m scared stiff right now. I have to wonder why you can’t be satisfied by the way I worked at what you wanted. I honestly tried to please. And I’ll keep on trying as long as you want to keep me a prisoner. I know I can’t escape. I think that knowledge is the most potent thing with me. It’s pretty final when you think of it. But it makes me a prisoner, not a slave." She peaked at him earnestly from between her strained arms. "I suppose you wouldn’t consider becoming your slave because I like you… Sort of like Terry?"

"I’m not looking for another sister."

"I’d shrug my shoulders if I could," Dorinda affirmed passionately. "I’m marooned on an island and held captive by a fantasy. I have no place to go except where you take me. I have to accept and understand that you will work your fantasy out on me. Whether I like it or not I have to play Galatea to your Pygmalion. If that calls for me to be whipped, then whipped I’ll be. You’d better get on with it…" She looked him in the eye and added the single word: "Darling…"

Mark nodded soberly. His gaze was riveted on the taut loveliness he was about to whip. Dorinda’s last word and her lucid rationale disconcerted him. He would have preferred her to plead or weep, or even to be some other girl who would spit at him and curse. Dorinda had matched her own logic with his. Mark found himself warming to the idea of discussion, a battle of wits and will, with his guest somewhat more comfortably circumstanced than she was now. Whatever that errant thought may have led to will never be known, for in the midst of it young Terry’s voice decided the issue.

"What an absolutely glum pair you are." She eyed her brother discerningly, then turned to the quaking captive. "I bet poor old Mark’s funked out. You look gorgeous enough to eat…"

"We’ve been talking," Dorinda vouschafed lamely.

Terry’s laughter pealed through the bare room transforming it into a place of gaiety. Without wasting words she snatched the whip from her brother’s hand. She turned a radiant and consoling smile on the quailing captive. "Frightfully sorry, old girl. But this job has to be done. Absolutely must get it out of the dear boy’s system." She winked broadly. And out of little Terry’s too…"

Dorinda froze in shock. The limber with had crossed her back and curled over her ribs. There could not be all this pain in the whole world. She knew there could not be! No one had ever borne it or could ever bear it. She was sliced and bleeding. She was sure she was!

Then a scream. Her cry of outrage split the room. It held all the desolation of a girl who knows herself lost, delivered to a force no girl deserved. Terry’s second lash had been neatly beneath the first, but delivered from the other side. Dorinda’s white nudity was circled by a band of fire. All resolution dissolved. In frantic panic she leaped at her bonds. She kicked and twisted, sobbing in the frustration of her helplessness. For moments at a time she bent her knees and lifted both feet from the floor as though seeking surcease in foetal shape. Her slender wrists were cut by the rigid bite of the metal cuffs that circled them so snugly. But that pain was unnoticed under the all consuming agony of the two welts Terry had bestowed so lovingly and with consummate skill.

"Now let’s talk for a minute, darlings," Terry suggested with enchanting insouciance.

Brother and sister watched raptly as Dorinda panted and sobbed her way back into the world from which she had been reft. The chained girl had no coherent thought. She was dazed and smarting from something more awful than her wildest fears had envisioned. She squirmed on suspenseful vulnerability, every nerve screaming in expectation of the next stroke. It was perhaps two minutes before her wild eyes focused on Terry’s gamin grin. Her breasts were still heaving under both the pain and the strain of her suspension. A small trickle of blood found it’s way down one wrist.

Tenderly the girl who held the whip dried her captive’s eyes and wiped her cheeks. Gentle fingers smoothed the hair damp with the emanation of fear and pain.

"Tell us what it’s like, darling," Terry asked soothingly.

A broken Dorinda looked Mark squarely in the eye. "It’s a worse cruelty than I thought anyone could inflict," she said desolately. "I can’t stand anymore. If you are going to whip me more, than kill me and be done with it."

There fell a small silence broken only by the sounds of the whipped girl’s distress.

"I’ve been whipped like this many times," Terry said brightly.

Dorinda did not know whether to accept the statement as a rebuke or as consolation. She only knew a panicky compulsion to end her martyrdom. "I’ll do anything at all," she offered flatly. "There’s nothing I won’t do… I’ll be a slave gladly. Don’t whip me anymore. Oh please, don’t!" She looked from one to the other of her owners with abject eyes.

"It’s not over, y’know," Mark told her somberly.

"We’ve stopped for a little while because the is a genuine experiment," Terry explained soothingly. "We hope you’ll examine it along with us."

"What is there to examine in such awful pain?" Dorinda asked bitterly.

"You have had two strokes with a whip. Have they taken you anywhere?"

Dorinda knew very well what Mark sought. But she was too distressed to deal with subtleties. Within herself she was crying resentfully. ‘Why me! Why me!’ But she knew it useless to propound the same question to her captors. Pure chance had delivered her to where she now stood. Her agonised wrists told her very clearly that she had been cast in a role and would have to play it. She wished she had been shown a reward for playing it well.

"Pain will make me obey you." She looked from one to another. "Please help a bit. I can’t give a lecture."

Terry handed the whip to her brother. "Step two, darling," she suggested queryingly.

Their victim watched the transfer with pure horror. If Terry could hurt her with such intensity, what would Mark’s stronger arm inflict? Only the brake of reason inhibited her from another panic driven struggle with her tether. Her vulnerability devastated courage.

"At this stage we have to compel your participation," Mark said reflectively. "So you will ask me pleasantly and intelligently, to give you two more strokes. You may even choose where they fall."

"I’d have to be nuts!"

The exclamation got out before she had time to think. Mark grinned understandingly. "Sounds damn silly, doesn’t it? So to make it valid we do the Pavlov bit. Ask for two nicely or get four."

So simple. A sort of conditioning process. Dorinda was furiously angry at being its subject. But she was also desperately afraid, she glimpsed the path devised for her unwilling feet. She was defeated by their faces: two nice young people with a mission, earnest and dedicated. She knew they liked her. It was paradoxical. A discordance that defeated reason. How would any girl be expected to adjust?

The four strokes cut in rapid succession. Her cry of protest faded before her cry of agony. She groped her way, sobbing and gasping, through the dark forest of pain to the distant point where she could look at Mark reproachfully with incredulous eyes. "You took too long to make up your mind," he explained evenly. "Never believe I will not be cruel. We will start again. Ask for two or get four…"

At that moment Dorinda would have asked for anything. But not the whip! She manufactured his demand. It was on her tongue. But it was insincere. Surely Mark would recognise the words as false. She did not utter them. She was groping for others when the whip found her again …

This time, returning from the pit of agony, she found her head thrown back, her gaze resting on her tractioned arms on each of which a thin trickle of blood fell from wrists cut by shining metal. In the thoes of her wild threshing she had not known of that wound. It came as a surprise, but did not matter. Nothing mattered, save that she be no more whipped… Hopelessly she turned to plead.

But the room was empty. Mark and Terry had gone while she was still in that fearful other place. Dorinda was alone.

It was with great thankfulness that the naked girl stood simply in her enforced pose.. An onlooker would have found her exquisitely lovely in her weariness and pain. The whipping may have paused. But the handcuffs continued their unyielding compulsion. Dorinda stood very straight, even with tired head and bent knee. From time to time she stood on her toes to ease her wrists. Her pain was constant. When coherent thought returned, curiosity came with it. Straining, she tried to examine her body. There was no blood, but the ridged welds were as frightening. She had no previous experience with such inflictions. She could see little of herself, and wondered what her back might show.

Released from immediate threat she wept quietly, wiping wet cheeks against her raised arms. Fear spurred her thoughts, confronting her with the knowledge of a lesson learned: she would have to be obedient. Only by a responsive act she could save her skin. Hesitation spelled out a mental reservation. The master would perceive and punish. Reservations and secrets were denied a slave…

Slave, slave, slave! How absurd a word in today’s world! She sought another. There was none so explicit to her condition. That was Mark’s thesis, wasn’t it? There were no longer nay slave markets. So he would create his own slave girl. Could she take comfort in the knowledge that her agonies and fears were no different from the same emotions, suffered by countless other maidens in centuries past? Hard to accept the knowledge. But it was true.

What was her cue? A dog-like grovelling on the floor? Sycophantic servility? She was sure Mark would reject both. His fantasy would dictate an emotion more valid…

Terry came cheerfully into the room. She was holding a small key.

It was pleasant on the terrace in mid afternoon. Dorinda had never admired English Tea. But now it was nectar. She sipped it gratefully and wondered if she should laugh or cry. Was she on her head or on her heels? She could not keep pace with what they did to her. No doubt they planned it so.

"The handcuffs won’t discommode you." Mark had become the smiling boy again.

They were a part of her now. Dorinda did not mind. She could drink tea and eat a sandwich with joined hands. She could understand the necessity that she wear them. They would keep her from forgetting. The blood was still on her forearms. No doubt that would keep her from forgetting too. It was in her own interest that she not forgot.

"Do you think we are absolute swaine?" Terry inquired interestedly.

"No."

"What are we then?"

"You are just you. Both of you." Dorinda scrambled for some elusive rationalization that was not there. "You have told me of the fantasy. I think the fantasy is the key. I am a prisoner because of it. All three of us will have to be aware of it always, in every situation. If I, for instance, forget it for a single minute resentment builds up. Anger. Perhaps hatred." She looked at them pitiously. "You see, it is so out of context. It is like trying to transplant a bit of Camelot or ancient Babylon into our lives…"

"You do not hate us?"

"No. That would make it simple."

"We are going to whip you again, y’know."

"Oh, I guessed that," Dorinda admitted miserably. "I suppose you can understand how much I want to dissuade you?"

"You have not pleaded as much as we expected. Why?"

The naked girl shook her head in bewilderment. "I suppose because Mark made a good jon of telling me of the fantasy and your determination to use me. Pleading would not help, would it? I have a feeling that the more I beg and grovel the less you would think of me. Silly perhaps. Why should a slave care? I know you are going to whip me. And, oh, I don’t want to be whipped! I don’t! It’s more awful than I ever dreamed. It scares me because a girl seems to survive. Look at me now! After those first two strokes I knew I would die. I didn’t. I’m sure you know more about it than I do. But please, don’t whip me so much that we stop liking each other…"

"It does not work that way," Mark was positive.

Dorinda considered. "You are thinking of Terry. But I’m not Terry. That other gorl, when she comes, won’t be Terry either. I’m not a bit sure any of us know what a whip will do to a girl like me. I admit I don’t…!" Her voice became animated and earnest. "Look darlings, I think neither of you is the stuff that beats a girl into submission. But you sincerely believe you have to whip her into slavery. Can I help? I’m purely selfish. Let’s say I don’t want to be whipped… well, unprofitably. If I must be whipped then I want every bit of the pain to take me where you have determined I have to go."

"Go on." She had caught Mark’s interest.

"Let me take over now. Oh sure, I know it’s backwards. But let me try to be a slave. I’ll work at it. I might surpise you. When I make a blooper, whip me. Okay?"

Terry clapped her hans. "Isn’t she super, Mark! I knew she would be. We’ll never, never let her go. Darling, let her be your slave today. But oh, can she be mine tomorrow? I know she’ll train just beautifully."

Mark looked at his sisyer with love. "Okay, kitten. But you pay a forfeit. I won’t need you for a while, so off with these rags and up against your column."

Dorinda watched in amazement. The moment should be grim. Instead it was pure joy. The moppet shed her clothes in a flash of motion as though glad to be rid of them. A moment later she was securely chained as Dorinda had first beheld her. Mark stood back admiring the effect. Both were smiling broadly with a shared happiness. Once again Terry deliberately provoked and stuck her tongue out at her brother.

Mark grinned cheerfully at his guest. "You see, girls are incorrigable. They have to be constantly punished. Our little minx has just asked me to make her stand on one leg. But I have something more appropriate. He went into the lounge. Terry winked broadly as though in complicity. When he returned he held a square of pasteboard. Seeing it, Terry uttered a plaintive wail of protest. "Oh darling, not that!"

The watching girl could not be certain of Terry’s plaint. The younger girl showed every evidence of distaste for whatever Mark was about to do. But her obvious joy in her chains was an inconsistancy. Would she, too, come to this? A mixture of joy and apprehension… the whole scene highly erotic.

The new captove had no more time for protest. Small spring clips bit at each of her nipples. From them, suspended as a bib, the pasteboard read in clear print: "I was impertinent.".

Terry was still complaining, but now with an obvious insincerity, when her brother led Dorinda back to the bare neat room.

Dorinda dived into her slavery, as a swimmer who fears the cold, dives in one swift plunge to end the agony. Colouring her own imagery with scraps of remembered fiction she played her part.

Taking the whip from her master’s surprised hand, she knelt before him, kissed the cruel object of her pain, tehn offered it to him with her chained hands. Gazing up in pure worship – was it all feigned? – she asked ardently: "Please master, whip your slave girl." Quickly she took a pose. Hands clasped behind her head. Breasts outthrust, face raised in serene contemplation of the stone wall. He could whip her where he chose.

Mark’s eyes glowed. She had stuck the missing chord. "Why would I whip you, slave girl?" he demanded.

"Because I am a slave, master."

"On what part of your insolent person should I lay the whip?"

The question caught her unaware. But she remembered something she had been told.

"On my bottom, master." She knew she blushed.

"stand still, girl."

She endured, doubly blushing, as he purposefully dragged down the briefs, she had been allowed to wear. Why, oh why, had she chosen her bottom. She should have known. But is was too late.

She held taut for the first two strokes. But then she did all the things she had longed instinctively to do when she had been chained upright. She moaned no less. But did manage gasping: "Thank you, master."

Mark watched, amused. A slave girl writhing on the floor after she had been whipped. It was all falling into place. Before she had expended all her body’s rejection of the pain, he barked: "On your feet, girl!! Stand as before."

Dorinda managed. The squirming had helped. She refused to think ahead.

"Two more. You’ll stand quite still afterwards. You can grown but not scream. Anymore gymnastics and I’ll rope you and give an extra five. Understand?"

"Yes master." She was afraid of him. But knew this was how it must be.

The two blows were deliberately cruel.

Dorinda achieved her miracle.

When she had stood motionless save for heaving breats for ten ten seconds, her master said: "You may now do your little dance. Scream if you wish."

Dorinda was furious. She could never win. She knew not what had happened in those ten seconds. But now she turned and faced the ardent eyed man with the whip and admitted simply: "I do not need to, master."

Mark laughed joyously. His slave girl essayed a sheepish smile. "I won’t always manage it, master," she warned cautiously.

"Let’s try it again, shall we?"

They tried again. The round bottom absorbed the straiting cuts bravely. Its owner clenched her teeth in firm resolve.

Once more she won.

Mark kissed her gently. She sank to her knees before him and avowed woth sweet simplicity:" Master, I am your slave." Then added. "I want to be your slave…"

After a long, quiet time Dorinda looked up at the man whose chattel she had become and asked with genuine curiosity: "Master, are there other punishments than the whip?"

"Of course, little slave. You want them now?"

"No master, I’m content."

Mark laughed delightfully. "You shall have them all. With some you may wish you had chosen the whip. But they are for other days than now. As for being content you do not suppose I am finished with you, surely?"

Dorinda had indeed hoped just that. But managed to expunge the disappointment from her voice. "Oh no, master. Please tell me what I must do."

"Go to the rope."

Dorinda shivered. They had found a rapport. But it would not ease her pain or divert Mark’s purpose. She sensed that he could give her love more easily than mercy. Her wirst protested when she was stretched. If this was his favorite pose she would plead for kinder bonds than the steel bands that cut so curelly. She wished he had not tethered her again. It could only mean something hard to bear.

"Can’t ask you for too much self control," Mark observed. "Kepping still wasn’t easy, was it?"

"No master. I’m not sure I could do it again. Thank you for tying me."

"Oh, you’ll do it, love. I suspect you have a talent for it. In fact you have a talent for the whole scene. You are really a bit wonderful, y’know." He held her with a hand on each side of her ribs, where her arms would have been. He looked down into her raised eyes. His own became dark pools in which Dorinda saw mirrored both agonay and love. "Thank you for coming to Kyrexos," he said gently.

All of her responded to his touch. His hands had not previously explored such intimacy. She longed to plead: ‘Love me, don’t whip me.’ But instinct told her it was not the time. She did not know when the time might be. But they embarked upon a journey.

"I have not yet punished you," Mark said.

He laughed as she tensed. "So far only tests, little slave girl. But, perfect though you are, there will be times when you transgress. You will be whipped for your fault, and the whip then will affect you differently than when you are simply being brave. I will show you know. I sentence you to five strokes. Once thus sentenced, nothing can bring you remission. I think that always when the first stroke falls you will be willing to plead, to promise, to affirm that never again

… But when you have earned a penalty you must pay all of ot. That is what will make these five strokes separate from the others."

"But… I haven’t done anything to deserve punishment," Dorinda protested.

"You have now love." Mark chuckled. "Slaves never protest."

It was not a game they played.

Dorinda abandoned all defenses. She was posessed by the whip. Endless whippings loomed ahead. Months… years… Why try and be brave?

At the second stroke which curled across her bottom and over one hip she allowed all natural responses to have their way. She wept, she moaned, she even pleaded forgiveness for a guilt she did not feel. The strokes laced her body unrelentingly. At the count of five she was released.

She slumped to the floor as though her bones were broken. Her moans and twistings were her body’s outrage at what had been done to it. Mark watched, amused. He had watched his sister more times than he could remember. Even when Terry pleaded for the whip it mostly ended thus, a beautfiully erotic finale. She had admitted readily enough, that even as she writhed and groaned she savoured her greatest happiness in the knowledge that her ordeal was past and that she acquitted herself well. Dorinda’s travail must continue.

"Devise a stroke that will shame you. Ask for it."

She dared not ponder, but did the first demanding act that came to mind. Taking a wanton stance, she placed one foot upon the wooden chest, spreading the other wode. Cuffed wirsts behind her neck she faced he master. "The whip… Up underneath, please," she managed tremulously.

Mark was enraptured. The lash he gave her was cunning and cruel. It evoked from his slave girl an artistry of agonay. He knew himself a very lucky man.

For Dorinda, it was a long afternoon.

CHAPTER 2

Kyrexos was a delightful island. Dorinda could see most of her captor’s small kingdom from the rock on which she sat with Terry. The sun was warm. For the moment her condition was charmingly relaxed.

"Nicer than that room with the rope, love?" Terry asked shrewdly.

"Calm before the storm?" Dorinda asked with frank suspicion.

The younger girl giggled. "The dear boy really laced into you. You’re a beautiful zebra. Like the swimsuit?"

"Pure haven. I’m tired of looking down and seeing breasts and hair. Sweet of you to let me wear it."

"Doesn’t hide all that much, darling. But the little belt effect makes it handy to hang your handcuffs and that bit of cord. I hate carrying things. I like being naked."

"Why the bokini then?"

"Can’t very well have the mistress naked and the slave clothed, can we?"

"You’d better brief me a bit," Dorinda suggested diffidently. "I’m still a novice, y’knnow. Mark really made me come to heel yesterday. Are you going to do that too? Should I call you ‘mistress’?"

Terry giggled. "You’ll have to play me by ear. I’m a butterfly. Sometimes I’ll be very brutal to you, darling. Quite often I’ll love you to bits." She directed a puckish grin at her captive. "Tru to remember, love. Little Terry’s never been a mistress or had a slave girl to play with. It’s been me that’s been the slave girl. If you think Mark has made you come to heel, I can tell you a few stories. You are no more a zebra than I often am."

"Why do you put up with it?"

"I love it, silly. You know I do. Mark’s told you. I’m a natural born slave girl. But only for Mark."

"Aren’t you going to be jealous?" Dorinda asked mischieviously. "Now I’ll get all the whippings and you’ll be home free."

"I’m a bit curious to see how he does with both of us," Terry’s eyes sparked with a sudden thought. "If I feel neglected I can always make you whip me." She giggled. "Would you like that?"

Dorinda was about to affirm that after yesterday she would not wish a whipping on a dog, when there dirfted into her inward vision a delectable vision of a naked Terry bent well over and herself lustily caning a pert round bottom. "I’m afraid I’d love to," she admitted honestly. "Good heavens, this is contagious!"

Whilst not wanting to be burdened with things to carry, the newly elevated mistress had ostentatiously brought along on their stroll a long, slender crop with which she neatly decapitated any convenient growth along their path. Her slave girl had been constantly aware of it. Dorinda was suddenly horrified to find the wicked length now placed in her hand.

"Whip my bottom, darling, until I tell you to stop."

Joyously the younger girl stepped out of the skimpy fabric that had hugged her hips, selected her spot, then bent and garsped her ankles. Dorinda had never seen a girl’s btoom more enticingly offered. She felt herself blush. A bringht and expectant eye was watching her with avid amusement. "Scared, aren’t you?" the young voice taunted.

Dorinda felt herslef adrift. But knew this moment in life to be lived vividly while it lasted. With a tremendous sense of release she swung the crop in a slahing arc and both felt and heard it sink into the puppy cheeks with a sensual thrill such as she had never before known. She watched, fascinated, as the red weal formed and became a ridge of scarlet. The punished girl held her pose heroically, but gasped with heaving breasts. The right eye discretely looked alsewhere. Enthralled with sudden power, Dorinda was readying herself for the next blow…

"Stop!"

Had the idol feet of clay? Dorinda was disappointed.

"Damn," Terry straightened up chagrined.

"Damn and double damn!" she repeated. Turning, she donned her briefs. "I’m not chicken, y’know!" she affirmed savagely. "I just thought of something."

Dorinda waited and wondered.

Terry pushed the fabric off her hips and offered her bottom again for view. "I say, darling. I’ll bet it’s a real corker of a mark?"

Dorinda affirmed it was.

"I’ll have to keep these damn things on." Terry pulled the scanty protection about her loins. She looked at her companion in sudden appeal. "I should have thought. Mark will probably give me hell. He’ll say I’ve broken his pattern with you. I’m supposed to whip you, not you me."

Dorinda was intrigued by the maiden dolor. "Why so concerned?" she langhed. "The worst he’ll do to you is whip you some more. You adore it. So why worry?"

"I don’t adore it the way he does it when he wants to teach me a lesson." Terry grinned ruefully. "I’m not made of leather. Besides, it might not be the whip. Mark thinks of the damndest things."

The puzzled slave girl was prevented from asking hwat ‘the damndest things’ were by her mistress’s evanescent mood reverting to her normal sunshine exuberance. "Darling! I’ve just thought… The absolutely most gorgeous thing to do to you. Come on. I’ll race you."

How good it was to run. As she spen in persuit, Dorinda could not forbear the speculation that it should be possible for her to overpower the younger girl and make her captive with the handcuffs in her belt. The thought was plausable. But to what end? The island would defeat her. Retribution would probably be too awful to contemplate. Besides, she liked the youngster. Terry would be easy to love…

It was a small secluded spot among sparse trees, one of which had remained standing in the little clearing as though forgotten when its fellows had gone. Within minutes Dorinda found herself divested of her swim suit and tightly tied to the trunk. Terry kissed her excitedly and dashed off in the direction of the house.

The puzzled girl tested her bonds. Good use had been made of the scraps she had been made to carry. Her waist was cinched tight by a single strand of cord. It hurt. Her legs were seperated, one on each side of the bole. They, too, were immobilized by single circlets which were very tight indeed and hurt as much as the waistband. Her wirsts were handcuffed at the rear. She could wriggle her shoulders and toss her head. That was all. A familiar sense of vulnerability enveloped her. Ruefully she glanced down at what she could see of herself. Sure enough: breasts and pubic hair! She supposed she had better get used to it. She was only mildly concerned about her immediate situation.

When a flushed and obviously highly amused girl returned with a parcel, her captive watched perplexed as busy fingers hastely strewed a white powder on the bare rock. Sugar… salt? It could be anything. But ths ebeacme instantly and intimately concerned when the giggling girl opened the lips of the captive sex and pushed within the secret orrifice several gobs of honey and then annointed the hairy triangle with the sticky stuff so that the whole area bore a half inch of the sweet. "Don’t worry darling. Lots of room in there… at least if it’s anything like mine." Chuckling, as at some funny joke, she retired with her her paper back and seated herself on a smooth rock, about forty feet away.

"What’s this for?" the prisoner felt entitled to ask.

"No questions, darling," Terry admonished. "If you insist on asking, I’ll whip you."

Dorinda did not insist. But her mind was active. She could not fail to note that the white stuff on the ground led, like a trail of gunpowder, to where she was bound. It was probably sugar. Sugar and honey spelt ants! How long would it take for them to find her? And when they did, what then?

It was not ants! The first goat wandered into the clearing with the air of a first arrival ta a meeting place. He was a hoary male, well endowed with beard, horns and other accountrements. Examining him with wide eyed dismay the helpless girl found it easy to give credence to the satyr legend. She guessed her fate.

"Please Terry. Please… don’t let him."

"I’ll whip you for that too," Terry said equable. "And if you shout at him to try and scare him away I’ll really let you have it." She chuckled happily. "Best thing you can do is to keep quiet altogether. It’s quite an experience for a girl. Mark did it to me once. I’m going to love watching."

Several she-goats joined their lords. But it was he who claimed the price. Having sampled the salt that led to the mother load he raised his nozzle to sample the nectar provided by a thoughful Providence. The bound Dorinda carled up inwardly in a spasm of shrinking withdrawel that availed her nothing. The venerable goat lapped happily.

A goat’s snout is peculiarly mobile facility designed for the inaccessable. Terry’s ingenious provision of a hidden store presented no problem. The old billy parted Dorinda’s nether lips as easily as he did his own. A nibbling probosciis and an eager sandpaper tongue havested the treasure from its warm sheath so that the helpless maiden, tied to her tree, was driven into paroxyam after paroxyam of vivid and unbearable sensation. No matter how she fought the cords or tugged at her handcuffed wrists, she could move no portion of herself that would discommode her unwanted guest. She turned frantic eyes to an imperturbable Terry.

"Oh please! Don’t let him. Shoo him away. I can’t stand it!"

"You’ve had only two orgasms, I can tell."

"But I don’t want any!" The captive wailed in between gasps and spams.

"This is ‘Be kind to animals week’," Terry announced complacently. Her eyes bright with enjoyment.

The tortured victim groaned and writhed again.

"That makes three," her mistress stated approvingly. "You’re a lucky girl."

"Get rid of him!!" It was a cry of anguish.

"You know you’re loving it."

"I’m not! I’m not!! Oh, how can you sit there. Please…" The naked girl fought her bonds uselessly.

"You are up for four now."

Dorinda had never known such an intensity of sensation. It engulfed her loins in wave after wave that gave her no time to renegate. No sooner had the rasping tongue provoked her palpitating flesh than the cycle of agonized ecstacy began all over again. In panic she could see little chance of the ordeal ending before she was reduced to some sort of disaster.

"Five… and now six!" Terry sounded jubilant as though vicariously sharing joy. "Can’t possibly stop the old dear now, darling. I’m sure you don’t want any honey left up there. Let him get it all."

The sweating, panting captive’s moans were ounctuated by sharper cries and fresh struggles. Terry watched her slave with growing eyes and counted happily as the tally rose. The hairy recipient of unexpected largesse nibbled and licked assiduously until, having garnered every trace of his favorite desert from the hostess’s quivering sex and pubic hair, he reluctantly turned and led his harem from the scene of his triumph.

"You’ve never been so clean, darling," Terry assured her prisoner helpfully. "Frightfully hygienic and all that."

Dorinda relaxed against her tree and panted her way back into the world.

After the swim they lay upon the beach and dried.

"What happened to my swim suit?" Dorinda accused.

Her companion giggled guiltily. "One of the she-goats ate both pieces while I wasn’t watching. Sorry, love. I’Ve got the rest of the stuff in the paper bag." Like a tail wagging puppy she leant over and frankly sbiffed the sun drenched sex of the naked girl beside her. "Good, we’ve washed him away. He did smell a bit. So did you." She trilled laughter. "Sort of an appropriate smell for that particluar place, daling. But I’m sure we’re both fastidious. Go arrange yourself on that rock over there and spread your legs."

Dorinda sat upright, startled. "No!" Her negative was from the heart. Terry enjoyed her slave’s dismay. "Don’t paninc. Always one more left. That’s the nice thing about being a gril."

"I don’t do that."

Terry surveyed her companion with interest. "Well, I’ve never done it," she admitted. "Mark never gave me a chance with a girl. But I’ve got one now. You don’t think I’m going to pass it up, do you?"

"But I’m not a lesbian."

"Who says anything about lesbians? That’s just a name. If we want to explore each others cunny woth our mouth, we don’t have to wear a label."

"Mark would flog us both half to death."

"Well, he might if he found out," she admitted reflectively.

"I’ll tell him."

"You won’t, y’know darling."

Dorinda had to admit to herself that Terry was right. She began to glimpse that, whilst her brother would subdue her with the whip, his sister would devise more devious and colorful ways to enslave. Terry had risen to her feet and was flexing the riding crop thoughtfully, her eyes hungry for whatever excitement the situation might engender. Dutifully the slave girl did as she was told.

The female psyche is a complex thing. Its responses are triggered by subtleties not always understood. Faced with a fresh assault on resources already frayed threadbare, Dorinda was bereft. She knew she could only earn the whip by attempts to dissuade, so composed her nudity to best advantage to absorb attentions which, no matter how gentle, were basically similar to her recent ordeal against the tree. She felt sure of disgrace.

But Terry’s magic was not only in her sunny laughter and elfin spirit. She was vibrantly female, exquisitely feminine. Her hands were enchanted hands. Her lips were enchanted lips. To be touched by them anywhere was to feel the shock of electric senuousness. Dorinda, who had thought herself depleted, was washed now in a fountain of youth that endowed her with infinite renewal. Gasping to keep herself afloat in a sea of pleasure she allowed herself to be led into the scented pathways of a girl who loves.

"Wasn’t it super?" Terry cooed. "Girls would be silly not to enjoy themselves."

It was after. Long after! Dorinda lay gratefully in the sun, replete and at peace as she watched her mistress fumble with her bikini. "I say, darling. How’s my bottom?" The curved facility was offered for inspection.

"It’s a very lovely bottom and it’s got the most beautiful purple stripe right accross the middle," the slave girl assured her with satisfaction.

"Oh golly, I’m sure it has. I’ll have to mear these damn things for a week. Mark will be suspecious. Come one, darling, think of an excuse."

"You could claim a defense against my rapacious tongue."

"He’d whip you to pieces… If he believed it."

"Alright then. Not me, the goat."

"Be serious. I should whip you until you think of something plausable."

"Time of the month?"

Terry tottered. "He knows that."

"Tell you what. We’ll both confess our sin like good little girls and ask to be punished. Then he won’t do it."

The angel brightened. "You might have something there love. But – knowing Mark – I’d suspect we get about five apiece."

"You’d enjoy only five. And since I suppose I go back into training with him tomorrow I don’t suppose five one way or the other will make much difference. He’s a real ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ enthousiast."

Terry looked at her slave searchingly. "Are you sure we aren’t tarred with the same brush?"

Dorinda’s indignant negative died stillbron. "I hate the damn whip," she averred vehemently. "But I like the man who uses it on me. Does that make any sense?"

"You mean you’re in love with Mark?"

"I don’t suppose I am. I was frightened of him half the time yesterday. But when he’s whipping me I have to respect his motives. I wish he’d tie me to a tree or something instead. But I can understand his fantasy thing. He explained it very well. I can understand, too, that I sort of happened along at the right time and got elected. It’s funny, but I’ve come to recognize that this island affects my reactions. Anywhere else I’d be resentful and trying to escape all the time, always alert. But because I know it’s quite impossible for me to swim away from Kyrexos I don’t resist. I’m as much the island’s prisoner as I am yours…"

"I’ve just thought of a wonderful game!" Terry was typically irrelevantly enraptured. "You’ll adore it, darling."

From something in the youngster’s voice Dorinda felt she would not adore it at all. But followed tinglingly curious. She was made to carry the paper bag.

It had been an old warf, fallen into disuse. An unptrentious bit of ruin. Terry led the way beneuth it to the water’s edge. Divesting herself of the bikini’s halter she giggled portentiously. "I want to blindfold you, love. But I promise, no shocks. When I take it off you’ll have the loveliest surprise." She went into further evidences of merit. Dorinda allowed herself to be blindfolded with the bra. It was effective. She stood quivering, expectant.

"Hold still and don’t be scared." Terry’s voice had become authorative and absorbed. Her nimble fingers unexpectedly were working her captive’s bushe triangle.

Dorinda relaxed. She could imagine regaining her sight to behold some absurd coiffure effect with that abundant bush with which she was endowed. At least it was nit painful.

It took a long time and many impatient exclamations. At last a breathless voice apologised: "The handcuffs now, darling. Just so you don’t spoil the effect."

The victim offered her wirsts without question. They were locked tight behind her back. It felt surprisingly natural. The bra was whisked from her eyes.

"It’s frightfully clever, darling, don’t you think?"

It took Dorinda a little time to comprehend her new predicament. It was not quite the childish game she had hoped.

A sizable tuft of her pubic hair had been owven or spliced into the end of cord. The join had been reinforced by sevel knots ot lighter threat, prbably unravelled from one of the other bindings. It appeared a very secure union. The cord itself fell away from her sex across the sand and into the water.

"It’s knotted round an old bolt down in the sand. Wtach, darling." The younger girl tugged at the cord with all her strength. It did not move. It was an impressive demonstration. Dorinda was tethered tight by a tenuous link as compelling as steel.

"It’s like a parlor game, love." Terry explained gaily. "You can’t fee yourself. The tide is coming in. It won’t submerge you. But it will rise enough so you won’t like it and can’t sit down. Now the thing you have to live with is that you can free yourself at any time. Just take a big leap. You’ll loose a bit of hair, but you’ve got plenty more. I suppose it will hurt. But slave girls have to put up with that sort of thing, don’t they?"

"I can never bring myself to tear loose," Dorinda vowed flatly. "It would be like tearing off a finger or a toe nail. Even the thought curls me up at the edges."

"You dramatize a bit, darling. You’ll get loose when you want to. Just as a further inducement you’ll be expected back at the house for dinner tonight. We are even going to let you wear clothes, lovely, gorgeous clothes. But if you’re a ‘fraudy-cat and stay here, you’ll het fifty strokes."

"Fifty?!"

"Of course. Why not?"

"But fifty would kill a girl!"

"I expect you’d survive. Girls do. No problem really. Think of that noble soul who declaimed ‘Give me liberty or give me death’. All you are going to lose is a few cunt hairs… Forgive me love, but that awful word is so absolutely right."

With the last bit of cord Terry circled her captive’s waist and cinched the handcuffs tight in the small of her back. "Just in case, darling. I’m sure you’ll try." Gally she picked up the bag and her crop and left Dorinda alone with an awful decision.

She tried. She tried desperately. First backing away from her tether until it sprang tout and the prisoner hairs made their painful protest. Fiacinated by the ingenuity if her new captivity, Dorinda continued the pressure until the tuft and the skin beneath were stretched out alarmingly. Not a single hair had come loose. She realised miserably that the yielding skin made a quick, simple yerk impractical. She would have to lunge, risking whatever injury might issue. Next she sought the knots that kept her hands at waist level. Simply handucffed she might have reached something. She was defeated there too. Entering the water she explored the anchor of her tether with her toes. But found that the most hopeless prospect of all. She was foxed! Despondently she stepped back on to the dry sand. But already the tide was claming most of the small margin Terry had left her with.

Reason dictated that she risk all in one quick dash immediately. In the end she would have to. Why spend miserable hours waiting and hiping that the exuberant moppet would return and set her free as the finale of a big tease? But did they tease? They had not done so yet.

Frantically Dorinda plunged.

The pain was sickening. The shock devastating. Instead of freedom the tether swung sideways and held. A foot raised in flight was all that saved her from an agonising fall. Looking down at the intimate bond she saw that not a single hair had yielded. The tuft of shining, wirey stuff stuff so cleverly woven was too alrge to be plcuked in one piece. The beautiful black bush, of which she had always been so proud, had been her downfall. Most girls could not have provided so hirsute a fetter for their own containment. Leaning against a rotting pole she gave herself to tears.

She was knee deep in water by the time Mark came and cut her loose. Thankfully she padded him back to the house, answerring his curt questions, sensing a storm. Terry was clasping her pillar naked faing the stone, arms chained high so that she seemed to embrace the column against which she normally leaned. Looking past the raised arm she viewed them with an apprehensive eye.

"Did you you do that?" Mark pointed to the purple line on his sister’s seat.

"Yes."

"She tell you to?"

"Yes, I told her to," Terry broke in hotly.

He looked from one to the other of them. The intensity of his scrutiny was such that each girl sensed his probing. Dorinda blushed. Terry blushed. Without a word spoken their blood had confessed their guilt.

"Whose idea was it?" he demanded grimly

"Mine," Terry ackowledged bravely.

"Don’t punish her, master. It was my fault too. I didn’t fight… Or run. She didn’t even whip me."

"Kind of her, I must say."

"It was sort of an experiment, master. It was my fault too."

"Nobility, nobility! Well, let’s get it over with. Or at least let’s get started," he amended.

Dorinda felt sure Mark was enjoying his mastery over two girls delinquent by his own code. There was that in his eyes when he looked at her that left her uncertain.

Without pause he removed the bit of cord round her waist and unlocked one cuff. Raising her hand he locked it again to one of the rings by which his sister was chained, so that now she, too, was fastened to the stone, but with one hand free. She felt foolish and uncertain of what pose was required of her. She had little doubt she would be whipped. He walked into the house, leaving them alone.

"Scratch my nose, darling." Terry sounded contrite.

Dorinda obliged. "I ought to scratch more than your nose," she chided irritably. "That was a rotten thing to do to me." She described her debacle in detail.

Her erstwhile mistress wept. "I’m a bratty little beast and I deserve what I’m going to get." She cocked a damp eye at her companion in distress. "I0m really in for it. Mark’s angry ‘bout what I did to you. Said it could have scared you scilly. Did it?"

"Yes. And it hurt horribly."

"I’m sorry draling, honestly I am. I made a mess of my day. I was supposed to train you in obedience and bring you home a well whipped but good little girl." She smiled wanly. "Y’know, love, I don’t think I can ever be the sort of mistress Mark would approve of," she considered soberly. "’Spose actually I don’t want to be."

Mark returned. He carried a whip. Tapered leather.

"Oh Mark, not that one," Terry wailed in genuine anguish. Catching Dorinda’s eye she added: "It’s simply awful. You can’t bear it."

"You’ve borne it before, kitten."

"Oh, but only when I’ve been very, very bad. I’ll howl terribly."

"I don’t mind," said Mark simply. "You can howl too if you want," he added for the benefit of his new slave girl.

"Thank you, master," Dorinda felt inadequate to the whole situation.

His sister wept reproachfully. "You could cane my bottom," she suggested.

"You’ll like it."

Fresh tears. "It still hurts like billy-o."

"So does this one."

"Couldn’t I be locked up?"

"With your slave girl, I suppose. Nice."

"All right then, you horrid thing. Alone." It was the ultimate concession.

"For how long?" Mark sounded interested.

His sister tensed hopefully. "All night?" she tried tentatively.

"I was thinking more in terms of weeks. Say four?"

"Oh Mark, you’re teasing."

"With really heavy chains. I’ll go and get the cell ready."

Once more they were alone. The new whip had been left where both could see it. Dorinda shivered. Not after yesterday. She prayed. Not the whip again…

"I think he’s up to something," Terry observed sagely. Her tears had disappeared. She was able to wipe her wet cheeks on her raised arms.

"Sounds awful," Dorinda mourned. "Do you think it’s better than being whipped?"

"Not four weeks in chains! He never kept me in a cell that long. A week at the most. If he hadn’t come in and whipped me often I’d have gone crazy even with that. It’s awful just to sit or stand with nothing to do. I was sort of hoping he’d toss us in together for maybe a couple of days. Even if he did put some chains on us it would still be fun."

Mark came back and released them. They were quivering and anxious to please. "Stand back to back!"

They obeyed, wondering.

He passed a chain round their middles and heaved it very, very tight so that they both gasped at the conrtiction that welded them as one. A padlock snapped. They would not release themselves.

"There you are, ladies. I couldn’t bear to part you." He picked up his whip, the handcuffs and the bits of rope and disappeared into the house.

"The absolute rotter!" Terry’s vehemence held both relief and anger.

Two pais of hands sought the chain that joined them. They found it unsympathetic. "I suppose it’s better than being whipped?" Dorinda vertured doubtfully.

"It’s because of what I made you do," the youthful captive wailed. "I know him! Thinks of all your wek point. Then that’s where you get it. He’s done a bit of thinking here. I suppose you realise we can’t do anything… for fun, I mean."

"The thought had occurred," Dorinda admitted dryly. "But I’m also wondering what happens now."

Nothing happened. That was their punishment. With a bit of practise they managed slow and cautious motion. They were not denied their hands. If they came upon Mark in their handicapped perambulations, he affected to notice nothing wrong, passed a polite word ot two and left them to their own devices. Neither girl dared utter a word of complaint. Their motto was ‘leave well enough alone’. Both remembered the whip. It was still around somewhere.

