short. I shrug resignedly, I am getting only what I deserve. I return to my corner and my chain and look down at the stone. It seems impossible that I can sleep. But I am used to pain and discomfort. I fall into a dream laden slumber and do not properly wake until the light of morning is feeling its way into my prison. It is the day. I have thought much of the whip while waiting for Yolanda. I cannot possibly sustain joy through so severe a flogging. I have no expectation of acquitting myself nobly. I will probably plead and make a fuss. Yola may be forced to gag me.
'Is your puritan conscience purged, silly girl?' Yolanda turns me about and examines my roped elbows, the penalty I provoked her into inflicting. It has made me pliably contrite.
'I'm sorry, darling. I was stupid.'
'And now you want me to untie your arms?'
'Oh Yola, yes… yes! I'm dying.'
'You're not, y'know! I'm a good mind to leave you like this.'
'Oh please, no!' I wail in anguish. It is a game she plays often, but I am never sure. Sometimes she actually does leave me to go on suffering. I never know. I sink to my knees and press my head hard against her sex. Even though she is clothed it will affect her. Perhaps she will take me to bed. But even then she may not untie me…
'You're a saucy pusscat and I know what you're trying to do.' Her fingers are loving in my hair. 'I'll give you a choice. You can stay as you are, elbows roped, or we can start your whipping.' It seems a cruel choice, but it is not. I know I must wade into my punishment and get it over with. 'Start my whipping, please,' I ask meekly. It is heaven to get rid of the ropes. I squeal as they are peeled from me. The weals are beautiful and shocking. My ankles are then chained so that I may attend the bathroom and eat my apple and drink my water. I long for food but dare not ask. Soon I stand naked with one wrist strapped each side of the whipping post. I am ready. My ankles are still chained. Yola loves to hear the clatter of the links as I kick against the pain.
'One hundred, Phemie.'
'Yes, darling.'
'Want to be gagged?'
'Not yet.' It is not the worst whip. With some of the whips a hundred would kill me. I know this one of old. It will hurt bitterly but not injure. Unless Yolanda strikes me unduly hard I may not bleed. But a hundred! My poor back! The heat burns hard in my loins as the thong snaps across my shoulders and burns deep. How beautiful is pain when it is Yola who bestows it on me! I twist within my bonds as sensuously as I can to give her happiness. Motion helps me too. Being whipped hurts twice as bad if I cannot move, at least I think it does. The second strike bites the center of my back and curls beneath a breast. My motions now are the pure artistry of suffering. I need not simulate. Both of us are happy beyond words. Whipping posts are cruel. I have seen pictures of those in which a girl embraces them, her hands pulled 'round and bound on the other side, or perhaps they are tied to a hook above her head. But not this one! The straps upon my wrists are broad and tight at the level of my chin. I can neither advance or retreat or bend my elbows. I must stand at arm's length so that all of me is fully exposed, the whip can curl. It is a really wonderful whip and curls beautifully around my waist. I quiver and gasp with the pain and try to look down to examine the slim belt of scarlet that I will wear. What I can see is marvelous, but I cannot see it all. It will wait. It will have lots of company. As darling Yola strikes me again and again the pain mounts to where I begin to wish I had never allowed James Pollard to lure me from that room. Without meaning to I kick and stamp my naked feet so that my chain clatters delightfully on the stone. If Yola is pleased at the sound I am glad. What I long to do is raise one foot, brace it against the post and tug. It is a thing I have done often. It is quite useless except that it gives me an emotional release. I am fighting, trying to get free. The fact that I cannot does not matter. I am lucky I cannot do this, for the act carries a penalty. Whenever I have done it Yola seizes the opportunity to snake the lash into the thigh I have exposed. It is one of the places where I cannot bear the agony, I always howl. Sometimes I look over my shoulder at the girl who is whipping my nakedness. It is not to plead or in apprehension. I simply need the small smile she grants me. It tells me I am loved but that the end of my whipping is far away. I have lost count. I am supposed to keep a count, but when the number I must bear is great I always forget. I have to hope my darling knows. A hundred strokes will take so long. They will go on and on and on in the calm measured rhythm Yola employs with pauses only long enough to keep me continually at the peak of the crescendo. Cessation means mischief. The blows stop now. While I am panting to catch up with my lost poise, a small enquiring hand inserts itself between my legs and palms my puss.
