to go to court in and the three witches departed with my clothes. I could understand why that chap at the desk had been anxious to get first grab at my pants.
They got me into court within the hour. There was a sort of ceremonial dress for this. My bit of sack, my handcuffs and chains on my feet that made an awful lot of noise. There was a rope loop around my neck, a tether by which I was led to my just desserts. I was very impressive. No one paid any attention to me at all.
I stood in the bow with the wardress beside me while everyone had a free for all. I may have had a lawyer in there somewhere but I never met him. The noise was intense, the clothes were everything you have ever seen. Hands waved. At the end of it I got ten years and twenty lashes.
Imagine my feelings. If all went well I might miss the ten years. But there was no way I was going to miss those twenty lashes. I was to get them right there on the premise before being sent to the prison where I hoped and prayed I really would escape.
They made quite a thing about me being whipped. I gathered it was not every girl that had the honour, which was probably too bad in the eyes of the male staff since they all got a first class erection of the notion of dear little Terry getting her bottom swished. First I was taken to the chief whatever he was that ran the place. I had to stand to attention in front of his desk and listen to a long harangue in about three languages. The moral was that I should take off my bit of sacking and lay across his desk.
When the amusing excersize was over I was taken back to my cell by a lesser being who told me quite frankly that he’d like to fuck me but that he didn’t have the rank. To demonstrate his injured feelings he put my handcuffs back extra tight and fell all over me with his rough hands.
But it wasn’t long before he was back. This time it was the chief assistant something or other. We went through the whole bit again. I tried to look interested and grateful for his concern about my morals. But I was afraid I might go to sleep on my feet if he went on too long. Those early missionaries must have been an awful bore.
When it was time for ‘off with the sack’ he got quite a shock. I could see it hit him. I really had been whipped a lot. There was darling Mark that time he was so angry with us both. There was that bastard Mike and all his crew. Good old Cuth had come back no less than nine times during my day tied on the deck. Then there were the appearances. All in all I must have been a very stimulating sight for any male who enjoyed what most males seem to enjoy. All right. All right! So I like it a little too. But just a little…
He explained in his broken English that he wanted me to relief his tensions with my lips and tongue. But not yet. My stripes had given him ideas. A girl who entered their fine jail with a clear skin could hardly be whipped without the fresh marks being noted and commented upon. But if she was a well striped girl as I was, what did a few more matter? He explained, with great charm, that he would like to give me those few more.
I could hardly refuse, could I? No use acting coy. My marks betrayed me. That’s the trouble with a girl being whipped. Everyone else feels that since the ice had been broken they might as well have a go too. A simple case of one stripe leading to another. So, off came my Dior creation and little Terry was once again asking how she should stand. The bit of sack went on and off so easily that the handcuffs were no impediment. I could see he liked those too. The different ways in which a girl can get a man an erection are just out of this world. I had to kneel with elbows and cheek on the floor and knees well in. I didn’t like it. My bottom stuck up like a beacon.
It hurt like hell. I’d always known it would if it was not Mark. Only Mark could make me crinkle. Dorinda maybe… Fortunately he had to be a bit careful, so he limited it to ten. I was crying by then. I didn’t try to be heroic. I was tired and wanted to go home.
He was most chivalrous about helping me up off the floor. I’m quite sure he felt sorry for me. Men are queer mixtures. But his sympathy was not such as to interfere with his plans. However, he did give me a lovely drink before he had me kneel and then stuck his fly in my face.
I hadn’t been back in my cell five minutes before the vulture showed up. I wondered what she wanted. Anyway, she had a private place of her own where she took me. Seems as though she was in the senior executive class too. Imagine little Terry’s feelings when she was bunged into the living room and there were the other two vultures waiting. They had me naked in not time. I hoped one of them might buy my sack. Then they undressed themselves. ‘I’ll draw a veil’ as they used to say in Victorian novels. They could never have made the grade in Hollywood. I don’t think all three of them could have inspired one good male erection.