Dinner was formal at the appointed time. They ate it standing, taking turns to twist this way or that as their need arose. Amity did not raise an eyebrow. Mark maintained a politie conversation to which they responded woth equal gentility. She was sure the servants guessed their sin.

Their night was pure frustration.

"Cute bit o’stuff, ain’t she?" Dave enthused. "Nice clean lines, but a bit foul in the mouth."

He was a young man, cheerful of mien with a sly eye. The female to whom he made reference was an angry damsel partly attired in a torn and dishevelled pant suit

Her hands were tied on her back. She glared furiously at the small welcoming committee. "I’m going to make trouble over this," she informed them darkly.

"Name’s Mabel," Dave vouschafed. "Got more threats than a dog has fleas."

"Fuck you," Mabel dismissed him and turned her attention to Mark. "Untie my hands, you silly bastard. Don’t just stand there." She turned her back and offered her bound wrists confidently.

"He’s the bloke that bought you," Dave jeered. "Ought to be polite to him, you ought."

Mabel looked uncertainly over her shoulder. "Aren’t you going to untie me?"

"I’m in a good mood to gag you as well." Mark was amused

"Do you realise I’ve been kidnapped?"

"Of course. I placed an order for you."

Bafled Mabel turned to the two girls. "You in on this?" She examined the naked Terry’s shaved pubic hair. "Your twat alwys been like that?" she asked incredulously.

Dorinda had been ordered to resume her expensive habilment which Terry approved as making her ‘a slinky sex-pot’. She made a vivid contrast to her happily bare companion. It earned her Mabel’s puzzeld attention.

"You his wife?"

Feeling a bitch for compounding the newcomer’s bafflement, Dorinda held up handcuffed wrists and smiled sweetly. "We’re just slave girls. Same as you," she responded innocently.

"I want to go home," Mabel affirmed without dubiety.

"You’re home now, you silly bitch," Dave told her helpfully. "Proper little harem old Mark’s got. You’re a damn lucky girl if you ask me." "Nobody asked you, you grinning arsehole," the guest told him conversationally. She obviously had no confidence in her abductor, so gave her attention to her new owners. "Drugged me, he did. Two days ago I woke up on his damn boat. Now look at me. Where the hell am I?"

"You’re on an island."

"Oh gawd, and I can’t swim!" Deflation was evident. She called on her reserves. "Okay. I ain’t no bleedin’ nun. How about if you all screw me and let me go?"

The generous offer met only silence.

"Show her your bottom, Terry," Dave suggested.

Pleased to prove her virtuosity Terry placed her favorite curves on prominent display. Mabel’s eyes fixed in fascination on the purple stripe. "Whodunit?" she demanded virtuously.

"It wasn’t Agatha Christie, duckie," Dave assured her.

"Well, are you going to do it?" Mabel demanded. "I ain’t like her. You don’t have to whip my arse."

"Mark’s a gentleman, he is," Dave admonished. "He ain’t going to fuck the likes o’you here on this warf. And I ain’t going to either. I done it last night to you twice." He turned helfully to his audience. "Bit’o allright she is too," he offered informatively.

"Let’s all go to the house and have a drink," Mark suggested.

"Gawd, what I couldn’t do for one of those." Mabel’s voice was fervent.

Dorinda found herself subject to strange sensations, She loved her clothes. But being clothed felt odd. Did three days of nudity change a woman? Make her wanton? She felt guilty about her present enjoyment as a watcher of Mabel’s introduction to a new status. No doubt she should be adding het protests to the newcomer’s verbal indignation. She should appeal to Dave. Two raving females might dent his composure and invoke second thoughts about what he was doing. She knew she would not do these things. She asked herself why. Was she already so broken into slavery? She faced the fact that she would not bring herself to injure or to cross Mark and Terry. The whip was in there, too, of course. She was unsure which influence most potently dictated her decisions. She wondered if two days of slavery would have as vivid an an effect on Mabel as they had on her. She doubted it. Lastly she tried not to admit to herself that she was jealous of the attentions Mark must inevitably give his latest possession…

She held her drink easily in her chained hands. Sipping it comfortably she watched the little play unfold.

"I ain’t wearing no bleedin’ handcuffs!" Mabel seemed to have a gift for firm negatives.

"No handcuffs, no drink," Mark ruled.

"Crikey. I’m no ruddy criminal. Couldn’t you hold the glass up for me the way I am?"

Mark spoke with authotity. "We are going to untie you. You’ll hold your hands out for the cuffs or we’ll use force."

Mabel surveyed the company. She was outnumbered. She was thirsty. Sullenly she extended her hands, blushing furiously in shame as the metal bands clicked tight upon her wirsts. Dorinda deduced that, for Mabel, handcuffs invoked a stigma that rope did not. "Think I was a bloomin’ shoplifter," she complained bitterly. She held up the offending objects and examined the mechanism, by which she was confined. Distatse and revulsion exuded from every pore. Her blush deepened. She accepted her drink awkwardly, her first act with chained hands. She gulped it greedily and turned her attention to Dorinda.

"You just let ‘em put these rotten things on you?"

"Of course. What else can we do? I’m a prisoner the same as you. We can’t escape. We can do what we’re told or be whipped."

"Come off it, dearie. I wasn’t born yesterday."

An amused Mark handed Dorinda a small key. Their eyes met, mrthful. With no word uttered she knew his thought. She wished that Dave was not present. But she would obey. Awkwardly, she unlocked her own handcuffs.

Mabel watched, incredulous, as her fellow captive captive stripped. She obviously still considered herslef the victim of some unkind hoax. "I seen one bare arse already," she said huffily.

Dorinda staged her strip with artistry. It was not until her last scrap of covering had been set aside that she turned her zebra back. Had it not been for Dave’s heavy breathing and a shocked gasp from the girl with the empty glass, there would have been silence in the room. It was broken at last by a heartfelt exclamation.

"Oh, crikey!" Mabel was bemused. Blindly she held out her joined hands. "Could I have another drink?"

Everyone had another drink except Dorinda. It would have spoiled her pose. Happily she held it so that the full enormity of her master’s whip upon her person might be plain for all to consider. Mabel’s verdict was incisive and obtuse.

"You are a damn fool to put up with it."

"I’m a slave," Dorinda said simply. Then added mischieviously: "So are you."

"Must have hurt something cruel."

"You asked why I was so obedient."

"He do that to you?" A coutious finger indicated Mark.

"He’s our master. He does what he likes with us."

The proposition hung heavy in the air. The new prisoner responded to it slowly, with great emphasis but small conviction. "Not with me, he doesn’t." Then, in a much weaker voice, "Could I have another drink, please?"

Dorinda felt the word ‘please’ was a concession to her stripes. Once more she caught her master’s eye. Once more she divined the message his sardonic lips need not utter. She brought the whip, knelt before him, kissed the cruel length and proffered it humbly. She stood erect, hands clasped hebind her neck. Her eyes on infinity. The slender crop sliced and curled round her wealed body. Exploding inwardly, she said her ‘thank you’ in a pleased and eager voice.

Now it was Terry. An exact replica. A second bar across her bottom. In addition to her ‘thank you’ she kissed the man who had put it there.

Dorinda dressed. Awkwardly she managed to lock the handcuffs back on her wrists. Dutifully she ensured their grip, then offered the key to her master and her bonds for his approval.

"You lucky bastard," Dave exclaimed enviously. "How the hell d’you do it?" He winked at Mabel. "Think of it, love. Next time I come you’ll be like they are."

"Kinky lot ok kooks, if you ask me," Mabel affirmed without conviction. "Make a fortune they could, back in Soho."

"Strip!"

Mark’s voice was a pistol shot.

Terry handed the bewildered girl a pair of scissors. "There’ll be a piece or two you’ll have to cut, darling," she advised sweetly.

"Everyhting off. Just like me."

The actions of the captive girl were purely instinctive. She dropped her empty glass and the scissors on the floor. Uttered an angry ‘up your arse’ that held all the indignation in the world. Then dashed out rhough the french windows on to the terrace and out of sight. Mark restrained persuit. "Let her go." He chuckled. "After lunch we’ll have a hunt and pick her up again.. Or maybe just let her un and see what happens."

Dorinda was glad when, after lunch, Dave accepted his cheque and said his goodbyes. His presence was disturbing. She knew that had she been able to use him to effect escape from the island she would have done so, more from a sense of duty: the feeling that any prisoner owes it to the general rightness of things to end captivity of the chance offers, rather than an urgent wish for freedom. She was wryly aware that, even though she might often feel the whip, she had an emotional need to play out her role in the small drama being enacted on Kyrexos.

She was inordinately pleased when, instead of hunting the errant Mabel, her master took her arm and announced: "Let’s carry on where we left off, slave girl." His boyish enthousiasm crinkled his eyes in laughter.

"Can I come too?" Terry was an eager child.

They left her in what Dorinda felt sure would be an infuriating captivity. It was a large simulated dog kennel. A leather collar was padlocked round the the angry young neck. It was tethered by about five feet of quite hevay chain. Terry could crawl on her hands and knees in and out as she chose. That was all she could do. She stuck her tongue out at her brother. "You’re dimply horrid to me," she complained.

Dorinda was quite sure that, beneath the pout, the youngster was happy with her lot.

She was not so sure about herself. The walk had been short. It was pleasant among the trees. But the thing planted there posessed a sinister quality as though it had been waiting for her alone.

"It’s very simple," said her owner non-commitally.

A post. Six feet high. A narrower crosspiece resting on it’s top to form a T. She cringed. A perfect whipping post! Yet there were no rings or attachments by which she could be fastened. She looked at Mark inquiringly.

"I’m an absolute bastard, aren’t I?" He inquired pleasantly.

"No."

"I’m going to be cruel to you."

"Of course."

"You know why?"

"It’s because I’ve slipped part way back to normal. Yesterday I was with Terry. This morning I became a sort of guest. I enjoyed it all immensly. But I’ve slipped. I know I have. I’ve been forgetting to call you master."

"You are something special," he said with frank tenderness. "Tes. That’s as good a summation as I could have given myself. Not to worry though. It’s natural to have regressions. There will be a lot of them. I’ll be cruel to you every time it happens, so as to bring you back to heel. The cruellest thing of all is our demand for a sort of duality from you. You’ll constantly have to switch bach and forth between companion and slave and be sincere and natural in each. You see, little slave, Terry and I are sort of in love with you in our own paricular ways, so we won’t be willing to relinquish the companion bit."

Dorinda sighed. Was ever a girl posed such a complexity? "I’d like to try without the… persuasion," she ventured.

"That’s the eternal woman talking," Marks eyes glowed. A woman always feels ‘oh why must he’ or ‘does he really have to’ or ‘if he loves me he’ll do it to me anyway’. So the only way a man is going to have a perfect woman is to make her a slave girl right from the start."

"Don’t we have anything to say about it?"

He laughed at her lugubrious voice. "Women always have too damn much to say. No matter how abject a slave I might make you, you’ll still get a word in here and there. You’ll search my weaknesses and exploit them." He grinned at her confidingly. "You see, the trouble really starts with us men. We’re lazy. Actually we are subconciously glad to allow you to nag us into your decisions. It saves us the trouble and we have someone to blame if the decision’s bad."

"So I have to be whipped regularly?"

"That’s right, love."

Their eyes met. They laughed.

"I still think I can be a maverllous slave girl wothout looking like a zebra or a tiger all the time." She twinled at him. "This morning, for instance. It seemed quite natural to me to pose and ask you to whip me for poor Mabel’s benefit. I don’t think I was acting. I wanted to. I did it well, didn’t I?"

"Granted, but for just one stroke. And remember, you got a bang out of it personally. Supposing it had been for ten or twenty, would you have been quite so spontanuous?"

Dorinda considered. "I really don’t know the answer to that," she admitted.

"Ah!" said her master triumphantly. "That’s what this afternoon is all about."

She made gesture of bafflement with her chained hands. Then accepted the small key.

"Take’m off, darling. The clothes too, of course."

Dorinda blushed. She was very concious of the scarlet. She knew Mark was too. "You only let me wear clothes so I feel this rediculous shame every time I have to take them off in front of you," she accused.

"Of course. Besides, you do it so damn well. And never underrate the view when you’ve done. By the way, would you like your hair shaved the way Terry has hers?"

"Good heavens. Have I blushed all the way down there?" She looked down at herself, then back at him. "Shave me any way you like, kind sir," she said.

Mark ahd brought a cord. He tied her arms behind her back, then threw the rest over the crosspiece. "I’ll lift you," he explained. "Youll slip your arms over the crosspiece and let your arms hang down over the other side."

He backed her against the post and kissed her soundly. She melted instantly in a way almost frightening. So great was her response that, when their lips parted, Mark placed his finger over hers. "Silence, little slave." He grinned down at her. "Because we both enjoyed that, you are about to ask me not tot do what I’m going to do, right?"

Dorinda was furious. He could read her like a book. She would never win with him. But, prudently, she contented herself with grinning back and saying: "Yes, master." With what she hoped was appropriate humility.

Mark lifted her high with ease. She resolved never to provoke a test of strength with him. She managed to get her arms as he had directed, then felt him drag them down and back with the cord in one hand while he held her in position with his other arm. Shifting her to suit his design, he pulled until her shoulders were well back over the cross. Gently then, he let her down and bound the cord round her tummy and the post while she gasped in pain as her underarms and shoulders took her weight. Her searching toes would never get closer than six inches from the ground. No matter how she striggled she would hang. Even at the beginning the pain was excruciating. She had no hpe that it would lessen.

The master stepped back and examined his prize. "You are very beautiful," he said, almost with awe.

"I hurt. Oh, master…"

"I can’t be whipping you all the time, darling," Mark said reasonably. "Up to a point stripes on a girl’s skin are beautiful. But too many ruin the effect. Fortunately there are all sorts of delightful things I can do to keep you in a proper frame of mind."

"This isn’t delightful."

"Depends on your poinjt of view, love. Right now you are as lovely a sight as I have ever seen."

"I don’t feel lovely."

"You wouldn’t be quibbling, would you?"

Dorinda wanted to cry. She was sure he could have no idea how she hurt. She probably did look exceedingly attractive in her strained suffering. But she was beginning to remember the whip almost with nostalgia. Her breath was coming irregular in panting gasps. It took her all her oncentration to keep back the moans and cries. No doubt they would come.

"No master. But… but… I can’t stand it!"

Mark paid no attention but sat comfortable leaning against a tree. "I could have made it much worse for you by using the handcuffs," he consoled.

"How long must I hang like this?" She made her voice pitiful.

"Oh, I don’t know," he drawled offhandedly. "The afternoon, I suppose."

The bound girl moaned.

"I’ll sit here and gloat."

Dorinda wept.

"This whole business of training you is intriguing," Mark admitted ruminatively. "Once we have accepted the premise that I’m a right bastard the rest follows naturally. Sets the old concience aside too. I’m a bit worried that you may hate me. These sessions when you come starkly face to face with your new condition have to be a bit traumatic. But I’ve studied Terry. If she’s a sample, girls must be damn resilient."

"Mabel will hate you," his victim gasped.

"Well? What gave rise to that thought, darling? I’d forgotten Mabel." Dorinda wished she’d kept quiet. She knew perfectly well hwat had promted the outburst. But she was not going to say so. "You can’t expect her to enjoy it… Master," she offered lamely. Then gasped with definite sincerity. "I’m not."

"Bit of feminine thinking in there somewhere, I suspect. But we’ll let it pass. By the way, dear girl, I owe you an apology. With Mabel showing up on schedule, you must have been telling the truth. I mean about good old Mike or whatever his name is."

"Of course I was telling the truth! Anyone but an id…. Oh gee! I’m sorry, master."

"Idiot was the words, no doubt." Mark’s tone was caustic. "Weren’t you the girl who suggested that training is superpluous?"

"I’m sorry. Honest I am, master. But I hurt so damn bad I can’t think straight. And anyway, you… Anyone looking at me would have to know I’m not Mabel’s sort. Where does your amateur kidnapper shanghai his victims?"

Mark chuckled. "I really don’t know. Some cheap pub, probably. I didn’t give him specs to follow – apart from her being easy on the eye, of course. Couldn’t expect a product of Vasar or Girton. Would have been nice perhaps. You know: the haughty maiden brought low. But with them there’d be repercussions…"

"How d’you know there aren’t with me?"

"If there are any, they’ll be on Mr. Mike’s plate, not mine. And that reminds me. Since my favorite slave was telling the truth I suppose the dear old boy will show up looking for you one of these days. What do you suggest?"

"Don’t you give me to him?"

Mark was genuinly hurt. "You don’t suppose…?"

"Oh again," Dorinda wailed. "Oh master… It’s hanging on this damn thing. I don’t seem able to behave. I say anything wrong."

"Much the same as ‘in vino veritas’ I suppose. You weren’t thinking of asking me to let down?"

"No master."

"You were, y’know. But what shall we do with your boyfriend?"

"He’s not mu boyfriend! He’s what you English call a rooter. He more or less kidnapped me. I suspect he’s bound to come up to the house looking. You can make up a story for him. Ohh master, this hurts

…"

"You are bearing it with great fortitude, dear girl. I can almost see the character build."

"Don’t joke. It’s awful. Please whip me instead."

Mark appeared to consider. "You sound terribly wistful, darling. Perhaps I should do as you suggest. It did occur to me that your present position is ideally suited to what you have in mind. What say I give you some nice round number, then let you down?"

"No!!"

"But you asked."

"Not on my front! Oh please, don’t ever whip my front. I’ll try and shut up and behave." Dorinda was frightened.

"Tell you what, puppet. Damned unsporting of me to sit and watch you suffer. No help in your time of trial, eh? So I’ll trot along and leave you to do some quiet thinking. You know, seek the elusive attitude we’re trying to engender."

"Oh, don’t leave me." She was stricken.

"Wouldn’t it be easier for you?" he asked kindly.

"I don’t care! I don’t want you to go!"

Mark was touched. "I was thinking of unlocking young Terry’s collar," he said teasingly.

"Doesn’t she have to stay there all afternoon too?"

"Thinking of unfair treatment?"

"Well, she does actually enjoy most of the things you do to her, doesn’s she? She loves you terribly."

"Glad you inserted ‘most’ in that sentence, love. There are some things the dear child can’t bear. They drive her up the wall. Remember that whip? She wasn’t acting. She hates it. She’s a little heroine with the cane or the crop. But not that. She loathes this thing you are enduring now. Sitting on a rail is another. When she gets particularly bratty there are all sorts of things I keep for special occassions to make her mind."

"But you love her."

"Yes, I may love you. But that won’t get your feet on the ground."

Dorinda wished he did love her and that he would indeed put her feet on the ground. She knew that, threatened with this punishment in the future, she would really come to heel. There was a nagging awfulness about it that made a girl curl up inside.

"She is a darling child," Dorinda avowed, setting aside her own misery.

"I gathered some mutual attraction yesterday," he said dryly.

Dorinda flushed scarlet and squirmed. Her legs where all she was free to squirm with. But she used them.

"Properly repentant, I trust? Should have used that whip on you both."

"What you did was bad enough. Try sleeping like that sometime." She suddenly remembered and added a belated "Master."

"Not bearing up very well, are you, love? Anyway, I’m quite suree you’ll both be nibbling away at each other the first time my back is turned."

Dorinda’s lips were mute. But her legs betrayed her.

"I know this sounds naive," he continued hesitantly. "But I’m curious. Is it very good?"

"Yes." The admiration had been long in coming. Then she burst out rechlessly. "I won’t lie about it. It was morw wonderful than I even believed. Terry’s a darling."

Mark nodded. His face was not the thundercloud she had expected. "You know I’ll trash you every time I catch you at it."

"Yes master."

"I think you are telling me a trashing is a small price to pay."

Dorinda’s mind was a turmoil. They were on such treacherous gorund. But, hurting as she was. The truth seemed easiest. Her words came slowly. "I suppose that if we could buy some happiness for the price of being whipped, we would make the pruchase," she said simply.

"It’s Terry, y’know. She’s pure magic."

"You love her very much… and you love whipping her?"

"Can youi believe the two things go together?"

"I can believe it very easily," said Dorinda. "I couldn’t have done a week ago. But I can now."

"How come?"

Dorinda blushed. She could not answer.

Opinions: Terry

We are terriblye lucky of course, Mark and me, I mean. Brother and sister you say. Well, perhaps. But ever since I can remember Mark has been an adventure. Everything you do with him is right, so absolutely right that there is a sort of magic to it. He triend other girls and I tried other boys, but they were a waste of time. Whether he whips me or even does something really awful to me, or when he takes me up in the clouds with that lovely, silly thing he has between his legs – I’m glad I’m not a man and have to carry one of those around – it’s always fresh and new and sparkling.

Kyrexos came to us as a sort of Garden of Eeden in reverse. You know, we got put in there instead of taken out. The girl was Mark’s idea. I didn’t mind. His fantasy demanded her, so that was that. I’ll admit to a touch of jealousy, but that was offset by an exciting hope I’d get to whip her sometimes. I was curious, too, about that other thing: the two girl trick. I didn’t tell Mark that. He’s male and possesive and I was sure I’d got a sore seat if he knew.

Dorinda was a happening. She’s super. When Mark brought her home all naked with her hands behind her back I nearly exploded: you know where. I was naked too. And chained to the pillar on the terrace. When she looked at me in ashtonishment I got that same gorgeous crinkly feeling I get when Mark looks at me or teases me when I can’t do something about it.

The masochist thing! I’m sure you have to wonder. Bit silly, I think. Same as lesbian. Just names. Some people like boiled turnips and others like chocolate eclairs. If you’rw wise, you like both.

I’ll admit I’ve wondered about me and the cane. For me it’s a nice yellow whippy cane or a lovely slender riding crop. We get them at a place in London and always have them laying around all over. That way I can get that crinkly feeling in every room of the house. I won’t pretend I’m exactly joyful at the moment one of them laces into my bottom. I won’t bother with all the flowery descriptions of pain they go in for in those books you get in the backroom in Soho. But it’s really something! I can’t stand still for too many. I have to be tied. But the before and the after! Nobody, not even me, can tell you how wonderful they are. It’s like going up in the clouds the way I wold you. Mostly after Mark has whipped my bottom I absolutely attack him. I just have to. Except those times when he has me tied or chained. He knows I’m in agony. But he just laughs. It does something for his male ego.

I can twist him a bit, of course. I don’t think he’s caught on to all my little girl tricks. I can almost always get my bottom caned by using one of them. But if he thinks I’M twisting, then heaven help poor little Terry. I still love him all the more afterwards. I can’t help it. Mark’s terribly good to me and we both agree that when he thinks I deserve one of those awful punishments he’s also terribly good for me. I knnow I’m a bit of a brat. So I’m really grateful for the bad ones. I mean, afterwards, of course.

I really thought I was going to get it that day with Dorinda when Mark found about us doing – you know what. I was really scared and I felt guilty because it looked as though she was going to get it too. He did give us a bad time with that chain around our middles. I was angry enough to pop. Just think of it! Two naked girls fastened back to back. We tried with our hands but nothing worked. So we had to talk and giggle. The day had been a discovery for both of us: a couple of explorers stumbling on Eldorado. We both knew we’d do it again in spite of his silly old punishments. I didn’t tell Dorinda, but I was a bit worried in case Mark foxed us by keeping us chained or tied so we never could. You can never be quite sure about Mark.. I know I’ll just go pop if I can’t get at her again. She’s darling.

Mark keeps a lot of things to do to me up his sleeve. They are things that leave me uncertain whether I’m enjoying myself and getting the crinkly feeling or not. Sort of teasing things. Or some awful frustration. Or something that makes me look and feel like a child who’s been a naughty girl. I’m not a child, though I sometimes have the feeling he still thinks I am. That’s only when he’s in big brother mood.

That kennel thing is a good example of the ones that leave me not knowing. It’s cringe making. I suppose a girl kneeling there with a collar chained round her neck just has to feel like a little puppy dog. The only thing that’s missing is her tail and if it was there I wouldn’t wag it. I can just barely stand upright. The chain’s that short. So I have to sit and kneel or move in and out the little hole in the box on all fours. If somebody was watching – someone like Dave for example – I’d feel so terribly ashamed. I’d go inside and curl up. But even when there’s no one there I still find myself blushing. I always try and get loose. I never can. But it’s something to do. Mark often leaves me in these binds for simply the longest times. When he comes to let me loose I’m so terribly glad to see him I’m ashamed of myself. Talk about slave girls. I’ve always been his!

Then Mark collared me to the kennel and took poor Dorinda off into the tress I knew what she was in for. I’d spent a bit of time hanging on that damn posr myself on occassions, when he’d decided I’d been a bad girl. It’s not a punishment I have to wonder about. It’s just plain awful. He fastens me up with my toes a few inches off the ground and goes away and leaves me alone. I get scared and there is no crinkly feeling and I’m shockingly humble when he chooses to come back.

Sometimes he comes back and I think it’s all over, but het just checks the cords and goes away again. I always cry when I see him disappearing for the second time. In can’t help it. I’m so lonely and hurt. So, you see, I could feel really sorry for Dorinda.

Sitting there with the collar ‘round my neck I got to thinking about Mabel and Dorinda. How different they were! I was amused about Dorinda and Mark. He doesn’t know it yet, but she’s in love with him. She isn’t completely like me, but because she wants him she has been able to take some really frightful whippings for him and come up smiling. I think he could do anything to her and it wouldn’t dent her feelings for longer than the pain lasted, probably not even that. She has it for him bad: what the Americans call the hots.

So what has happened is that the darling is a bit ahead of Mark all the time. He doesn’t need to whip her into slavery at all. She’d do anything he wanted, same as me. But poor old Mark has laid out a course and he has to follow it through, whether there’s any need or not. It’s hard luck for the poor girl. She understands and is putting up with it nobly. He’s like a chap who has prepared a speech and discovers someone else has said it first. He’s put all he’s got into the damn thing, so he reads it anyway. His audience can’t very well pack up and leave any more than Dorinda can.

But I bet when her training’s over she’ll really twist him, same as I do.

I think Mabel’s different. Mark’s ‘prescribed course’ is probably just what the doctor ordered. Whether she was on Kyrexos or somewhere else it would do her a lot of good. I was sitting happily thinking about whipping her bottom and hearing all the rude things she would yell ate me, when I’ll be darned if she didn’t saunter up cool as you please and rub me the wrong way at the start by saying in baby talk "Is poor little puppy dog all chained up then. Puppy dog likes a bone?"

Well, I ask you. That was a time I wanted to go inside and curl. I was about to let het have a good broadside when I suddenly realised that little Terry had better mind her Ps and Qs. I was alone. I was chained and I didn’t know much about Mabel. Previously when I was helpless there had just been Mark. This was a new experience.

"Just fun and games." I hoped it sounded casual.

Mabel looked around cautiously. "Not some sort of trap, is it?" She must have read about the lady and the tiger.

I was about to give her some good advice. But that old chestnut about ‘giving yourself up’ sounded just too corny. While I was thinking of something more appropriate she came out with "That guy screw you both?"

Mabel brought out the worst in me. I couldn’t resist. "Only once a day," I explained casually. "But now you’re here it will make it a lot easier."

I confirmed her worst suspicions. "What’s this whipping business? He’s one o’ them Johns can’t get it up no other way?"

"Oh, it’s up all the time," I said enthousiastically. "We get whipped if we don’t put up a good show. Very demanding, Mr. Esmond is. Gets very angry if a girl just lays there."

"Wants a bit of the action on your ass?" Mabel seemed to be on familiar ground.

I’m not that keen on four letter words. So I tried to steer in another direction. "What are you going to do about escaping?" I asked. I had her attention there.! What the fuck can I do?" she demanded morosly. "Bloody island. I already walked round it. You got any ideas?"

"They’d be no good to me. When I’m alone I’m always chained."

Mabel looked at me with actual pity. Vulger but with a heart of gold perhaps. "Look kid, can’t I get you fee somehow? Maybe if the two of us get off in the woods we can think of something."

I was about to declare that I was soundly chained and not to waste her time… when it occured to me that here was a chance for a bit of fun. You know, one up on good old Mark. I knew where the key was. Mark always tantalizes me by leaving the key out of reach but where I can see it. Ads to his enjoyment and makes me furious.

Oh sure, this is where I should have stopped to think. Slapped dear little Terry and told her to be good. But instead of thinking of my poor old bottom and whatever other bits of me were likely to be sorry, all I could see was Mark’s face when he came back and found my collar neatly locked but me gone. I was weak. I fell. I told Mabel where to find the key.

Both of us got a bit of a giggle out of using it and then putting it back just as it had been. We also left the locked collar right in front of the dog house door. It was too cute for words. But it was the last giggle we had.

You see, as usual when I act bratty, I hadn’t thought about afterwards. It wasn’t until we had run off into the trees that I realised I’d sort of inhereted dear Mabel. I’d got my liberty and I’d got Mabel. But what was I going to do with her?

We wondered. I showed her bits of the island. Finally we sat down behind some bushes and talked. She was tired and hungry. I felt sorry for her and a bit guilty over pulling her leg. After all, when you considered all that had happened to her it was understandable she’d be a bit put out. In the end I simply told her the truth and and wanted to know if she was going to try and evade capture or whether she’d be sensible and come home with me for dinner. I was sure Mark would feed her. But by that time I wasn’t certain about dear little Terry getting anything to eat.

"And get myself chained up?" she demanded.

She was still handcuffed and I was glad she was. It put me in the catbird seat. I’d had an inspiration. Supposing I’d walk in and delivered Mabel safe and sound without a fight, my own lapse of grace might be forgiven. Honest, some of the things Mark does to me when he’s angry….

"You won’t be any more chained up than I will."

"Wanted me to take my clothes off?"

"You won’t be any more naked than me and Dorinda."

"That older girl had clothes on." Mabel thought she had a point.

"She hasn’t got any on right now," I said certainly. "She’s being punished."

"What the hell for?"

"Part of her training."

"Training!?" Poor Mabel. I had to understand her incredulity.

"I’m already trained. But Dorinda isn’t. At least, Mark thinks she isn’t." I began to realise how impossible it might be to make her understand. "Look," I said firmly. "You’ll have to surrender sometime. Make a virtue of it. Come back with me now. I’ll get punished, but you won’t. Mark will be pleased with you. Butter him up a bit. Might save you a sore bottom." I was sure she would have called it a sore ass.

Mabel balked. I got pankicky. "Alright, if you won’t let me help you, then I’m going back and lock myself in the collar again. No sense getting punished for nothing."

She wouldn’t come. So I left her there and ran like blazes. I’m sure you can guess what I found.

The key was gone!

Well, I’d been whipped before and I’d be whipped again. Little Terry had had her fun. Now she would pay for it. I had turned disconsolately toward the house when I got another inspiration. It was worth a try. Once more I ran. At least I was getting excersize. Mabel was still there. She looked sad and forlorne.

I threw myself down beside her, put my head in her lap and burst into tears… I’m very good with the tears bit. Mark nearly always falls for it. I told her my plight and wailed that I was scared. But that if only she would come home with me I was sure I wouldn’t be punished too badly if she explained I had persuaded her.

It took a while. But it worked. Probably more from her hunger and fear of the night than my histrionic effort, besides I do think she has a kind heart. But now I’d got this far I wanted to make a real impression and I wanted to help Mabel. So I asked her to go back with me as naked as I was and to be really careful what she said. I knew she’d just hurt herself with all of us if she went on scattering four letter words around as though there had been a shortage. Mark doesn’t like tham any better than I do.

That was another tussle. I think Mabel had been naked often enough in all the wrong places. But she had a sort of lower middle class thing about it. I won by saying how much nicer it is to take ‘em off yourself rather than to have them taken by force by a man. I intimated, too, that it would mean about twenty fewer strokes. By that time Mabel was beginning to take strokes seriously. She never stopped looking at the pair I was carrying around. Poor Mabel.

I stopped feeling sorry for Mabel when we’d gotten her clothes off. We’d had to tear some of them, because of the handcuffs. But once in the nude Mabel was a beauty. Her figure was good enough to eat. In fact, I did get some bad ideas. But squelching them, she’d had a trying day. The quaint thing about Mabel was that, with a figure like that would have won any beauty contest, she was quite unaware of anything out of the way. She described the whole assembly as "tits and twat". I really think she’d be stymied if you mentioned nipples and pubes.

It was a triumphant return. I’d prayed the’d be on the terrace and sure enough they were. Dorinda pretty as a opicture in those glad rags I’d given her, but handcuffed and daintily sipping a martini. She grinned happily so I knew she’d survived the afternoon okay. Mark was viewing the two naked additions with an uncertain eye. I’m sure that he did not recognize a naked Mabel and for a minute wondered who on earth I’d picked up. But when he grasped the picture Mabel stole the whole show by coming out with a real diller I wouldn’t have thought she could have managed. Holding out her chained hands and with a beaming smile she advanced to the table and said: "Dear Mr. Esmond. I am sorry. I’ve been a silly girl. Please forgive me."

Amazing.

I got ten with the cane.

Dorinda is beautiful to whip. She is a dream come true. When the cane sinks into these lovely curves she has, there is an electric something that comes from her to me as though the cane had just joined two electrodes. In a sense, I suppose, that is what it does.

She is so right! I feel guilty about training her. If I wasn’t seeking perfection I’d let her talk me into stopping it. But syhe sees what I see. In her heart she knows there’s no other way to where we are going. She’s quite marvellous. In her time on the post with the cross under her arms, and it was quite a long time too. She often managed to talk to me as though nothing was happening. I know that’s not easy. Terry told me how she had felt when she hung there. She didn’t want to talk, just moan and plead with me to let her down. Poor little Terry. I couldn’t stand it and had to go away and leave her alone. Terry is beautiful too.

I’m very lucky.

The way Dorinda came to us out of the blue was a small miracle. If I live t0o be a hundred I’ll still remember my first sight of the lovely naked girl with her wirsts handcuffed behind her back walking up the road to the top of the hill, looking around her as thoigh in wonder at everything she saw.

She has a tremendous natural gift for accepting punishment. If it is not too long she will smile at me throughout. If it is more she will sort of share with me by small glances of apology. If she moans or screams – and she does both – she will catch my eye after wards and signal in some magic way she has that everything is okay and to please go on whipping her.

Terry is beautiful to whip too. But the two girls are different. Terry is the breath of early spring. Dorinda is a gorgeous day in June. Terry has always loved half her punishments, maybe all of them. She and I should have been twins; not that it matters. She is a magic child. And she is not jealous of Dorinda. Thank heaven for that. The little monkey has ideas about Dorinda herself. I won’t be too hard on them when they try and fox me. But about half the time I’ll trash both just to keep their nibbling within bounds. I don’t want Dorinda changed.

Do you think it terrible to whip a girl? Do you? I can only tell you to take your condemnation and go to blazes. If you have never whipped a girl you have never known her. Underneath every feminine facade there is someone quite wonderful that only the whip can release. The whip is a key to a magic door that most people never open.

Terry would be quite impossible of she was not caned frequently. Use a bit of judgement of course. But she is a bundle of mischief, a wicked little sprite who thinks up a hundred ways to twist me. I’m wise to most of them, even though she thinks I’m not. But I’m sure there are still a few she slips over on me. There’s always her tears, of course. They are mostly sure fire. But once in a while I’ll catch her out. She puts on a deliciously convincing act when she knows I’m really going to hurt her.

Dorinda weeps sweetly. Her tears are jewels. She tries hard not to cry. I think she is afraid of tears that are shed because of pain. You can watch her fighting them. They usually well up just after that time, which I suppose is pretty awful for a girl, shen she realises the pain is more than she can bear and that she is going to stop smiling and begin the little moans and gasps by which I know she is living intensly in the direction she has to go. Tears seems better suited to punishments other than the whip. I watched Dorinda cry while she was hanging on the bar. She was so exquisite it hurt. A poignancy of the heart.

I shall have to watch the two of them. They’ll plot against me and plan small ways to ‘manage’ the man in their lives. I think there is an element of wife in all females. Since the beginning wives had wheedled whatever they want out of their husbands. It had become an inborn instinct. They couldn’t stop if they tried. It’s their greatest challenge. Men held the line for centuries by keeping a whip or a cane around, and there where the scold’s bridles and the ducking stool. But now we’ve become so enlightened we wouldn’t dare say whip to a wife any more than we dare to shed blood for things we believe in, so they ride over us rough shod: the woman and the barnbarian! Our race is lost. But not on Kyrexos! I will have the most fulfilled women in the world.

The miracle of Dorinda has thrown a wrench into our plan. My plan. But Terry was all for it. She still is. But was for one girl. Now we have two. What in blazes am I going to do with Mabel?

I’ll admit young Terry got one up on me shen she came proudly marching home with Mabel more or less on a leash. I’m damn sute the little so and so thought she’d get off scot free as reward for her coupe. But allowing herslef to be released I had chained her was unforgivable. You can’t just let her get away with something like that. Obedience must be maintained. So I gave her ten of the best. Her teras were not so much from pain but from disappointment that she had not managed to slip me a twist. Ten swift ones are a bit much for her, even with a cane. She wasn’t happy with the last five at all.

You should have seen Maebl’s face! She watched the cane sinking into Terry’s bottom as though she did not believe a word of it. I think that anything Mabel learns here will have to be whipped into her lovely skin. If something does not conform to her idea of lower suburbia she just fails to comprehend. She has the most mervellous body. But she’ll never come near touching Dorinda.

Next day I started her training. I was stuck with her, so I had to do something. I took her down to the room. It went something like this: "I want obedience from you, Mabel. If you don’t get it I’ll whip you until you do."

"Fuck you!"

She was naked, her wirsts tightly handcuffed behind her back. I splatted a good one across her seat. She yelped and leaped away. I followed, catching her with the whippy crop wherever a bit of Mabel showed to advantage. She had nice skin. The marks were very satisfactory. We went round and round the room. She kept repeating over and over: "You bastard… You bastard!" in between yelps. I’d have felt sorry for her if she hadn’t been so stupid. Finally she slowed a bit and muttered, "Tell me what you want."

"Kneel at my feet and kiss my shoes."

Pretty stereotyped, I know. But simple.

She looked at me as though I was raving. "Up your arse!" she suggested cordially.

She started to leap about again. But I’d had enough of that. I got her to the rope and had her arms up in a jiffy. She seemed surprised that I could handle her so easily. Then I stood at the winch and took her up an inch at the time. She bent further and further, watching me all the time with a sideways look of pure disbelief. I did not stop until her heels were in danger of leaving the floor.

"Here’s the drill. I’m going to cane your bottom. You’ll notice it’s nicely stuck out. Wehen it has had enough we’ll progress to other parts. You have several. I’ll cane slowly. When you feel cooperative you will ask for the next stroke and when it is delivered you will say ‘thank you’. Both in a pleasant and respectful tone."

She did not answer. But the position was giving her food for thought. It also did wonderful things to her incredible torso.

I wrapped the cane round both cheecks. She went as wild as she could.

"How old are you, Mabel?"

"Tenty. one. Why? What’s it got to do with what you’re up to?"

I gave her one, lower down.

"Oh please, don’t! Stop it!" She was ordering me.

I gave number three well on the top. It was her best yelp yet.

"Don’t be so cruel, you seemed nice…"

I did not aim number four. Just let it go. She started to cry. If you stay impervious to tears they are a good sign. Number five brought a few gasping words. "I’ll do what you want."

"Do it then." I gave number six."

"Please whip me once more." She shot it out like a bullet. Not a bit elegant. Besides, she had use the word ‘once’.

"Not good enough. Don’t quote the number. Call me Sir. Say it slowly and distictly."

I managed number seven before she had time to collect her thoughts.

She was quite beautiful now. Wet with perspiration her whole body glistened. Her breasts were not oendulous. They stuck out, two lovely cones accentuated by her wracked shoulders. She had a nice bush. Nothing like Dorinda’s, but good. Her spherical bottom was now delightfully wealed. From now on the cuts would besect. Her features had become more appealing. The absence of four letter words helped. Vulgarity deminishes beauty. I wondered if I’d ever achieve a Pygmalion with her.

"Please sir, give me another stroke."

She did it fairly well this time. No soul. But correct. I gave her a real scrocher that lapped her hip. She held back the gap and then managed: "Thank you very much, sir."

The damn thing fell flat. What more did I want? Mabel had done as told. It was a victory. But I didn’t feel I0d won. I knew, as a terrible revelation, that if it had been Dorinda I would have been quivering. Poor Mabel. It wasn’t here. No electric current. No nothing. Neither fault: mine. I tried another track.

"Would you like your breasts whipped?" It was shock therapy.

She was equal to that one. "But sir, no one whips a girl’s breasts." All the weight of lower Suburbia was in her pronouncement.

"I do."

I could see her grappling. It was like telling someone a thousand years ago that the earth was round. I didn’t wait.

