'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.