Vulture number one produced their universal panacea: a whip and a bottle. They gave me a bit of the bottle. I was to get the whip if I didn’t behave. The marks I already had aroused no comment. Probably when they were girls they’d been well decorated too.
They sat in a row. Three obscene Buddhas. I was instructed to go up and down the line. I was to get the whip only if I failed to sense and deal with a quivering orgasm. None of them wanted to be left on the hook. I prayed that once would be enough.
It wasn’t. I know I’m good at this. Dammit! Dorinda’s told me so many times. You know that pride in workmanship thing. Well, it didn’t help me now. My poor tongue. Have you ever had a tired tongue? Sounds absurd. Well, I had one then. The old biddies weren’t too keen on letting me have a rest. But I think they were a bit grateful so I missed most of the whip, except for one dear old soul who enjoyed flicking it at my slit while I stood to attention.
Once more I ended up in my cell. I was about ready for beddy-byes when another joker showed up. This time I had to discard my sack and let him such about everything I had. The bath I had back at old Rabin’s seemed quite wasted. My new client could have washed the statue of Liberty. I was quite surprised when he made me lay down and proceeded to give me a bit of pleasure. I’ve thought of him ever since as ‘ox tongue’. He was well endowed. Practice, I suppose. Anyway, my evening in that lousy cell turned out to be better that I expected.
But I went to sleep in tears thinking of Mark and Dorinda.
It was in the middle of the morning when the star of the show was let out to her fate. I shouldn’t joke. But they made such a production of everything. First off there was quite a to-do. The chap who’d given me a bit of fun the night before had enjoyed his bit of fun too. He’d locked my ankles together with a spare pair of handcuffs. Oh sure, they’ll go around a girl’s ankles. Then he’d gone off shift. Seems like his handcuffs weren’t standard. No one could find a key to fit. I’d sort of figured out he had a sense of humor. Anyone following him would have had a hell of a time making any use of a girl with her feet locked together. I'd actually been grateful. They’d been almost as good as a chastity belt.
Anyway, they sent someone for the key. When I could walk again they started the procession. Everyone was there. A girl was to be whipped. Naked. Tumescence was rife. I was a sex symbol. Unfortunately it was the wardress who was to do the job. I’d have preferred a man.
They had a post. Very simple. I was hoisted up by my hands far more than willing, until I could drape my locked wrists over the top. Then I was gently lowered until I found myself standing on tip toe. My hands linked on the other side of the pole and the handcuffs snagged on a hook so I couldn’t pull’m down. It was perfect for that what they intended to do to me.
It’s the kind of whip that counts. I looked this way and that until it came into view. I almost curled up inside. The damn cane was about five feet long. Some sort of native cane or something. My sentence was read in a very official manner by an elderly gentlemen who, I am sure, was enjoying his finest erection in years. My bit of sacking was torn away. I mourned it not. But there was little Terry stark naked with a very large female with a very long cane just to the rear. I mean… After all…
Do you like first hand descriptions of a girl being whipped?
I suppose I could manage one. You know, stroke by awful stroke. They did it very well in that book ‘Nell in Bridewell’. But I couldn’t possibly go into all those turgid exclamations. The damn girl always sounded to me like she was a silly ass. Actually, a girl does not think a lot in such circumstances. She is far too busy hurting. You just go from stroke to stroke wondering if it will be the next one that will kill you. There is no possible belief that you will survive. You are just a cracked record saying over and over: 'No, no no.'
You scream a lot too. You can’t help it. They didn’t seem to mind. It sustained their erections and proved my whipper wad doing a good job. How did I scream. That damn switch or cane or whatever the vulture was using on me was a new experience. It wasn’t a cane and it wasn’t a whip. I was getting the worst of both worlds and I was getting it from my knees to my neck. A cane is supposed to be for a girl’s bottom, not the rest of her. I’ll never forget how I tugged and heaved on my handcuffs. They cut me back as though it was a game. I knew my wrists were bleeding. But I did not feel the pain right then. All that mattered was that I jerk loose. Impossible. Oh sure. Tell that to a girl fixed the way I was fixed. If I’d been tied there by my nipples I’d have jerked them loose. I was