It was a lovely upward stroke. The cone jounced and bounced. It was quite lovely. I wanted to bite it. Mabel howled, a long mournful cry of desolation. "No. No… No!"

"You have two of the lovely things."

"Oh please. Alright. I’ll do anything." There were gaps in her utterance where the four letter words would normally have been. She was learning. But I felt no victory. I was having thoughts of handing Mabel over to Terry as something to play with. Keep her properly chained and they couldn’t get into trouble. But even there good old class conciousness popped up. Mabel’s grammar was not that good. I didn’t want Terry pick up the wrong words…

I moved round. She really had wonderful breasts. She whimpred constantly as I tapped into her unwelted nipple with the cane. One more could do her no harm. I swung.

There is something magic about a girl’s breasts. You can call ‘m mammaries and hint about their utilitiy. But just the same most men would die for a pair. I’ve been adoring Terry’s for years. She knows it, the little minx.

The cane connected with a quite different sound from the way it splats on the bottom. This touches the soul. Whipping a girl’s breasts is likle reaching out and touching a Rembrandt or the first chords of something from Chopin. Few women realise the power of their breasts. Just as well, actually. A woman’s breasts are man’s Achilles heel. A woman with fine breasts can make a man do anything. Remember the joke ‘It takes nine months for a man to get out of the vagina. He spends the rest of his life trying to get back in’. It’s true, of course. But I’ve alsways resented the compulsion. I always think of some poor clerk getting twenty quid a week. Poor little bastard. How lucky I am to have Terry and now Dorinda. Wouldn’t it be awful not to be able to

… To know you never could… You didn’t have the price or the courage.

Mabel had cost me ten thousand pounds. I’d got Dorinda for nothing. The whole thing’s nuts.

Mabel went berserk. It was interesting to watch her gyrations. Considering the way she was tied they were quite remarkable. She was still sobbing: "Anything… Anything at all…" It seemed only sporting to give her a chance.

"Tell me me you will stretch your legs wide. Then ask me to whip your cunt."

She gave this one bit of thought. I’m sure she tought it out of character for me. I was a gentleman. "Couldn’t you just cane my bottom, sir?" Mabel was clinging to lower Suburbia for all she was worth.

"Why should I?" Let her do a little thinking for a change.

"It isn’t nice to whip the rest of me."

Nice! The quintessence of the class from which she came. The damn puerile word was their lodestone. But I’d offered her a four letter word. Surely that should make her feel at home. I could see the crumbling of her defences.

"I’m going to spread my legs, sir. Please whip my cunt."

It was beautiful. Mabel had crossed the Rubicon. She had become female, not just a recird in a groove uttering vulgarities. I watched her part her thighs and plant her feet reluctantly apart. I felt revernce for the cane I held. It could mould. I examnied the femaleness she was now offering. The was a good deal of hear and a mysterious fold of flesh. I slaced it with a searching upstroke.

She howled. Oh, how she howled. It was wonderful. Here was a man’s revenge for all the frustrations of today’s male futility. Mabel was expunging a legion of male defeats. I cut into her sex with a stroke of savage joy.

I’m a sadist. Os sure, sure. I know the book. I think young Terry has it about figured out over these labels. All I can say is: hoseshit! Right now Mabel was closer to being a woman than she had ever been. I let her have another. I felt as though I was assauging the wounds of male mankind. I did not stop.

Mabel put up quite a performance. Couldn’t blame her for not relishing her role. Not quite cricket to make obe girl pay the bill for all the chained males in the past hundred years. But Mabel was there. I cut into her triangle again and again. It felt so good I never wanted to stop. But she stopped me. Trust a woman! I sometimes despair. She’d been going wild with pleas. Now she came out with a good old tried and true. "Oh please, sir. What would your mother think

…" It was so damned trite. I wanted to laugh. But yet I don’t laugh at times like that. I felt welling concupiscence. I wanted to transform Mabel into a woman. And then I wanted to send her into orgasm after orgasm. I lashed away, then stood and watched as her loins took on a life of their own and carried her to where I wished her to go.

We both fell silent. You know, after God Save The King what else is there ot sing? I felt very humble when a small feminine voice said: "Thank you so very much, sir."

They always get the last word.

After a while I let her down and untied the rope. Her handcuffs stayed on. I’ve found that handcuffs have the most potently remarkable effect on the female psyche. They find something implacably compulsive about the bite of steel. I think they see themselves as some pathetic pickpocket being hauled off to jail. Whatever it is, the reaction is rewaring. The little darlings respect the meal bands.

Mabel had become exciting. The whip marks, her heaving breasts, each wearing the bar I had placed upon it. The tears and the uncertain disoriented glances in my deriection. But is was the handcuffs that transformed her from a querulous bore into a piece of erotic femininity. Handcuffs do a lot for any girl. For Mabel they worked a mircale. The essential parts had always been there. Really high quality parts. But the poor girl had never managed to assemble them properly. Now the cones of her breasts demanded attention, her concave tummy was a joy and the thing between her legs had come out of hiding and proclaimed itself. I found myself affected by the wounds I had placed on it.

She just stood, letting the pain seep away, hoping I wouldn’t hit her again. She did not speak. ‘Let well enough alone’ was, I am sure, het motto at the moment.

"I have a whip much better suited suited for your breasts than this cane," I told her conversationally.

Her breasts rose as she caught her breath. Tha’s the best of kepping girls naked. You get all their reactions. The rest of her is every bit as eloquent as her face. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared. She pulled ineffectually at her hands. Then she did something quite beautiful. She sank to her knees at my feet and bent her head so that it rested against my knee. She said no word, just bowed in supplication.

We held that pose for a long time. Neither of us had anything to say. I looked down at the white back, the pinioned arms, the doshaveled hair. It was classic. If a Pre-Raphaelite had been on tap, Mabel could have become immortal.

I’ll admit I was at a bit of a loss. Even when they aren’t even trying girls can leave you stymied. Here was Mabel, beautifully submissive. The next move was up to me and was not sure which move to make. Analysing the situation I realised that I had simply whipped a girl into her present state of mute compliance. No particular skill or psychology involved. I’d enjoyed using the whip on her and I wanted to continue. But I also wanted the act to be constructive. I wanted Mabel to know why this was happening to her. With Dorinda that had been easy to explain. With Mabel, it wouldn’t be.

CHAPTER 3

I lifted her to her feet, smoothed her hair for her and patted her bottom to signify she should just stand. Then I went to the chest and exchanged the cane for the small nine tailed silk corded whip we keep specially to use on a girl’s most secret parts. Yes, I had used it sometimes on Terry. Why not I sat down with the lovely wicked thing dangling provokingly from a negligent hand. Mabel looked at it. I looked at Mabel.

"What have I done, sir?" She was quite lost.

"Just been born female. Don’t you feel guilty?"

"You whip them others too, like this?"

"Worse."

"But you must want something."

"Total obedience. You must go beyond obeying. You must want to obey. Have no other thought bur obedience."

"Don’t you want to fuck me?"

"Not now. And watch your speech. Each vulgarity gets you the whip. You have earned it now. One stroke. Will you stand still for it?"

"On my… on my…"

"On your what?"

She didn’t want to say it. The secret word would not be ‘nice’.

"On my breast, sir?" Prospect of the whip had revived the sir.

"Yes, on your breast. You may choose which one."

"I won’t do it. I won’t. You’ve got no right.."

A little rest works wonders. When the worst of the hurt resides they discover they haven’t been broken after all.

Mabel fought with delightful fury. This time I needed her hands in front. When I unlocked one cuff she gave the battle everything she had. Teeth and claws and a good deal of very vulgar remonstrance. Even when I had her nicely stretched on to her toes she was still going strong. But the flood resided to a trickle and then died.

She looked at me with about three expressions at once. Anger, reproach, apprehension and a few other thoughts as well. Strung up like that, a girl rapidly comes face to face whit what she must. Then she looked at herself as though taking a last farewell from those two treasures sticking out of her chest. The suspension had flattened them out a bit. But they were entrancingly exposed for what I must do to them.

You noticed I have used the word must. I could no more have ignored them than fly. The two strokes that had already stolen their virginity beckoned like beacons. But I went and sat on the box again. Let the handcuffs hurt her for a little while before I started.

"I suppose it’s too late to say I’m sorry?" This time her face was really pathetic.

"It’s too late and you’re not really sorry. You just don’t want to be hurt."

"Not there, sir. No girl wants to be hurt on those."

"You have one other intimate place that this whip is well adapted to."

"Oh, thank you sir. Thanks ever so. Please whip me there."

Interesting. A girl’s breasts – her ultimate agony. I didn’t recall checking the point with Terry. I’d have to. Dorinda too. There was no doubt where Mabel’s weakness lay.

"Don’t thank me. I intend to whip all three. Two up, one down."

"You like whipping girls?" It was a flat accusation.

"All men like whipping girls. Most lack the courage or the cash."

"Isn’t there anything I can do… or say? Anything, sir? Please, I don’t want to whipped anymore… not anywhere."

Poor girl. She looked altogether too female not to whip. I couldn’t explain the subtleties to her, so I got on with the job. She looked at me as I approached in about the same way that wench looked at the tiger when the Rajah staked her out for bait. I could understand her feelings. They were valid.

It was glorious. Her breasts took the lahes exquisitely. They were firm and stretched. No jouncing. The cords bit into their softness with free access to the whole area. Her nipples were rampant. Her plight was provocative. She wanted to lunge, struggle and lift herself off the floor. But she was stretched taut and the handcuffs hurt too much for her to do any of these things. Even though all of her except her wirsts was free, she had to and let me whip her as I pleased. It was cruelly beautiful. Don’t suppose you want the gasp and grown detail. It can be a bore. There were lots of both. Stangely enough she did not plead anymore. She seemed resigned to simply enduring. The best thing she did was with her head. She’d fling it back and forth and look up to the ceiling as fearful of watching what she was doing. Then, in adsolute fascination, she’d lean forward and try and and look at her breasts to see what the damage was. Only once did she watch my arm and follow the lashes as they flickered down upon her chest.

I whipped one breast at the time. It’s much the best way. Terry tells me it’s twice as effective and much more personal. She says it’s as though each of her breasts is a person, each getting its own punishment. In any case, it’s just naturally a better job than to try and cover both with one stroke. I go from side to side, backhand one one. Sometimes, before the handcuffs got to hurting too bad, I could just stand still and wait for Mabel’s gyrations to present a breast to advantage and then let it have it.

They were glorious scarlett!

Mabel wept with abandon.

I let her down three or four inches. She knew why. She looked at me pitiously. But seemed resigned. All hope gone sort of thing. She even nodded dumbly when I told her to spread her legs. Hre penalty for closing them would be a return to her breasts.

She cried steadily. I did not mind. I think it’s good for a girl to cry while she’s being whipped. Saves ‘m getting tied up in a knot inside. I’ve leart what I can about tears from Terry. But I’ll never get the whole truth from the little minx because she uses them to get her way with me. One of her secret weapons.

Girls are beautiful when they cry.

"It isn’t just a picnic, darling," Terry said regretfully. Dorinda had not expected ‘Just a picnic’. There had been a moment when the handcuffs had been unlocked that she had hoped the day might be purely fun. But when she had also been denuded of her clothes, nakedness reminded her she was still a working girl. When she was alone with Terry she did not think of herself as a slave girl.

"I have an assignment," Terry conided darkly. "I didn’t do too well the last day we had together. So our Lord and Master tells me that when I bring you back for dinner you have to show a goodly number of fresh stripes. He says he does not kind where, just so long as he can count them."

"I expect we’ll find a place on me somewhere. Not to worry." Dorinda was happy. A whole day with darling Terry.

"He though up another quaint little notion that won’t be too easy. He’s going to look at your wrist. If the don’t show rope marks, we’ll be in trouble."

Dorinda considered. "If you want to carry the basket I suppose you could tie my wrists now and keep them tied all day. That would do it." She twinkled. "You can untie them for special duties, of course."

"You don’t want to be tied up all day."

"Not really. So how would it be if you hang me up by my wrists for half an hour just before we go back’ That will make me good." "Eell, if we have to. But let’s try and think of something else before the time comes. Dammit! He doesn’t want us to forget him. He’s promised the most awful punshment for both of us if I fail on this job."

"Won’t he be tired after Mabel?" There was a faint ascerbity in Dorinda’s voice.

Terry giggled. "You’re jealous." She frowned. "Im jealous too. I wish dear Mabel had got lost. She’s one too many. Poor little Terry is going to get submerged in all these nipples and breasts and hair. I used to have him all to myself. I don’t think Mabel’s much competition. But she’s got all the essential equipment."

"When are you going to whip me?"

"Anytime you like, darling. But I’ve just had a super idea. Think we might persuade Mark to give Mabel to me? I wouldn’t mind being cruel to her a bit. I’d have her trained in no time.

"Did Mark do things to you every day," Dorinda inquired shyly.

"Just about." Terry considered as they walked down the path. Dorinda carried the picnicbasket. "He couldn’t whip me every day. A girl doesn’t have enough skin for that. We tried all sorts of mixtures. We got whips that didn’t mark much. But somehow they weren’t genuine. It’s not really a thing you can play at. If it’s not real it falls flat. We tried a couple with a cane every day. But that turned out a flop necause I can take a couple without too much fuss. And if all you can give a girl is two, what do you do with her then?"she sighed. "o that'’ where hthechains and the cords and all the rest comes in. He can make me stand in the stocks all day and I won’t have a mark."

"Will we get imprisoned? That cell you told me about."

"Of course. Mark loves locking a girl in there. She’s so damn glad to see him again. Marvellous for the male ego."

She giggled. "I say darling. Let’s go back and let’s have Amtiy lock both of us both in there. Chains and all. With the two of us it would be super."

"More fun than a picnic?"

"I’ll eat you alive. Come on."

Dorinda was intriqued. A day in a cell with this carnal moppet would be an experience. The child’s enthousiasm was infectious. To ask for imprisonment had to be absurd. But not on Kyrexos. Not with this joyous creature as a cellmate. In any case she knew she would never deny Terry anything. Terry never made her feel a slave.

Oddly enough, neither did Mark.

"With full chains, miss?" Amity was unruffled.

"Well, not our legs togteher," Terry giggled unashamedly.

"Quite so, miss. This way, please."

Dorinda found herself taking an interest beyond her expectations. Amy and Hislop were not of any world she had ever known. Hislop had a gift for making her feel well groomed even when she had no stictch on. Amity could not be ruffled. If they considered any of their emploer’s pleasures odd, they showed no signs of it.

"But this is the dungeon, Amity."

"More suitable, miss. The cell is not private."

Dorinda blushed. Terry was mollified.

It was a sizeable place. Small barred windows high up gave a fairish amount of light. It was maverloualy decorated with rings and chains. There was a wooden bench and a wooden chest. Sight of these facilities gave Dorinda the shivers, but only heightened Terry’s exauberance.

Amity might have been laying a table for two. A place for everything and everything in its place. She was intent, respectful, firm. It was evident that chains, cord and whips were within her province as well as was cutlery and linen.

"A considerable linkage between the ankles, miss."

Dorinda watched, breathless as metal bands clicked shut upon her youthful companion’s slender ankles. The joining chain so long that it impeded no movement, inhibited no stride. But when its wearer essayed to walk the links were a swirling motion around her toes so that, for an escape minded captive, they were almost as great a handicap as a much shorter span.

"You think of everything, darling." Terry was ecstatic.

A similar wide union was placed upon her wrists with similar effect. She could do almost anything. But the chain was heavy. It told the girl it held her captive.

"I think miss, you would find the metal collar and the very long chain with all its weight most irksome. May I suggest confinement at the waist?" She might have been seeking a decision on a menu.

"Amity, you’re a darling."

The wide leather belt must have been fashioned for the girl. It was snug and perfect fit. The padlock that joined it to the heavy chain closed with quite an ominous sound.

"There are other confinements, miss. But I suggest this ensemble."

"It’s gorgeous. I can’t wait to see Dorinda…"

The wait was short. Feeling foolish, yet with a tingling fascination, Dorinda was soon testing her restraint. It was very heavy and very real. Her belt fitted with the same intimacy as did the younger girl’s. The chain that joined it to the wall was heavy enough that she would always be aware of it. She felt a little frightened at this unexpected confinement. While she was still kicking at her ankle chains to watch the linkage swirl, the door closed. Amity had discreetly withdrawn to leave the young mistress alone with her joy. There was a very solid thudding of a bolt. No doubt for the final effect.

"Oh, darling." The Two naked girls clinked their way to each other’s arms.

It could not be! It was impossible! It was too cruel! "Damn and blast." Terry was furious. "The silly bitch has chained us to opposite walls."

They could come close. Close enough to reach out and clasp hands. But their belts and heavy chains to the ring bolts in the stone allowed them no greater contact. Tug and strain as they did, they were held implacably. Two girls in a dungeon. Chained. Separate.

For a moment Dorinda wanted to laugh. Their plight had the element of cartoon humour. They were foxed. But she had no love for dungeons or such massive fetters. She had acquired a tolerant affection for the handcuffs. But these irons were grim. Disappointed, she felt like tears.

In pure frustration and rage Terry was fighting her chains. Not with any hope of escaping them. But as a vent for her spleen.

"What I’d like to do to her. Oh, how could she! It was going to be so beautiful, so absolutely gorgeous. I was going to eat you to pieces

…" she sobbed in desolation.

"Perhaps she’ll come back," Dorinda ventured.

"She won’t y’know. Why should she." The little mistresses are safe and sound…" she paused at a sudden vision, her face in a study. "Why, the rotten…"

"She fixed us like this on purpose, didn’t she?" Dorinda divined.

"She must have. Amity’s not dumb."

"That picnic would have been nice," Dorinda wailed.

"Oh darling. I’ve never felt helpless like this before. It’s awful. It’s…. It’s scary."

"But why? She’s got something up her sleeve."

"She’s got us," Dorinda mourned. "Is there any use in screaming?"

"No!" Terry screamed at the top of her voice. The stone absorbed the sound. "But it does make me feel better."

She screamed again. "Try it."

"No thanks, but hold my hand. I need you."

The two girls strained at their tethers, their belts cutting into their concave tummies. They could manage one hand. It was strangely comforting. The touch of someone you love had a power all of its own. When they reluctantly broke the link Dorinda sat upon the chest and Terry upon the bench. They belonged to the dungeon. They were its prey. Their chains were its hands upon their flesh.

"Don’t let’s just sit and weep," demanded Terry angrily. "Let’s talk. I was all primed to nuzzle you. I’m crinkly as blazes! Know what? I’m going to be carnal. If we can’t do it, at least I won’t be cheated out of talking about it."

Dorinda cocked a doubtful eye. It seemed a very small satisfaction. She looked with distaste at the links that joined her hands and rattled them petulantly.

"Two frustrated maidens in heat," Terry said bitterly. "Darling, how’s your clit?"

"Lonely. How’s yours?" Might as well play the game. They could certainly do nothing else.

"Throbbing of course. I’d play with it if it didn’t seem such a waste. I mean, with you over there. Those lovely nipples and breasts and belly and pubic hair and warm thighs and moist slit. Golly, I sound like the Song of Solomon. That old boy really must have liked girls. There’s a little fire burning in my cunny. Only you can put it out."

"My fire’s bigger than yours." Dorinda couldn’t resist.

"Darling! People are silly. Even me. We don’t talk about things the way we should. Right now all I want is your sex. I’m going to use the horrid word, just for emphasis. I want to crawl right into your cunt where it’s nice and warm and I’m surrounded by love. When I’m safely inside I’ll lick and play with your clit until I have you jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean."

She paused for a moment in thought. "Darling, looking at us right now it seems incredible that our mothers would never have admitted to possessing nipples or a cunt!"

Then, irrelevantly: "Do you get horny when Mark canes you? I do."

Dorinda laughed delightfully. Terry’s sunshine might save her day. Uninhibited girl talk might partially defeat her shackles. "Yes," she admitted. "One stroke and the fire really gets going. But if he keeps on caning me I just get hurt and scared. Until afterwards, of course. Then I’m all warm and wet and longing."

"Mark knows just where my turn off is," Terry admitted wryly. "My fire burns a lot longer than yours. But if he wants to he can put it right out and make me howl." She looked up suddenly. "Y’know, if he discovers us here he might just do that." She grinned confidingly. "I have to admit it, but Mark control me utterly. I’m like some musical instrument he plays. He can extract whatever he wants from me. I respond. His power to make me mind swamps the poor little tricks I play on him."

"Darling," Dorinda was diffident over what she must ask. "Which do we girls love best? A man’s phallus or each other’s tongues?" "Our tongues, silly. What a question. It’s lovely when Mark fucks me, but he’s only a zephyr compared to the storm that blows when your tongue is inside. Anyway, darling, men don’t have breasts. Or nipples like ours. Men aren’t made to play with. Girls are."

Dorinda explored again. She saw this ageless child as a storehouse of infinite wisdom. "When men whip us, do you think it is a sort of love play? A prelude to sticking their things into us?"

"That’s the least of it. But sure, it’s there. I think they find some sort of ineffable beauty in our striped skin. Like a brand. Their brand, marking us as their own. I’m damn sure that when we moan and cry and writhe it creates, for them, an endless orgasm. They can boil up and flow over for as long as it pleases them to whip us. The only reason they don’t whip us all day long is that we don’t have enough skin and they don’t want to waste a good girl by killing her. Simply really."

Dorinda was almost reverent before such knowledge. "I’ve read and heard about men who go to prostitutes to be whipped. It’s the only way they can become potent. Where does that fit?"

"They’re the chap who goes to an epicuran restaurant and orders a hamburger. Just dull clods."

"But girls love whipping girls. At least they do once they’ve tried it. What about that?"

"Would you love to whip me, darling?"

"With all my heart and soul! Right now there is nothing I can think of that would give me such joy, and I think a kind of peace…"

"Mark and I have talked about that. Before you came there were times when I simply watered at the mouth at the thought of whipping Amity or her whipping me. We figured out that actually we are all of us half and half. Woman and man, I mean. Male and female. Unless stimulated the latent half never shows. But give it a chance…"

"Oh, darling, I want to whip you so much!" Dorinda dumped reticence.

"I expect you’ll get the chance," Terry consoled. "Damn. If I hadn’t got us into this fix you could be busily caning my little bottom right now." She rattled her chains in a motion of bafflement. "But you see how Mark owns and controls us. If I go home a zebra he’ll punish us horribly. He’ll light the fire in my cunny and then put it out and go on and on and on… Probably do the same to you. He’d consider us equally guilty."

"That goes back to the women’s lib thing. He can have his fun. But we can’t."

Terry grinned wryly. "It’s the way we are made. Their physical strength enables them to conquer us physically. That and the fire in our cunts delivers us into their hands. We haven’t a chance. We can use all our little tricks, but he can subdue us with one hand. At least Mark can. In suburbia men don’t use their strength. Or maybe there they don’t have any. But Mark rules this island. He rules us. He can do what he likes with us. Surely you know…"

"Do you like him to play with your nipples and your sex and bite your ears and all the other tricks they play?"

"I adore it. You do too. Don’t let’s kid ourselves. I’m as much his slave as you are. More probably. He doesn’t know it. But he’s in love. It makes a man weak. I suppose it’s just nature making sure he looks after his children. But I’m his sister. His love for me doesn’t inhibit anything. I’ll be whipped and whipped and whipped all our lives. Darling, what a delectable situation: he marries you and has six kids, but just whips me," Terry laughed joyously at her vision. "Wouldn’t it be priceless: me getting whipped, then you getting all the sperm pumped into you to make another child. I’d be a surrogate something or other."

Dorinda’s response to this unattractive prospect was cut short by the opening of the door. Terry wasted no time,

"You idiot, Amity! You messed things up for us."

"No Miss."

"What do you mean no? You’ve got us fixed on opposite walls."

"Quite so, miss."

Terry glimpsed what Dorinda had long suspected. She cried out against so base a betrayal.

"You did it on purpose! ‘h, Amity."

"Yes miss. I took the liberty in accordance with a thought entertained by Hislop and myself. A small pleasantry, if I may say so."

Dorinda guessed that Amity was enjoying herself.

"It’s not pleasant at all. Hurry up, silly, and chain us both the way you knew we wanted," Terry demanded hotly.

"I’m sorry, miss. But that is not according to our plan."

The two captives looked at their jailer with concern. She eyed their predicament with polite amusement.

"You see, miss. Hislop and I felt that, perhaps, in recognition of a correction of your present circumstances you might be prepared to extend us some small favor." Amity was primly correct.

"You rotten cheat. You mean you tricked us like this on purpose and now we have to pay a forfeit?" Terry sounded more curious than angry.

"I would not have chosen the word myself, miss."

"Well, what would you have chosen? Make it simple, Amity. Never mind the pedantics."

"Being aware, miss, of certain enjoyments arising from a mutuality of interests between this young lady and yourself, we had wondered if you might be prepared to extend similar satisfactions to us."

A small silence fell upon the trio. Dorinda wanted to giggle. Amity was too good to be true.

"You mean you want us to nuzzle your cunt?" Terry excised circumlocation.

"There are more suitable synonyms, miss. But yes, that is our wish."

"Why didn’t you say so? I’d have obliged you long ago."

"It is not an easy subject for one in service to initiate, miss."

"And now, if we say no you’ll leave us chained like this?"

"That is my intention, miss." ! Amity, you’re priceless. Silly girl. Off with your clothes."

Dorinda had never seen a female become naked in less time. Amity’s body was nicely correct as the rest of her.

"Which of us relieves your lust, you conniving creature?"

"I had thought both of you, miss. I would be honoured of you would be first, considering a longer acquaintance and all."

"Here’s the carnal couch," Terry invited impishly. "Come and get it, you panting pervert." With much clicking of chains she rose and waved their wardress invitingly to the bench.

Dorinda found herself disinclined to be a spectator to Amity’s victory. What she shared with the gorgeous child was all their own. She turned her back and stared at the wall. She would pay her penalty when the time came. She longed ardently for the padlock at her waist to be unlocked. She had no other interest in Amity. But she shivered at the knowledge of how completely they were in the woman’s power. Mark would not concern himself with their whereabouts until dinner. The day was long. The sounds were evocative. No fine rounded periods now. No correct prolixity. From the gasps and groans, and even small cries, it was evident that Terry’s tongue had touched an unsuspected chord. Dorinda wryly reflected how wrong we can be. Amity would have seemed to her as unlikely a subject for such ministrations as Eleanor Roosevelt or Queen Victoria.

"Thank you, miss. You are most competent." An unruffled Amity rose and tidied her hair. "I cannot recall when I have enjoyed myself more."

"You’ve got a super clit." Her mistress’s tribute was sincere. "Do you want me to nibble your nipples until you come round again?" "Most kind of you, miss. But I won’t be greedy. I’m most anxious to make myself available to Miss Dorinda’s skill."

"You don’t deserve her, Amity. Not after that trick."

"Quite so, miss. I am most cognisant of good fortune."

"Don’t be so stuffy. You want your quim eaten and your nips nipped. Don’t sound like the chairman of the board."

Amity eyed Dorinda with pure hunger. "May I arrange myself, miss?"

There was only the wooden chest within the range of Dorinda’s chains. The captive girl motioned to it and gave her best barber shop smile.

"Make her squeal, love." From Terry it was almost an order.

Amity squealed.

It was long after the squeals had lapsed into moans and the moans into gasps and the gasps into a replete silence that there came the knocks on the door. When it swung inward it disclosed the astounding vision of the perfect butler carrying a large tray.

"Refreshments ladies?" Hislop was at his best.

The butler was not an old man. He was simply a young man born with dignity of middle age. Dorinda had a momentary vision of Hislop and Amity in bed. She felt sure their passion would be contained within the confines of protocol.

"Hislop, you’re a darling!" Terry easily forgave.

"A pleasure, miss. Amity and I are most appreciative of what you are doing for us."

"Want do you mean… us?"

"I am sure, miss, you understand I am included in the, errr, the activities. I am sure Amity…"

"You mean you expect to shove your thingummy into us?" Terry had no illusions.

"Yes, miss. But not, if I may say so, in the orthodox manner. I would appreciate a deviation from the norm."

"Not up our…?"

"No miss. I have never approved of what you were about to mention. It is vulgar and best confined to the working classes. I had in mind the employment of your lips and tongue."

"You want us to suck your cock?"

If Terry was seeking to shame him, she failed.

"Thank you, miss. You are most concise."

"What have you got to eat and drink?"

"There are sandwiches, miss. Some excellent sherry and a pot of coffee."

"You are a jewel, Hislop. Do I gnaw at you before or after?"

"I would suggest after your own contribution. I am sure I would find an intermission beneficial before yielding to Miss Dorinda’s charms."

"Re-charge your batteries?"

"A graphic expression, miss."

For the girl it had become a game, an intriguing game. For Dorinda it was pure farce. Absurd, ridiculous. But happening!

"How would you like me, Hislop? On my knees with you standing? Or would you like my kisses sitting down?"

"I would prefer to stand with you, miss. I will sit on the next occasion."

"You mean, you’ll be to weak to stand," Terry giggled. "Don’t touch a thing, Hislop. Leave everything to the young mistress."

Dorinda watched this one. Knowing that she herself had to provide the encore she felt the weight of her chains more heavier than ever. The thing asked of her was trivial enough. There was no emotional involvement. Yet there had been a steely compulsion… Amity had been implacable. A sense of true slavery encompassed the chained girl. She was being coerced into a sexual submission that would probably be disagreeable. The full humility would be demanded. She would give it. But without love it became frightening. A girl chained as she was chained had no will. She must obey.

Terry did everything with a flourish, superbly. Within the tolerance of her tether she knelt before the man she must serve and slowly unzipped his fly. Each motion was studied as though a camera was recording her performance. Hislop visibly quivered as she reached in extracted a most rigid member. Whilst the butler looked into some far horizon of his own she enveloped the engorged maleness with her lips and gave it her full attention. Hislop was taken to another world.

Dorinda and Amity watched enthralled.

"The Portuguese sardines are much the best. They make an excellent sandwich," Hislop stated afterwards. He munched with relish.

"After that gollop I got from you I’m not sure I have any room," Terry complained mischievously, but took a sandwich. "Fellatio and fish. Quite appropriate."

Dorinda wished she possessed such resilience.

"I must say that association with you, young ladies, is a real experience."

"How d’you know Dorinda won’t bite your knob off?" Terry inquired.

"Miss Matson is a lady." Hislop’s voice was frigid with disapproval.

"But honestly, Hislop old boy, you fellows do take an awful chance when you stick that thing in a girl’s mouth. You didn’t know it, but I was tempted to bite yours."

"You are joking, miss."

"No really. If I had something like that attached to me I’d be dammed if I’d stick it in anyone’s mouth. What would you have done of you’d suddenly found yourself minus knob?"

"I fear, miss, this is an unprofitable exploration. May I offer a glass of sherry?"

"You know what you can do with your sherry, don’t you? Sherry is just an excuse for not providing a decent drink. Give me coffee." Terry cocked an eye at Amity. "You are going to chain us decently?"

"Of course. One good turn deserves another, miss."

"Will you want me to service Hislop regularly, darling?" She turned to the butler. "I could be under the table while you were polishing the silver. Darling Dorinda could milk you whenever Mark isn’t looking."

"Hislop is not seeking excess." Amity’s voice was acid.

"Would you like to whip me, Hislop?"

The silence was electric. Dorinda sensed that Terry’s insouciance had touched a nerve. With a stricken look of do or die, Hislop said very simply: "I think I would give my life for such a privilege."

His words hung there in the dungeon. Etched in time. Immortal. A declaration.

Terry’s young eyes widened in understanding. "Poor Hislop," she said softly. "I’ll let you. You can whip me. There! Feel better?"

"Hislop is fully occupied," said Amity with decision.

"I suppose I am," Hislop sighed. His glimpse of heaven had been snatched away.

Terry’s surprised gaze switched to Amity. "Don’t you let him whip you? You should, y’know."

"I cannot regard it as one of the acceptable sports, miss." Amity like the rock of Gibraltar, if it could talk.

"Would you mind if he whipped me?"

"I would regard that as an ambition above his station, miss."

"How about Dorinda then? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind once. You know. AS charitable act. She’s not your employer."

"It would establish a precedent, miss. Quite wrong."

Terry’s brow cleared. Her eyes shone. "There’s only one answer then. He can whip you."

Amity flinched. "I do not care to be whipped."

"You’re a silly ass," Terry dismissed her and turned to Hislop. "Give me another sandwich, darling, and then go to darling Dorinda. She can hardly wait. Haven’t you noticed? That thing of yours is ready."

Dorinda performed her task. Not with love but with mischief. She bit and felt him stiffen in alarm. How easy it would be! She abandoned the delightful thought and sent her tongue to work. Amity directed the operation, ensuring the final clean up after the orgasm. Perhaps she was concerning with the washing. With willing tongue Dorinda relieved her of anxiety. Hislop’s sex was clean and dry and very limp by the time she was finished with it.

The butler gathered the remnants of the lunch and left the dungeon.

"Well," Terry demanded ominously.

For a moment Dorinda knew that Amity considered leaving them as they were. They had captured Hislop. She could not forgive. But then, swiftly and efficiently she did the thing she had promised. Keys turned, locks clicked.

"You really ought to let him whip you, darling," Terry advised her earnestly. "Much the best way to hold a man."

Amity blushed and hurriedly left. The door slammed. The thudding bolt told the two girls they were alone. This time, the chains were long enough.

Each had their own Nirvana, their Ultima Thule, their paradise. The slave girl and her sister found their own.

"I say, darling. The light is fading."

Dorinda had long been aware of the increasing gloom. It was several centuries later. Centuries that had passed as fleeting moments of ecstasy in which the two of them had floated on cloud and ridden the wind. "It must be past dinner." She agreed doubtfully. She had been aware of an uneasy feeling of helplessness since they had first been so heavily chained.

"I don’t care if they keep us chained here forever," Terry was replete and happy.

Dorinda was not so sure. She thought lovingly of Mark, her master. She remembered Mabel. She had no wish to part from Terry. But she longed to be free. The chains had not hindered them from making love. But she had never previously known such a weight of metal upon her limbs. It was frightening in its prohibition of easy movement. When they embraced they must first carefully dispose their fetters and heavy links. They were truly slave.

A dungeon in twilight is not a happy place.

"Once more, darling. Once more," Terry pleaded dreamily.

With a deep knowledge of possession Dorinda lowered her lips to the scented well. Terry moaned in delight…

"Another bad day by the look of it."

Mark’s voice reached them through a haze of sensation.

The two girls sat up, blinking.

Dorinda was desperately afraid.

Silence! Each delinquent looked pleadingly at her master. They did not speak. What was there for them to say? Mark surveyed the guilty pair enigmatically. Dorinda wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She buried her face in her chained hands and wept, the span of links swinging from her hands in a clinking loop.

Terry eyed her brother resignedly. "All right, darling. What do I get?"

"Both of you should remember what I promised you. What was that?"

"A trashing." Both pairs of female lips uttered the word in unison involuntarily. The penalty was vivid in each mind.

Impelled by the same instinct the frightened couple shuffled toward the man they had disobeyed. Reaching the limit of their tether they sank to their knees in front of him and bowed their heads. It was a beautiful piece of artistry born in a flickering hope for clemency. Mark killed the hope.

"I’ll make it a good one. You can be sure of that."

His sister looked up at him imploringly. It was easy for him to interpret the question in her eyes.

"Yes, kitten, the whip you loathe."

Terry wailed and joined her tears to those already floating. "Don’t use that awful thing on Dorinda. She doesn’t deserve it. I’m the one to blame."

"You’re a pair of idiots," Mark affirmed, baffled. "Dorinda’s as bad as you. She doesn’t have to let you talk her into things."

"Oh, but she does. She does have to. She’s my slave too, y’know. We can’t ask her to obey you in everything and me in nothing." "You’ve got a point there, love. Just a little one, maybe," Mark acknowledged. He turned and looked down at Dorinda. "Have you been obeying her in the belief that if you didn’t I’d punish you?"

Dorinda squirmed. How define a communion so amorphous. "We did start out like that, master." Her eyes appealed. "But in what we are guilty of now I am as much to blame as anyone. Please don’t punish Terry more than you punish me. I did what I did knowing the penalty. I’m guilty. I won’t make excuses…"

"Such nobility! I suppose this is my cue to let you both off with a caution," Mark laughed at their woebegone faces. "But I’m not going to. You’ve behaved absurdly: making Amity put you in this place and loading you up with all those ornaments." He paused and eyed the kneeling figures and the chains, clung to them. His eyes glinted. "You must have wanted them. Far it be it from me to spoil the sport…"

He left them where they knelt. The door closed behind him with a thud.

Dorinda was bereft. The chains, the deepening gloom. The certainty of the whip. All confirmed her premonitions of the day. But beyond those loomed the fact that her master had returned to daylight and dinner on the terrace, a dinner probably shared with Mabel. Without doubt Mark would be in the picture with him in some way. The thought made the dungeon doubly dark.

Terry disconsolately and noisily rose to her feet. "Oh darling, I’ve botched everything." She looked at her fellow captive piteously.

"He’s made up his mind. We are really in for it. I can tell."

With equal dolor Dorinda joined her on the bench. Arranging her chains she said: "When will he whip us?"

"That’s what scares me, darling. I expected it to be the first thing that happened to us. I was sort of resigned to the awful whip and the pain and the tears for a couple of hours, or maybe longer if he left us tied up. But now he’s got me guessing – all deliberate of course. He says suspense is good for me. I can’t bear it. But I suppose you’ve caught sight of the same thing I have."

Dorinda indeed caught sight of the obvious. "You mean that since we were fools enough to ask for this fix we’re in, and against his orders too, we can damn well stay in it…"

Terry clashed her fetters angrily." Oh, damn!"

There was not much else to say.

The prisoners held each other as closely as their chains allowed. It was their only comfort left.

Hope rose momentarily when Amity appeared. But was quickly dashed.

"I’m sorry, miss. I really am. But it’s Mr. Mark’s orders." She busied herself with the big chest.

"Oh Amity, not more chains!" Terry wailed.

"Well, miss, I suppose you have sort of asked for it. The master said something about making the punishment fit the crime."

"I’d run if I could," Terry vowed. "Mark’s just being mean."

"Whatever you say, miss." Amity eyed her prisoners questioningly. "I don’t suppose you are going to be silly."

"You mean are we going to hold still while you clamp a lot of horrid things on us?" Terry demanded disgustedly. "Oh sure. What the devil can we do. Look a couple or right Charlies, wouldn’t we, trying to struggle."

"Movement is not completely inhibited, miss."

"Balls."

"Thank you miss. And now I think, the neck please."

Dorinda watched, cringing, as a metal collar was locked upon the slender neck. A long length of lighter chain led to the wall where it was padlocked to a ring.

"Oh Amity. It’s beastly. All that chain. It drags at my neck."

"Quite so, miss."

"I could kick you when you say that. You sound snug."

"I’m really sorry about this one miss. I fear it will seem an unkind imposition."

The leather belt was removed. The shining steel that replaced it was not unduly massive. But it was metal clinging above the slender hips. From it ran the same tether to the wall, but also heavy links ran down to the ankle shackles.

"Darling, it weighs a ton." The girl on whom it was fastened shook herself and tried to kick to test the new confinement. The result was to evoke a cry of protest.

"But Amity! This doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t stop me doing motions I could do before. Just makes it more miserable."

"I believe the intent to be punitive, miss."

It was Terry’s turn to watch. Dorinda meekly accepted the collar and grimaced at it’s cold clutch and weight of metal that her neck must bear. She knew she would be forever rearranging the tether to seek easement of the strain.

"Amity." Terry’s voice had come to live.

"Yes, miss." Their jailer’s voice was politely attentive.

"If we were very nice to you and made you come about six times, would you take these last things off? They’re just so much." "Thank you miss. But I would consider the risk inadvisable for all of us."

"You mean Mark might walk in and catch us?" Terry chuckled.

"He caught you, miss. Red handed so to speak, if I may say so. I would find a similar situation most mortifying."

"What would he do to you?"

"I would rather not say, miss."

The youthful captive’s laughter gurgled accusingly. "I bet he’d chain you to the other wall."

"There is a clause in my contract to that effect, miss," Amity admitted reluctantly. "At the master’s discretion so to speak."

Dorinda was startled. The housekeeper had dropped her small bombshell without a qualm. A mental picture of this precious female chained as they were chained was entrancing. Bizarre, but quite in keeping with the rest of Kyrexos.

Terry could not allow so delicious a tid-bit to be ignored.

"Come on. Oh please, Amity. Do it. I’d love to have you chained with us. It would be such fun. Do you no end of good. By morning you’d be talking normally."

"Thank you miss. But it would not be fair to ‘Islop."

"See, you’re exited. You dropped an aitch." Terry tried to clap her hands. The effort produced a fine metallic orchestration.

