'Why, oh why are you such a silly girl! I don't want to hurt you the way I'm going to have to. Telling him your purchase price. Oh Phemie!' I kiss her and nibble avidly at the perfumed flesh. I will soon be immured away from love. That knowledge is almost worse than the whip. 'Punish me for that too, darling,' I plead. 'I want you to.'
'No. Enough is enough.' For me there is a glowing eroticism in being punished by Yolanda. I would loathe it from anyone else, but with her it is a tremendous sharing of love. I will scream and plead and long for it to be done, long for it to stop, stop for any reason at all. But my puss will swell and secrete its wet, and here and there while the things are done to me that must be done. I will know joy ineffable. So great is this fire of sensuality that under its influence I will plead for what I fear. I do so now.
'Darling, I was outrageous with Pollard. I'm worse than silly. I must be punished, I must!' Yola knows me. Her voice is tolerant. 'Oh, very well, idiot. But you'll be sorry.' Of course I will be sorry! I know I will. But this is how it must be. Yolanda rarely weakens, but when she does it is I who must be strong. We must never allow the beautiful wonderful thing we share to be eroded by casual mercy. Thus it is that an hour later I am in the dungeon. Its gloom is chastening, but I am buoyed by the close memory of Yolanda's flesh and Yolanda's lips.
'This is it, Phemie darling, the thing you asked for.' I lose my handcuffs and am told to place my hands behind my back, palm to palm. I am already naked. I quiver at the knowledge of what my punishment is to be. I had not guessed. I will be a sorry girl indeed, but I stand in blithe acceptance as my wrists are tied with the cruel thin rope. Yola ties me slowly and with care.
'Want to call it off, puss-cat?' I will long to call it off when it is too late, but not now. I am in a throbbing ecstasy and my voice is husky when I whisper: 'Oh no… oh no… no.' My gasp could be of joy or agony as the rope circles my elbows. 'Round and 'round! There will be a number of the snug bands so that none will cut off circulation. Yola says I have rubber shoulders because my elbows meet so easily at my back. They meet now as she cinches and tugs and ensures even pressure. I will be well and truly tied. For poor silly Euphemia there will be no wriggling loose. My forearms are welded as one. My fingers, already searching, can find no knot. I am to be tantalized. The chains are taken from my feet, but a shackle is clamped upon my left ankle, from it trails the inevitable chain that tethers me to the wall. Like the one from my collar the previous night it will not permit me to reach the beckoning blanket. My Mistress clutches my nudity and kisses me fervidly. I cannot clutch but I can kiss. The emotion is too great; she runs for the door. I notice that this time she closes it on me gently and I can scarcely hear the sliding of the bolts. I am alone within the walls of stone that are my prison. I am tethered to the wall by the chain on my ankle. I am painfully tied. It is the cord around my elbows that will punish me for my indiscretion, the punishment my own tumescence prompted me to plead for. It will bed itself deeper and deeper into my flesh until my mind is filled with the single wish to be free of it. But I will bear it through the night. It will scorch and burn and mock me and I will come to hate it. But I do not hate it now… not yet! Tonight my stone bed will be doubly hard because of the way in which my shoulders are wracked back. I look down at my jutting breasts and reflect ruefully how even they will be hard to lay upon in their taut prominence. I allow myself a single glance at the blanket, then drive its mockery from my mind by a vision of the 'morrow, a vision in which I am bound and spread and helpless to await the whip, a vision of my writhings as it curls lovingly upon my skin. I chide myself for the vision, for it is not in fear or apprehension, instead it feeds the fire between my thighs. I cherish it. I shiver in exquisite helplessness. In turgid transport I sink down on the stone and seek a comfort I will not find. My mind roves backwards into what I call my 'dungeon dreams'. I think I was eleven the first real time. My body had changed enough that I was shyly aware of the parts of it I must keep covered. Even though it is what I call the first time, it was not the beginning of me. The 'me' I am trying to tell you about had been there from the beginning back there in my mother's womb. The experience and I were like two twigs in a stream that the current brings together briefly with an impact by which their course is forever changed. Miss Hilde was a nice teacher except that she caned our hands a lot. She caned the small open palms, tentatively and shrinkingly extended for punishment, hard