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.