Amity stepped back, her task completed. Dorinda surveyed herself ruefully. The weight of what she must carry was frightening. It would be too easy to think of things she had read. To be chained for life in a dungeon…

She wanted to test her bonds and explore whatever tolerance they might concede. But not before this woman who had placed them upon her nakedness. She could wait.

"What are you going to give us for supper, darling?" Terry asked expectantly.

Amity was distressed. "I am indeed sorry, miss. But the master felt it appropriate that none should be served."

"But we’re hungry." The girl’s voice was anguished. "You mean the absolute rotter’s treating us like two bad little girls sent to bed without supper…?"

"I fear so, miss."

"But you’ll smuggle us something, won’t you darling?"

Amity sounded genuinely distressed. "Water only, miss. I cannot counter the master’s wishes."

"We’re famished."

"I’m sure you are, miss. It has been an exacting day."

"Oh damn and blast! Wait ‘till I get at him. I say, Amity, it’s almost dark. What about some light."

"The same prohibition, miss. You are not to have any."

They watched her go in silence. Then clung together as best as they could and wept.

It was very dark and much later when they remembered to make love.

Breakfast was not encouraging. A little water, a little bread, a little fruit. Amity refused to answer questions.

"He’s going to teach us some sort of lesson," Dorinda decided. "We really must have hurt him."

"He’s not hurt. I know he isn’t. He’s just working out some notion of his own about behaviour and discipline. This could go on for days." "And we still have to be whipped." Dorinda found it hard to forget.

Amity’s mien, on her return, boded ill.

"May I have your word, ladies, that you will not resist? That I may expect obedience?"

"What on earth are you going to do? Behead us?"

"No miss, But the master feels your day might be better employed than just sitting."

"Nice of him. Okay – do what you must do."

"If you will allow me, miss."

It took very little time. When it was done and Amity gone, two naked girls surveyed each other from opposite walls, their hands spread wide at head level, wrists clamped snugly to the stone. They could stand without strain. But stand they must! There was no pain. That might come later. Two maiden quims invited a guest that would not come. It was a very frustrating pose.

Dorinda looked at the two piles of chain beside their bench. It seemed impossible their slenderness could have endured it. She felt miserably certain it had been left there to be used again. It felt so good to be rid of it, that for a little while she would feel a sense of relief in her new plight. It would not last. But, for the moment, only her wrists felt bonds.

No one came. They spent the day alone. Drooping wearily as the hours passed, their pinioned wrists protesting as they accepted a little of the weight that had tired the legs so long. As the light faded the two girls became two pale ghosts in the uncertain light. Inconsistently, at night, their chains came almost as a boon. But now the separation that had sundered them through the day continued. Their tethers were on opposite walls. No tears or pleas or threats prevailed. Once more their ultimate bribe was rejected. On opposite sides of their dungeon they wept themselves to sleep.

The following day was both better and worse. Less tiring. But a shaming posture. They lay upon their backs, bottoms tight against the wall, legs up in a "V", ankles chained to the stone. Their view was restricted to small portions of the wall and ceiling. They could only see each other by painful strain and twisting. Their hands were free, but to what purpose.

On the third day they were whipped.

They suffered together, receiving single lashes alternately. The other’s agony always before their eyes as they felt their own. Amity used the fearful whip. Mark had vanished from their ken.

That morning, released from their chains, they had been suspended by their wrists, heels barely on the floor. Amity left them to wait. They hung, well separated, in the big dungeon, the most hated whip between them on a stool specially provided so that it be well displayed before their stricken eyes.

"Is it possible to bear, or will we faint?" Dorinda had built a devastating vision of suffering within her mind.

"I didn’t faint, darling. But don’t let that fool you." Terry searched her memory for consolations. "It depends on who whips us. I hope it’s Amity. She doesn’t hit as hard as Mark. She probably thinks an employer – that’s me – has to be whipped with respect. Then it’s a case of how fast they let you have it. I’m damn sure I couldn’t take fast from that awful thing. I would faint. I think you’ll find now we’ll get it laid on slowly and spread over a long time. If it’s any comfort I can tell you they won’t whip you nipples with that thing."

Was there comfort anywhere? Dorinda cringed in her nudity. She longer for the whip to get it over, to pass through the agony over to the other side. But she longed, with equal ardour, that the whip not touch her at all. She felt no bitterness against Mark. He had told her she would be trashed if she touched the forbidden fruit. She had knowingly gorged on it. Thus it was proper that she now stand naked with her hands high, the familiar bite of the cords urgent on her wrists, the whip before her eyes. Soon she would know its searing cuts and scream the pleas of a slave who has transgressed.

How awful to stand thus. More naked than naked. Curvature of breasts and Venus mound accentuated by the traction of her arms. Only the soles of her feet were denied the whip. She had read of the bastinado. No doubt Mark had too. That day would come. To be whipped on the soles of her feet. How awful. How a girl would scream.

It was though all of her cried for the whip. The cords held her curved. She heard their voices. Her breasts did not know themselves inviolate. They cried ‘Whip me, whip us both. We’re too beautiful not to feel the lash! It’s our destiny.’ Her bottom, her poor caned bottom jutted, curving its pinkness and its fading stripes in its own special demand: ‘Whip me, master. I am designed for the whip. Millenniums of men have whipped the bottoms of millions of naked girls. Whip me, whip me, master. I am a slave.’

Two bands of chord held her, sacrifice. They cut into her wrists. Only two bands of chord… Yet she was their slave. She would stand, naked and palpitating, to be whipped just because they told her to. So that she might know herself truly divorced from freedom and from choice they cut her skin en bestowed upon her flesh their own brand of pain. Soon they would bleed. She was a slave.

The secret place between her legs. It had known little of secrecy since Mike had handcuffed her that fatal night. The night of decision. The night she had been delivered to Kyrexos. She could not tough her dark triangle. She could not shield it from the whip. Would she be compelled to part her legs so that the lash, the cutting tip could find her loins and bed itself upon the seat of joy? How terrible it was to be whipped upon her cunt. She considered the word as Terry had considered it. A hateful word. Yet what other word was so apt? The slit by which she was pleasured. The portal by which men entered the world and sought surcease forever therein. Should he or she who whipped her pause for a moment to cup their hand thereon she would glow with gratitude. It, too, cried out: ‘Whip me, whip me, whip me!’

She wished she had the courage to request a gag. She would not dare. Amity and the authority vested in her would not approve. The girl under the whip should rightly howl. She should writhe and scream. This was her tribute, her acknowledgement of just punishment. It was like signing a piece of paper to say: '‘Yes, I have received so and so many strokes upon my female flesh. The liquidation of an IOU.

It was Amity who picked up the whip and looked from one to the other of them with amused speculation in her eyes. No words. No pleas for mercy. No attempts to bribe. Two naked girls, hanging helpless without thought or hope or escape. The whip was the center of their being. It owned them as did the woman who held it. All of the girl who was Dorinda, save her voice which was mute, cried in some strange paean of exultation: ‘Whip me, whip me, oh, please whip me…’

Amity swung the sneaky length. It curled around Terry’s waist leaving a narrow neat belt of punished skin, the buckle of which was a drop of blood where the tip had cut. The lovely slenderness swung under the whiplash pull of the blow, the female lips acknowledged it. Dorinda quailed. The next stroke would be her own. All the agony hers to cherish.

Amity contrived a twin. They would wend their way though their whipping together. Their maiden flesh equal under the lash. Their fault expiated with a just precision. Dorinda heard her voice cry out to join that of the girl whose tongue had given her delight. Men hated and feared this union of girls. Always they would whip the flesh that had found joy in what they had not shared.

How exquisite a ritual. Terry… Dorinda… Dorinda… Terry. The naked breasts jerked and shuddered. The slender hips writhed this way and that. The cords held. The wrists bled. The girlish bottoms swayed. But the whip mastered them. Amity struck where they believed themselves immune. They yielded all their agony.

Dorinda drifted on a cloud of pain from which she witnessed the striation of her lov3ed one’s flesh and knew it for her own. How beautiful it was. She knew gratitude. She could not see all her nakedness. But Terry was the mirror of herself. Lash and lash. They were made one by the whip.

They felt each other’s strokes rather than their own.

Long afterwards they hung. A whipping was a thing of ritual. It had its prelude and its epilogue. The striped and blood flecked bodies of the girls hung from their cords long after the lash was done. Amity left them to their pain and to their thoughts. No doubt custom believed they would vow never to transgress again. They hung, longing for release, willing to make any promise to set themselves free of bonds and free of pain, yet lusting for each other with great hunger. The victory of the whip is in the moment when it beds itself within the cringing flesh.

On the fourth day they were freed of chains and cords. They spent it in paradise and in tracing each others wounds with fingers, filled with love. Their chains had been piled back against the huge chest. No part of them was confined. The dungeon door alone stood between them and the world of sunlight. But it held them captive.

To Dorinda it was a new experience. Confinement within four walls. Imprisonment. Loss of liberty. It had its own piquancy, its own portent and foreboding.. Previously in her captivity on Kyrexos she had always been bound or chained. Now she made the strange discovery that bonds were less frustrating than to be obliged to live within a room because you had no key for the door.

"I told you it was a beastly whip," Terry said plaintively. "Look at us both. We’re all over little cuts where the end of the lash wrapped around. We won’t get rid of all the marks for at least three weeks. I bet Mark will want us both to wear clothes so his conscience won’t bother him. Don’t do it! I’m simply going to flaunt my weals and wounds at him."

"If he wants clothes on me I’ll have to wear them. I’m a slave," Dorinda pointed out.

Her companion examined the premise. "‘Spose you’re right," she admitted. "Damn odd spot for a girl. Gosh, darling, Mark and I are really messing up your life, aren’t we? I’ll never be able to carry off this slave thing the way Mark can." Her eyes sparkled. "Darling, I’ve got a corking idea. If he demands clothes, refuse to wear ‘m. See what happens."

"That’s no corking idea. I’ll just get whipped some more," Dorinda had no doubts about her status and the penalties that went with it. Terry giggled. "I don’t see what’s to stop me whipping you if you disobey the order I just gave you. See, I order you to stay naked." "That hazard occurred to me tight at the start," Dorinda admitted. "I could easily get jockeyed into a contretemps that would entitle both of you to slash away at me."

Terry giggled with delight. "I’ll provoke such a situation just for fun. See what happens. When it comes to the crunch I’ll have to concede of course, or we’d both be getting our tails caned."

"Being a slave girl isn’t easy."

Dorinda’s rueful statement evoked merriment. "Tell me, darling," Terry said earnestly. "If I order you to do something you hate, would you disobey?"

The slave girl gave the question much thought. "Before I can really answer that one I’d have to ask you if you would whip me of I refused."

"Yes, I’d whip you, or ask Mark to."

"Then I’d obey. In that spot a slave girl has to obey. She has no choice. But if I knew you wouldn’t punish me I’d only obey if it was something that gave you much happiness.

"I will whip you, darling. You know that, don’t you?"

"Of course. I want you to. Don’t give me privilege because of this happiness we find together. If you did I think it would make us both disloyal to our master. He is my master, y’know. I have to see him as that. Good heavens, if he wasn’t, what would I be doing in this dungeon?"

"Darling, let me lick your wounds again."

Dorinda disposed herself upon the bench. Terry’s mouth and tongue sought a whip cut, laved it busily and went on the to next. They did this for each other throughout the day. They made factual the old expression of ‘licking one’s wounds’. A whipped girl cannot bathe in a dungeon or find salve for cut skin. They could not lick their own. But they could employ the oldest remedy upon each other. This they did with joy and sensuous delight.

But in the mind of each was a single dominant thought. When would their dungeon door open?

It was on the fifth day they were forgiven and made free.

Terry’s guess had been correct. The slave girl was clothed. The master’s edict had been firm. Dorinda dared not disobey, nor did she wish to. Quaintly enough, Terry had clothed herself expensively in gorgeous scraps. But then, the occasion was a gala one. The first dinner for what Mark now referred to as the ‘ex convicts’. A sort of coming home. A return to grace. Dorinda’s joy was marred by only the one small cloud.

The question inevitably arose. When the three of them were seated round the table Terry impishly asked it.

"Mark, darling, in what awful predicament have you got poor Mabel tucked away?"

Mark looked smug. His eyes twinkled back and forth between them. Making them wait for what was obviously an pronouncement. Dorinda’s pulse quickened.

"Fact is, dear girls, good old Mabel isn’t with us anymore."

He had their complete attention. Dorinda’s small cloud vanished. Mark enjoyed his sensation.

"While you two enemies of society were doing time I saw quite a lot of Mabel. More I saw the girl the more I realised she was very much surplus. Didn’t need her on strength, no place in the ranks as it were. One extra bed and all that. So I put the old intellect to work and came up with a cracking good idea."

He paused and beamed at his rapt audience. "Couldn’t very well drown the dear girl, and I didn’t relish the boat trip to dump her where she could pick up some transportation. But then, I remembered Mike…"

"Mike! Surely Mike…"

"Quiet girl! Don’t interrupt. It’s more subtle than you think." He grinned at Dorinda cheerfully. "I remembered we were about at the time this Mike chappie said he’d return to pick you up. It was a natural. I took Mabel down to the spot where he set you ashore and chained her to a tree. Off to one side where she couldn’t reach it and couldn’t read it I placed a sign. It read: ‘Dorinda’s gone. Take me’. The key to Mabel’s chain was attached."

"Oh Mark, how could you," Terry managed to giggle and be shocked at the same time.

"I’ll admit to a twinge of conscience. But the more I saw of Mabel the more certain I was that Mike might find a lot in common. Besides, it was the chance of a lifetime. Killed two birds with one stone. When I went to check on her comfort the next morning, she was gone." Leaning back in his chair Mark gave his audience a benevolently Macchiavellian smile.

"I’m so glad," said Dorinda. Then blushed at Terry’s knowing wink.

"Champagne, Sir," said Hislop with deep approval.

It was Mabel’s epitaph.

"I’m not going to be a bit nice to you today," Terry warned happily. "Mark monopolised you nearly a week. Today’s mine. You’ll suffer."

"No dungeons, please." Dorinda’s plea was real.

"Oh, all right," the younger girl conceded. "I boobed. I don’t want to get back in there either. We’ll have our day in the sun. Isn’t it lovely to be naked again?"

Dorinda was happy. To be with Terry again was a delight. She was secretly weary of rooms in which she suffered strangely devised discomforts while her skin was given time to heal. Mark was almost Calvinistic in his pre-occupation with her training. She was a much punished girl. If Terry chose to whip her she would bear it cheerfully. It would not be as bad as her other inflictions. They would be together in the glorious sunlight.

"Hands behind your back, darling. Wrists crossed."

"What? No handcuffs?"

"I’m going to be cruel. Cord chafes."

The slave girl stood passive and allowed herself to be bound. The cords that were looped and drawn tight around her wrists were intimate, a part of her. A beloved reminder of she who had tied the knots. They were tight. But she made no demur. She had grown used to handcuffs, they gave a greater latitude than she would now possess. She started and looked back over her shoulder when her neck was encircled.

"Told you I’d treat you like a slave," Terry chuckled. A nice cord tether I’ll lead you around by. But that’s all. Except for the long thin crop. I’ll carry that."

Dorinda was amused. It would be fun. The youngster was going to make amends for her previous failure. She would set herself right in her brother’s eyes.

"You’re remembering those orders, aren’t you?" she teased. "Put some marks on Dorinda where I can count them and make sure her wrists are chafed. Right?"

"Clever, clever," Terry laughed. "Sorry about the marks though. Sort of a closed season on marks lately for both of us. But don’t forget, dear. Amity attended to our backs and sides. She left our nice fronts quite virgin. Which bit of your front would you like me to whip, darling?"

Dorinda pretended to consider. "Could I have my tummy whipped, dear? Above and below is sort of holy ground for us girls."

"Can’t I whip your cunny?"

"Of course, mistress. Please whip my cunny," Dorinda laughed. "See, darling. I’m the perfect slave. Greater love hath no girl than that she offer her slit to the switch."

"You asked for it, sweetheart. But I’ll make you wait an hour. Keep you quivering while we take our walk."

Terry tugged the leash. The two girls walked side by side down the part through the trees.

They came upon a boat suddenly and without warning. It was in a tiny cove. Everything about it spoke of speed. It was sleek and beautiful and wicked. Sight of it stopped them in their tracks.

"Who the hell would that be?" Terry demanded of no one in particular.

"Just me, love."

The male voice was sardonically amused. It came from the rear. Dorinda was shocked. She swung round against her tether. "Mike!!"

He stood leering at their nakedness. Enjoyment vivid on his heavy features. Beside him a hefty member of his crew who Dorinda remembered all too well. He advanced with hearty bonhomie, hand outstretched to a bewildered Terry. "Mike Sandos, miss Esmond. Glad to meet you." His eyes roved her breasts and sex. He added hearty: "And how."

"You’re trespassing," Terry accused.

"Go away, Mike," Dorinda said without hope. She guessed.

Mike turned his attention to Dorinda. "What a neat package," he admired. "Even more convenient than the one I left." He took the leash from Terry’s nerveless hand. "Allow me, miss Esmond." He passed the cord to his henchmen. "Hold on to the lady, Sam." Dorinda watched, stricken, bereft, utterly helpless.

Mike produced a pair of handcuffs. "I’m sure you’ll wear these willingly?" The smile of invitation he offered Terry was the ultimate in benevolence.

Terry fought. How she fought! The helpless slave girl who watched her battle curled up in agony. The darling child had no chance. Mike handled her as he might have done a kitten. A minute later Terry stood panting and dishevelled, her wrists tightly locked behind her back. Dorinda wondered, irrelevantly, if the child had ever known the bite of bonds other than those she had sought in love.

Dorinda had wondered about Mike’s boat. It spelt money. The light craft that had delivered them into a new captivity was picked up by a crane and stowed away. Engines, already warm, throbbed. Kyrexos diminished over the horizon.

"Welcome to the ‘Quest’," Mike said with tremendous flair.

‘Quest?’ It was as good a name as any, Dorinda reflected bitterly. Mike was always looking. Now he had found her again. And he had found Terry. It was a good day for Mike.

Their host removed no bonds, They sat round the table on which drinks were served. The girls helpless, their host in full command. He lifted glasses to their lips. They sipped grudgingly. Dorinda almost felt like getting drunk to blot out the nightmare.

"You’ll be wondering about Mabel," Mike suggested pleasantly. "Bit of a bore is Mabel. After she had given me the gen’ on things on Kyrexos I decided the poor girl needed a change, so I put her shore on an island that I’m certain is inhibited only by gulls and goats. Mabel will make out. She’s that kind." He looked at a squirming Dorinda. "Didn’t think I’d forget you, honey?"

"Put Terry ashore. I’ll do what you want," Dorinda said flatly.

Mike laughed delightedly and slapped his leg. "True to form, honey. Virtue triumphant. You’re quite a girl. This charming child who leads you around on a leash is going to be tied to the rigging and whipped before the ship’s crew." He turned to Terry. "You won’t mind, will you, miss Edmond? Poor chaps don’t get much diversion outside port."

Dorinda was frantic. The cords that Terry had lovingly cinched upon her wrists hurt. They told her she was captive. Thrall to Mike’s wishes. She still bore the leash upon her neck. She knew he was glorying his importance.

"I know you lick each others cunts," he said affably as though it was a matter best disposed of.

"Let her go," Dorinda said hopelessly. "I’ll obey you now."

"Too late, honey," Mike guffawed. "You had your chance. But thanks for bringing me this little turtle dove." He looked at her bleakly. "You know what I’m gonna do to her, don’t you?"

Dorinda was silent. But she knew.

"I’m going to whip her and I’m going to fuck her to a fare thee well. When she starts to bore me I’ll hand her over to the boys." He laughed in genuine pleasure at the dismay on the faces of his captives. "Do you both good you prissy bitches. Thought you had your cute little cunts locked up in a safety deposit, didn’t you? You’ll find different." He winked at Dorinda. "You go to the boys right away. But first I’m going to toss you both in the brig to think about what lies ahead. At the end of the fun time I’ve got something really special planned."

Dorinda had seen the brig before. It made the dungeon on Kyrexos seem a commodious stadium. Terry cringed and clung to the older girl in horror. It was a small iron box with a narrow bench. It’s only decoration were the heads of rivets. One wall was curved to the contour of the hull. Each girl was chained to that wall from a steel collar round her neck. There was no porthole. The garish light bulb starkly accentuated the claustrophobic intent. They clutched and wept, their chains a metallic accompaniment to their tears.

"Will.. will he…?" The irrepressible Terry was gone. The frightened girl who had taken her place could not bring herself to name her fear.

"Yes, they will." Dorinda knew it useless to lie or hold false hope. Terry caught the plural. "You mean… all of them?"

"There’s four men aboard. They’ll use us."

"This thing about me and the rigging? Will he…?"

"I expect he will, darling." Dorinda was desolate that she could offer neither hope or succour to the darling child. "If it wasn’t that it would be something else. Mike’s inventive. All we can do is be nice and not rile him. If he gets angry he’s brutal."

"Can’t we offer… or do something…?"

"Darling, you see what slavery is like. We have nothing to offer. The man who holds you owns every bit of your flesh. A girl can’t bargain with his possessions.. We can’t even make an offer to be nice, or good, or behave. He can make you behave." Dorinda’s fingers explored the metal on her neck. "He can even influence the way you think." She laughed ruefully. "Mark was teaching me that and he’s absolutely right. His theory is valid. I didn’t believe it at first, but there is a slave mentality. It’s not that you have everything knocked out of you. It’s imply that you think as a slave. You stop having double standards. You do your thinking and your responses from within a slave’s limited viewpoint. Oh darling. I don’t want that for you."

"We did it to you, didn’t we?" Terry was seeing very clearly

"Don’t compare your brother with Mike."

"A sort of poetic justice. I’m going to get royally screwed. Little Terry gets her just desserts." She lovingly kissed Dorinda’s eyes, her fingers, fingers the nipples so close to her own. "Not to worry, darling. I’m no virgin. I ‘specs I’ll survive. Promise you won’t keep yourself in agony over me. We’re in this together."

They made love awkwardly, but with desperate intensity, upon the narrow metal shelf.

"Darling, why are men like… The way they are?" Terry had found a small peace in their union.

Dorinda made a bitter sound of disgust. "Men like Mike don’t see us as people. To him, you and me are two beats and four of what he’d call tits, and a couple of palpitating vaginas lapping open to greet his holy male cock. Sorry darling, but sometimes they get to a girl. There’s no coping with the Mikes. You could only kill them."

"Will they keep us prisoners for long?"

"I don’t suppose so. They rove around the Mediterranean in this yacht. He picks up girls along the way. Kidnaps them as he has us. Or hires and pays them. I did her that he even buys a few. That still goes in some of his ports of call."

Terry was intrigued. "What would he do with those when he tires of them? Set them free?"

"I wouldn’t suppose so. Probably trades ‘em back in. Men like Mike love to turn over a dollar."

"He’s got it good, hasn’t he?" Terry’s interest was piqued. "Buy a girl, use her as long as he likes, then sell her at a profit."

Dorinda kissed the child and wrapped herself around the slender nudity. The space they shared was small and demanded of them a great intimacy which they willingly gave. Her heart welled over for Terry. She guessed that perhaps the girl might possess qualities of endurance beyond her own. A resilience that would cope with Mike’s ugliness. But still, the bright and shining radiance that was Terry Esmond should never be on this ship. She longed to shield her. But on ‘The Quest’ she could play no sister role. Each wore the iron collar round her neck. They were equal.

It was not easy. But they managed to sleep.

Dorinda watched unhappily as Terry was tied. Her own wrists had been crossed and corded behind her back. "Hurts more that way," Mike had assured her jovially. She could roam as she pleased. She was helpless. She could not even cause damage. She was just a female nakedness for the men to ogle and enjoy.

The younger girl’s arms were high and wide. Her wrists corded to guy ropes, heavy and taut as steel. It was the classic pose for a girl, about to be flogged. They left her feet free. They would enjoy watching her kick and writhe. The deck about her was clear. They could circle and flog the tense beauty as they pleased. Above the ship gulls circled and gave their plaintive cries. The sky was clear. The Mediterranean sparkled with its own kind of blue. It was a beautiful day on a beautiful ship. Dorinda wondered idly how often in the past this ancient sea have witnessed the flogging of a slave girl on a passing argosy.

As a small refinement of cruelty a narrow belt had been buckled around Terry’s waist. On it was a hook. From the hook hung the whip with which she was about to be flogged.

Dorinda grudgingly recognised the erotic perfection of the picture Mike had created. The girl’s youthful nakedness standing slim and straight, her arms raised and thrown wide in adoration of a god no one could see: the god of pain. Her features clam in the serenity that comes with the final loss of hope. Her pubic hair offered itself for all to see. She had used the razor but the day before so that the dark patch was a clearly defined heart that so beautifully symbolised the boyous maiden she had been. She wore her heart not upon her sleeve.. The belt above her hips emphasised her youth, the short handle and the several slender thongs proclaimed her as a proffered sacrifice.

The girl who watched took comfort from the whip. It was not the dreaded ‘cat’ she had half expected. It would hurt enough, but it would not wound. Both of them were still well marked from Amity’s flogging. They needed no more cuts to heal. Mike had cheerfully explained Terry’s ordeal.

"Sort of nice for the boys to have you just stand. Anyone passing by can give her a stroke or two with the tickler if he feels like it or if she gets too sassy. In between times she can wear it on her belt. It’ll brush against her legs and keep her knowing what she’s good for. The whip ain’t too cruel. The little trick will last out the day in great shape. Should be real randy for me by the night."

Dorinda felt herself de trop. A naked girl with bound hands. A facility for male rut. Each man had already used her. She had little doubt she would be used again. She did not fight, but quietly accepted the inevitable, hiding her loathing that she might not offend. She wished, too, that she be often in the younger girl’s sight for what small comfort her presence might give. Yet to rove the decks naked and blatantly open seemed a deliberate wanton offering of her charms. But the quality of the day was such as to demand open air and a sparkle of the spray. It was very beautiful. It was zestful, a day to glory in, a day to dissigate some of the gloom of the condition in which Mike’s ugliness imprisoned them. If walking the ship, in such freedom as she had, proclaimed lubricate, so be it.

Terry had her first customer. Funny to think of it like that. Dorinda watched, helpless to intervene. Knowing, in fact, that she had best not interfere. It was Alfred the cook. Whit a name like Alfred the rest of him didn’t matter much. He leered cordially at the captive’s heart shaped hair.

"Don’t affect its working none," he guffawed. "Don’t worry, girlie. I’ll get in there one of these days."

Terry’s pale smile concealed a dozen vitriolic retorts.

"Want I should whip you a bit?" He sounded magnanimous.

"Thank you.," his victim managed in a small non-committal voice.

Dorinda’s heart bled as she watched the cheerful clob pluck the thongs from the girl’s belt and make a couple of trial swings.

"I sure do like to whip a girl," Alfred admitted. "Makes me horny as hell when them weals start up on a girls hide."

Dorinda wryly guessed how the session would end. She had not realised before. But the impact of the whip on Terry’s flesh would almost certainly ensure her a busy day. She groaned inwardly.

"Usually have to pay for it," Alfred informed them aggrieved. "Last little bitch in Liverpool come up with a joke when she made her price. ‘At the stroke of ten it will be exactly ten pounds,’ she says. I let her have it good. But after every crack she comes up with a beef about doing it lighter the next one. Never get your money’s worth when you pay for it, you don’t."

He whistled the leather down across the maiden flesh so cheaply and provocatively provided. Terry gasped and for a moment closed her eyes. When she opened them she sought his and wanly offered thanks that spoke of agony.

Alfred was touched. Returning the whip to her belt he stepped round and admired his work, running his fingers again and again over the pink evidence of his skill.

"One at a time, dearie," he conceded cheerfully. "I’ll be back on and off all day. You’ll be a well whipped little girl by nightfall."

He turned and examined Dorinda with intent. "Well honey, shall we do it here or below?"

"I think it would be nicer below," she said demurely.

As he led he led her away she did not seek her loved one’s eyes.

Myron was the big rough one. He gazed avidly at the female sacrifice. "Want me to whip those tits?" he asked as though offering a favour.

"I’d rather you didn’t," Terry squirmed.

"Looks like your back and bum already had a good going over not that long ago. Someone did it for fun or did you rile ‘em?"

"I riled the." The question had been honest, so was the answer.

"Man of woman?"

"I offended a man. A woman whipped me."

"Who’d you rather get it from? Girl or a man?"

"A girl." She squirmed again. "You men are too strong."

She looked at him appealingly. "Have you any idea how terrible the pain is?"

He nodded. "Yeah, happened I got it once or twice. Didn’t care for it none." He looked at her shrewdly. "Want me to feel sorry for you, eh? Well babe, I do. But it don’t make no difference, see."

Terry saw only too well. Strangely, also, she understood. Myron’s wish to whip her was a part of the same hunger he would appease later with Dorinda.

"Please don’t whip my breasts." She kept her voice level. She would talk to these men who would whip her as rationally as she could. She deemed it likely to aid her cause better than to be piteous or arrogant.

He looked down at her hungrily. They’re damn nice," he mused. "Ain’t been striped like the rest of you. They’re… well, all ready as you might say."

She looked up at him and tried to smile. "Don’t think I don’t know how men enjoy a girl’s breasts," she said wistfully. "It’s funny, we girls have them, we enjoy them too. We can’t bear to think of them being whipped. We can bear at least the thought of the rest of us. But not our breasts. I can’t stop you whipping them. I can only ask you not to. You see… they’ll look lovely for the first few cuts, but then they get purple and red and I won’t be nice to look at anymore."

"Well, I’ll be damned!" Myron slapped his leg in delight. "You’re a damn cute girl. Know that?" He chuckled and leered accusingly. "You must have had ‘m whipped sometime to know all about it."

"Yes, I’ve had them whipped. It’s awful."

"Okay, you sold me. Hate to mess up that bit of heart shaped hair. Might get to use it some day." He guffawed. "How’s about your cute little belly. Not a mark on it. Here goes."

She absorbed the two wrap arounds and gave their donor gasps and moans and some sweet twistings. He enjoyed it all.

"Where’s that, what’s her name, Dorinda?" Myron looked around as though expecting relief to be instantly available.

"Alfred took her below just before you came."

"Huh" The lousy bastard! Well, damned if I go in there right after a bloody cock." He strode away disgustedly.

Terry’s day had started. She was not sure whether it was better or worse than she had expected. She wryly reflected that perhaps this was her cue to call out: "Next!"

"Come to get screwed, honey?" Mike looked up from his desk where Dorinda had tracked him.

She ignored the question. "Must I be tied the way I am, Mike? Makes it damn difficult for a girl in my profession."

"Don’t knock it, honey. Makes you push back your ass. Fine action."

She abandoned a profitless exercise and tried another tack.

"Any use appealing to your better nature?"

"Don’t have one of them things, sugar. I’m pure bastard."

Dorinda nodded. "The girl you have tied down there on the deck, she’s not common stuff, y’know. The family has money. They could make it awkward for you." She looked at him searchingly. "If you let her go with an apology or some sort of excuse there’s still time."

"That’s a threat. Girl?"

She wriggled her shoulders helplessly: "Oh Mike, how can I threaten. Look at me."

"Damn nice," he said with approval. "Lovely tits. But the young’uns for it, see. I like a bit of class and a bit of the young stuff. I’ll take my chance."

"I’m not exactly grey-haired."

"Singing a different tune, aren’t you, compared to the last time?"

She fluttered her shoulders once more. "Mike, I’m so damn helpless. You’ve got me. A girl can’t fight forever."

His look became shrewd and interested. "Good old talkative Mabel told me all about that island, leastways what she’d seen and added up. Seems like you was some sort of slave girl? Mabel had it figured you was happy as Hell with that job."

Dorinda thought of Mark and could have wept.

"Know what I think, sugar? I think that guy who whipped the ass of you had the right idea. Some sort of psychological gaff, the way Mabel tells it. You’ve changed, y’know. Done you a lot of good."

The irony of it! Mark to train her and make her love him. Then this creature to profit. She realised that, until this moment, she had not realised. Mike’s perception had been more penetrating than her own. In repossessing her he had acquired what he had lacked the subtlety or wit to create. She knew, dismally, that she could not revert. Mark’s hand would always be upon her. She was at least part slave.

"Keep me then." She knelt before him in the full glory of what she had become. "Let Terry go. I am a slave. You are right. I have changed. I will be a slave girl for you such as you have never dreamed."

He looked down in wonder. "Dammed, girl. You almost got me foxed. That’s about the prettiest thing I have ever seen. But I won’t bargain. I’ve got you both. Pester me again and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t."

Resignedly Dorinda rose and returned to a chair. The act seemed the withdrawal of a pledge. She had tried and failed. Mike held all the cards. "What about Mabel?" she asked tiredly.

"What about her?"

"I’ve got no brief for Mabel," she assured him wearily. "But will the poor girl ever get off that island?"

"Pretty sure to sometime, honey. Why?"

"Was she handcuffed? I mean, like I was?"

He laughed understandingly. "That scare you? No, Mabel’s free as the air. Stop worrying."

"But she’s naked?"

"Being naked would be the least of Mabel’s troubles anywhere." He grinned. "Even in London or New York."

"I think it was the worst moment of my life when you put me on that beach and with my hands handcuffed the way they were. It’s an awful feeling for a girl. I spent a lousy night."

"Good!" He leaned forward. "Want to tell me what happened on that place?"

"Oh mike. You’ve got me… the way you have. And you want me to talk rationally?"

"Why not, honey." He smiled expansively. "Whores talk to their customers, prisoners talk to their guards. I guess slave girls talk to their masters if they are given a chance."

"You could be nice if you’d give yourself a chance," she pouted.

"One more crack like that and I’ll whip you."

She took a chance. "See what I mean. See what I’m up against? You own me. I’m not me. I’m this thing between my legs and a pair of tits. But, tell me, when you had me before why didn’t you whip me into submission then? You could have. You put me in that rotten little brig with handcuffs on my wrists and wondered why I didn’t love you. Then, just to put me in the right frame of mind, you toss me on Kyrexos."

"You were an infuriating puritan. A little prig."

"I wasn’t," she flashed. Then looked at him, scared. "Was I? Was that what I was?"

"You better believe it, honey." He became earnest again. "Tell me what happened. You can leave out the bits where you got fucked or liked the youngster’s clit. We’ll take’, for granted. Come on, tell me. If you don’t, I’ll whip you good. That’s a fair offer."

Dorinda told him. Not all, but the substance of her enslavement. She found herself wanting to study it in perspective. What she told was no betrayal of anything that lay between herself and Mark. To Mark she was just an interesting slave girl in training. She supposed, now, she would always wondered what might have happened…

The owner of The Quest gave her his full attention. She had his interest. When she fell silent for lack of more to say, he remained deep in thought. Rousing himself he looked at his captive with glittering eyes.

"You know this guy’s method and theory. If I gave you a girl, could you train her?"

"Yes, I think so." She was surprised how easily the affirmative had come to her lips.

"Okay. It’s a deal. I get the girls. You train ‘em. I’ll cut you in for twenty percent."

Dorinda knew a strange excitement in her loins and fresh horror in her mind. "Twenty percent of what?"

"Their selling price, sugar. It’ll be plenty."

"Sell girls!" Evidently the rumours held truth.

"Come off it. Don’t play naive."

"But where do you get them?" She was frankly curious.

"Got you, didn’t I? Got young Terry. Got Mabel but let her go." He sat up amused and laughed. "Good gosh. We’ll have to go back and pick Mabel up. She’d fetch a fidy sum."

"But the police? Their families…?"

"So what? All of you I just named have disappeared. Might be an inquiry or two. Nothing serious. Girls are always disappearing. The police are sick to death of hunting little bitches with hot pants. As far as I can see it’s the favourite teen-age female ambition: hunting cock. They call it falling in love. I’ve come to hate the little sluts."

"They chase you?"

"Honey, this ship’s had more teen-age poon tang on it than it’s had diesel fuel. I think some would pay to get aboard if you sold tickets."

"Why bother with girls like me and Terry?"

"Because you are at least girls. Those horny little minxes are just one big sopping wet cunt. Their holes are so damn dig they are not even a good piece of tail!!" Mike grinned at a private thought. "Sure be a treat to watch you whip their little arses. Wouldn’t bother my conscience none."

Dorinda felt guilty at an exciting prospect. How did these things creep up on a girl? A delectable vision of rows and rows of naked moppets, and herself with a lovely limber cane, rose before her eyes. "All right," she agreed. "Let Terry go and I’ll do it."

Mike sighed. "Bend over the chair, honey. Good place as any. I warned you…"

Dorinda sighed too. He had warned her. She had asked for it. Dutifully, but not happily, she draped herself over the furniture.

"Six if you behave. Twelve if you don’t." From somewhere he had produced a quite frightening cane.

It taxed all of her fortitude to take the six cuts. She deliberately gave him the expected vocals and the sensual motions. The end result was to be expected. She serviced him to the best of her ability in that capacity too. She felt inordinately proud of his response.

"You are quite something, honey." He sat back in his chair, studying her as she shook her hair back in place and resumed her seat and attentive mien. It was obvious that her bottom hurt. "You get me riled on purpose."

"No! Oh, honestly I didn’t! I don’t know why we girls have to be the way we are. To see what we can get away with I suppose. I can almost agree, we have to be whipped to keep us in line. Under the circumstances I think I should say thank you."

"Maybe you like it?"

"No I don’t. I could have curled up and howled."

"The little trick you’re in love with: she loves it."

How did he know? Mabel of course. "Yes, she gets a sensual thrill out of having her bottom caned. Perhaps even what you just gave me. Beyond that, she suffers like the rest of us."

"So the day on the deck with the boys having a slash at her won’t deliver her horny to my bed?"

"Probably the reverse. The poor kid will be exhausted. You sure have some quaint ideas."

"Want to bend over the chair again?"

"I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I don’t like being whipped. But if we are to get anywhere together I have to be able to talk." She gave him a wry grin. "Maybe I won’t pick up more than a dozen strokes a day."

"There was a question before the house, honey?"

"I’d love to, Mike. But please! Take Terry off the hook. Let her be my helper. Don’t make either of us receptacles for your crew’s sperm."

"Bend over the chair, honey."

Dorinda obeyed mutely. Implacable Mike. He gave her three brutal cuts. She gave him all the expressions of her distress. She wept. It was all hopeless.

"Never asked you up here in the first place," he said testily. "Go and tell your little honeypot about her wonderful future."

His name was Cuthbert. They called him Cuth. He was too young, too pimply and minus a chin. Terry was quite sure he must practise self abuse and eat the wrong food.

He look at her with lust.

"You are very pretty."

"Thank you." She almost added ‘kind Sir’.

"I’d like to fuck you. But you belong to the captain."

"So I understand."

He examined her with interest. "I’ve never seen a girl’s cunt before. Just fancy, all heart shaped."

"That’s the hair."

"Lots of stories about them things."

"I’m sure there are."

"That true that they reach out and grab a chap’s cock?"

"Mine doesn’t. Haven’t you ever been inside?"

"You mean had a piece of tail? Can’t say I have."

Terry now felt certain about the self abuse. "Aren’t you going to sample the girl on call today?"

"Oh, I think I might all right. But I don’t like to."

"You don’t have to ask. Just do it." Terry felt guilty but safe.

He wrinkled his nose. "Something inside there that… you know."

"No, I don’t know."

"Well, takes hold of a feller. Heard tell of a chap couldn’t pull it out."

"Are you this cautious in everything?"

"No sense looking for trouble." Cuth sounded hurt. "Maybe I should whip you."

"Dare you take the risk?"

"I think you are pulling my leg. Anyway, I’ve never whipped a girl."

"Aren’t you afraid of catching something?"

Her whipped her twice. Very hard, as though to assert the manhood she doubted. He watched her tug against the cords and heard her gasp. "I got a great big hard on," he said, surprised.

"I’m sure there will be a knot hole around somewhere," suggested Terry helpfully.

Cuth went away, walking awkwardly.

Dorinda was not sure whether she found the sight of land reassuring or ominous. She felt better than the day before. She had slept holding a sobbing girl within the haven of her arms. Make had not retained his perquisite beyond evening. The collars round their necks had a familiar feel. Thus all things become comparative. ‘The Quest’ had travelled far to bring them to a new day.

There was a stir of tension. Something had happened in the night. Taken to Mike’s office the two girls were not left in doubt. Mike was displeased.

"You were right, honey," he conceded grimly. Then, looking at Terry: "That brother of yours has been raising Cain."

Dorinda’s heart leaped. Mike noted the sudden radiance that lit the face of his audience.

"Don’t get them little twats twitching too soon," he added sourly. "I’m not taking any chances. I’m dumping you but I ain’t taking you back to Kyrexos and I’m damned if I’ll put you ashore at a port. That leaves two choices: a weight tied to your ankles and toss you overboard, or put you ashore where no one will notice."