enough to ensure tears and defeat bravado. We learned it was wise to cry at the second stroke. Dry eyes or a pout earned you two more, much harder this time and your 'Thank you, Miss Hilde' had to sound very sincere. One or two of the girls got up to six, three on each hand. This was rare, but I was one of them. The canings were always for just cause which is never hard to find with a room full of giggling girls. The first times my palm was seared I wept with the best of them and returned to my seat hugging my wounded members. But, being me, it was not long before I became aware of a strange excitement and a heat between my legs whenever the cane was displayed or used. When it was to be used on me and I made my way up before the class; my tremblings were very soon not of fear but of another emotion I could not understand. I kept this emotion a firm secret. I was quite sure no one would approve of it. Checking with the other girls I learned that all they felt was pain. I was different. I found the difference exciting. I am sure Miss Hilde recognized a kindred spirit. She was always kind to me and helped whenever I was stuck with work I could not master. But she caned my hands more and more often until it was understood by the other girls that she had it in for me. By that time I was being cautious, so I agreed with them. I had a good thing. I was not about to spoil it. Without a word spoken Miss Hilde and I arrived at a nice understanding. If I was to get caned more frequently, or if I was to get four slashes instead of two, or six instead of four, I had to give cause. Since we both wanted me to do well in school I could not fluff my work. So I became saucy, or cheeky, or petulant, or even engaged in a bit of bravado up before the fascinated eyes of the whole class to whom three on each palm was the absolute end. I varied my repertoire so that no pattern would show. I became shockingly crafty in my pandering to the lovely feeling between my legs. When I met Miss Hilde's eyes and she swished the cane I positively melted. I expect she did too. But I did not know that then. Two strokes was gorgeous. After that I had to grit my teeth. The fire in my loins inhibited tears, so I provoked four often enough that I could come up with copious salt water — I was wise enough to discern that, for Miss Hilde, tears were de rigueur. The first 'real' time was the day after my mother accompanied father on a three week business trip.
'Just the housekeeper looking after you, dear?' Miss Hilde asked kindly.
'She's very nice. She let's me do everything for myself, bathe, dress, everything.' Instinct told me this information was important. Miss Hilde was not much over thirty. Ancient in a child's eye, but an attractive woman. I suppose, quite apart from the cane, I had a crush on her. She was avid but cautious.
'Do you bruise easily, Euphemia?'
'Yes, Miss Hilde, but they're gone in a couple of days.'
'Hmmmm. Three weeks, you said?'
'Yes, Miss Hilde.' I was breathlessly eager.
'Have you felt my caning of your hands beneficial to your general deportment, dear?'
'Oh yes, Miss Hilde, I'm terribly grateful.' It was like a rehearsed play, but I don't suppose we could have managed it without the stilted preliminary. Besides, we loved every word.
'I do think punishment most helpful to a girl of your intelligence, Euphemia dear. I am considering taking you a step further than just the cane on your hands… a fresh perspective for you?'
'Oh, thank you, Miss Hilde! Oh, yes please.' She was well ahead of me. The furthest I could see was six of the best on my bent over bottom. I was enchanted by the prospect and wondered if I'd get it on the bare.
'Do you think you could come to my apartment for a couple of hours this evening — for special coaching, of course?' So simple! I arrived early.
'I think it much the best if you are nude, dear.'
'Take my clothes off!'
'Not shocked, I hope'?' I showed her how shocked I was by stripping bare as an egg in ten seconds flat. Miss Hilde locked the door.
'I think it would be nice if I cane your bottom for starters, dear. Don't you agree'?' I'd have agreed to anything. The gates of Enchantment had opened and I had entered. But 'starters!' I was too shy to ask what might follow.
'Would you like me to touch my toes, Miss Hilde?' I asked helpfully.
'You are so sweet, and so innocent, dear.' Miss Hilde, surprisingly, kissed me warmly. I was in a seventh heaven. Sight of the cords and bits of rope and the straps did nothing to lower my elevation. They simply made me gaspingly excited.
'Are you going to tie me up, Miss Hilde?'
'You want me to, don't you, dear?'
'Oh yes, oh please!' It was as though I was offered the Crown Jewels. The thought of Miss Hilde's strong adult fingers tightening bonds upon my newly aware female flesh had me in a ferment of sexual excitation. At the
