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.