He laughed at their dismay. "You think I just might use that bit of lead. I ought to, but I won’t." He chuckled as at some secret knowledge. "Could be you’ll come to wish I had…"

He was interrupted by the arrival of Cuth with a slip of paper. The youth eyed the girls hungrily and departed. Mike scanned the missive before turning his attention back to his captives. "Radio," he explained tersely. "We ain’t out of touch. That’s how I know about the hunt that’s on for you."

"But you can’t hide this boat forever," Dorinda said puzzled.

"Honey, I don’t have to. Nobody saw you get on and nobody saw you get off. Suspicious, sure. But no proof."

"And you think we’ll just keep quiet about all you’ve done -" Terry bit her lip. Dorinda watched Mike’s slow smile agonizedly. "Sugarpot, you can talk all you want. If you can get someone to listen." Again the knowing chuckle as at things unseen.

Dorinda’s hope dissolved into awful premonition.

It was neat and functional. Absurd, but cruelly explicit.

"Promised you a surprise at the end," Mike said.

Dorinda stared at him in disbelief. "You wouldn’t…"

"Sure I would, sugar. Plenty of precedents."

"But like this!" His captive twisted her shoulders and tugged at the prisoned wrists behind her back.

She could not take her eyes from it. Terry – too – stared in shocked fascination. A simple plank! It jutted far out over and beyond the deck to which it was secured.

"All the best captains used it," Mike jibed. "A girl said ‘non, she got to walk the plank."

"But we haven’t said ‘non’. We did our best yesterday!"

"Right you are, honey. So you get to wear this nice little decoration."

Mike tightly knotted a leather lace round each slender neck. On it was the handcuff key. "Take you a little time to untie them knots," he opinioned cheerfully. "In fact you might not be able to undo ‘em at all. But that’s the luck of draw. Can’t say good old Mike didn’t give you a sporting chance."

"But you can’t dump us in the sea with our hands handcuffed behind!"

"Sure can, honey. You got a medal for swimming and Mabel told me the kid here swims like a fish. We’re right in close. You’ll get your feet on the sand after fifty yards or so."

"Oh Mike, why make us do this. It’s dangerous." Dorinda was aghast at what lay ahead.

"Ads a bit of spice," Mike suggested equably. "If you make it to the shore you’ll find yourself in one of those wog spots, ain’t quite sure where."

"Handcuffed and naked?"

"Well, ain’t got it in for you girls all that bad. And I don’t like the idea of them wogs looking at them pretty little quims first off. So, as a special concession mind you, I’m going to give you these." He displayed two swimming trunks.

"You know we can’t put them on, the way we’re fixed." Dorinda felt ridiculous gratitude, even though she blushed furiously as her captor tugged the stretchy material into place.

"No halter?" Terry asked wanly.

"Don’t push, sugarpot. You’re fifty percent ahead of where you were. Now just to give you both a good send 0ff, young Cuth has got one of Alfred’s big pots and he will give you a drum roll as you walk out on that plank. Sort of make a real occasion out of it." He surveyed his captives benignly.

Dorinda’s mind was working furiously. They could face death. Mike obviously did not think so – or did he? She was thankful for the swimming instructor who had made a span up and down the pool with hands tied as hers now were an essential part of the tests. But the pool was one thing. This wide enough stretch of see was something else. Even after they survived they would be on an inhospitable shore, sand and rocks and scrub. No sign of life.

"Well, little ladies. The time has come," Mike announced grandly.

Cuth appeared with his pot and a pair of wooden spoons. At a sign from his employer he produced a quite surprising response from the metal and the wood. Despite the absurdity and the fear Dorinda’s pulse quickened. The rat-tat-tat of the spoons gave an incredible validity to what they must do. Resolutely, she strode towards the plank.

Her first step upon the narrow width was easy. The second brought a sense of isolation. At the third she knew panic. She was a girl alone, naked, her steps set upon a brief and insecure path from which she might easily slip and which came to an abrupt end. Beneath her was the enigmatic sea, a deep pit in which eyes might watch and jaws and tentacles lay in wait. Another step. Now she felt her arms tense and strain, her wrists rebelling against the steel that held them close. The handcuffs were the most frightening facet of her plight, they made her a prey to evil chance or hostile intent.

Before the last fatal stride, Dorinda did the thing she had promised herself not to do at all. She caught Mike’s absorbed gaze. "Please don’t do this," she asked simply.

He did not speak. He did nothing but drink in the loveliness and the fear of the girl who must now plunge to an unknown fate. Myron made a menacing gesture with the pole and advanced one foot on the plank. Cuth beat his improvised drum into a fierce tattoo. Dorinda turned and dived.

As time is measured it was short. A black awfulness of pumping legs and twisting torso, great gulps of air thankfully but briefly achieved. Dorinda knew that without the training the handcuffs would have knelled her death. When her feet found the sand her first thought was of Terry.

But the younger girl was superb. Evading startled hands she had leaped after the falling figure of her love and, ignoring the plank, plunged directly from the rail. She might have been a dolphin or a seal so adeptly did she slice the water and defeat it with her slender nudity. The two girls waded to the shore together.

"Piece of cake," Terry said.

"Thank god you are safe." It was all Dorinda could think of to say. They could not embrace. She herself felt a great thankfulness.

"When we get out of site of those rotten kooks I’m going to chew one of these keys loose," Terry promised.

Without a backward glance they trudged up the slope of a dune, their bodies quickly drying in the sun.

It lay before them in a hollow. A shining new Land Rover. An incongruous intrusion of civilisation in the wilderness. It stood alone, welcoming strangers as a spray of flowers might have done. There was no one in sight.

"Think we might snatch it?" Terry was ecstatic.

Dorinda had the sensation of too much happening too fast. She turned and looked back. The Quest’s anchor was being hauled aboard. A careless arm was waved in desultory salute of farewell. Even had she been able she would not have returned the raised arm. She transferred her attention to the inland instead.

CHAPTER 4

"I knew what was to happen to me the next day. Had I not written it in the letter? I stood with my arms tied high and wide. They took great care that the bands of cord round my wrists were very tight. They even took close ups to show how securely my hands were held." Thalia chuckled. "I have learnt since that such pictures are sold at good prices all over the world. No doubt my kidnappers saw this as a small extra perquisite of their operation."

"They did not raise my feet from the floor. Just made me stand well stretched. Then they got down to business: on the second day I was to be whipped. It was the second day! My whipping called for much care with the camera and the lights. They desired a sequence. First my nice back and bottom. Click – click! Then I screamed and leaped into wild and foolish motion as my little round bottom received a truly awful cut with a cane given me with all the force of a man’s arm. Such pain could not be! I knew I would die. But a girl does not die. I stood and quivered while my tormentors watched and waited for the stripe across my bottom to ‘ripen’. They wanted the weal to stand up well and become as scarlet as my blood could make it. Then, once mere, click – click -click."

"Actually I was lucky that they were so concerned with excellence. It gave me time to gather up my courage and avoid hysteria. They wanted good close pictures in glorious technicolor of each wound they placed upon my skin. They contrived a cumulative series with little Thalia’s marked rear view showing her first one, then two, then three, and so on… Lovely scarlet stripes on golden flesh. Some had started to go purple before they were finished with the last of them. The camera faithfully recorded my martyrdom. Those awful lights made me cringe. I felt five times naked they sought out every curve and crevice."

"By now, of course, I was very much one qui vive. Looking back over one shoulder I saw the whip. The cane for my bottom, a whip for the rest of me. They explained they could get better camera effects if I bore two kinds of wounds. I also saw that whip raised and swung in a truly terrible slashing swipe. I turned away at the very last moment and bit my lip and tensed against the blow. When I came back from the pain they were admiring my wound very technically, even tracing it with a rough finger so that I cried out again. Click – click."

"These men were former competitors who were jealous of my superior business acumen," Mr. Rabin explained helpfully.

"They click-clicked away until they had me beautifully latticed with a total of ten wounds. Had my flesh not been so young, I would have borne them for years, perhaps for life. They had spaced the bars across my skin with neat effect so that each stood out to be counted. The rest of my day was a repetition of the first:"

"The agenda for day number three had me set wondering. Whilst never having experienced one of the two, they were of a nature so frequently dealt with in fiction and history that I had an awareness of such things. Number three was different. First, my hands we tied behind my back: this way, by the way. I thought they never would get through with all the trails and errors and experiments. The click-clicking became frantic. The method they finally settled on was the worst of the lot. My hands palm to palm, wrists tightly corded together and a leather strip round my elbows drawing them together so they touched. It hurt horribly. It also stuck my chest out front. Next they made me spread my legs and tied my ankles down to rings in the floor. Tight, tight! Click, click… It was the most shaming posture yet. What they did then shamed me even more. Each man sucked at one of my nipples."

Thalia shrugged in recognition of something done that could not be undone. With a wry grin she continued her story. "I was at the age where a girl becomes very much aware of the assets, bestowed upon her by nature. Giggling explorations with the girls and with myself – ever since puberty – had indicated the quite remarkable possibilities of friction and suction on the female breast. We were intrigued to discover how hard and erect the little dears could pop up with a bit of help. Mine got that bit of help now. When the men were through with them they were larger and harder than I had ever known or believed possible. A moment later I screamed my head off with a metal clip firmly biting into each nipple. Rapidly my abductors got busy."

"The clips were the kind you use to hold wads of paper. You squeeze on one side and the jaws open on the other. The come in different sizes and tensions. Those attached to me were not the biggest. But they hurt so much and stood out so rigidly from my breasts that I was quite sure they were slowly cutting off the two things I had so recently learned to treasure. My, how I screamed and begged! It did not seem possible that anyone would want to hurt so intimate a part of me. I expect that, in its way, the wearing of those metal horrors on my nipples was one of my first realisations of what it is to become a woman."

"I realised afterwards that the ensuing speed with which my tortured breasts were clicked at from all the usual angles resulted from a shared anxiety that my nipples should not mortify or sustain damage. They got them off as quickly as they could. They even massaged the scalded spots. I’m still not sure of their motives, but it made me howl some more. I spent the rest of the day looking down at myself to verify that my little rosebuds were still there."

"The villains led me to believe my little girl was wearing those wicked things all through the day. I much longed to kill them," said Mr. Rabin.

"The fourth day was the most shameful I have ever known. Perhaps the worst I will ever know, or any girl can know. By that time we were all looking for the ransom. It was explained to me that my letter and the daily pictures were being delivered by an airline employee so that there was no great space of hours between taking them and my father receiving them. Twelve to fifteen hours if all went well. So I was always filled with hope." The teller of the story shook her head and grimaced. "It was my first knowledge that hope can be worse than no hope. Hope is very cruel. It will not let you rest."

"I was tied in exactly the same way as the day before. I wept – even when they were tugging at the cords and strap. I had discovered that to have the elbows held like that all day is a very terrible torture too, even though it seems so harmless. Besides, I was fearful of the clips again… my letter had not gone into detail beyond the third day…"

"The produced a leek. You know what a leek is. Like a very large spring union but with more stem and flat green leaves. Even when I saw it I did not guess it’s purpose. I was very inexperienced in such matters."

"I could see they were very amused. They took much care shaving off the root bits to make it smooth and round so that it cam to look much like the pestle used by apothecaries in pounding out their prescriptions. They then anointed it with Vaseline… Well, you know what they did with it." Thalia made a gesture of infinite disgust. "I was deflowered by a leek. I lost my maidenhood to a vegetable! They were gentle enough with their merchandise. But it hurt me terribly and I was deathly afraid. I made a lot of noise and tried to struggle, but could hardly move. I was held beautifully for their purpose. They pushed it in as far as they dared. I was quite sure it had gone right into my tummy. So there I was. You can make your own mental picture of what I looked like with my feet spread wide and those green leaves sprouting out of my sex. I took one long fascinated look at myself and then refused to lower my eyes again. I turned my eyes this way and that while they clicked away with camera and lights. They were still busy when a very English voice said gruffly: "Yer can’t that there ‘ere, y’know."

"He was one of the largest policemen I have ever seen. Had I been able to, I would have flung myself into his ample arms."

"My kidnappers had other ideas. They dived at him and the doorway he barred. One of them drew a knife. I was shocked when the constable stepped to one side and let them through. There ensued a considerable commotion and shortly they were marched in again by two even bigger members of the law. They were now both handcuffed. I had never seen felons handcuffed before. They looked so absolutely right."

"The police were very kind. They removed the intrusion from within me and set me free. One of them found a rug in which I could drape my charms. But I will always remember how I blushed when one of them was carrying out the offensive leek. I heard a fine British voice out in the hallway say: ‘Goes lovely in a stew, George. My missus does ‘em up a treat.’"

"I saved much money. The English police does not accept bribes or rewards," Mr. Rabin complacently supplied the happy ending.

Dorinda found herself looking at Thalia Rabin with fresh interest. She was a beautiful girl. She had tremendous poise. It seemed probable she possessed a sense of humour. Why had she related this shocking ordeal from her past?

Mr. Rabin bestowed upon each of the girls his very warmest smile. "You are quite free to make comment. I would like you to. There will be no punishment for imprudent words…" His tone was benign.

‘ Comment’ Dorinda groped. They could freely express sympathy or shock. But she was sure that was not required. She looked up and found Thalia’s eyes watching her inward struggles with amusement. Quite suddenly a shocking parallel became obvious.

"You were kidnapped. Now we are kidnapped. Not much difference in principle, is there?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Rabin, his eyes alert, pleased.

"That’s right, darling. You put your finger neatly on the spot. The moral is that I have been where you are. I know your feelings and reactions. The marks on your bodies tell us that you have been hurt. Perhaps more than I ever was. So we are very much even."

"But where is the happy ending for us?" Dorinda’s voice held pathos.

"I don’t believe you should think in that view. Live each day only." Thalia sounded as though she could easily have evoked Allah.

Dorinda lifted her handcuffed wrists for all to see. "A slave has no tomorrows…" She let the words hang in the air.

Thalia looked at her parent qeuryingly. He smiled indulgently. "Yes, tell them of how you were once very bad." He turned to Dorinda and Terry. "It is good that you know."

"I have told you of pain. Now I tell you of punishment. They are the same and not the same. A matter of motive and acceptance." She looked at her alert audience and smiled reassuringly. "Would it surprise you to know that my father has had me whipped?"

Thalia laughed again at their startled attention. "I have told you I am a product of two worlds. There is much friction between those worlds. As I went back and forth between Girton and my father’s house I was constantly subject to pressures. The overshadowing one being filial piety. The English were as flip about parents as they are about most things. When I came home for my first holiday I called my father ‘Pater’. He promptly had me caned before both family and servants. I didn’t mention the incident when I got back in school."

"Then I got mixed up in ‘causes’. At sixteen a girl is fertile ground. With my background it’s understandable that ‘Women’s Rights’ should catch my imagination. When I came home and started missionary work on the locals and our staff I was promptly locked up in a nice little stone room we have here for a couple of days of bread and water. However, my zeal had ignited one of the younger female staff. She unlocked the door. I ran away. When I was brought back I was tied to a post in the courtyard and left there for all to see my shame. The next day I was tied there again and very soundly whipped. And the next day… and the next… Each evening I was asked if I saw the error of my ways. You will understand the depth of my involvement when I tell you it took five days before I was able to say that yes, I did see…"

"It was the whip talking, wasn’t it?" Terry asked innocently.

"No!" Thalia’s negative was vehement. "It was not. The whip told me what I was and where I was. At the post each day I did much thinking. What girl wouldn’t? There is also something very potent about being tied. When a girl cannot move her body or her limbs it is her mind that becomes free. I suddenly saw women’s rights as a dream of spinsters. I shocked them back at school by telling them how lucky they were to be female." Thalia laughed roguishly. "A girl becomes very female when she’s whipped."

Dorinda wondered, with a clutching of the heart, in how many places and from how many people that lesson would be learned. Thalia’s eyes were almost maternal. "We tell you these things, darlings, so that you may learn with least pain. In England and in America, oh yes, I have been there, a girl and a whip are not related. In our land, here, they are never far apart."

That night Dorinda felt the chain upon her ankle and knew herself very far from home.

Dorinda would always think of it by the name Terry had coined. ‘Rabin’s Rentals’. She would speak it with caution. But its utter absurdity was all too apt. She watched, half ashamed, but with a mounting curiosity as papers were signed and money changed hands. The money paid for her. She was being ‘rented’. "Is a nice and easy job for first time." Mr. Rabin patted her back benevolently as he handed the key to her cuffs to a grinning man in uniform.

Corporal Kuhdin was a dedicated young man. Proud of his uniform and his stripe. Proud, also, of a motley brand of English picked up whilst working on sundry freighters with their motley crews. He accepted delivery of his naked charge with a flourish.

But not quite naked. Some unexplained motive of kindness of property had allowed her to wear Mike’s thoughtfully donated briefs. The same sentiment had probably cuffed her wrists at her front instead of at her back. She felt almost free and well dressed. In deference to her single garment which he fingered appreciatively whilst helping her into the truck the corporal vouschafed.

"The general’s a son of a bitch about cunts, miss."

The ambiguity defeated her. But of more immediate concern was the truck. It was not large, the ordinary open type on which hoops and a tarp made a conversion. It was covered now. But beneath the tarp was wire. The back, too, had been wired. The effect was as of a cage. Uncomfortable seated she made her usual ploy, more as an opening gambit to conversation than with hope of success.

"Could I have my handcuffs off, please?"

Corporal Kahdin established an all time first. He took them off and put them in his pocket. "We can have tail later," he approved.

Dorinda sighed. It was hard to do the best thing. Certainly the recreation he had suggested would be impractical in a truck on a road as rough as that hey now traversed. "Would you like to tell me what I have to do?" she asked politely.

He seemed surprised she did not know. "You are captured saboteur, miss. General Hakim is making fine example."

There were too many ambiguities. "Fine example of what?" Dorinda demanded.

"Of you miss. Captured enemy of the people miss. Very bad girl. Put on display. People spit."

The fine mesh wire began to make sense. Mr. Rabin’s ‘nice easy job’ seemed to depend on the angle from which it was viewed. "You mean your general wants a martyr on display?"

"Oh, already has a martyr, miss. Is nice Jewish girl. Very white like you. Could easily hang tomorrow. But the general is wishing to sleep with her. So she is nicely tucked away in little room he keep for very bad girls and tomorrow you hang instead. Everyone is happy."

Dorinda was aghast.

"Please do not fret," The corporal put his hand reassuringly on her arm. "You do not really hang. Just drop through the trap."

"What’s the difference?"

"The rope will break when you out of sight in hole. Most clever."

She looked at his smiling face in disbelief. This was Ian Fleming at his worst. With a service such as this, no wonder Rabin’s Rental prospered. "How do you know it will break?"

"I myself have cut it. Is now stuck with glue. Very poor quality." He eyed her anxiously. "You do not think we would harm you?"

"Wouldn’t you?"

"Oh no, miss. General Hakim is paying most large damage deposit."

Mr. Rabin thought of everything.

"What about this spitting business?" Dorinda asked doubtfully.

"It is very hard to spit straight through wire. Most miss."

"Won’t they throw things?"

"Yes, but wire protects," he glowed. "Also, we have military escort. I will be there." He sounded like general McArthur.

It was all too Arabian nights! With people like this no wonder Sheherazade could tell her thousand and one tales. "Did this poor girl actually toss a bomb?" she asked.

"Oh yes. At bridge. Much noise. She was caught on way to the border. Her jeep got a flat tire. Man with her shot. She very well known girl. Much bad. General Hakim most lucky to sleep with her."

"Why?"

"She fight and spit and bite. He must whip her every time they have tail. Is very good like that."

"And he’s going to keep her… keep her for that purpose?"

"For long time. When he tire of her, he’ll sell her to Rabin."

All was grist that came to Rabin’s mill. Dorinda felt like goods upon a shelf. This military truck bumped its way across an infinity of nothing. Corporal Kahdin exuded bonhomie, his gaze rarely leaving the curves and contours of the costly package to which he was escort.

"Have nice tits and belly," he informed their owner approvingly. "Face much nice too," he added as a chivalrous afterthought.

Surprisingly the corporal provided lunch from a package and a thermos produced from beneath the seat. The truck paused long enough for them to eat in comfort. For desert the corporal availed himself of the privilege of his office. Dorinda wished the floor of the truck had been softer.

When in mid afternoon they stopped again. Dorinda knew she had reached the scene of her ordeal. There were sounds. Corporal Kahdin became embarrassed. He produced the handcuffs awkwardly.

"Behind back, I’m fearing," he requested.

The hired girl turned and placed her wrists conveniently. How familiar the steel bands had become. He made them as tight upon her as he could without pain.

"Must be at back," he explained apologetically. "All peoples are wishing to see Jew girl’s breasts. Jew girls have fine breasts.

"But I am not a jewess."

"Ah true. But no one knowing. Your breasts are most fine. With little hands chain at back, cannot cover. Is not allowed for girl to cover in ceremony." Thoughtfully he inserted a finger beneath the briefs, pulled and let it snap back against her hip. "Most will think this should remove. But not now. General Hakim must believe in little something kept in reserve."

"If you’ll take off the handcuffs I’ll promise to show myself and cover nothing," the captive offered.

"This I would do. But people enjoy to see a girl in chains. Wicked Jew girl who tried to blow up bridge. She must be punished. But I put on handcuff. No more."

"Am I supposed to do anything?" the impending martyr asked bemusedly. "I mean, make faces, stick my tongue out? Do I sit down or stand up or lay on the floor? Should I look scared or brazen?"

"Not know brazen. Best look very haughty. Eyes flash fire and hate." The corporal did his best to demonstrate. "But I must ask you to stand up straight and turn about so everyone see. Is bad with truck in motion, but you manage." He looked at her with sudden compassion. "Must take tarp off now."

It was not a good moment for the nearly naked girl. The line that divided her from a girl sentenced to die on the morrow was to fine for comfort. Today there was no difference between them. She would receive the same insults and the same missiles and the same spittle as if she was the guilty one. She would be terribly alone. She wanted to cry, but would deny herself the comfort as long as she could.

The wire enclosed her, its gate locked importantly by a very official and distant corporal Kahdin. There was much tugging and small sounds of snaps and buckles. Without warning the tarp was swept away. She stood naked for the multitude.

There was the same surging cry that greets the players entering the field. Elation, awe, good spirits. Faces were everywhere. It was a roman holiday. General Hakim’s munidicence made it free for all. The first sticks and stones beat upon the wire with frightening volume.

The corporal seated himself with the driver. A small escort of uniformed troops, well armed, surrounded the vehicle and its unpopular cargo. The captured girl was thankful to see the general was protecting his investment. Such a crowd, left to its own devices, could easily kill her.

It was all frightening, beastly, and quite difficult. In spite of being within the limits of a town the road was far from smooth. All Dorinda’s energies were devoted to keeping her feet. With hands linked at her back it was not easy. The jolting of the truck forced upon her a constant change of stance so that the citizenry did indeed have a constantly changing view of their enemy. She thought, fleetingly, of the real saboteur crouched somewhere in a cell awaiting her captor’s pleasure. Assuredly this was not a land in which to espouse the rights of women.

Nostalgically a vision of Kyrexos and of her home in the USA flitted across her mind. In desolation she realised that she would probably never see them again. From what was happening to her now, the life expectancy of one of Rabin’s Rentals could surely not be long. She wept. The crowd roared its approval of her tears.

It was not a big place. But the circle and the various side streets on which the prisoner was to be exhibited accounted for perhaps four miles of shameful stumbling and balancing for the female object of everyone’s vilification. Most of the crowd followed to enjoy her exposure to the full, but heads stuck out of windows and doors. It was a gala day. The litter on the floor became an additional hazard for the caged girl striving to stand. Very little of what was thrown reached her with any velocity. But there were a lot of broken pieces that fell within the wire. Dorinda hoped that tears and haughtiness together were appropriate to the occasion.

The grand tour concluded, the truck was positioned in the center of the main square and came to a standstill. Corporal Kahdin unlocked the door to her cage and joined her within. He was smiling cheerfully. Undoubtedly the general would be pleased with his conduct of the day’s affairs. He carried something that caused his captive to wince.

"Are now on long display," he announced. "Poor girl are not allowed sitting down. She must stand."

"I’ll stand," his prisoner promised miserably. "You don’t have to chain me."

"Not needful." The corporal agreed. "But giving much more pleasure for all to see. Could not do in motion for fear of maybe fall. But now quite safe."

Grinning widely, so that Dorinda guessed he, too, was enjoying what must be done, he buckled the dog collar around her neck and snapped the light chain tether above her head to one of the hoops and the wire. No locks were needed. Handcuffed she was powerless to touch the new infliction. It gave her about a foot of latitude in which to turn. That was all. "Soldiers stay on guard. No harm come," he assured her earnestly as he left and locked her cage again.

Had Rabin and his daughter realised what they had consigned her to do? Probably. She was a woman. It did not matter. That had been the theme of the dinner conversation. Shame and indignity would be her lot from this time forward.

She let her eyes rove. The seething crowd had become amorphous, without identity. She felt their hate and their lust as she had not felt their sticks and stones. Those who got closest to the cage were men who had the strength, they were the ones she knew would conceal the rigid sex beneath their haik, longing to spend it within her loins. They were the ones for whom she wore the chains. Each could see her as his own. Each would violate her in his mind. She supposed it was not really much different from the plight of a girl in the stocks at Tyburn Hill, or held in a pillory in the old Massachusetts colony. No different from all the girls everywhere who had been displayed for crimes, real or imagined. Always the crowd had roared its approval of her body and her shame. There would be but few who saw virtue triumphant. For most she would be a visual instrument of latent lust.

She suffered. The crowd shared that suffering with delight. As the dismal time slowly spent itself she discovered that, in a small measure, she could control them. Her tears were met with vociferous approval. To tug against the tether on her neck would send a wordless susurration of sound through the ranks. If she struggled against the handcuffs a low rumble of approval signalled her ignominy. She found that she could mute the vocal discords by standing very straight and thrusting out her breasts in arrogant disdain. For a few moments they would be content to look at what they seldom saw. There would be among them adolescent males who had never seen a woman’s breasts. The knowledge of their tumescence gave her a momentary glow of satisfaction. She was deeply thankful for the cage and for the guards.

The military concluded the exercise with aplomb and dispatch. The driver and the corporal resumed their seats as the afternoon waned. The soldiers took up their escort. The small cortege made its way to a barracks, though a huge door that closed behind them, and stopped beside a smaller, but still impressive door. To the chained girl it was peace after storms. Her enemies were behind a very high wall. "Welcome to Fort Rahbeal," the corporal glowed.

Dorinda gave him a wan smile. "What now, a cell?"

He seemed genuinely shocked. "Oh no. No cell ‘till much later in night. This evening you are guest of general Hakim. Much arrack and champagne." He viewed her with reverence. Such honour was not for all.

She strove to share his enthusiasm as he removed her shaming leash from her neck. At the moment the general was an enigma. She supposed, wearily, that the least she could expect of him was to be used. Her status would be about that of a dancing girl. But she took heart when he lifted her from the truck and handed her over to a girl who now stood waiting. A girl both respectful and awed. As his last gesture for the day, corporal Kahdin unlocked the handcuffs from her back and locked them again at her front. Ceremoniously he handed the key to the prisoner’s new escort who accepted it with glowing panache. For her this was an occasion. She looked at her prisoner and smiled shyly. The corporal saluted and was gone.

Nothing made sense. But why should it? Sheherazade had taken it for granted. So must she. Her feminine escort led her out of the centuries into the exquisitely modern. General Hakim evidently believed in comfort. When the moment came for the bath, the girl shyly touched the handcuffs and held up the key. "No fight?" she asked simply.

For the first time that afternoon Dorinda laughed. She shook her head, smiling into earnest eyes. "No fight." It was an easy promise to make.

The serving girl grappled with the key. It was plain to see she was intrigued by the handcuffs. When she had them off she fitted one upon her own wrist and forced it tight to test its feel. Giggling she held the dangling steel up for inspection as though it was a new idea in bracelets. Thoughtlessly she placed the fetter and its key upon the dresser seeming to find no inconsistency in its easy use or removal. No doubt she had her own knowledge of the impossibility of escape.

Dorinda had not hoped for such a boon as the huge tub. She sorely needed it after the dusty drive and the attentions the citizens had seen fit to bestow. Now she was bathed and attended as a princess. As the gentle hands lathed the soap they also traced the marks beneath it. "Much whip," she queried in wonder.

"Much whip," her charge agreed. The in mischief: "Much bad girl."

Her servant viewed her with a new respect.

"I knew what was to happen to me the next day. Had I not written it in the letter? I stood with my arms tied high and wide. They took great care that the bands of cord round my wrists were very tight. They even took close ups to show how securely my hands were held."

Thalia chuckled. "I have learnt since that such pictures are sold at good prices all over the world. No doubt my kidnappers saw this as a small extra perquisite of their operation."

"They did not raise my feet from the floor. Just made me stand well stretched. Then they got down to business: on the second day I was to be whipped. It was the second day! My whipping called for much care with the camera and the lights. They desired a sequence. First my nice back and bottom. Click – click! Then I screamed and leaped into wild and foolish motion as my little round bottom received a truly awful cut with a cane given me with all the force of a man’s arm. Such pain could not be! I knew I would die. But a girl does not die. I stood and quivered while my tormentors watched and waited for the stripe across my bottom to ‘ripen’. They wanted the weal to stand up well and become as scarlet as my blood could make it. Then, once mere, click – click -click."

"Actually I was lucky that they were so concerned with excellence. It gave me time to gather up my courage and avoid hysteria. They wanted good close pictures in glorious technicolor of each wound they placed upon my skin. They contrived a cumulative series with little Thalia’s marked rear view showing her first one, then two, then three, and so on… Lovely scarlet stripes on golden flesh. Some had started to go purple before they were finished with the last of them. The camera faithfully recorded my martyrdom. Those awful lights made me cringe. I felt five times naked they sought out every curve and crevice."

"By now, of course, I was very much one qui vive. Looking back over one shoulder I saw the whip. The cane for my bottom, a whip for the rest of me. They explained they could get better camera effects if I bore two kinds of wounds. I also saw that whip raised and swung in a truly terrible slashing swipe. I turned away at the very last moment and bit my lip and tensed against the blow. When I came back from the pain they were admiring my wound very technically, even tracing it with a rough finger so that I cried out again. Click – click."

"These men were former competitors who were jealous of my superior business acumen," Mr. Rabin explained helpfully.

"They click-clicked away until they had me beautifully latticed with a total of ten wounds. Had my flesh not been so young, I would have borne them for years, perhaps for life. They had spaced the bars across my skin with neat effect so that each stood out to be counted. The rest of my day was a repetition of the first:"

"The agenda for day number three had me set wondering. Whilst never having experienced one of the two, they were of a nature so frequently dealt with in fiction and history that I had an awareness of such things. Number three was different. First, my hands we tied behind my back: this way, by the way. I thought they never would get through with all the trails and errors and experiments. The click-clicking became frantic. The method they finally settled on was the worst of the lot. My hands palm to palm, wrists tightly corded together and a leather strip round my elbows drawing them together so they touched. It hurt horribly. It also stuck my chest out front. Next they made me spread my legs and tied my ankles down to rings in the floor. Tight, tight! Click, click… It was the most shaming posture yet. What they did then shamed me even more. Each man sucked at one of my nipples."

Thalia shrugged in recognition of something done that could not be undone. With a wry grin she continued her story. "I was at the age where a girl becomes very much aware of the assets, bestowed upon her by nature. Giggling explorations with the girls and with myself – ever since puberty – had indicated the quite remarkable possibilities of friction and suction on the female breast. We were intrigued to discover how hard and erect the little dears could pop up with a bit of help. Mine got that bit of help now. When the men were through with them they were larger and harder than I had ever known or believed possible. A moment later I screamed my head off with a metal clip firmly biting into each nipple. Rapidly my abductors got busy."

"The clips were the kind you use to hold wads of paper. You squeeze on one side and the jaws open on the other. The come in different sizes and tensions. Those attached to me were not the biggest. But they hurt so much and stood out so rigidly from my breasts that I was quite sure they were slowly cutting off the two things I had so recently learned to treasure. My, how I screamed and begged! It did not seem possible that anyone would want to hurt so intimate a part of me. I expect that, in its way, the wearing of those metal horrors on my nipples was one of my first realisations of what it is to become a woman."

"I realised afterwards that the ensuing speed with which my tortured breasts were clicked at from all the usual angles resulted from a shared anxiety that my nipples should not mortify or sustain damage. They got them off as quickly as they could. They even massaged the scalded spots. I’m still not sure of their motives, but it made me howl some more. I spent the rest of the day looking down at myself to verify that my little rosebuds were still there."

"The villains led me to believe my little girl was wearing those wicked things all through the day. I much longed to kill them," said Mr. Rabin.

"The fourth day was the most shameful I have ever known. Perhaps the worst I will ever know, or any girl can know. By that time we were all looking for the ransom. It was explained to me that my letter and the daily pictures were being delivered by an airline employee so that there was no great space of hours between taking them and my father receiving them. Twelve to fifteen hours if all went well. So I was always filled with hope." The teller of the story shook her head and grimaced. "It was my first knowledge that hope can be worse than no hope. Hope is very cruel. It will not let you rest."

"I was tied in exactly the same way as the day before. I wept – even when they were tugging at the cords and strap. I had discovered that to have the elbows held like that all day is a very terrible torture too, even though it seems so harmless. Besides, I was fearful of the clips again… my letter had not gone into detail beyond the third day…"

"The produced a leek. You know what a leek is. Like a very large spring union but with more stem and flat green leaves. Even when I saw it I did not guess it’s purpose. I was very inexperienced in such matters."

"I could see they were very amused. They took much care shaving off the root bits to make it smooth and round so that it cam to look much like the pestle used by apothecaries in pounding out their prescriptions. They then anointed it with Vaseline… Well, you know what they did with it." Thalia made a gesture of infinite disgust. "I was deflowered by a leek. I lost my maidenhood to a vegetable! They were gentle enough with their merchandise. But it hurt me terribly and I was deathly afraid. I made a lot of noise and tried to struggle, but could hardly move. I was held beautifully for their purpose. They pushed it in as far as they dared. I was quite sure it had gone right into my tummy. So there I was. You can make your own mental picture of what I looked like with my feet spread wide and those green leaves sprouting out of my sex. I took one long fascinated look at myself and then refused to lower my eyes again. I turned my eyes this way and that while they clicked away with camera and lights. They were still busy when a very English voice said gruffly: "Yer can’t that there ‘ere, y’know."

"He was one of the largest policemen I have ever seen. Had I been able to, I would have flung myself into his ample arms."

"My kidnappers had other ideas. They dived at him and the doorway he barred. One of them drew a knife. I was shocked when the constable stepped to one side and let them through. There ensued a considerable commotion and shortly they were marched in again by two even bigger members of the law. They were now both handcuffed. I had never seen felons handcuffed before. They looked so absolutely right."

"The police were very kind. They removed the intrusion from within me and set me free. One of them found a rug in which I could drape my charms. But I will always remember how I blushed when one of them was carrying out the offensive leek. I heard a fine British voice out in the hallway say: ‘Goes lovely in a stew, George. My missus does ‘em up a treat.’"

"I saved much money. The English police does not accept bribes or rewards," Mr. Rabin complacently supplied the happy ending.

Dorinda found herself looking at Thalia Rabin with fresh interest. She was a beautiful girl. She had tremendous poise. It seemed probable she possessed a sense of humour. Why had she related this shocking ordeal from her past?

Mr. Rabin bestowed upon each of the girls his very warmest smile. "You are quite free to make comment. I would like you to. There will be no punishment for imprudent words…" His tone was benign.

‘ Comment’ Dorinda groped. They could freely express sympathy or shock. But she was sure that was not required. She looked up and found Thalia’s eyes watching her inward struggles with amusement. Quite suddenly a shocking parallel became obvious. "You were kidnapped. Now we are kidnapped. Not much difference in principle, is there?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Rabin, his eyes alert, pleased.

"That’s right, darling. You put your finger neatly on the spot. The moral is that I have been where you are. I know your feelings and reactions. The marks on your bodies tell us that you have been hurt. Perhaps more than I ever was. So we are very much even." "But where is the happy ending for us?" Dorinda’s voice held pathos.

"I don’t believe you should think in that view. Live each day only." Thalia sounded as though she could easily have evoked Allah.

Dorinda lifted her handcuffed wrists for all to see. "A slave has no tomorrows.." She let the words hang in the air.

Thalia looked at her parent qeuryingly. He smiled indulgently. "Yes, tell them of how you were once very bad." He turned to Dorinda and Terry. "It is good that you know."

"I have told you of pain. Now I tell you of punishment. They are the same and not the same. A matter of motive and acceptance." She looked at her alert audience and smiled reassuringly. "Would it surprise you to know that my father has had me whipped?"

Thalia laughed again at their startled attention. "I have told you I am a product of two worlds. There is much friction between those worlds. As I went back and forth between Girton and my father’s house I was constantly subject to pressures. The overshadowing one being filial piety. The English were as flip about parents as they are about most things. When I came home for my first holiday I called my father ‘Pater’. He promptly had me caned before both family and servants. I didn’t mention the incident when I got back in school."

"Then I got mixed up in ‘causes’. At sixteen a girl is fertile ground. With my background it’s understandable that ‘Women’s Rights’ should catch my imagination. When I came home and started missionary work on the locals and our staff I was promptly locked up in a nice little stone room we have here for a couple of days of bread and water. However, my zeal had ignited one of the younger female staff. She unlocked the door. I ran away. When I was brought back I was tied to a post in the courtyard and left there for all to see my shame. The next day I was tied there again and very soundly whipped. And the next day… and the next… Each evening I was asked if I saw the error of my ways. You will understand the depth of my involvement when I tell you it took five days before I was able to say that yes, I did see

…"

"It was the whip talking, wasn’t it?" Terry asked innocently.

"No!" Thalia’s negative was vehement. "It was not. The whip told me what I was and where I was. At the post each day I did much thinking. What girl wouldn’t? There is also something very potent about being tied. When a girl cannot move her body or her limbs it is her mind that becomes free. I suddenly saw women’s rights as a dream of spinsters. I shocked them back at school by telling them how lucky they were to be female." Thalia laughed roguishly. "A girl becomes very female when she’s whipped."

Dorinda wondered, with a clutching of the heart, in how many places and from how many people that lesson would be learned. Thalia’s eyes were almost maternal. "We tell you these things, darlings, so that you may learn with least pain. In England and in America, oh yes, I have been there, a girl and a whip are not related. In our land, here, they are never far apart."

That night Dorinda felt the chain upon her ankle and knew herself very far from home.

Dorinda would always think of it by the name Terry had coined. ‘Rabin’s Rentals’. She would speak it with caution. But its utter absurdity was all too apt. She watched, half ashamed, but with a mounting curiosity as papers were signed and money changed hands. The money paid for her. She was being ‘rented’. "Is a nice and easy job for first time." Mr. Rabin patted her back benevolently as he handed the key to her cuffs to a grinning man in uniform.

Corporal Kuhdin was a dedicated young man. Proud of his uniform and his stripe. Proud, also, of a motley brand of English picked up whilst working on sundry freighters with their motley crews. He accepted delivery of his naked charge with a flourish.

But not quite naked. Some unexplained motive of kindness of property had allowed her to wear Mike’s thoughtfully donated briefs. The same sentiment had probably cuffed her wrists at her front instead of at her back. She felt almost free and well dressed. In deference to her single garment which he fingered appreciatively whilst helping her into the truck the corporal vouschafed.

"The general’s a son of a bitch about cunts, miss."

The ambiguity defeated her. But of more immediate concern was the truck. It was not large, the ordinary open type on which hoops and a tarp made a conversion. It was covered now. But beneath the tarp was wire. The back, too, had been wired. The effect was as of a cage. Uncomfortable seated she made her usual ploy, more as an opening gambit to conversation than with hope of success. "Could I have my handcuffs off, please?"

Corporal Kahdin established an all time first. He took them off and put them in his pocket. "We can have tail later," he approved. Dorinda sighed. It was hard to do the best thing. Certainly the recreation he had suggested would be impractical in a truck on a road as rough as that hey now traversed. "Would you like to tell me what I have to do?" she asked politely.

He seemed surprised she did not know. "You are captured saboteur, miss. General Hakim is making fine example."

There were too many ambiguities. "Fine example of what?" Dorinda demanded.

"Of you miss. Captured enemy of the people miss. Very bad girl. Put on display. People spit."

The fine mesh wire began to make sense. Mr. Rabin’s ‘nice easy job’ seemed to depend on the angle from which it was viewed. "You mean your general wants a martyr on display?"

"Oh, already has a martyr, miss. Is nice Jewish girl. Very white like you. Could easily hang tomorrow. But the general is wishing to sleep with her. So she is nicely tucked away in little room he keep for very bad girls and tomorrow you hang instead. Everyone is happy."

Dorinda was aghast. Had Rabin been that – - -

"Please do not fret," The corporal put his hand reassuringly on her arm. "You do not really hang. Just drop through the trap."