'Naughty, naughty, you're enjoying it, love.' Yola wipes her wet hand on my flank. It is very wet indeed and leaves a smear I cannot touch. My fire between my legs is unkind to me in punishment. It goes on burning and supplying my puss with secretions long after I begin to find the pain unbearable. I have tried to explain this to Yola, but a wet hand is a wet hand, a sopping puss is hard to excuse. I cannot be sure my treacherous little slit will not continue to leak through the whole hundred. I am betrayed.
'I can't stop it,' I complain. 'But I'm hurting terribly. I'm ever so sorry for what I did.'
'Want to ask forgiveness. Phemie?'
'No, darling, but I'll soon be crying.'
'I'm not whipping you all out, y'know.'
'Thank you. Honest, I really am grateful.'
'Would you like a few between your legs? I'll take off the chains?'
'I can't bear the whip there, Yola, I just can't.'
'If you like to ask for twenty I'll bring your sentence down to ninety instead of a hundred?' It is pure torture. Mischievous torture, but torture none the less. What a decision to confront a nude girl when she is strapped to the whipping post. I am positive that twenty up between my legs will drive me wild and make me scream. And yet… I do examine the offer, seeking an advantage that is not there. 'No thank you, darling. But I'm ever so grateful,' I say meekly.
'Are you being sarky with the gratitude bit, Phemie?'
'Oh no! Oh darling!' My denial is swift and not strictly truthful. I should know by now the hazard of imprudent speech.
'I think you were, pussy-cat. So now it's a total of ninety with twenty of them up between your legs.' I might have known! I blink back tears. Yola is not being cruel. Anytime she detects insubordination she nips it in the bud. I have been nipped. I am about to utter my meek and unprovoking 'thank you' when I gasp in joy. Once more the hand has sought my sex, this time it stays and is very clever. For a little while I will forget the whip and will go with my love to a far exciting land of rainbows and sharp ecstasies. Yola loves me terribly. When it is done I lose my chains. It is a sobering moment when Yola unlocks them from my ankles. How nearly free I am, yet how rigidly held for the whip. I wonder glumly how many strokes I can bear now before I plead for the gag. I would love to take my punishment without the gag but have little hope. It is just too much.
'You will stretch your little tootsies apart nicely, won't you, darling?' Yolanda's voice is honey.
'Yes, darling, I promise.'
'Would you like a few between your legs now while you're a bit rested, Phemie, instead of the full twenty at the end?' The offer is kind or cruel according to how you look at it.
'Are you going to make the whip come up under and hit my pussy?' I quaver.
'Of course. About half of them.' I cannot win this game. 'Yes, I'll have a few of them now, darling,' I concede without enthusiasm. When I part my legs and open wide my thighs so they and my puss may be efficiently whipped I see myself in an absurd simulation of those scenes on the telly where the cop makes the suspect straddle against the car or the wall with their hands up and apart. That's me right now. I feel silly and am afraid I look the same. I am also scared. The first is just a thigh, the soft part well up. I cannot hold my pose, but hop and kick and howl. It hurts shockingly with a peculiar sickening pain all its own. I am learning the lesson I am supposed to learn. Right now I would promise anything with total sincerity. I force myself back into position with a gritting of the teeth. It is not easy to offer my poor wet pussy for what she is about to receive. She receives it! I make the strangest sounds. I could almost believe it is my little slit beneath my fur that utters them. The agony and the protest comes from her. I feel certain the thong parted her lips and entered, a whipped girl is fanciful. Without thinking, I pull my little act, my foot against the post and tugging at the straps that hold my wrists. Yola seizes the opportunity and gives me a quick snapping crack where I want it least. My leg returns to join its mate. Moving one soft thigh against the other I can actually feel the raised ridge of punished flesh. Trembling, I once more open myself wide. The cut does not slice me at the moment I expect. Several moments of agonized waiting pass until I hear the opening of the door. I thrill with hope. My Mistress has gone for a drink for me, maybe brandy! I will get a respite and a stimulant. I could drink the whole bottle. I close my legs and peep over my shoulder. Yola has not