"What’s the difference?"

"The rope will break when you out of sight in hole. Most clever."

She looked at his smiling face in disbelief. This was Ian Fleming at his worst. With a service such as this, no wonder Rabin’s Rental prospered. "How do you know it will break?"

"I myself have cut it. Is now stuck with glue. Very poor quality." He eyed her anxiously. "You do not think we would harm you?"

"Wouldn’t you?"

"Oh no, miss. General Hakim is paying most large damage deposit."

Mr. Rabin thought of everything.

"What about this spitting business?" Dorinda asked doubtfully.

"It is very hard to spit straight through wire. Most miss."

"Won’t they throw things?"

"Yes, but wire protects," he glowed. "Also, we have military escort. I will be there." He sounded like general McArthur.

It was all too Arabian nights! With people like this no wonder Sheherazade could tell her thousand and one tales. "Did this poor girl actually toss a bomb?" she asked.

"Oh yes. At bridge. Much noise. She was caught on way to the border. Her jeep got a flat tire. Man with her shot. She very well known girl. Much bad. General Hakim most lucky to sleep with her."

"Why?"

"She fight and spit and bite. He must whip her every time they have tail. Is very good like that."

"And he’s going to keep her… keep her for that purpose?"

"For long time. When he tire of her, he’ll sell her to Rabin."

All was grist that came to Rabin’s mill. Dorinda felt like goods upon a shelf. This military truck bumped its way across an infinity of nothing. Corporal Kahdin exuded bonhomie, his gaze rarely leaving the curves and contours of the costly package to which he was escort.

"Have nice tits and belly," he informed their owner approvingly. "Face much nice too," he added as a chivalrous afterthought.

Surprisingly the corporal provided lunch from a package and a thermos produced from beneath the seat. The truck paused long enough for them to eat in comfort. For desert the corporal availed himself of the privilege of his office. Dorinda wished the floor of the truck had been softer.

When in mid afternoon they stopped again. Dorinda knew she had reached the scene of her ordeal. There were sounds. Corporal Kahdin became embarrassed. He produced the handcuffs awkwardly.

"Behind back, I’m fearing," he requested.

The hired girl turned and placed her wrists conveniently. How familiar the steel bands had become. He made them as tight upon her as he could without pain.

"Must be at back," he explained apologetically. "All peoples are wishing to see Jew girl’s breasts. Jew girls have fine breasts.

"But I am not a jewess."

"Ah true. But no one knowing. Your breasts are most fine. With little hands chain at back, cannot cover. Is not allowed for girl to cover in ceremony." Thoughtfully he inserted a finger beneath the briefs, pulled and let it snap back against her hip. "Most will think this should remove. But not now. General Hakim must believe in little something kept in reserve."

"If you’ll take off the handcuffs I’ll promise to show myself and cover nothing," the captive offered.

"This I would do. But people enjoy to see a girl in chains. Wicked Jew girl who tried to blow up bridge. She must be punished. But I put on handcuff. No more."

"Am I supposed to do anything?" the impending martyr asked bemusedly. "I mean, make faces, stick my tongue out? Do I sit down or stand up or lay on the floor? Should I look scared or brazen?"

"Not know brazen. Best look very haughty. Eyes flash fire and hate." The corporal did his best to demonstrate. "But I must ask you to stand up straight and turn about so everyone see. Is bad with truck in motion, but you manage." He looked at her with sudden compassion. "Must take tarp off now."

It was not a good moment for the nearly naked girl. The line that divided her from a girl sentenced to die on the morrow was to fine for comfort. Today there was no difference between them. She would receive the same insults and the same missiles and the same spittle as if she was the guilty one. She would be terribly alone. She wanted to cry, but would deny herself the comfort as long as she could.

The wire enclosed her, its gate locked importantly by a very official and distant corporal Kahdin. There was much tugging and small sounds of snaps and buckles. Without warning the tarp was swept away. She stood naked for the multitude.

There was the same surging cry that greets the players entering the field. Elation, awe, good spirits. Faces were everywhere. It was a roman holiday. General Hakim’s munidicence made it free for all. The first sticks and stones beat upon the wire with frightening volume.

The corporal seated himself with the driver. A small escort of uniformed troops, well armed, surrounded the vehicle and its unpopular cargo. The captured girl was thankful to see the general was protecting his investment. Such a crowd, left to its own devices, could easily kill her.

It was all frightening, beastly, and quite difficult. In spite of being within the limits of a town the road was far from smooth. All Dorinda’s energies were devoted to keeping her feet. With hands linked at her back it was not easy. The jolting of the truck forced upon her a constant change of stance so that the citizenry did indeed have a constantly changing view of their enemy. She thought, fleetingly, of the real saboteur crouched somewhere in a cell awaiting her captor’s pleasure. Assuredly this was not a land in which to espouse the rights of women.

Nostalgically a vision of Kyrexos and of her home in the USA flitted across her mind. In desolation she realised that she would probably never see them again. From what was happening to her now, the life expectancy of one of Rabin’s Rentals could surely not be long. She wept. The crowd roared its approval of her tears.

It was not a big place. But the circle and the various side streets on which the prisoner was to be exhibited accounted for perhaps four miles of shameful stumbling and balancing for the female object of everyone’s vilification. Most of the crowd followed to enjoy her exposure to the full, but heads stuck out of windows and doors. It was a gala day. The litter on the floor became an additional hazard for the caged girl striving to stand. Very little of what was thrown reached her with any velocity. But there were a lot of broken pieces that fell within the wire. Dorinda hoped that tears and haughtiness together were appropriate to the occasion.

The grand tour concluded, the truck was positioned in the center of the main square and came to a standstill. Corporal Kahdin unlocked the door to her cage and joined her within. He was smiling cheerfully. Undoubtedly the general would be pleased with his conduct of the day’s affairs. He carried something that caused his captive to wince.

"Are now on long display," he announced. "Poor girl are not allowed sitting down. She must stand."

"I’ll stand," his prisoner promised miserably. "You don’t have to chain me."

"Not needful." The corporal agreed. "But giving much more pleasure for all to see. Could not do in motion for fear of maybe fall. But now quite safe."

Grinning widely, so that Dorinda guessed he, too, was enjoying what must be done, he buckled the dog collar around her neck and snapped the light chain tether above her head to one of the hoops and the wire. No locks were needed. Handcuffed she was powerless to touch the new infliction. It gave her about a foot of latitude in which to turn. That was all. "Soldiers stay on guard. No harm come," he assured her earnestly as he left and locked her cage again.

Had Rabin and his daughter realised what they had consigned her to do? Probably. She was a woman. It did not matter. That had been the theme of the dinner conversation. Shame and indignity would be her lot from this time forward.

She let her eyes rove. The seething crowd had become amorphous, without identity. She felt their hate and their lust as she had not felt their sticks and stones. Those who got closest to the cage were men who had the strength, they were the ones she knew would conceal the rigid sex beneath their haik, longing to spend it within her loins. They were the ones for whom she wore the chains. Each could see her as his own. Each would violate her in his mind. She supposed it was not really much different from the plight of a girl in the stocks at Tyburn Hill, or held in a pillory in the old Massachusetts colony. No different from all the girls everywhere who had been displayed for crimes, real or imagined. Always the crowd had roared its approval of her body and her shame. There would be but few who saw virtue triumphant. For most she would be a visual instrument of latent lust.

She suffered. The crowd shared that suffering with delight. As the dismal time slowly spent itself she discovered that, in a small measure, she could control them. Her tears were met with vociferous approval. To tug against the tether on her neck would send a wordless susurration of sound through the ranks. If she struggled against the handcuffs a low rumble of approval signalled her ignominy. She found that she could mute the vocal discords by standing very straight and thrusting out her breasts in arrogant disdain. For a few moments they would be content to look at what they seldom saw. There would be among them adolescent males who had never seen a woman’s breasts. The knowledge of their tumescence gave her a momentary glow of satisfaction. She was deeply thankful for the cage and for the guards.

The military concluded the exercise with aplomb and dispatch. The driver and the corporal resumed their seats as the afternoon waned. The soldiers took up their escort. The small cortege made its way to a barracks, though a huge door that closed behind them, and stopped beside a smaller, but still impressive door. To the chained girl it was peace after storms. Her enemies were behind a very high wall. "Welcome to Fort Rahbeal," the corporal glowed.

Dorinda gave him a wan smile. "What now, a cell?"

He seemed genuinely shocked. "Oh no. No cell ‘till much later in night. This evening you are guest of general Hakim. Much arrack and champagne." He viewed her with reverence. Such honour was not for all.

She strove to share his enthusiasm as he removed her shaming leash from her neck. At the moment the general was an enigma. She supposed, wearily, that the least she could expect of him was to be used. Her status would be about that of a dancing girl. But she took heart when he lifted her from the truck and handed her over to a girl who now stood waiting. A girl both respectful and awed. As his last gesture for the day, corporal Kahdin unlocked the handcuffs from her back and locked them again at her front. Ceremoniously he handed the key to the prisoner’s new escort who accepted it with glowing panache. For her this was an occasion. She looked at her prisoner and smiled shyly. The corporal saluted and was gone.

Nothing made sense. But why should it? Sheherazade had taken it for granted. So must she. Her feminine escort led her out of the centuries into the exquisitely modern. General Hakim evidently believed in comfort. When the moment came for the bath, the girl shyly touched the handcuffs and held up the key. "No fight?" she asked simply.

For the first time that afternoon Dorinda laughed. She shook her head, smiling into earnest eyes. "No fight." It was an easy promise to make.

The serving girl grappled with the key. It was plain to see she was intrigued by the handcuffs. When she had them off she fitted one upon her own wrist and forced it tight to test its feel. Giggling she held the dangling steel up for inspection as though it was a new idea in bracelets. Thoughtlessly she placed the fetter and its key upon the dresser seeming to find no inconsistency in its easy use or removal. No doubt she had her own knowledge of the impossibility of escape.

Dorinda had not hoped for such a boon as the huge tub. She sorely needed it after the dusty drive and the attentions the citizens had seen fit to bestow. Now she was bathed and attended as a princess. As the gentle hands lathed the soap they also traced the marks beneath it.

"Much whip," she queried in wonder.

"Much whip," her charge agreed. The in mischief: "Much bad girl."

Her servant viewed her with a new respect.

The raiment provided for her festive evening made her blush. Dorinda had known clothes and she had known nudity. Latterly nakedness had been her constant lot. But this was neither. Admiring it in the mirror she knew she would prefer good honest bare skin. These gossamer wisps of transparencies made her many times naked, many times wanton. They hid nothing. She could see herself through them everywhere. But they enhanced, emphasised, revealed. They were clever, they were beautiful, they where lewd. They also made her very much a woman.

There was much working on her hair. There were perfumes and cosmetics. There were bangles galore. The final bangle was her old friend: the handcuffs.

The girl became shy again when she picked them up. She obviously saw them as a magic token from another world. She who must wear them was touched with that same magic in her eyes. She looked up hesitantly. "You wear, please."

A relaxed Dorinda would have worn three pairs quite cheerfully if required to do so. The girl and the place had restored her faith. Perhaps, after all, Mr. Rabin knew what he was doing. Nodding and smiling brightly she offered her wrists and watched, amused, as reverent fingers locked them together.

"You do us great humor, my dear."

General Hakim was of the East. His English perfect. But in all else he was a part of this land. Lean, good features, a keen eye. He surveyed his guest with evident approval.

She, in turn, found reassurance in him. Whatever else the general might be, he was evidently a man of manners and good taste. But it was not on him alone that her gaze settled in wonder.

The saboteur stood in an alcove. Behind her a window illuminating and silhouetting her nakedness. Her right arm was raised. It’s wrist chained to the wall at the level of her head so that she must stand, helpless. She was very lovely. She wore only the fresh scarlet stripes of a whip. Her eyes widened to match Dorinda’s own.

"Allow me. Miss Dorinda Matson… Miss Hulda Cohen." He laughed at their astonishment in each other. "Both exiles from the great land across the Atlantic. Miss Cohen, as you may know, is a renegade from the Bronx." The general was suave and very pleased with himself.

"How’d he grab hold of you, honey?" Miss Cohen eyed the handcuffs as thought they told all.

"Quiet, bitch!" Hakim picked up a slender cane and negligently added one more stripe to miss Cohen’s extensive collection. "You speak when spoken to," he said without heat.

The girl from the Bronx rubbed the place that hurt. She had one free hand for such purpose. She made no pretence of indifference to pain. It was easy to see her anger and the bitter words trembling on her lips. But she kept a sulky silence. She might not be tamed. But she was subdued.

"Reba, dear, you can inform them that dinner may be served. You will attend us." Hakim swung his attention to his handcuffed guest. "It would me most pleasant if the three of us could eat a civilised meal together and enjoy rational conversation. But miss Cohen, when placed at the table, seems under some compulsion to fight. Last night is was the soup in my face." He sighed. "I find it disturbing in the digestion to be constantly whipping her throughout dinner. Please excuse her if she stays as she is."

"All right, I’ll behave," his captive announced petulantly.

Thoughtfully and without haste the general added one more stroke. Hulda subsided into contortions.

"I think she really means it, general," Dorinda ventured, greatly daring. She saw herself in the other girl’s position and understood. Hakim eyed her narrowly. She trembled. "You do, yourself, behave at meals?" he inquired sardonically.

"Yes general, I have been trained." Again the narrow look, this time with approval. "Ah. You interest me. Rabin excels himself. I will accept your judgement. Miss Cohen may have her chance to behave. But another incident and you, too, shall feel the whip."

"Tank you, general." She knelt before him, bowed in submission. She might as well give him his money’s worth.

Reverently, after several hushed moments, he raised her to her feet. His eyes were bright. Briskly he turned to the saboteur. "Look. Look well, girl. Here we have a woman." He bent and kissed the hands by which he had helped their owner to rise. He touched the handcuffs gently. "You wear these well, child. They become you."

General Hakim liked to talk. He held an attentive audience. Both conscious of a whip and much bare skin. "The tendency of today’s female to embrace nobility is the base of our age."

He allowed the statement to hover. Then turned gravity to the bitter, silent girl. "Don’t you agree, miss Cohen?"

"Yes, general." The flat monotone was a contradiction.

"I am surprised at your affirmative." His voice was chill.

"It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?"

He eyed her sombrely. "Your attitude rather than your words merit a stroke. It can wait ‘till after…"

"Chain me back on the wall, please. I’ll only accumulate a flogging and spoil things for both of you." The guerrilla girl suddenly seemed very vulnerable and very young.

A disappointed silence feel upon the table. The general eyed Hulda’s soup anxiously. "Come, come. We do not enjoy ourselves. We call a truce. For the duration of our dinner, no penalties. We may now be honest. Come, my dear, tell me I’m a monster."

Dorinda watched with interest and with empathy. It was easy to place herself in Hulda’s shoes. A female thing sundered from all she knew, a body to be used, a mind to be probed. The torture of one would equal the torture of the other. Courageous, yes. But to what end? How vivid the question mark must be. Having slaked the general’s lust until he was weary of her, what then? Did the girl know of Rabin? It would be a kindness to tell her. Dorinda felt certain the guerrilla girl expected death.

The handcuffs clinked. She had learned to eat and drink daintily with her hands locked. But the shining steel was constantly in attention of her companions. The general’s eyes glinted with pleasure as he watched the nimble hands of his guest disport themselves within their imprisonment. She who wore the steel knew of the stirrings within his loins that her condition evoked. It pleased her. She supposed it a slave girl’s only victory.

Hulda Cohen’s interest was from pure puzzlement. She sensed the incongruenty that she, the felon, should be free of bonds, but that the honoured guest be chained. She availed herself of her limited vocal freedom: "You wear these things for fun?" She motioned with distaste at the objects of her curiosity.

Dorinda was shocked to realise she could not properly answer the question. She herself knew not why she was confined. Certainly not to prevent an impossible escape. She felt sure Hakim wanted them only to satisfy an erotic enjoyment of his own. But this she could not say. She twinkled at him and did her best for the establishment.

"It pleases our master that I be chained."

Hulda considered the proposition. "You mean it gives him a hard on?" she demanded unequivocally.

Dorinda blushed. General Hakim sighed and made a gesture of helplessness. "You see our problem?" he said to Dorinda. "Communication is by volleys and thunders. We do not talk. We kill."

"It is some sort of a slave?" Hulda probed at him.

Dorinda sparkled. "Have you explained my status, general?"

"It is none of her business," the general stated flatly. "In any case, she would be incapable of gratitude. Such as she can only be at your knees or at your throat."

Dorinda tried again with the glowering girl. "Tonight I am handcuffed for our master’s pleasure. Tomorrow I will be chained so that I make no foolish attempts to escape." She looked sympathetically into the hostile eyes. "When a girl becomes a slave it is best she forget freedom. If she can do this, she will be much happier." She shrugged: "But we are weak and sentimental. We think of home as where we once were. At such times it is best we be chained. It saves us much whipping."

"Doesn’t seem to have saved you any."

"The marks you see upon me are not recent. They are of another time." "You mean you let yourself be chained and whipped without argument?"

"Yes. If I argue and fight I am whipped more."And you get screwed coming and going."

"It is a slave girl’s lot."

Hulda Cohen turned to the general. "Is that my life from now on?"

"You prefer execution."

The watching girl knew the word ‘yes’ trembled on Hulda’s lips. It was the conventional answer to the villain’s jibe. But, for most, it was not a true answer and never had been.

"All right. It’s better to be fucked than killed." Hulda contrived to make the choice sound about equal.

"You see, you are a fortunate young women." His tone was sardonic. He enjoyed watching Hulda squirm.

"Won’t I ever have clothes again?" The question was not rhetorical.

"You have no need for them," he dismissed the question as flippant.

Hulda looked at her captor shrewdly. "Suppose I turned into a pretty little slave like Dorinda and said ‘yes’ in all the right places, and called you master. Suppose I held out my hands for the chains and bent my back for the whip, would it help… Whatever is going to happen to me?"

The general laughed appreciatively. "Honesty compels me to tell you that it would change nothing for you. It would simply rob me of some stimulation."

"More erections if you whip me into submission?" she sneered.

"Your hatred is an exciting stimulant," Hakim agreed equably.

"I can defeat you, then, by total subservience?"

"Too late, dear. Simulation would be obvious and doubly punished."

"Do you whip Dorinda before you screw her?"

"You are becoming personal and insolent."

"You wish to whip me now, master?" Her glinting eyes made the question a parody.

Hakim shook his head in despair.

It was Reba who served them brandy in the lunge. A pleasant room, a pleasant place. Even the atmosphere had become relaxed. But Dorinda wondered…. when the serving girl had completed her task she stood at obvious attention to one side. She held a whip.

"An enjoyable evening of entertainment," general Hakim declared heartily.

"Dancing girls?" Dorinda twinkled at him. He was not a bore.

"One." He pointed to Hulda Cohen.

Dorinda had half expected something of the sort. Hulda was flushing angrily.

Hakin laughed at the expression on their faces. "Perhaps not a dance. Perhaps instead a little training in deportment. But not by me." He laughed again at their surprise. "For tonight Reba shall be our Mistress of Ceremonies." He turned benignly to Dorinda. "You may find this interesting, my dear."

It was indeed. From the gentle serving wench the Arab girl transformed. She was a half nude tigress, lithe and vital. Yet her features remained demure. There was a small smile upon her lips. Dorinda suspected she had played this role before.

Hulda Cohen had, for a moment, looked shocked. Then, resolutely, she downed her drink, rose to her feet and walked to where she could face the company. "Okay," she said resentfully. "No Roman games. Put away the whip. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it."

The whip wrapped around her viciously.

Reba’s motions held infinite grace as she circled the startled and writhing captive, slashing her tongue to cut the protesting flesh. Hulda Cohen yelped and ran.

Dorinda grasped the whipped girl’s dilemma. She had said the wrong thing. Now, what would be right? The stalking girl with the whip followed wherever her prey ran. No matter how the prey twisted or fled the lash found her skin. Some contortions inadvertedly displayed the more secret recesses of their owner’s femininity and were immediately sliced by an intent Reba who was obviously awake to such opportunities. In desperation the moaning and gasping victim lunged at her tormentor. But in physical combat, too, the Arab girl could not be bested. She evaded and repulsed with ease. The whip bit and cracked.

The girl from the Bronx made agonised appeals. None of them the one desired. At length, in an all or nothing bid, she knelt before the girl who punished her and sobbed. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me." She had found the key. Reba let the whip fall and once more took up her pose.

There was no need for words. This was the entertainment. A dozen houris might have danced unnoticed in the room. Hulda Cohen held the stage. The watching faces were rapt….

Reba had left the vanquished girl kneeling on centre stage. Dorinda reluctantly recognised the carnality of the picture. It was cruelly beautiful. Hulda sobbed, her face buried in her hands. Why the hands? To hide her shame… to mask her tears? To seek the darkness of the womb? Whatever their comfort, the whipped girl remained within its embrace a long time, her bowed body jerking with her sobs. When the gasping admissions of agony came to an end, the fingers widened and an anxious eye peered forth. Seeing no immediate threat, their owner let her hands fall and rest upon her thighs. She shifted so that she faced those who watched. She did not speak.

Dorinda was sure the wounded girl had nothing to say that she dared voice. She was obviously very ashamed of her condition and her capitulation. She would wait without hope.

Reba came forward. She held handcuffs, at sight of which the bowed girl winced.

"Give me your wrists and ask me to lock them in handcuffs," Reba wasted no words.

It was a tense moment. Those watching saw the battle wage within the whipped girl’s mind. Slowly she got to her feet and stood before the girl who held the whip. As though forcing some irretractable object into conformity she that part of herself to be prisoned.

"Please lock the handcuffs on my wrists." Her face was a mask of misery.

She visibly quivered under the bite of the steel. She had relinquished her small freedom. She could still resist, but uselessly. She look piteously and questioningly at her youthful mistress. She knew her ordeal was not done.

"Stick your bottom on display in any pose your wish. Then ask me politely to cane it." Reba was enjoying her power.

Dorinda cringed in sympathy. To ask for that you want least is a terrible thing for a girl to do. She invites not only pain, but shame.

Hulda Cohen was still examining the bands upon her wrists. Her hands were high before her. Her eyes almost mesmerised by that what linked them. The fresh demand struck her like a blow. For only a few seconds did she consider what she must do. Slowly, hating every moment, she bent and grasped her ankles with her captive hands.

"Please cane my bottom." Each word was laved with tears and hatred.

"After each stroke you will say ‘thank you’"

"I will say ‘thank you’" A dull monotone.

It was beautiful. It was pure artistry. It was cruel.

Reba was a mistress of her art. Dorinda wondered where the girl had picked up her skill and her grace. To watch her deliver each stroke was a study in flowing motion, a delight. Hulda suffered and delivered her thanks. But her writings and sounds of distress intensified with each blow so that the end was inevitable. She fell writhing and crying to the floor. "I can’t…. I can’t. It’s no good." She crawled to Hakim’s feet. "Please kill me," she asked flatly. "I cannot do these things you demand."

He pushed her sideways with his foot as one does a dog. Reba grasped the hair of the bent head and dragged its owner back to the center of the floor. She was offered brandy which she drank avidly.

"Stay here."

When Reba returned she led by the hand a man. He was clearly the village idiot. A huge beaming vacant smile. Dorinda guessed he had played this part before. His roving gaze settled upon the naked girl who would find her deepest shame in servicing him. He stood gawping.

"You know what to do, bitch."

Hulda knew. In wild despair she buried her face in her shackled hands. Her head shook negatively. "No… No… oh no!"

The whip played upon her already straited nakedness. Reba cared not where she struck, but applied her aim to whatever part of the naked body and legs its agonised squirmings presented. The half-wit watched the proceedings with satisfaction. To him it may have been a familiar prelude. His chin became moistened with saliva. He knew himself an object to which victory was assured.

When Hulda had salved her honour with the whip, she thrust out her fettered hands in surrender. Reba immediately stepped away and joined the audience.

The shamed girl looked at no one, but immured herself and her vision in the task before her eyes. Disdainfully she pulled at the nondescript garment and dragged into site the rigid thing that was to be the instrument of her abasement. The idiot grunted and grinned at all present as though inviting them to share his good fortune. Hulda Cohen took the ugly thing within her mouth.

She did what she had to do with great competence, even coping adequately with the grand finale. Expelling the now clean penis from her lips, she looked at Reba. But the creature she had pleasured was engrossed with her. His idiot hands fondled her breasts, played with her hair and traced the contours of her face as though to familiarise himself with the source of such ecstasy as she had given him. Reba smiled knowingly at a scene wellplayed.

"Again," she instructed.

Perhaps it was no more than Hulda had expected. She took a quick glance at the whip, then resignedly resumed her humiliation. Her subject gasped with joy and clapped his hands.

When he was, at last led away Hulda Cohen remained kneeling, her eyes focused on the rug before her. She was a girl to whom too much had happened. She was numb with despair. If hope had germinated in her mind it was soon shattered.

"You will stand with your legs spread very wide. You will clasp your hands at the back of your neck. You will stand thus, while I whip your cunt," Reba directed pleasantly.

The kneeling girl got stiffly to her feet. Her eyes mirrored her disbelief at what she had heard. In mute appeal she sought the faces of Hakim and the girl whose function to her still was an enigma. In Dorinda’s she saw infinite sympathy. In Hakim’s only implacability and satisfaction with Reba’s competence. She shook herself as though dazed. Then obeyed her instructions.

Again the eroticism was overwhelming. The pose itself provocative enough. But the handcuffs and the marks of the whip and the cane endowed the exposed nudity with a quality deserving of immortality on canvas. After a lingering look at those who held her in their power, the victim lifted her gaze above their heads and waited.

Dorinda need not have wondered aghast at how female flesh could be expected to stand for further slashing. Reba had the matter will in hand. The curving strokes with the full force of an arm were set aside. The arc of a downward cut was discarded for more subtle employment of the thong. Standing at the requisite distance from the target Hakim’s servant brought the leather flickering up from the floor to bite with its tip and snap in small licks at the open sex and loins.

Hulda had courage. She winced, she cringed, she twisted her body. But she held her pose. Shaming and hurtful as the new infliction was, it was probably less awful than her expectation. It was also a test of Reba’s skill and accuracy. They stood the test. Before long she gave another command. "Turn your back to us. Same pose."

The victim obeyed. Dorinda shrank in her own knowledge of what would come. Now the last sought out the topmost crevice of the ‘V’ and spent itself within. Hulda yelped and cried, but once again endured.

"Do what you like. Stand or hold yourself in whatever way you please. I shall whip you as I choose."

In it’s way the cruellest of all. Now there was decision. Now each move would invoke the fear of revealing an unsuspected vulnerability. Each movement would enhance shame. A cat and mouse which ended before the general’s chair: a weeping crouched girl across whose bent back the lashes still fell in rhythmic cadence.

"Please… Kill me. I do not want to live." Without theatre. A cry in truth from the heart.

"You will live a long time, my dear," said general Hakim.

That night it was Hulda Cohen who slept in Dorinda’s cell.

Corporal Kahdin was apologetic. No handcuffs. They were too much of the West. Today was of the East. The saboteur maiden was to be executed without comfort. She must be bound with rope, as painfully as possible. Dorinda shrugged. "I’m all yours," she said playfully. "Do what you please with me. I’m paid for."

Once more the cage. The corporal explained that custom decreed her being dragged through the streets at the end of a rope. But this he would not countenance. It was doubtful that would arrive alive. The bridge had been a valued asset. She had destroyed it. Angry merchants whose produce had not arrived on schedule might vent their national spleen… Dorinda herself was thankful for the cage.

But before she had been placed therein the corporal had completed a task not to his liking. It was not to Dorinda’s liking either. She suspected that it would be less and less. Her hands had been tied tightly with cord, palm to palm. Her elbows had been joined by two severe strands that cut into her flesh like burning coals. A strap was beyond bearing. These two bitter circlets were pure hell. Her eyes had pleaded. She had twisted her shoulders helplessly. She had asked him, begged him – quietly and without hysteria – to lighten the bonds that she must bear. He had kissed her nipples gently and told her that she must suffer. The people must see her suffer. It was expected. Sometimes a girl was whipped, or a hand cut off before she was killed. The bands around her elbows were merciful. She must be content.

She was not content. But she did what she must do. It was frightening to realise that this was real. She might be an unrecognised proxy. But to all intents and purposes she was going to her death. It was impossible not to feel, here and there for brief moments, that she was indeed Hulda Cohen going to pay with her life for a single bomb…

Once more the shaming dog collar and chain. How the crowd howled. She hated them, all of them and their turgid passions. There was not a man among them who would not give half of what he owned for the right to bed her. To take her now at this moment when she was near death and plant seed in a womb in which it could never flower. She knew instinctively that the short span of her life before her final choking death made her double desirable. To fuck a girl, vivid with life, a moment before she died! To what greater height could a man aspire?

The dreary route ran its course. She could not quell the thrill of fear as she saw the scaffold against the wall of Castle Rahbeal. There a girl was to die. But there was comfort in the enclosure below the trap. Comfort, too, in her memory that there was a lesser door in the wall within the limits of that enclosure. General Hakim had planned well.

The things men did to possess a woman’s body. This whole charade was for no other purpose than to enable a man to enjoy the body of a girl that was forfeit to the state. She was desirable to him because she fought. Because she was subject to the ultimate punishment. There was a for in Hulda that he sought to quench. Thus this whole play of which she was part. Thus the money that would enrich the house of Rabin. A dancing girl with equally functional vagina and breasts could have purchased for a fraction of the sum. Thus do men enslave themselves.

Dorinda fought her bonds in misery and wished a man might stand where she was now.

The crowd adored her. She was completely nude. That, too, had been apologetically insisted upon. Her nakedness bothered the corporal more than it did her. They howled and cheered her breasts. Lewd jokes she could not interpret were tossed back and forth about her physical attributes. Fingers made understandable reference to sexual friction in their pantomime. She had only to flutter her wracked shoulders to evoke instant response. If she truly struggled against her pain the multitude went wild. General Hakim’s circus made a most popular despot. Of such things are empires built. A girl’s pain might found a dynasty.

Poor corporal Kahdin. He lusted for her. She smiled to soothe the agony in his eyes. He was a nice boy. But he was not immune. Her jutting breasts, the thin cords bedding themselves in her female flesh had worked their mystery upon them. Like the crowd he was in the grip of a primordial lust against which he had no defence. He could not take her now. Dorinda wondered if there would be an afterwards.

The time came when her life must end. When her neck must pay for the bomb. She left nothing but pride as she was propelled up the scaffold steps. The populace was hysterical. Had Marie Antoinette felt this same thrill of mingled desolation and majesty as she went to the guillotine?

Farcically she could think of nothing but westerns as the noose was fitted around her neck. How many times had she seen just this that was now being done to her. The massive roll of cord that was supposed to break her neck. The innocent noose of rope that would choke her until she died with staring eyes and gaping mouth. An unknown man fitted these things upon her. But it was the hand of corporal Kahdin that lifted the rope before her eyes so that she might take heart in the obviously severed strands held together by the frailest bond. Dorinda saw it with great thankfulness and smiled at him with a gratitude she sincerely wanted to make real.

She was about to die! The rope felt rough around her neck. The anonymous fingers had drawn it tight enough that she could not be unaware of the thing that would take her life. She was positioned on the trap. Her ankles were tightly tied. What matter the circulation now. In a few moments it would have ended forever. She tried to move her hands, to separate her elbows.

Someone was reading from a paper. A great silence had fallen. Men looked stonily ahead. Women looked avid or shamed. A brusque command was given. The naked girl dropped out of sight.

For Dorinda the fall was a moment of pure terror. She had been bound so tightly that she could not influence the thing being done to her at all. As she felt the surface vanish from beneath her feet every nerve and sinew surged against the cords so cruelly embedded in her limbs. Her mouth opened in an involuntary cry of desolation that was choked back as the noose tightened upon her neck. In that flashing fraction of a second she met death.

Within the pit below the scaffold there was quiet efficiency. While the crowd outside howled its jubilation at the unseemly demise of a naked girl, two men worked with feverish haste. Corporal Kahdin caught Dorinda as she fell. The jerk of the severed rope was but a momentary hesitation. Her full weight must be cushioned. That he contrived to catch and hold the helpless package is his arms was a tribute to his strength. The package herself was so well bound and so petrified with fear that she could not help. She was all his. He accepted the glorious manna from heaven with reverence.

The corporal’s assistant must have rehearsed his task. The moment the rope parted he seized the dangling end and hung thereon to simulate the tension of a body in the throes of death. By way of giving the audience a bit extra for their money he bounced and twisted so that the rope, visible to all, conveyed its message of a jerking corpse.

Having placed his burden gently on the ground, the corporal attached a bag of sand to the loose end, thus relieving his helper who immediately picked up one end of the trussed girl, the corporal taking the other they deposited her in a coffin-like box and carried her through a small door to the interior of the fort. The execution was done.

"Congratulations, my dear. You have come through your ordeal nobly." General Hakim raised his glass. Reba held a similar potion to Dorinda’s lips. Both drank gratefully.

The cord had gone from her ankles but Dorinda’s shoulders were still painfully wracked by her joined elbows, the cords of which imposed a nagging agony.

"Could I please be untied, general?"

"Alas, non, my dear, you are too beautiful as you are," the general said cordially. "You must forgive a wretched man this last glimpse at paradise."

"Couldn’t you tie up Miss Cohen instead?" Dorinda twinkled at him. She was riding high on a wave of elation of being alive.

Hakim shook his head sorrowfully. "The poor girl does not possess the joi de vivre, your panache. I fear her only asset at the moment is a small death she dies every time I possess her." He sighed gently. "I fear her only love is a carton of dynamite."

They drank again. Dorinda gave up caring about the pain of the cords. Whatever the general might be, he was a charming host.

"You return now to our excellent Rabin. I would send you back with gifts, but he would take them from you. You are a slave and may own nothing. A pity."

Placing a hand on her shoulder he bent and kissed her forehead. "I am sorry that we part," he said sombrely. "But you will now be in the hands of my loyal corporal. Kahdin is a good man. On your journey home, be kind to him."

"A quick routine assignment," said Mr. Rabin. I could have killed him. Nothing’s routine in this nut house.

"You will go to prison, have a nice trial, be sentenced to bad things and then we bring you home again."

"You’ve gone around the bend," I told him. Then bit my lip. It’s remarks like this that get me striped.

"It’s quite practical, darling," Thalia broke in placantingly. Thalia’s really quite sweet and does not whip me anymore than she has to. I expect I looked as doubtful as I felt. With Dorinda gone I felt sort of extra vulnerable.

"See, darling. These people are rich. But daughter’s in a jam. A bad one. They are willing to pay a lot of money for you to go through all the ugly bits and then they pay a lot more to bribe whoever is going to let you escape afterwards. We will always have you in sight."

"For about twenty years?" I asked dependently.

"The magistrate may not order you whipped," Old Rabin came out with that real corker as though it was a birthday present.

"It will all be rushed through in a very short time." Poor Thalia was trying hard to show me any bright spots there might be.

"Only the very senior officers of the prison will fuck you." If the previous consolation had been for my birthday, this latest Rabin special was for Christmas.

"Do I have to thank them?" I asked. That one got me two strokes. I wish sometimes I could keep quiet.

They got me ready. That meant clothes. Old Rabin blandly explained that in his country girls were rarely arrested in the nude. But, he said they would be very cheap. They were. He said I wouldn’t have them for very long. I could believe that too.

He was quite a nice policeman. They gave him some money, so I realised he was in on the deal. "Sergeant Fazhari: meet miss Terry Esmond." It was too absurd. I had to try hard not to giggle while he was handcuffing me. I think he was surprised. He told me later that most girls cry a lot when he puts the handcuffs on. He was a bit premature actually: Mr. Rabin insisted on gravely shaking hands – probably to enjoy one last clutch at his investment. But Thalia threw her arms around my neck and kissed me warmly. I kissed her back and made believe she was Dorinda. Amazing. A few minutes before she’d been whipping. Us girls really are something

I got a nice look at the mouldy town while I sat in the back of the car with sergeant Fazahri. He said he would like to play with my three thingummyes while I took in the scenery. I put my handcuffed wrists behind my neck so as to give him plenty of scope and let him get himself all excited. I could tell he was a bit miffed when we drove into the police station or whatever they call it there. I suppose a sergeant has to show a bit of decorum with the female suspects even in this place.

I was booked. I didn’t understand a word. But I could have cared less. They searched me and stole my pants, then bunged me into a rotten little cell. I wasn’t sure whether they had left my handcuffs on because they’d forgotten or on purpose. I could have cared less about that too.

They actually sported a wardress. She showed up almost immediately with a couple of civilian friends. Know what she did? I couldn’t believe it myself at first. But when they began to undress me it was real enough. The old vultures held an auction. My clothes were bid on by the sister vultures she’d brought along. When I saw them looking at my teeth and my hair I got a really funny feeling. When the bidding was over I was tossed a bit of sacking to go to court in and the three witches departed with my clothes. I could understand why that chap at the desk had been anxious to get first grab at my pants.

They got me into court within the hour. There was a sort of ceremonial dress for this. My bit of sack, my handcuffs and chains on my feet that made an awful lot of noise. There was a rope loop around my neck, a tether by which I was led to my just desserts. I was very impressive. No one paid any attention to me at all.

I stood in the bow with the wardress beside me while everyone had a free for all. I may have had a lawyer in there somewhere but I never met him. The noise was intense, the clothes were everything you have ever seen. Hands waved. At the end of it I got ten years and twenty lashes.

Imagine my feelings. If all went well I might miss the ten years. But there was no way I was going to miss those twenty lashes. I was to get them right there on the premise before being sent to the prison where I hoped and prayed I really would escape.

They made quite a thing about me being whipped. I gathered it was not every girl that had the honour, which was probably too bad in the eyes of the male staff since they all got a first class erection of the notion of dear little Terry getting her bottom swished. First I was taken to the chief whatever he was that ran the place. I had to stand to attention in front of his desk and listen to a long harangue in about three languages. The moral was that I should take off my bit of sacking and lay across his desk.

When the amusing excersize was over I was taken back to my cell by a lesser being who told me quite frankly that he’d like to fuck me but that he didn’t have the rank. To demonstrate his injured feelings he put my handcuffs back extra tight and fell all over me with his rough hands.

But it wasn’t long before he was back. This time it was the chief assistant something or other. We went through the whole bit again. I tried to look interested and grateful for his concern about my morals. But I was afraid I might go to sleep on my feet if he went on too long. Those early missionaries must have been an awful bore.

When it was time for ‘off with the sack’ he got quite a shock. I could see it hit him. I really had been whipped a lot. There was darling Mark that time he was so angry with us both. There was that bastard Mike and all his crew. Good old Cuth had come back no less than nine times during my day tied on the deck. Then there were the appearances. All in all I must have been a very stimulating sight for any male who enjoyed what most males seem to enjoy. All right. All right! So I like it a little too. But just a little…

He explained in his broken English that he wanted me to relief his tensions with my lips and tongue. But not yet. My stripes had given him ideas. A girl who entered their fine jail with a clear skin could hardly be whipped without the fresh marks being noted and commented upon. But if she was a well striped girl as I was, what did a few more matter? He explained, with great charm, that he would like to give me those few more.

I could hardly refuse, could I? No use acting coy. My marks betrayed me. That’s the trouble with a girl being whipped. Everyone else feels that since the ice had been broken they might as well have a go too. A simple case of one stripe leading to another. So, off came my Dior creation and little Terry was once again asking how she should stand. The bit of sack went on and off so easily that the handcuffs were no impediment. I could see he liked those too. The different ways in which a girl can get a man an erection are just out of this world. I had to kneel with elbows and cheek on the floor and knees well in. I didn’t like it. My bottom stuck up like a beacon.

It hurt like hell. I’d always known it would if it was not Mark. Only Mark could make me crinkle. Dorinda maybe… Fortunately he had to be a bit careful, so he limited it to ten. I was crying by then. I didn’t try to be heroic. I was tired and wanted to go home.

He was most chivalrous about helping me up off the floor. I’m quite sure he felt sorry for me. Men are queer mixtures. But his sympathy was not such as to interfere with his plans. However, he did give me a lovely drink before he had me kneel and then stuck his fly in my face.

I hadn’t been back in my cell five minutes before the vulture showed up. I wondered what she wanted. Anyway, she had a private place of her own where she took me. Seems as though she was in the senior executive class too. Imagine little Terry’s feelings when she was bunged into the living room and there were the other two vultures waiting. They had me naked in not time. I hoped one of them might buy my sack. Then they undressed themselves. ‘I’ll draw a veil’ as they used to say in Victorian novels. They could never have made the grade in Hollywood. I don’t think all three of them could have inspired one good male erection.

Vulture number one produced their universal panacea: a whip and a bottle. They gave me a bit of the bottle. I was to get the whip if I didn’t behave. The marks I already had aroused no comment. Probably when they were girls they’d been well decorated too.

They sat in a row. Three obscene Buddhas. I was instructed to go up and down the line. I was to get the whip only if I failed to sense and deal with a quivering orgasm. None of them wanted to be left on the hook. I prayed that once would be enough.

It wasn’t. I know I’m good at this. Dammit! Dorinda’s told me so many times. You know that pride in workmanship thing. Well, it didn’t help me now. My poor tongue. Have you ever had a tired tongue? Sounds absurd. Well, I had one then. The old biddies weren’t too keen on letting me have a rest. But I think they were a bit grateful so I missed most of the whip, except for one dear old soul who enjoyed flicking it at my slit while I stood to attention.

Once more I ended up in my cell. I was about ready for beddy-byes when another joker showed up. This time I had to discard my sack and let him such about everything I had. The bath I had back at old Rabin’s seemed quite wasted. My new client could have washed the statue of Liberty. I was quite surprised when he made me lay down and proceeded to give me a bit of pleasure. I’ve thought of him ever since as ‘ox tongue’. He was well endowed. Practice, I suppose. Anyway, my evening in that lousy cell turned out to be better that I expected.

But I went to sleep in tears thinking of Mark and Dorinda.

It was in the middle of the morning when the star of the show was let out to her fate. I shouldn’t joke. But they made such a production of everything. First off there was quite a to-do. The chap who’d given me a bit of fun the night before had enjoyed his bit of fun too. He’d locked my ankles together with a spare pair of handcuffs. Oh sure, they’ll go around a girl’s ankles. Then he’d gone off shift. Seems like his handcuffs weren’t standard. No one could find a key to fit. I’d sort of figured out he had a sense of humor. Anyone following him would have had a hell of a time making any use of a girl with her feet locked together. I'd actually been grateful. They’d been almost as good as a chastity belt.

Anyway, they sent someone for the key. When I could walk again they started the procession. Everyone was there. A girl was to be whipped. Naked. Tumescence was rife. I was a sex symbol. Unfortunately it was the wardress who was to do the job. I’d have preferred a man.

They had a post. Very simple. I was hoisted up by my hands far more than willing, until I could drape my locked wrists over the top. Then I was gently lowered until I found myself standing on tip toe. My hands linked on the other side of the pole and the handcuffs snagged on a hook so I couldn’t pull’m down. It was perfect for that what they intended to do to me.

It’s the kind of whip that counts. I looked this way and that until it came into view. I almost curled up inside. The damn cane was about five feet long. Some sort of native cane or something. My sentence was read in a very official manner by an elderly gentlemen who, I am sure, was enjoying his finest erection in years. My bit of sacking was torn away. I mourned it not. But there was little Terry stark naked with a very large female with a very long cane just to the rear. I mean… After all…

Do you like first hand descriptions of a girl being whipped?

I suppose I could manage one. You know, stroke by awful stroke. They did it very well in that book ‘Nell in Bridewell’. But I couldn’t possibly go into all those turgid exclamations. The damn girl always sounded to me like she was a silly ass. Actually, a girl does not think a lot in such circumstances. She is far too busy hurting. You just go from stroke to stroke wondering if it will be the next one that will kill you. There is no possible belief that you will survive. You are just a cracked record saying over and over: "No, no no."

You scream a lot too. You can’t help it. They didn’t seem to mind. It sustained their erections and proved my whipper wad doing a good job. How did I scream. That damn switch or cane or whatever the vulture was using on me was a new experience. It wasn’t a cane and it wasn’t a whip. I was getting the worst of both worlds and I was getting it from my knees to my neck. A cane is supposed to be for a girl’s bottom, not the rest of her. I’ll never forget how I tugged and heaved on my handcuffs. They cut me back as though it was a game. I knew my wrists were bleeding. But I did not feel the pain right then. All that mattered was that I jerk loose. Impossible. Oh sure. Tell that to a girl fixed the way I was fixed. If I’d been tied there by my nipples I’d have jerked them loose. I was frantic. All I knew was pain.

So you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t do too well on the graphic description. I just hung there screaming and squirming while the vulture cut me here and cut me there just as she pleased. I was just a piece of pretty female flesh, delivered to the butcher.

I was left like that for a long time after my whipping was done. I remember wondering if Rabin got extra cash for my suffering. Not that it would do me any good. A slave does not get paid. When they lifted me off the post I could scarcely stand. But I was all ready for transit. My faithful handcuffs were still on my bleeding wrists. All they did now was loop a chain around my tummy and fasten it tightly with a padlock that also went through the single link of my cuffs. So now I couldn’t do anything at all. I just had to hold my hands at my waist. It was a rotten helpless feeling. I wanted to scratch my nose. I wanted to tidy my hair. I couldn’t do anything. But those who handled me as a prisoner in transit sure could. My poor little quim and my rosebuds were pinched and cupped until I would have given anything for one of the silly twits to have finished what they started.

It was quite a long ride. I was in a closed van, my ankles chained to a ring in the floor. Wicked little Terry mustn’t have a chance to escape. There was another poor girl in there too, fixed in the same way as I was. We tried to talk. But no go. So we just smiled and smiled and smiled and tugged away at out chains to show we were sisters under the skin and all that rot.

The prison was worse than the other place. I got washed and disinfected. Their idea of wash was to chain me to a ring in the wall and play a hose on me. The water wasn’t all that cold. But it sure had a force. It hurt. The bitch who did it to me made me stand facing her with my feet apart. Then she gave me a full force jet on my quim. I just couldn’t stand it. But she made me do it over and over. It was a good introduction to my new home. Ten years. I tried not to think about it…

I got a scrap of a dress. It hid the essentials. But is was a woman’s place. We could just as well have been naked in that climate. I think they only made us wear it so we’d have something to be ashamed of taking off. It’s funny. No matter how many times you’ve done it you get a fresh flush every time you strip before someone else. Even a woman. I never felt that way with Mark and Dorinda.

Then I was back at attention in front of a desk. She was a great big Nazi looking type. I got a lecture and then off came the dress and I was bent over to get ‘The Welcome’. A nice proper caning to get me properly oriented and mentally adjusted.

I was really cheesed off. I let the howls and the tears have full rein. Why not? She loved it and it helped me bear the misery. My poor bottom had just about had enough.

I was put in a cell. Still handcuffed. They loved those handcuffs. They were to humiliate, that’s all. The rotten bitches.

You want the rest? It’s a drag actually. The Nazi type caned me damn near every hour and made me tongue her until I hoped I’d never see another female part for the rest of my life… Except Dorinda’s of course. Oh, how I longed for that girl. I wanted Dorinda so bad it hurt.

Then, a couple of nights later, who do you think it was who unlocked my cell, unlocked my handcuffs and escorted me outside the gate? Oh sure, not hard to guess. The Nazi-lady herself. She hadn’t had me long, but she had got all the use out of me she could. I suspected Rabin’s rentals had got cheated. But I didn’t say so.

Oh, it was good to be free. I kept thinking of those ten years. I’d have no skin and tongue left.

It was a miracle to hop into a car. There was darling Thalia waiting for me. I hugged her and kissed her as though to reassure myself that someone nice really existed. Then I absentmindedly put my wrists into the handcuffs she held open and watched her click them tight. It never occurred to me that for a little while – the time it took from the prison wall to the waiting car – I had been free. Totally free. I’ll always wonder what would have happened if I’d run like blazes.

No rest for dear little Terry. Not that I’d expected any. Old Rabin had to get his dividends out of me. ‘Return on investment’ I believe they call it. I got in one glorious night with Dorinda, but next morning I got my summons.

"We have a limited tourist trade, " Rabin said, eyeing me in a way I didn’t like.

"You rent them things?" I asked helpfully. Then realised what I’d said.

"You are a most perceptive girl." I really think the old boy would sooner be nice to me than nasty, so I gave him my full attention. "It is my experience that tourists seek abroad those pleasures they would be ashamed of to seek at home… You are following?" "Someone wants to cane my bottom?" I'd seen it coming.

He sighed sadly. With such eloquent sighs the old boy hardly needed speech. "Alas yes. He is a young man of your own race. A simple youth who, I suspect, is splurging an inheritance in pleasures of the flesh."

"Isn’t he a bit depleted by the time he’s got this far?"

"It has taken him this far to pluck up his courage," Rabin said dryly. "I fear you are the first."

"But you think it is in a good cause?"

"Ah yes." Old Shylock brightened perceptibly. "He did not quibble. During out conversation I gathered he had little interest in using female facilities for their usual function."

He peered at me brightly through those thick lenses. "You may be relieved by my deduction that he is probably impotent."

"That part usually doesn’t hurt, but the other does," I pointed out.

I got another sigh. This one told me to shut up.

Well, anyway, Cedric. That was his name. Imagine. He’d rented a house for his exploration into what fun it is to hurt a girl. Thalia delivered me nicely cleaned and perfumed and with my wrists handcuffed behind my back in the good old tried and true fashion. It’s really awful like that, a girl can’t do a thing. The key was tied round my neck with a bit of ribbon and a bow. She said I looked simply darling. I was sure I did.

Poor Cedric. I’ll always remember him as that. A poor lean weak chinned clerk from a poor dusty office in a back street. All of a sudden fate had placed heaven in his hands and he didn’t know what to do with it. He sat and looked at me with his mouth wide open. If I hadn’t been handcuffed I0d have popped something in it. I knew for sure this was the first time he’d ever really had a good look at a naked girl.

"I’ve read a lot of books," he said as though that explained everything.

"And they’ve told you exactly what to do to me?" I wasn’t sure right then if I wanted to help the silly ass.

"Err… well… I do have my own ideas." Sophistication plus!

"Please tell me."

He was stymied. He couldn’t get off the first tee. I had an inspiration. It seemed a natural.

"Look here, darling," I said in as sexy a voice as I could manage. "Why don’t you forget the Arabian Nights and we’ll just be a couple of tourists seeing the sights. Then take me back to London. I’m ever so much fun."

"But I wanted to whip you…" He’d managed to get it out.

"Whip me in London. There’s not so many flies there."

He looked hastily down at his own, then blushed.

"If you’ll unlock my handcuffs I’ll be a really good girl and make you very happy. And I won’t try to escape." I let him have both barrels. Then I twisted and pulled at my wrists as though they hurt.

He was in agony. EC1 battling Damascus. The accounts payable clerk versus Ali Baba. I watched despairingly as Ali Baba got the upper hand.

"Mr. Rabin said you’d make that suggestion." Firm reproof.

Good old Rabin. What hope had a girl got with such an owner? He’d reach out of his grave and rent me at a profit.

"Did he tell you to keep me safely chained?"

He had the grace to actually look discomforted. "Yes, acutely he did." He shuffled his feet a bit. "As a matter of fact he rented me quite a lot of stuff."

"Jolly decent of him."

"Saves buying it, y’know."

"Simply spiffing. What did you get?"

He flushed. "Quite a lot of chain actually. Anklets and wristlets. A lot of cord… You’ll look very pretty. Then, there were some other, err, things…"

"You mean things to hurt me and make me cry?"

It was a blow below the belt. He wasn’t ready for it. He hadn’t adjusted to my breasts and pubic hair even. For a moment I guessed he wished he was back in EC1.

"Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?" I asked sweetly.

"Of course I am. You know I am." He glowered at me resentfully. "But it is not going to make any difference."

This time I was the one who sighed. In his own way Cedric was as much a prisoner as I was. Prisoner of a fantasy and of a strange land that would never allow the two of us together to leave this town.

"Well, all right," I conceded. "How are you going to torture me first?" I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

"I’ll cane your bottom." The words exploded out of him like a groom saying ‘I do’ at a wedding.

I turned round with plenty of hip motion and displayed my chubbies. Looking back over one shoulder I said sweetly: "They’ve been very well caned already."

It was as though he’d noticed my whip marks for the first time. I’m sure it was. My nipples and my quiff had hypnotised him up to now. As for the rest of me he may have supposed that girls actually were striped that way but no one had ever told him. He boggled.

"I say, y’know, that’s not cricket."

"No, it was a cane… And a whip. In fact, several."

"But… But, I’ve paid a lot of money…?"

"You mean you didn’t expect to rent a used girl?"

It was a bad day for Cedric. "Well, no. What I mean to say… well really…"

"I’m merchandise, y’know," I explained gently. "Mr. Rabin rents me out all the time. Always suitably chained. I’m bound to get a bit – what do they call it: shelf marked."

"But, I can’t. I mean to say I shouldn’t. Not after… After

…"

"No, you shouldn’t, should you?"

"But I’m damn well going to. You’ll have to put up with it."

"Thank you, kind sir," I said.

"Are you his only.. only…"

"No, I’m not Mr. Rabin’s only girl," I said icily. "He has at least one more, far more beautiful than I. But her bottom too looks much like mine. It’s an occupational hazard for slave girls."

"You’re a slave?" He looked incredulous.

"You surely don’t think I’m a local housewife picking up a little extra cash?"

"You mean you’re really a slave… girl?" His eyes came to life.

"That excites you, doesn’t it?" I flung at him bitterly. "Well, get your money’s worth. Yes, I’m a slave, A real life slave. I’m kept chained and naked and I’m whipped if I don’t obey. Does that give you a nice firm erection?"

His hand was halfway to his crotch before he stopped it.

"There’s no need to be offensive," he enunciated stiffly.

Suburbia outraged. He looked at me doubtfully. "You mean to say

… you sold yourself?"

"Don’t be ridiculous. When they need a girl they simply kidnap her. There’s always a loose girl trotting around. They kidnapped me. Now I’ll never, never escape. I know I won’t."

I made my voice as pitiful as I could. Than added as an extra thrust: "I’m always chained like a puppy dog or some wild animal."

It hit him. Suburbia is tender hearted Or rather, it has a keen sense of what is proper. Girls in chains aren’t. Except, of course, in the old secluded villa. He wriggled uncomfortably.

"You make this very difficult for me," he admitted. "I’d made up my mind to be quite hard hearted and go through with something I’ve always wanted very much. Now I get you.." He looked at me with red faced irritation. "You aren’t what I bargained for at all. You’re very sweet. You keep pecking away at my better nature and on top of that you’ve been terribly whipped. Really. I am beginning to think I had better send you away, back to Mr. Rabin. Such a nice man. I’m sure there’s something wrong somewhere."

"If I give you an address will you only contact them and tell them where I am?" I looked at him adoringly. "I’ll be ever so nice to you."

He waved a disgusted arm. "There. That’s just what I mean. Mr. Rabin said you’d ask. I had to give him my word I’d treat the whole matter strictly confidential. No young lady. Back you go."

I’d won a small victory. For a moment little Terry was proud as a punch. I wasn’t to get whipped after all. But then it hit me. I’d dug myself a pit and fallen right in it. What sort of a reception was dear old Mr. Rabin going to give his little slave girl when she was sent home unsatisfactory. I could just feel Thalia going to work on me with her strong right arm. I couldn’t dazzle either of the Rabins. But I could twist poor Cedric a bit… So I bent down at his feet in my best slave girl submission act and sobbed. "I have been a bad girl, Master. Please punish me."

It gets ‘m every time. I used to use it on Mark until he caught on. I think wives use it on their husbands. You ask for what you don’t want and hope you don’t get it. It worked with Cedric. He’d never seen anything so lovely as me. He tossed nobility out the window.

"That’s better," he said grudgingly just to show he was not a man to be trifled with. "I think you really deserve to be punished."

"Yes, master." You know, butter wouldn’t have melted in my mouth.

But poor Cedric was back at square 1 again. He had a naked girl complete with all parts. But his problem was which bit to start on. Understandable, really, considered he’d never in his life touched any of ‘m. I took a chance and peeped up. He was a perplexed young man.

"Would you like to look at the nice things, Mr. Rabin sent over? I’d love to see them," I suggested innocently. Actually, I was curious. It saved the day. First thing I knew I was on my feet and we were peering in a sizeable wooden box. It was quite a collection. I’d sort of got out the idea that I0d stay on this assignment for as long as Cedric paid the rent. That meant until he got tired of making me howl. Old Rabin must have hoped for a lengthy visit. The little lot we were looking at would have kept Torquemada happy for years. I didn’t know what a lot of items were. I could tell Cedric didn’t know either. But he wasn’t going to say so.

There were chains galore and a lovely collection of whips, canes and crops. I was thankful to note that the old boy had not included any kind of that slice. He would watch the well-being of his investment that far. There was a lot of cord and some straps. Then there were grim looking things I really didn’t want to know about.

"What are you going to hurt me with first?" I asked enthusiastically.

Cedric winced. "I do wish you would couch your remarks with a kinder phraseology. You make me feel like Genghis Kahn."

I was about to come up with something flip when I realised I’d better go easy. I might yet be sent back to father Rabin with request for a refund. "I’m sorry, master," I said as though I really meant it. "Would like to punish me for my insolence?"

He perked right up again. His faith in Rabin’s Rentals restored. "What would you suggest?" he asked briskly. I could see he wasn’t much of a one for decisions.

"I usually get two on my bottom for impertinence," I said meekly.

"Very well then. Mustn’t break with traditions, eh?" He oozed bonhomie. "Which cane do you prefer?"

Only Cedric could have asked that. I picked the one that hurt the least. He didn’t notice.

"What position would you like me in, master?"

Another decision. Pure cruelty!

"Well, err, what about the touch your toes sort of thing?"

"Thank you master." I’d really butter him up.

I bent over. I couldn’t touch my toes with my hands cuffed behind my back. But I decided to give my lessee another glimpse of the unknown. I bent as far as I could and parted my legs.

I heard him gasp. Looking back and up between my legs I could see his fingers twitching. He was immobilised. Poor Cedric was looking at a phenomenon that has disconcerted better men than he. Simply that, in such a posture, the principal bit of a girl that you expect to see in front begins to show up at her back. Hair and all.

"I say, Miss Esmond, perhaps you’d better close your legs." He evidently feared I was about to suffer some irreparable displacement. Or perhaps my little thingummy seemed an accusing eye.

I promptly obeyed. It’s with your legs together.

He lashed me twice. Savagely. I’d expected them to be bad. They were. Into those two cuts at my bottom had gone twenty years of frustrated longing.

I can take one, even two like that without a fuss. The hurt’s all there. But you keep it inside. I smiled radiantly as though he’d given me a diamond necklace.

"Thank you, master," I said gratefully. Then I stood at tiptoe and kissed him on the forehead. After that I knelt, bowed my head and waited.

It was really a tensed moment for me. I’d have sworn I could hear his heart beating. I guessed him steeped in sensation. The nothing-else-like-it feeling of a cane thunking into a girl’s flesh. If it triggered the wrong instinct I could very well be half killed in the next few minutes. The silence lengthened. Suburbia won.

"Please get up." His voice was squeaky. "I would like to.. discuss what has… Has, err, just happened."

What had happened? I’d been caned twice on my bottom. I hurt. He was probably sexually excited. Hardly a matter for a League of Nations debate. But talking doesn’t hurt. So I got up gratefully enough.

We sat and looked at each other. "Would you like me to make tea?" I said innocently.

"Oh, I say. Would you?" You’d have thought I’d offered him my virtue.

"I’d love to, master."

Without a pause I walked up to him, turned my back and wriggled my handcuffs.

Nothing happened. He would be enduring agonies. "I say, y’know, I can’t let you loose."

"I can’t get tea like this, master."

"No you can’t, can you?" He was doing some having thinking.

"You’ll have to take my handcuffs off sometime, master. You do have a bathroom, don’t you?"

He got the hint. My back was turned, but I swear I could feel him blush.

"Err, quite so…" he mired again.

"I know the very thing, master," I exclaimed joyfully. "You unlock me and I’ll fetch the proper chains from the box and you can chain my ankles."

He was so relieved at an obvious solution that he undid the bit of ribbon around my neck and unlocked the cuffs before he’d realised he had set me free. I was not about to do anything foolish. I had to try and condition him a bit first. I went and got a set of ankle chains with about the linkage I can walk with best and the key, and presented them to him, kneeling. While he was fumbling away at putting them on me, I asked sort of absently: "Do you realise, master, that I was quite free’ I could have fought or run away."

He stooped dead. I could feel his chagrin and his shock. He gave the matter a good deal of thought, then asked: "Why didn’t you?"

It was a sensible question. It deserved a sensible answer. "I wanted a cup of tea," I said simply.

Poor Cedric. Nothing was quite as it should have been for him. He hastily clicked shut the second anklet, no doubt in case I changed my mind. "There," I said cheerfully, "I can’t run away now. I’ll go and make the tea."

His eyes never left those chains on my feet. They fascinated him. I’m sure he could not understand how I could walk in them. "Slave girls have to learn how to walk with their ankles chained," I told him demurely.

We sat and sipped. I’d have thought he needed something stronger. But the tea braced him. After all, he was English.

"I’m a bit out of my depth," he admitted.

I had to laugh. He managed he rueful grin of his own. It was like those stories Somerset Maugham used to write: a man suddenly finding himself a stranger.

"What did you really expect when you made this deal with Rabin?"

He made a lost gesture. "Not you."

"A piece of female flesh that wouldn’t say boo?"

"I don’t know."

"Lovely curves that ondulated as she hung from her wrists and you whipped her naked flesh?" I hadn’t read those books for nothing.

"Yes, I’m afraid so."

"Why be afraid? You’ve got what you want. I look very nice hanging from my wrists." I poured him another cup of tea.

"You mean…"

"Of course. You don’t think you’re the only chap with such ideas, do you? Sure I’ve been strung up by my wrists and flogged."

He looked at me with awe. For him it was like suddenly meeting Glenda Jackson, the President of the USA and the Queen of England all at once.

"But you’re so, so…"

"Ordinary? Rational? The girl next door?"

"You do put things rather well."

He looked and suddenly realised he was looking at something very female. As usual, he got pink.

"Don’t you still want to whip me?"

"You make it sound like a wife asking her husband if he doesn’t still love her."

"Of course. It’s the same thing. Is the male still hungry."

He shook himself like a wet dog. "Does Mr. Rabin know you talk to customers like this?"

I told the poor chap about my previous adventure. "He doesn’t mind as long as the rental is paid and I get home without too much damage. I don’t think he wants me damaged, though."

"I suppose that was a hint?"

"I’m sure there is a damage deposit."

He made other ineffectual motions. "It would be like whipping my sister – if I had one." He sounded bereft.

I kicked myself for getting us into this fruitless argument. If I hadn’t been so damn puckish he’d have been happily whipping me by now. "Look here," I said seriously. "You have rented me. You’ll probably never get any better than I am. You have a dream to make it real. So that is what we are going to do. Sorry and all that about wanting to escape. Sure I want to. But I’m a slave. I’ll be one for you."

I looked at him earnestly. "It might as well be you who hurts me. If I get sent back to Rabin in disgrace I’ll get a damn sight worse."

"I say, that’s jolly sporting."

You know those moods when you feel like ‘oh, what the hell’? I felt one then.. I felt sorry for the silly twit. He needed a tonic. I bent over. This time I could really touch my toes.

"Whip me, master."

He gave me two more. I knew he was holding himself in. I thanked him prettily and kissed him again. "Why don’t you undress?" I asked innocently.

Poor Cedric was faced with another AD – that’s short for awful decision. "In front of a girl?" He was truly shocked.

"I’m naked."

"Yes, but you’re…"

"You mean I’m a slave and I’M paid for so I don’t count?"

"But really, what would be the point?"

"You’d be all ready. You know, when a chap’s been cruel to a girl he always wants to fuck her. I’m not half so good with your clothes on."

He recoiled as from a rattlesnake. Poor Cedric. That unforgivable four letter word.

"Haven’t you ever had intercourse?" I daren’t slip him two fucks in a row.

"As a matter of fact, no." He made it sound noble.

"Well, let’s get that job out of the way first, then. I want you. You won’t whip me half as hard afterwards."

"Err… Thank you. Another time."

I laid down on my back and stretched my legs as far as the damn chain would allow. I was deliberately obscene. I reached down with my fingers and parted my lower lips and swung my knees apart. "You stick it in here," I explained patiently.

Cedric had a gift for being hypnotised. He stared with glazed eyes at what I was offering. I had a feeling he was expecting something to stick its head out of my whatsit and snap at him.

"It’s lovely and warm in there," I coaxed.

"But I’m supposed to whip you." He had a one track mind.

"Afterwards."

He was suddenly weeping. "I can’t! I can’t"

I’d guessed this all along. Those books had covered everything. "Could you have done it when you whipped me?" I asked shyly.

"I think so."

"Simple, whip me again." I handed him the cane and bent over.

He went on sobbing into his hands for a while. Then he began to notice how curved my bottom was. The sobbing dried up. I pushed a bit of my fur out behind. That has a very erotic effect. He looked at the cane he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He could certainly hit. I thought longingly of that argument and of how I might have prolonged it forever. I got two more. Real stingers. Immediately after they were over I laid down again and offered him my virtue. I was annoyed that my own thingummy was beginning to throb. I felt crinkly.

He threw his clothes away as though they were enemies. Don’t ever doubt that a man would sooner make a girl cry out with his prick than with his whip. If he prefers the whip it’s either because he can’t do it with his cock, or he wants to make it last forever. I suppose, if a man did it carefully he could whip a girl day after day after day after day.

He wasn’t bad naked. No Hercules, but passable in a lean sort of way. But his thingummy hadn’t managed to survive the disrobing. It was evidently very sensitive to immediate impressions. We both surveyed its flacidity with various degrees of chagrin. I simply got onto my feet again and bent over. At least now we’d be ahead the time it took Cedric to undress. These two were very painful. I expect he was annoyed.

He managed to get down between my legs before Napoleon lowered the flag again. The damn thing had no staying power at all. I realised that the sight of all my goodies at close range probably petrified the poor twit. I suggested a change of venue.

We were both a bit stodgy and conventional when it came to rummaging around again in old Rabin’s box. We picked a thumbscrew. Having done so we looked at each other with a sort of wild surprise.

"I’m afraid you’ll have to fasten me awfully tight," I apologised.

This wasn’t too difficult. There was a wooden chair with stout arms. Rabin had supplied the straps. After five minutes of trial and error dear little Terry was sitting with her wrists strapped to the arms, just about as helpless and unable to twitch as I’d ever been.. Mark had never needed to fasten me like this. It was total. It was scary. I could see by the look on Cedric’s face that I looked very nice. But of course, we weren’t concerned with Cedric’s face.

I’m not mechanical. Neither was my would-be torturer. It took the two of us quite a long while to get the contraption fitted to one of my wrists and hands. When it was done I wished I was anywhere but where I was. I mean, after all those books I’d read. I would tell Cedric was having to call up all his own reserves. His little Willie had shrunk to almost nothing.

There always comes the final moment. No more excuses. No more words. We had begun to pant. For different reasons.

There was a sort of screw effect. I had to watch while Cedric tightened it. I suddenly realised that I was going to be watching the whole exercise. Little Terry was going to be tortured and she was going to have a front seat view of her own flesh and bone being torn up. I surged against those straps that were tight around my ankles, waist above my breasts, my elbows and wrists. I was fixed, but good.

Cedric kept turning the knob. I began to suspect that he had flubbed the operation, when suddenly the awful contraption began to take hold. I stiffened and looked at his intent face. I don’t know why I looked. Cedric wasn’t going to rescue me. Why should he? This was as much my idea as his.

"It is beginning to hurt," I said, just to keep him informed.

"Good." He spoke the word as though in confirmation. He was absorbed.

The next turn had me gasping. He paid no attention, but twisted again. I screamed. I couldn’t help it. I just had to. I screamed and screamed again. It was that sort of pain. A girl has no defences against it. It possessed you and you didn’t know its limits. The screams were half pain and half fear. Now I could understand why – in the past – the better torturers had always used thumbscrews.

The damn chair and the straps were part of it. I could not move enough to matter. I fought those straps, but did not budge. My master thoughtfully tightened one or two of them while I was still screaming. He had discovered the ideal instrument. It would go on and on hurting me even when he was doing something else. He could even leave the room and the horrible thing would continue to bite and wrack and burn so that I could cry and cry and plead and plead when there was no one to listen. If there had been any question of my saying ‘yes’ to something, I’m sure I would have said it.

Cedric – thoughtfully – gave it one more turn.

A girl can’t really describe an experience like this. At least I can’t. When you think of it there is not a large vocabulary of words to explain pain. You have heard them all. Then there are things that I blurted out, mostly pleading. You know: ‘oh please stop… I’ll do anything…’ I exhausted my repertoire of those too. It was sort of an explosion of everything at once. Cedric listened gravely. And watched, with glowing eyes.

I felt the impotence of slavery. A slave cannot bargain. She has nothing to offer. Her master owns all of her already. She cannot threaten, she has no weapon to threaten with. The stock situations in which a girl is tortured are on the premise that something is required of her besides screams: she can stop what is being done to her by saying yes. She may not say it, but the choice is there. With a slave girl it is definitely not. It will stop only when someone else decides they are tired with that particular bit of fun. The metal ugliness was on my hand. But it might as well have been all of me. The pain was. That’s all little Terry had become: one huge flaming agony. A strange and awful thing that twisted and shrank me inside and caused the noise I made to be without words or form, they were just a continuous ululation of suffering. You see, that darn thing on my hand wasn’t like a whip. No cut followed by variations, perhaps a pause if you are lucky. This never stopped, never relented. You knew it would not stop unless some mechanical motions were made first.

My poor hand! There it was sticking out from the strap that cinched my wrist light, tight down against the wood and on it, clutching it like some dread beetle, was this strangely shaped contraption spawned from a nightmare centuries old. Sorry if I sound a bit like a hyperbole. But I’m trying to tell you. I was watching. I saw it all.. I saw my hand and the thing on it. But I could not move it. The strap was such a lovely neat circle. It held my wrist so beautifully. Anything I tried to do with my fingers hurt too much to be worthwhile.

To make the whole thing worse was the knowledge that there was nothing to stop Cedric turning the screw again. I knew, of course, that if he did I would die, my hand would never be any use again. I hadn’t any hope of fainting. I’ve never fainted in my life. I think that fainting bit went out with corsets and constipation. I watched his face, in between throwing my head all over the place. I was the only thing I could move. Cedric was very happy. He’d got hold of a bit of me that had never been used, a virgin hand. It was an exploration for both of us. He reached once more towards the knob.

"Stop!!!"

Involuntarily I barked that single word as though I had authority. It just popped out. Cedric paused, startled. Then he saw me. I mean he really saw me. Since he’d strapped me in the chair and we’d half laughingly puzzled out the thumbscrew I’d become, for him, just a delightful curved and tastefully strapped feminine something that provided the most stimulating erotic sounds and motions. Now he blinked and beheld poor little Terry Esmond’s face wet with tears and drawn and lined in agony. I’m sure my face must have looked awful, even if the rest of me didn’t. It made him pause and think.

"Pretty awful, eh?"

Just pleasantly conversational. I could have killed him. I just increased the tempo of inarticulate noises. He perked up. "I’m not gonna take it off, y’know." He was feeling his oats.

I sort of zeroed in with focus on his eyes. "Oh Cedric. I’m only girl. I’m not made or iron…" I trailed it off in agony and tossed my head. I wasn’t acting. It was real. I couldn’t be flip about it. So it must have been pretty bad.

CHAPTER 5

"Now see here…! Dorinda sat up straight pulling futilely at her imprisoned wrists in instinctive anger. The motion thrust her breasts into a flattering prominence. She bore Mark’s appreciative scrutiny with flushed cheeks and an inward tremor. "I do not wish to be whipped," she assured them with flat finality. "Or anything else either," she added without being quite sure what she referred to. Having enjoyed her breasts, Mark’s eyes raised to meet her own angry stare. He was obviously puzzled. "Do you mean to tell us that absolute clod never briefed you on the drill?"

"I’m not who you think I am."

They were full of surprises.

"Over to the column," Mark tersely ordered his sister.

"Oh no darling! Please…!" Terry wailed.

Mark rose to his feet. He had suddenly ceased to be a boy. Terry gave him a penitent grimace, shrugged her shoulders and resumed the pose in which Dorinda had first beheld her. She offered her wrists for the fetters. When the metal bands circled them she pulled as though to assure herself that she was indeed securely chained. "I hate you," she said to her brother without conviction. She turned her mischievous eyes toward Dorinda.

"You watch your P’s and Q’s," she warned. "He’s quite merciless."

Dorinda yearned to run. But what was the use! There was still hope that she was involved in no more than a mild behavioural oddity. But she viewed brother and sister with new and startled eyes.

"I wanted to be in on it," Terry complained petulantly to her brother. "You’re an absolute beast, darling." Suddenly, perkily, she thrust her tongue out at him in a provocative gesture of defiance.

Quietly, without haste and without anger, Mark lifted his sister’s left foot off the floor and fastened it to the side of the marble by a shackle, already provided. Terry must now perforce stand on one foot. I a little while it would become a real punishment. "Little girls should be seen and not heard," he admonished without anger.

"Oh, Mark! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Oh, no, not on one foot

… Please!" Her captive ankle struggled against the metal that held it a foot from the floor.

Mark laughingly bent and kissed the pouting lips. "You asked for it, darling. You know you did."

"Oh, all right! So I asked for it!" Terry admitted.

The siblings smiled at each other in pure love and perfect understanding.

Mark grasped Dorinda’s arm. "Come along," he said cheerfully. "I think we need to have a little walk."

Dorinda could not have agreed more. But she felt little optimism. The sight of the naked girl chained to the pillar made chaos in her thoughts. It was too unreal! Terry, instead of struggling and complaining, contrived to make herself quite beautiful. Perhaps she posed? Or possessed some unnatural grace. Standing on her one free foot she leaned negligently against the stone to which she was chained. The one raised leg by which she was being penalised enhanced the appeal of the picture that she made, as did the seemingly effortless raising of her arms to the shackles that held them so invincibly. She radiated the perfection of line and posture of an artist’s model. She was very beautiful. She gave the departing girl a smile of encouragement, her own condition forgotten. "Don’t be awkward, darling," she advised. "Or you’ll hurt when you sit down." The silvery peal of her laughter followed them from the terrace.

It was a pleasant room. A lounge in which perhaps a nude girl with chained hands might not seem too incongruous. Dorinda sat stiffly in the big arm chair to which she had been guided by a firm but friendly hand. ! Bit early for a drink, I suppose," Mark smiled at her appraisingly.

"Handcuffed girls can’t hold drinks," Dorinda pointed out reasonably, but with a hint of sarcasm.

"No they can’t, can they?" Mark agreed as though grateful for the reminder. He remained standing. She flushed under his scrutiny.

"Couldn’t I be draped in at least something?" She pleaded with deliberate coyness.

"No." He disposed of the request as though surprised she had made it.

"I think I could talk better if I wasn’t so… so exposed."

He dismissed the subject with an impatient wave of the hand. But his smile was again that of the boy she had met upon the road. "Young Terry’s a chatterbox," he confided. "She has to sparkle. We’ll get to wherever we are going better without her."

"So you just chain her up and leave her standing on one foot?"

"What else? Besides, she loves it. Surely you saw that."

Dorinda had seen it all too clearly. It made her next question inevitable. "I am supposed to like it too?" She clinked her handcuffs.

Mark gave the question considered thought. "Actually I suppose not," he conceded. "We explained this to Dave at the time. The thing that really matters is that you are here. Crossed the Rubicon, so the speak."

"I was dumped here by a miserable S.O.B. out of spite. I was never offered a Rubicon to cross. I don’t know your Dave," she told him flatly.

"Remember little sister’s warning about hurting when you sit down?" Mark answered nonchalantly.

Dorinda tensed.

He laughed amusedly at her motion’s admission of vulnerability. "For the moment you are saved by a discrepancy of a couple of days. You weren’t supposed to show up this soon. So I’ll listen to your story. Let’s have it."

She told it in detail. "Mike’s a bastard!"

"Sounds like a resourceful type. A bit crude perhaps. Makes hard work of things… This marooning lark…! I’d have you behaving in thirty minutes."

"Behaving?" His use of the word was suspect.

He laughed at her groping for what was, for him, obvious. "For a girl, behaving is doing whatever a man wants her to do." "You don’t really mean that." Dorinda chided. She prayed inwardly that indeed he did not mean it.

"I was never more sincere."

They stared at each other in confrontation. Between them an invisible gage had been hurled upon the rug.

Dorinda temporised. "This girl your Dave is to deliver: what is she? What do you expect of her? If you’ll tell me we won’t be so at cross purposes."

"Of course, love. Sensible girl," Mark draped himself in a chair facing her and eyed his guest as though striving to gauge the effects his words would have. "Frightfully simple, really," he said airily.

Dorinda listened. The way Mark told it made everything sound exquisitely simple. Frightfully so!

"The fantasy had always been there," he explained musingly. "It was the same for Terry as for me. We were born with it as though we had carried it along from some other life or some other place. It was colored by that same wonder with which a child sees its first bird in flight or the branches of a tree against the blue sky. For us it had the beauty and rightness of all natural things. Scoff if you want. It was so. I suppose Terry was about six years old when I first tied her to the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. I wondered why she did not cry. But, for both of us it was the birth of an aesthetic glory most people never know."

"Aesthetic… tied to a tree!" Dorinda protested.

His boyish grin was accusatory. "I watched your face when we left Terry chained to her column. You glimpsed it then."

"She’s an exhibitionist with a gift for posing. She is also very beautiful." Dorinda felt her defence slipping.

"You don’t really believe that’s all you saw," Mark told her discerningly. His voice has become earnest as though she must be made to understand. "As children we played. She was always the damsel in distress. But I was never the knight in shining armor. The fantasy cast me in a different role. I was The Male: the Male to whom all females must submit by right of conquest. The wicked baron who chained the poor girl in his dungeon. He never did get as much publicity as good old Galahad. But without him there would never have been a romantic legend."

"Terry was entrancingly attuned. She always resisted in about the right degree to maintain validity. The degree of resistance always briefed me as to what I should do to her. When adolescence came she accepted the same joy with which I used it. We found her striated skin that same quality of golden wonder that had pervaded the enactment of our fantasy from the start. It was about that time that we also became lovers…"

"Whips and incest! What are you trying to prove?" Dorinda’s defences were still sliding away from beneath her feet. But she made her protest vehement.

Mark sighed tolerantly at her intransigence. "You don’t try to prove the Taj Mahal or Lake Louise in the moonlight. They are there. That’s the beginning and the end. Each is an entity with its own appeal and compulsion. So it is with our fantasy."

"And I suppose your parents approved these small pleasantries."

"We had to keep it under cover as we grew older. Awful bind actually. But they died in an accident not too long ago and left us quite a lot of money. That’s when we decided to buy The Island."

"Seems to me you have your heat’s desire. Why bother with some other poor girl?"

He shrugged. "Human perversity, I suppose. Always one more river to cross. Young Terry is absolute perfection. She and I have wondered how amusing it might be to have one that wasn’t."

"You mean kidnap?"

"Well, that is where good old David comes in. He is one of those resourceful blokes you go to when you want the impossible. Put enough money in his hand and he’ll produce it for you. We made only one stipulation. She had to be beautiful." He paused to give his next words weight. "You are beautiful."

The dark chasm had widened.

"Know what I think?" Mark asked good humoredly. "I think Dave persuaded you, and that everything probably went along OK until he hit on this quaint notion of setting you ashore to deliver yourself nicely stripped and handcuffed and ready for action. In the night you got scared and decided you had made an awful mistake and wanted out. Right?"

"Wrong!" Dorinda declared with all the emphasis at her command. "In a couple of days you are going to have an extra girl on your hands."

"Stretching coincidence a bit thin, don’t you think?"

"I have to agree to that," Dorinda conceded dejectedly. She looked across at him brightly. But don’t you see, a couple of days will prove me right."

"Suppose I have to concede that unlikely possibility too," he admitted unwillingly. "Seems sort of a silly game…"

"So, couldn’t be real nice and treat me as a sort of guest in the meantime? I like you both. You might like me. Please unlock these handcuffs and give me something to wear." She put all the feminine appeal at her command into her plea.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Get the old cerebrum working, love. You’re not that dim."

"Spell it out." Dorinda said resignedly. "Maybe then I’ll believe."

"Oh, you will, ducky. You will." He was exasperatingly cheerful. "You see, darling, the crux of your situation is that it does not really matter whether you are Dave’s girl or someone else’s. If your story is true it puts you in about the same boat that Dave’s girl will be when and if she arrives. As far as Terry and I are concerned you are a simply first class bit of good fortune."

"You mean I’m kidnapped. First Mike, than you?"

"Let’s call it displaced, shall we. Sounds less mercenary."

"Either way I am a prisoner?"

"Yes."

"What about the other girl when she comes? Will you free me then?"

"No. If one is good, two might bet better."

"What will you do about Mike when he roars up here looking for me?"

"If the apocryphal Michael shows up demanding female flesh, we may hand him the extra girl. Or give him some sort of fairy tale. We think you’ll do nicely for us."

How neat it was! Dorinda knew herself trapped by circumstances no one had contrived. Taking this engaging young man at his own face value she could understand the plausibility of his thinking. Now that the truth was out she relaxed into the depth of the chair and struggled absentmindedly with her handcuffs.

"What are you going to do to me? Chain me up to see how pretty I look?"

"Oh, that’s just part of it," Mark exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm. "You’re not a natural, are you’ I mean, not like Terry and me."

"Good heavens, no!"

"That’s all right then. "He sounded relieved. "Think what a marvellous time we’ll have training you."

Dorinda groped for the right approach. "What about conscience? Do you have any? What right have you to make me a prisoner? You can’t possibly expect me to play your silly games?"

"You will, y’know," Mark sauntered over to a cupboard. When he retraced his steps he was flexing the slender length of a wicked looking riding switch. Calmly he offered it for inspection. "You’ll do whatever this tells you to, darling," he chuckled. "Terry always does."

Dorinda cringed. She was naked and afraid. She knew nothing of pain. But looking at the thing he held she knew it foolish to suppose herself impervious to what it might do to her. She was bewildered. "But… that’s cruelty! You are spoiling something good. Out on the road, there where we met, I liked you. I was glad you’d found me – even though I was… like this. With most men I’d have wanted to run away. But I didn’t with you. Please…"

Mark resumed his seat, one leg draped over its arm. The riding crop resting across his knee where she could never be unaware of it. "It’s a bit of a poser, dear girl," he admitted. "You see, we really do want you to understand. We don’t want you tot think we’re a couple of absolute bastards: we like you too. I’m in a similar position to some johnny who can play the piano by ear, or a chap who can do a long division in his head. They were born with it. They can never explain it. They can never get rid of it even if they wanted to, and they don’t want to. See what I mean?"

"You feel that just because you’re obsessed with this… This ‘gift’ shall we call it, that any inconvenience or pain I may suffer is purely incidental and should be borne gladly…" She looked at him beseechingly. "That I am… That I’m well… Sort of privileged to be chosen?"

"You put it rather well, old girl!" Mark admitted wryly. "Not fair to expect you to digest out fantasy all at one sitting… hence the handcuffs. There’s one thing I want to avoid in speaking of the fantasy and that’s to be flippant. We British… you’re American, aren’t you! We British tend to use flippancy to get us over the hurdles. But it’s not appropriate in this. Honestly it isn’t."

It was hard to be angry with him. Dorinda listened quietly. Tension dissolved.

"The word transcendental comes to mind," Mark continued thoughtfully. "Terry and I are governed by this thing I am trying to make explicable. It is the most powerful force in our lives, except perhaps our love for each other. But even there I’m not sure… The nub and essence of understanding it is to face the fact that we are driven by a force, a compulsion that gives us an extra dimension in life beyond the norm. We still move within the framework that contains others. But we have been given an additional faculty of sexual expression. Even that does not say enough, because above and behind it always is a glimpse and awareness of an ineffable beauty, something subliminal."

His voice trailed into silence as though the effort of expression had wearied him. He sat, pensive and distant.

Dorinda knew he would not break the silence. Her heart went out to this man who would always be a boy. She might fight him. But nonetheless he had managed to evoke a picture in her mind. She knew herself within the grip of something she was ill equipped to cope with. She wished the whip was not so blatantly evident. Was it only by the medium of its bite that she would fully understand?

CHAPTER 6

Mr. Rabin let go one of his finer sighs. "Is most difficult child," he pronounced, and moved back into the fray.

Pettie Corbin's legs were becoming lividly bruised. The cane upon the leg is quite wicked. She would have fared better naked. The pursuer got in another pair of stingers before. the fleeing girl considered the wisdom of an armistice. Backing away and furiously tugging at her handcuffs she kept a frightened eye on the quivering cane and demanded sulkily: "Alright then, you tell me what to say."

"Just polite sorry. no smartass." Mr. Rabin was prepared to be kind.

Petulance looked from one to the other of her audience. She unceasingly fought the handcuffs as though convinced there must surely be a way…. If she hadn't been such an absolute little vixen I might have felt sorry for her. It was easy to see that, even in pain, the idea of an apology was anathema to the panting girl. "I'm sorry I was rude, Mr. Rabin," she finally contrived in bitter humiliation.

"She'd never have said that in the good old U.S.A." Mrs. Corbin conceded. "Pettie girl, we've come to the right place. Pettie girl wept. They were tears of anger.

"Can now leave in good hands," said Mr. Rabin with satisfaction. He turned to me: "But would suggest removal of clothes. Is much best."

"You can cane her can then," said Mother.

Pettie accepted a peck on the cheek which she did not return. Her eyes were smoldering. Between the handcuffs and the cane she must have concluded her cause of lost. She did not plead. Just stood there and watched her mother go away. It was not hard to imagine het state of mind.

Returning from seeing my guests out of the house I found three pairs of youthful feminine eyes assessing each other. In Terry's and Dorinda's there was sympathy. In Pettie Corbin's only venom.

"Your best bet is to set me free and let me go," Petulance announced in grandiose disdain, doing us a favor.

Silence.

"You needn't to think I'm going to be naked whore like you two!" More tugging at the handcuffs.

No response.

"Whatever your game is, I'm not playing." Petulance planted herself in an arm chair and studied the disign in the rug. She leaned back against her chained hands as though no longer caring. Haughty indifference was to be her weapon. Right here I have to admit that, left to myself, I'd have been a bit stymied. Pettie Corbin was a very different kettle of fish to the two gorgeous creatures I had fallen in love with. But I need not have worried. Dorinda must have guessed my every thought.

"Master, may we remove our guest so that we can talk?"

Petulance did her best. But Terry grabbed one ankle and Dorinda the other. They hauled her from the room like a sack of potatoes. I need not note her comments. They were unedifying.

"We locked her in one of the rooms, Master," Dorinda's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Or would you prefer to, er, train her yourself?" She put a heavy emphasis on the word 'train'.

Once again I found myself far from my beginnings. I was now the beneficiary of a veritable cornucopia of adoring slave girls, with a hostile captive maiden tossed in for good measure. My cup did indeed 'runneth over'. Suburbia could look at its lost son and gloat or envy or mourn. Bit of all three, I expect. "Which will she respond to best?" I asked, delaying the issue.

"May I speak frankly, Master?" How glorious she was! I nodded regally.

Dorinda knelt before me, her raised eyes amused assessing the possibility of getting her bottom caned if she said too much.

"It's a lot different with Pettie," Terry butted in. Dorinda nodded. "Yes Master. We are afraid you may feel brutal before us two if you do what you must with this absurd girl. She will need very firm and painful treatment. She isn't very nice."

Amazing, aren't they? Think of everything.

Dorinda concentrated. Her words were slow. "We think, master, you may have become accustomed to us. We are slaves. Real slaves. We know we can never escape. We know we must do what we are told." She smiled ruefully. "It took a lot of time and a lot of pain to bring us to where we are now. But we will do what you desire. You may tie us or chain us or whip us to your heart's content. We will try and please you."

She paused and grinned in genuine humor. "Pettie Corbin isn't going to be like that at all."

"The thought had occurred," I admitted dryly.

Dorinda flushed. "Do I offend, Master?"

I was about to let go some shocking blurb about hou impossible it would be for anyone as beautiful as she to give offence, when I realized I had a position to maintain. "Don't woory, dear girl," I said firmly. "I'll whip you when you cross the line."

"Thank you, Master." She made the three words reek with gratitude. Then gave me a small apologetic smile for what she had to say: "In our slavery, master, we have come to learn that there are two ways in which a captive girl can give joy to men. One is to be submissive and obedient, the other is to fight him with tooth and claw so that he must beat her into acknowledging him master." She looked at me winsomely. We both knew which category I belonged in.

But I wasn't having any. Dammit! I was in the middle of everything I'd ever wanted. I might as well know it all. "I think I'll try a spot of breaking-in." I announced bravely.

"Probably not my cup of tea, but after all there's a sort of noblesse oblige. How'd you two girls like to tie her up on tiptoe with her hands far apart and high?"

"Of course, Master." Was there hidden laughter in the voice?

"Oh… and leave her clothes on, eh."

"Yes, Master." Definitely laughter.

I'll admit I paced the floor feeling a bit of an ass. I'd have been just as happy if old rabin had taken his Pettie Corbin somewhere else. From the sounds that were reaching me in considerable volume I suspected my two girls were probably feeling the same. Pettie was meeting her Waterloo noisily. When my slave girls returned they were panting and arranging their hair. "She's an absolute demon, Master," Terry said with feeling.

"We think you'll find her positioned to your liking, Master," Dorinda said demurely.

I had no doubts on that score, and was about to embark on my impersonation of the Duke of Wellington when two girlish voices asked: "What about us, Master?" I detected sadness and pique.

Damn difficult, y'know? Figure it for yourself. Worse than having three wives. Wives don't expect much from husbands, not after the honeymoon. But with these three damsels I was obligated to play the ruthless Pasha whether I wanted or not. I'd bloody well paid my cash, and they were honor bound same as me. Amazing.

"What would you suggest?" I had a feeling I'd asked that question before.

"We are slave girls, Master. You must instuct us." Gentle reproof!

I wasn't doing too well. I'd have been glad to have em read a book while I dealt with the recalcitrant vixen. But I realised that wasn't the proper drill. And besides, I didn't want them watching or walking in and uot while I was doing a bit of softening up on Miss Petulance. Maintaining my tenuous hold on authority I gathered up two pairs of handcuffs and beckoned in masterful fashion. Leading the way to a room notable for its total absence of Pettie I snapped the cuff round Dorinda's right wrist and clasped the other one to a ringbolt in the wall. Then did the same for Terry on the opposite side. There they stood, Captive by a wrist. About as innocuous an imposition as I could devise. But no matter how they tugged or twisted they could not get away. They would await their master's return as slave girls should.

"Thank you, Master." Their litling voices followed me as I shut the door.

Miss Corbin eyed me with disfavor. She was beautifully tethered. The girls had done a marvellous job. She was well up on her toes, her arms strained upwards. She was a pretty picture, but I did not tell her so. I could see her wrists were hurting.

"Fuck off," said my guest in welcome.

I stood in majestic mastery. It was a lovely feeling. I smiled to show tolerance.

"Look here," said Petulance, evidently having done a bit of thinking, "you've got me. I can't get loose from these damn cords that are hurting like Hell. So O.K. I admit I'm a nothing. You can hurt and humiliate me so I suppose I'll say whatever you want me to say. I'll beg. That's what you want… So let's consider it all said. I concede everything. You've won. So now let me loose and i won't press charges. I'll go back to mother and tell her a few things."

Females are incredible! Petulance was looking at me with bright expactancy. I believe she honestly thought I'd buy it. She was spoiled rotten.

"That's not quite the idea," I said gently.

Her face wa pure dismay.

"Your mother mentioned a few preliminaries, y'know."

"You aren't paying any attention to that nonsense, surely?"

"You are grossly overdressed." Talk about cat and mouse! I should have felt a bastard. But I didnt. The remark hit home. She tensed. She'd been thinking about that one too. "Oh very well." Her feigned indifference wa laughable. "I suppose it's something you feel you have to do. You'll find I have nice breasts and there's a good growth of hair round my vulva. They are the main points of interest to sex maniacs, I believe."

I was beginning to enjoy the situation. Pettie Corbin was the sort of girl a chap could whip with an easy concience. Anything you did to dent her massive self satisfaction was a kindness. Confidently I stepped on stage for Act one.

The heel of her shoe narrowly missed my genitals. It still hurt on the thigh. "Five strokes for that little trick," I told her casually.

"Drop dead." She had abandoned sweet reason and returned to normal.

I worked at her back. Her kicks and squirms were ineffectual. My fingers found buttons, hooks and zippers. But first I relieved her of her shoes. Their heels were a weapon.

It hit me all of a sudden. I was about to strip a girl naked. It had taken me one Hell of a while to get round to it. I savored each moment. Let me be honest about it: those moments were damn precious. One more dream come true. The tally grows…

"Well, I hope you're satisfied."

When I circled her and stood out of range of her bare fet my naked captive was actually blushing.

Damned irrittating, but I was too.

"Have I provided you with an erection?" she inquired icily.

"That will be two more strokes," I informed her matter of factly. "You are going to have to learn to curb your tongue."

"Do I get raped standing up or laying down?" she ignored my warning.

"You are now up to nine. Are you sure you're not doing it on purpose?"

"Don't be absurd! Girls haven't been whipped for a century. Forget the whole thing, Buster."

"The word 'Buster'is an opprobrium I cannot endure. It will cost you four. You are now up to thirteen."

She was panting. Never mind her emotions. I expect there was a bit of everything. She glared. Then softened enough to ask in a rational tone: "Are you really serious?"

It was a sensible question that deserved a sensible answer. I realized I'd better get on with the job before she racked up a score that would half kill her. "I am absolutely serious. I am going to start now before you earn more. Remember, keep a civil tongue."

I went and fetched my favorite cane. Pettie eyed it in fascinated distaste. "You're going to use an awful thing like that on a naked girl?"

"Yes."

"Where? I mean, where on me?"

"Your bottom."

"Like kid's stuff." She sounded offended.

"Was it kid's stuff on your legs?"

She shifted uneasily and lifted one leg. The loss of her clothes made her aware of vulnerability. She came out with the inevitable. "Can I say I'm sorry?" "No."

She digested the negative. Then offered: "I'll make the apology as humiliating as you want… You tell me what to say."

"Thirteen." I loved the sound of it. "Don't you know by now that we can't wiggle out of everything in life by saying we are sorry? Sententious but satisfying! Pettie twisted in her bonds, hurting her wrists without caring, realising, for the first time, how truly naked she was. Searching for the right words without finding them. She looked at me dejectedly. "But after… after, you've hurt me… I'll still be me?"

"I'll let you answer that one by yourself." I told her cheerfully.

There is something quite heartbreaking about the apprehensive female face that looks back at you over an upraised arm. The conflict of certainty and disbelief makes magic of a face. Feminine eyes are never so lovely as in that last appeal before they turn back in horror to be ready for what they can no longer evade.

I slashed the petulant bottom as hard as I could.

Pettie did not move, She did not cry. She had tensed herself into frozen immobility. Had it not been for the wound springing into livid life acros the curves of her cheeks I might have wondered if I had struck her. Whatever Pettie Corbin may or may not have been, there was steel in her.

But the second stroke turned her back into a hurt naked girl. She fought the cords and screamed. When she was half composed she sobbed: "You dirty rotten son of a bitch!"

"Fifteen."

She screamed as though I had struck her again. Screamed in fury and frustration. Contorted in hopeless determination to rob me of her nudity. Before she could spit out the words that would increase her penalty I cut into her with number three.

It was the same as before. Except that this time she flung atme in sobbing exhalations: "No! Oh no! No, no, no!" As though the negatives could erase her agony.

After the seventh Pettie made so rational a plea that I paused. "Please stop! Oh stop, if only for a minute… please!" I stopped caning her, but did not move. Her tear streaked face sought mine over her shoulder in wide eyed appeal. "I can't stand it!" she choked. "No one could stand this. It's more awful than I ever dreamed."

"There are eight more to go."

"Yes. I counted. I can't bear another eight likt this."

"You'll bear them very easily. You'll be surprised. Think a bit. Is there anything you can do but bear them?" I swung again.

When her writhing on that one had slowed, she asked weakly: "Please don't whip me any more. Do that… that, other thing."

"What other thing?" I'd made her say it.

She swallowed a few times but managed to sob it out: "Do what you have to so I'm not a virgin any more… Do in instead of whipping me… please!"

A smasher! One for the book! Gengis Khan, Attila the Hun and the current movie hero: none of em touched a moment like this. I was drunk with power.

"I will give you two more," I said grandly. "Then you will ask me nicely, using the four letter word."

She did not protest. Perhaps I was being kinder than she dared hope. I gave those two strokes all I had. She danced like a puppet on a string, moaning and sobbing. But she managed it: "Please fuck me, sir." That 'sir' was a real killer. Showed sincerity.

"I'll untie you. You'll immediately go and lay on the bench and open your legs wide…" I was a conquerer.

"Oh yes! Oh, thank you… Oh yes…!"

I untied her. She brimmed over with thanks, rubbing her cut wrists. I bent and picked up the cane, just in case… It was when I straightened up that she got me: her heel squarely on my testicles. All the force of her lithe body was behind the kick. I doubled over and lost interest in everything except myself. I had a blurred image of my asailant grabbing her clothes and making for the door. I couldn't have care less…

It's a standard joke. Sure, I know. Bloody funny when it's someone else or a cartoon story. Fact is it had never happened to me before. Don't suppose it ever happens to most chaps. But it's one of the few things that's every bit the way it's supposed to be. Too damn awful for words. I hgged myself and twisted and turned in agony. Serve me right! Well, O.K. maybe it did. But it hurt!

I really don't know how long it took me to get to where I could stand up and think. When I did I was flooded in pure horror. I'd let that damn girl get loose. Goodness knows what would happen to her running around half dressed in a place like this. Then the next one: Old Rabin and Mrs. Corbin! I'd let em down. Let em down bad! But then I came to the worst of all: Terry and Dorinda! My darling girls. They'd have to laugh at me. I'd look a fool, an absolute jackass. Chain them helplessly with those handcuffs and then let that slippery little vixen make a fool of me! My Empire crumbled at my feet.

Without Terry and Dorinda I wasn't safe.

The sounds followed the thoughts. They were equally disturbing. Noises!

I had not been told that hallucinations were a part of being kicked in the groin. Or was it illusion? It did not matter. There they were, large as life and smiling broadly, at least Terry and Dorinda were. Darling Petulance looked thoroughly cheesed off. Her wrists were once more handcuffed behind her back. She was naked. She was controlled by Terry's firm grip in her hair.

"We grabbed her on her way out," said Dorinda.

"She's a really terrible girl," said Terry.

Pettie Corbin said nothing. She looked scared.

"She tried to kick us in the same place," Terry explained.

"But it's not quite the same with girls…."

"I'd like to shove a red hot poker up yours!" Petulance said tenderly.

Terry shook her fistful of hair vigorously. "Naughty, naughty! Mama spank."

"Oh, fuck off you naked bitch!"

Dorinda thoughtfully took one of the captive's nipples between thumb and finger. "How about another apology, you ill-tempered little beast?" "You're another naked bitch too – Yow!" Pettie fought strenuously and uselessly. The hand in her hair was implacable. "Let that go you miserable whore…" Her ugly words trailed off into a cry of pure agony as Dorinda pinched harder. "Oh alright! Alright! I'm sorry."

The apology was obviously insincere. But the punished nipple was released. It was an angry red. Its owner looked down at it without pride. Pettie turned to me. "You going to let these lousy whores- " She let out a howl of protest as her nipple was once more put in a vise.

"I'm… I'm sorry! I forgot. Oh please…!" Once again Dorinda released the hurt bud. Pettie finished her sentence, her voice dripping sarcasm: "Are you going to let these dilightful young ladies do what they like with me?" She tacked on the word, sir for full measure.

My girls exchanged a glance. This time each of them possessed herself of a guilty scrap of flesh and pinched hard, holding their captive as she went through all the motions with which I now had a sneaking sympathy.

"I'll be good! I'll behave! Honest….!"

"We've heard that before." Terry said thoughtfully.

"We can't believe a word you say," Dorinda sympathized.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…! Ohhh! Oh please… anything!"

The two nipples that came back into view looked as though they were on fire. Pettie groaned. Her hands worked uselessly at the cuffs.

"Would yoy like us to, er, immobilize her for you, master?" Dorinda asked respectfully, eyes twinkling.

"If you would please?" It was ineffectual but the best I could do.

They marched their prisoner out, I suspect with glee. Pettie wisely refrained from comment. I tottered to the living room and found my favorite chair. The dear girls did not take long. "We just pulled her hands way up behind her back," Terry explained.

"It's very uncomfortable," Dorinda added with what I suspected was understatement.

I looked at them proudly. What a treasures!

They seemd ill at ease. They came and stood solemnly before me. "How will you punish us, master?" Terry asked sadly.

Punish? Good heavens, I'd award them the Victoria Cross, the Legion of Honour and the Congressional Medal.

They surveyed me with soft meek eyes in which there was the faintest glint of mischief. It hit me like a ton of bricks. They beheld realization down. They laughed. "How the devil did you manage it?" I demanded.

"I picked your pocket, master," Terry said demurely.

My hands flew to my pocket. The key to the handcuffs was gone.

"It's on the table, master," Dorinda confirmed.

"We wanted to powder our noses, master," Terry supplied.

"We were just readdy to lock ourselves back on our rings when little Sweetheart came leaping by. So we grabbed her."

"You mean, you had the key to freedom, but you'd lock yourselves up again?"

"Of course, master! We are slave girls. We know our place." They said it in unison. A trick, I suspect, they had deliberately cultivated.

I expect I looked thunderstruck.

"Besides, our ankles were chained, master." They offered that as if it was excuse for good behavior.

"You are utterly too much!" I told them with reverence.

"Yes master. We know we must be punished." Again in unison.

I knew with certainty that if it took every penny I had I must buy these girls and take them home. With two such treasures life could offer no challenge I could not face. "I would not dream of punishing you," I said firmly. I love you too much."

They looked at each other. They were by no means twins. But there was that same empathy between them.

"We know we did wrong, master. We want you to punish us."

What would I have done? Think before you answer! With one girl you could kiss her and dry her tears, if any. Or pick her up and carry her to the couch and arrange her legs. But two! Each beautiful beyond a man's wildest dreams. You can't do that to two, not at once.

They looked at me soulfully.

"You'd better whip me, master. It was I who stole the key."

Terry managed to make the confession sound like George Washington and the cherry tree.

"We are both equally guilty, master," Dorinda said firmly. I had a feeling that, married to Dorinda, a chap would have to toe the line.

"You both want to be whipped?" I asked unhappily. I was trying frantically to think of a way out.

"Yes please, master!" The duet sounded as though I'd offered a trip to Acapulco. Happy anticipation.

Those two girls proved something I suppose we all know but don't quite believe: that females get the best of men every time. We struggle and protest – I expect we enjoy it – but relentlessly they push in the direction they want to go, and all of a sudden we are there too. Damn remarkable!

Not so! You say. Why would two girls ask to be whipped? Seems like you have a point. But you haven't. They want to be whipped because every stripe I paint on their lovely skins makes me more their captive than they are mine. Besides, women have a sense of the rightness of things. The situation called for them to be whipped. So whipped they must be! each stroke would make them stronger and me weaker. They would weep. But their tears would melt my male armor… Oh, never doubt it. Women are stronger. Women are The Establishment.

"How would you like to be whipped?" I capitulated.

"It is for you to decide, master," the duet cooed.

A devil took hold. The male ego dies hard. "How about across your dear little quims?" I asked nonchalantly.

The silence was pregnant. But short.

"Thank you, master." They sounded ecstatic.

"How do we go about the job?" After all, it was their idea. Another silent sibling sensory. "One of the rooms has rings, master," Dorinda ventured without enthusiasm. I was glad of the absence of zest. Teach 'em a lesson. I let them lead the way.

Terry tied Dorinda. Then I tied Terry. They apologized for asking me to unlock their ankle chains. Obviously their legs had to be spread. By the time I was through there were three lovely blushes in the room.

It had the genius of simplicity. They lay on their backs on the floor, a noose round each ankle. The ropes went up and over pulleys in the ceiling. When the ropes were pulled hard enough the lovely legs rose up and spread wide so that by the time their bottoms left the floor each girl seemed to be about ninety percent sex. No one could imagine two delightful quiffs more invitingly displayed or more helplessly held. The fact that the girls had the use of their hnds altered nothing. About all they might use them for would be to beat upon the floor.

"I hope you like this, master," Terry said doubtfully.

I could see her point. If I was a girl I would never choose that pose. Even on her wedding night a girl does not open it quite that far – at least I wouldn't think so! There they were, two hair ensconced vulvas screaming to be whipped. I chose a very slender riding crop that was nearly a whip itself.

Again the problem of two. Which one to weal first? Whichever you chose you left a question mark. On the basis that terry was the most culpable I laid a truly lovely stripe flat over her sex.

She wasn't a bit heroic. But then she never pretends to be. Having so much freedom, she used it. She went wild. But no matter how she tried she always ended up where she started. The ropes round her ankles won. Even while she writhed she was open. When she lay still again her cunt screamed for attention.

I hit Dorinda. In pain the two girls are different yet the same. To writhe is to writhe, to moan is to moan. But each has their own distinctive way of telling you they hurt. Dorinda is the most voluptuous of the two. To whip dorinda is to know an agony yourself. The agony of desire. With her first twistings and small cries I am aflame.

Two red weals bisect two female quims.

"It hurts terribly, master," Terry tells me as though I need the information.

I whip them back and forth, one to the other. Their cries merge. Their struggles become continuous. Girlish hands beat against the floor and rach down to appease their wounds. When their eyes catch mine they smile.

Once more I am all the conquerors of the world. But I use judgement. I hope they would agree. I stop whipping the appealing cunts before there is damage. Besides, I love their owners. I go away. I leave them tied, moaning. They are so involved with their hurts they do not see me go. Miss Corbin is not happy. She looks at me sideways as I enter. "Alright, beat me," she invites bitterly.

I am indeed going to beat her. But not at her request. I survey her plight. My girls have, as usual, done an admirable job. Pettie's wrists are still handcuffed behind her back. But a rope drags them up to the ceiling so that she stands on tiptoe, bent forward to ease the strain, helpless. But in pain. Rope on het wrists would be bad enough, but handcuffs…!

Her bottom is beautifully displayed. It exhibits nine gorgeous wound and asks for more.

"I suppose I get whipped to death?" Pettie asks without hope.

It is a good thought. But not to death! Why waste a perfectly good girl? I tell her so.

"Fuck you, Buster!" she exclaims so that I know she has relinquished hope.

My power is complete. All three girls are helpless and exposed to whip and cane. I could make an orchestration of agony. It is at such times that we display mercy. It inflates our egos.

"You said that deliberately to annoy me, didn't you?" I ask.

"Whip me and get it over with."

"It will never be over."

It sinks in. Pettie is faced with the unknowable. heroics are no match for the forever. Faced with it, discomfort wins: "Please lower my arms. I hurt dreadfully."

"What else did you expect?"

"I know." Pettie speaks without any of her usual sarcasms. "But I have to ask. You might be merciful. How am I to know? Please lower my arms. I'll still be helpless." She flung tears from her face by a vigorous shake of the head. She was learning. She should learn more. "How many strokes would you ask for to gain the relief yoe seek?" I ask callously.

She hears my brutal question with joy.

"Any number you wish, sir."

"Why call me sir?"

"It is a title of respect. I have supposed it required."

"Call me master."

"Yes master." I could sense her loathing. But she kept it from her voice.

"Well, how many?"

How cruel a question!

"Five, please, master?" her voice was a question mark. How vividly her mind had computed. To ask for as few as possible without giving offense. I was pleasantly surprised by the five. She was learning.

"Five it is. I shall lay them on hard."

"Thank you, master." I could scarcely believe my ears. I struck the exquisitely bent derriere and watched the resultant gymnastics. Pettie's vocals were as erotic as her body.

I had expected pleas and excuses. But there were none. Agony aplenty. But no evasions. Her bottom was to be cut five tomes. The vulgar hoyden was reconciled. I struck again… and again… and again. Pettie rose to heights of pain undreamed of. I shared it all. Never once did I feel other than that I was doing her a favour.

At the end of the fifth I let her agonize awhile. Hers was a beautiful pose from which a girl might proclaim her anguish. But after a little while in which Pettie herself did no prompting, Suburbia gave me a few prods. Hastily I loosed the tether. Pettie's hands fell normally behind her back. I think she simply soaked up the relief. It was quite a while before she whispered: "Thank you master." It sounded genuine.

I let her enjoy. I was quite sure those handcuffs had been rough on her wrists. Probably a damn sight worse than the six with the cane. She didn't seem to want to do or say anything. Just stood.

"You know you have to be punished?" I asked offhandedly after awhile.

"Yes master." That 'master' had become automatic.

I recalled something. It seemed pertinent. "Do you remember asking me what good pain was: what difference it made: what point there was inflicting it on you?"

The naked girl searched her mind and shuffled uneasily.

"Yes master."

"Well?"

"You were right, master. I did not believe it then. I do now."

"When was it you find out?"

She gave my question the same careful consideration.

"With the first stroke, master."

I was awed. the power of the whip on female flesh! Had those old buffers down through history been right! whip your woman into submission and damn the rest! Damn the niceties! Damn chivalry! A woman was a chattel. Keep her so.

"How do you wish to be punished?" I used my weakness to probe.

"It is for you to say, master."

"I'm going to whip your loins."

Pettie tensed. I watched the knowledge of what awaited seep through her being. She gave me a quick sideways look as though to verify. "You are going to whip across my cunt, master?" She wanted it specific.

"Yes."

"Thank you, master." She had abandoned hope.

I went back to my girls. They were happily engaged in feminine chatter as though they had not been cruelly whipped. The words died as i entered. I was more important. They looked up at me hopefully. "I have work for you," I said, and loosed their ropes.

They untied their ankles themselves. Then stood, quite free. On impulse I asked: "Why don't you run? Why don't you jump me?"

"We are slave girls, master." They had an answer to everything.

They picked up their ankle chains and offered them to me.

"You should chain our feet, master, lest we be tempted."

"You want me to?"

"Yes, master." Their female desire blended as one. On impulse I asked: "When did you first become slaves?"

They exchanged their sibling look. "When the whip first marked us, master."

It is as though all the women of the world are one. But men are scattered far and wide. I adored them. They knew I adored them. They glowed. "I have a task for you," I said.

They adored that too. I am in danger of belonging to them utterly instead of they to me. Pettie surveyed their glowing entry without hope. "Fuck off," she requested, "I've had enough of broads."

"You prefer our master?" The question reeked of approval.

"All I want to do is get out of here." Pettie surveyed them disdainfully. "I suppose you're going to whip my bum?"

"Not exactly your bum, darling."

"You needn't call me darling, you lousy Les."

Dorinda turned shining eyes to me. "May we, please, afterwards, master?"

I signified approval.

Pettie saw the interchange. "About the best thing that can happen to a girl in this nut house is to get her arse whipped," she declaimed bitterly. "You'll love it, darling," Terry was enthused.

"Lick your own cunt," Pettie tugged at her handcuffs in despair.

"You're being very silly," Dorinda reproved. "Besides, if you're a woman's libber, wouldn't you sooner have my tongue than a man?" Pettie moaned in exasperation and tugged away at her bonds. "I don't want anything. Can't you understand? All my cunt wants is to be left alone." "Awful waste," said Terry.

"It's not going to be left alone now," Dorinda promised.

I stood to one side and watched.

It was a very feminine affair.

They left her handcuffs on. It simplified their job enormously. She made quite a to-do about laying on her joined arms. But Terry and Dorinda paid no attention. The female thing delivered to them was of no consequence. They went about their work absorbed.

When they had her spread helpless as they had been, they handed me the whip and retired to separate walls.

But I sensed something wrong. Pettie expected me to whip her. Thus, obviously, she should be shocked. I handed the whip to Dorinda, and myself retired to the sidelines. Pettie's eyes widened in fear. Women are merciless with women. Dorinda struck.

All in the mind? Perhaps. But, watching, it seemed to me that Dorinda knew things I did not. The weal across the pouting lips rose up to proclaim female dominance. the keening cry of anguish was totally feminine. Pettie was in good hands.

The two girls took turns whipping her sex. Sometimes the prostrate girl with her spread legs turned to me as her only hope. "Master, oh please master. Make them stop. make them…"

I did not make them. Pettie screamed and screamed.

"Please master, I'll never try to escape…. never!"

The whipping went on and on. Each girl intent as she accepted the cane. The female vulva staring up in mute appeal, the skin around it scarlet, turning purple.

Suddeny it stopped. "May we tie her, master?"

"Is she not ideal as she is?" They nodded, eyes aflame. "Thank you, master. Do you wish to watch?"

I did not wish to watch. This was a female thing.

"Don't leave me alone with them. master, oh, please…!"

I went away. I looked back only once. Dorinda's mouth was buried deep within the hair between our delinquent's legs. She was sucking lustily. Terry was not even aware of me.

I was not alone. The Grand Marnier kept me company. That and the sounds…. I expect it was more the sounds. I wished I had had the courage to stay. But I knew it best to allow them their own joys in their own way. I had no wish to envy them more than I already did. To be female must be wonderful. They have no need of men. I turned to the Grand Marnier. It was a small comfort.

I dreamt of Suburbia and longings. Of how a girl's breast beneath a sweater could send me bonkers. Of how a bit of thigh revealed in the underground could fill my day with passion and loneliness. Someone would marry these breasts and thighs and enjoy them. I pictured myself on my wedding night, taking off the clothes that had cheated me. What would I find? Nothing like Dorinda or terry. I was sure of that. But I was curious. Why didn't I kidnap one of those self satisfied little bitches and find out what was underneath her clothes? I laughed inwardly. I had no need. Dorinda and Terry and Pettie offered me finer breasts and better handfuls of cunts than any underground. Their agonies were more rhythmic than the clickety click of the tube train's wheels.

"We have her ready for you, master."

Dorinda's words brought me back from far away. My naked slave with her chained feet was smiling at me from the doorway. "We have performed our task, master. We would not presume upon yours."

I went to see what they had done.

Petulance lay upon a bench. Her handcuffed wrists were drawn back over her head and tied. Her shoulders were also bound. Her feet were pulled asunder but not rigidly fastened. She could do much with them and her legs save bring them together. They were held open. Pettie was an invitation. She looked up at me malevolently but dared not speak. The lines of salacity were still upon her face. I knew why. Pettie knew I was aware. Her face flamed. She tugged at her pinioned ankles, seeking to close her legs and deny me entry. But she was beautifully tied. My girls had served their master well. I entered into my kingdom. Pettie Corbin moaned and moaned. I could not tell whether in pleasure or in pain.

Perhaps there is no difference.

"Should we punish her more?" I asked.

It was the next day.

"She has not been punished, master," Dorinda affirmed.

"She has been made aware of womanhood. That is all. She will instantly revert."

"The whip?"

"In training, master. She must be made to speak the words. She must want to speak them."

"Bring her forth."

Twenty-four hours. For pettie Corbin it had been life. Now her ankles were chained. She wore her handcuffs like bracelets. For her, escape had become a pretty dream. She looked at me without adoration. "I suppose you are going to fuck me," she said listlessly. "Which of the thirty six positions?"

Terry whips her. When it is over she is more humble. "Tell me what to do, master."

I tell her what to do.

Terry and I hang by our thumbs. It is one of the cruelest punishments. It goes on and on. We hang that we may see each other?s tears and share our moans. Our searching toes cannot find the floor, but the chain between our ankles loops down so that a couple of links find the contact we are denied. We are exhausted and without hope. We may hang like this for hours or for days. When we are lowered there will be something else…. I suppose I deserve it. But poor Terry does not. Darling Terry…

It?s all my fault. They trusted me. They looked to me. I don?t know why. I?m no stronger willed than Terry, no wiser than poor Cedric. But he fell in love with us both: with Terry as a girl and with me as some remotely beautiful Goddess from his dream world. He was all wrong. I?m only a girl too. A girl who sheds tears and hurts the same as Terry does.

I?d seen the danger signals from the moment old Rabin rented me to poor bewildered Cedric. He was just a boy from some stuffy little nothing place in London. A little boy lost. I don?t think poor Cedric really knew what he was searching for. But he believed he had found it in us. Perhaps he actually did. Certainly Terry and I possessed a power to give him tremendous happiness. He?d been so lonely. Suddenly we filled his life. He fell in love.

It was the day Mrs. Corbin retrieved her chastened daughter that we all made the awful mistake. We were suddenly alone and intimate. Two naked chained slave girls and a man who adored them. That word does not fit him. Cedric was a boy. A boy who was ashamed to whip us any more and wanted to take us back to England.

“I?ll never know our price. It must have been right. The poor boy looked a bit white and strained when he came back from the battle of wits with Rabin in which h purchased us. You can be sure the old Shylock would try and drain him dry.

I should never have let him go. But think of it! I?m only human. All of a sudden freedom was dangled in front of my eyes. Cedric wanted us. He would pay Rabin: Not only for two girls but for the sure passage of all three of us back to somewhere safe. Somewhere outside this desert society of you scrach my back and I?ll scratch yours! Even in this weird part of the world there exists the banking and wire services by which money can be made available. If you have it, poor dead Cedric evidently had enough.

The way he explained it, I couldn?t pick holes. There seemed no reason it would not work. Rabin was the key. Money would buy Rabin. Simple! There was an awkwardness when I asked Cedric what he?d do with us in England.

“I don?t know,” he laughed ruefully. “Can?t take you there in chains,” he grinned at us frankly. “But I want to. May as well admit it. I never want to let you go. But when we get out of the plane you?ll be free. You can kiss me good-bye and go.”

Terry and I cried. It was too much emotion. After slavery it just did not seem possible. No more chains or whips or cords that cut our skin. No more rotten little cells or dungeons. No more men using our bodies…. We looked at each other through our tears. Terry knew what to say.

“ We?ll stay with you, master. We?ll be your slave girls there for as long as you want. We know you?ll let us go sometime. That?s what matters…” Her eyes lit up in mischief.

“Make old Rabin throw in all the handcuffs and the chains. You?ll need?em.”

Cedric was close to tears himself.

So I let him go. Why, oh why, oh why?

Sudden entry into freedom takes about the same adjustment as being thrust into slavery. When Cedric came back with Rabin?s blessing and all the papers and clothes for us to wear, it was an almost frightening moment when the chains were unlocked from our ankles and we could take a normal step. Talk about feeling naked…! Cedric watched and shared our laughter at our exploratory steps. Then blushed with us when we dressed. Crazy, I suppose, bur putting on a pair of briefs was about as obscene an act as I had ever performed. It was as though I was suddenly ashamed of something I?d been carrying around all my life.

We made such a holiday, such an occasion. We were so happy loading Cedric?s car. It was like being born again. On the road we were tourists seeing the country. Each town or village we passed was a milestone back into life. Terry and I found it hard to express our gratitude. Cedric had given us something so precious there were no words. Only acts could tell him. We were glowingly resolved to perform those acts. We both wanted nothing more than to make him very happy.

Terry and I were busy with the road map. We could tell we were getting close to safety. All we needed was an American or British Consulate. We would soon be free… free…. free!

The two trucks converged on us from either side. Directly we saw them we knew. There was no exciting race. One behind and one in front at a place where we could not turn. There were not even any arguments. There were eight men. They dragged us out of our car. One of them immediately drove away in it after tossing out our laggage. It was thrown into a truck, our hands were tied behind our backs and we were pitched after it. The truck sped away. We knew not where.

Poor Cedric! To him it was unreality. He tried to talk, to bargain, to promise and to threaten. The mahogany faces listened impassively. One of them struck him across the face and said gruffly: “No talk.” To Terry and I it was all so familiar. The cords cutting our wrists. The knowledge of helplessness. Of being pawns in someone else?s game. When they tied our elbows, savagely and tightly together, we knew there was no hope. When they do that to you they want to hurt. They want you to know you are a nothing. They want you obedient.

After a long time they stopped and pushed us out on the sand. Just the one truck and four men. We were in a quiet sad little gully with a dubious-looking water-hole and a scattering of dejected vegetation. The four were hungry. One started preparations for a meal. The other three made arrangements for the floor show. Terry and I were the star performers. They were very confident. They untied us, even Cedric.

“Take off clothes.” It was a very casual order.

I suppose Terry and I hadn?t expected anything else. The first thing you do with a slave girl or a captive female is strip her. Why not? It?s practical. The things you are going to do to her certainly don?t call for clothes. We started to undress. Apart from being frightened and heartbroken we were almost bored. It was all too familiar.

But poor Cedric! It was all a bit too much for him. He laced into them in no uncertain way. One of the crew hit him with the butt of a gun. There was about as much emotion displayed as if he had brushed away a fly. Cedric was knocked down but not out. Blood came from the wound. He fingered it in disbelief as he sprawled on the sand. We tried to go to him. But that was definitely out. The moment we stopped our strip act dirty fingers reached out to help. We were soon naked. We did not care. Cedric was our main concern. “Don?t interfere over us,” I warned, and got slapped for my pains.

What do you do with a captive girl? Of course you do! The answer is the same on every continent and every century. Terry and I knew what the first thing would be. Poor Cedric did not! Hen the first ruffian took his erect sex out of his scrap of dirty blanket and motioned to me to kneel before him and pay the eternal female homage with her lips, I was about to obey when Cedric went wild.

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 wnet 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 forced 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 animals 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 escort 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 escorts 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 forces he has spent. The whip or the cane. It does not matter.

Our escorts 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 trapeze 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 sleep. I suppose it is unconsciousness. 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 forced 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 kidnapped," 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 kidnapped 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 forced 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 child 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 child 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 beastly 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 blood 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 kid 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 blood. 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 blood. 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 blood. 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….

Content

Odett Peters
The Island

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6