Pain and love! Surely not many whipped girls could be a prey to both! That pain be synonymous with adoration. . ! Was it an anomaly she shared with none! As the straps creaked against her surging arms and her feet kicked helplessly, Ilona Paisley wondered about herself and the woman with the whip. Why, why, why did she love. How could that love endure what was happening now! But it did endure. It flamed more brightly in longing for Cicely's arms. But who could explain love. . ?
No one ever had.
Ilona did not scream for a surprisingly long time. She did not count the cuts on her skin, nor did she set herself a goal. She thrust herself against the post, finding a rough and illusory refuge in the wood as her breathing merged into moans and small feminine cries of desolation as she was lashed. But soon there came the stroke she could not bear. It was no different from the others but told her of an endless going on and on. . ! Her scream was part of anger and part of pain. She pealed it out into the Texas sunlight, not once but twice. As though released from unseen bonds, her body and her limbs abandoned themselves to whatever wild gyrations hurt flesh dictated. Ilona forgot her audience, forgot Cicely. She remembered only the whip. If animal responses gave her easement from its venom she would render them gladly without shame.
Did she lose consciousness? Ilona was never sure.
Certainly, after she had been whipped for what seemed eternity, she retreated into a world of her own wherein she felt the impacts of the whip as the defenders of a castle might have felt the hammer blows of a ram against their massive gate. When the blows stopped she was kissed and tried to return the kiss but could not. She then became the lonely tenant of a vast silence.
The post was friend and enemy. It held,her prisoner but it was something to lean on. It had shared her travail, now she found herself luxuriating against it as sentience returned with a flood of thankfulness that she had been whipped and it was done. If she had to stand thus with her wrists strapped above her head what did it matter! Tentatively, she tried to test herself. She was positive the whip had made her outrageously wet. But her pussy was denied. She could contrive no contortion by which it might be reached:
There was but the one way, to thrust her pelvis against her post while she curled a leg around its circumference. Her Venus mound made contact instantly, and then the soft swelling below. . ! Furtively, she looked at as much of the scene as her strapped wrists permitted. The posture she must use was obscene. But there was no one in sight. In an urgent need she did not try to analyze, she began the hip motions and the thrusts by which she would give surcease to her sex.
Miss Ilona Paisley felt better. The climax had been explosive enough to elicit moans and cries and more sweat. She was at peace. The straps on her wrists did not hurt if she did not struggle. They were broad and snug and would accept some of her weight if she became weary enough to wish it so. She looked up at them from time to time in chagrin that two strips of leather could make her so helpless, but she never for a moment had dreams of freeing herself. She and the post were wedded by a firm bond.
The punished girl's back and bottom were beyond her ken. Any movement told her they were tender and sensitive. She knew she would be shocked if she could see what the whip had done. But she could not see, she could not touch. Her back and bottom were for another time. Certainly she would not sleep on them! She wondered, as she had often done, about the whip. Fiction said the screaming agony went on and on.
But it did not go on and on. It was unbelievably terrible while it lasted but slowly it faded. The shock and the trembling could outlast it. She knew this was why she and others would choose to be whipped rather than endure more lasting penances over many hours or many days. Ilona had just received the most severe whipping of her slavery, but she knew she preferred it to a week of days and nights chained in the dungeon.
She heard the departure of the plane. Cicely's party was over. Soon now someone would come. It was a blissful thought that the straps would be,loosed and she would lower her arms and for a moment stand free. And then. .! This euphoric dream lasted her some little time before she realized it was dusk and night not far away.
Despite herself she shuddered as a frightening loneliness descended with the dark.
She could not get free. . there was no way she could get free.
By the time the Texas night possessed the land Ilona was fighting panic. Cicely might sometimes be cruel but she would not do this to her slave. True, she might leave her thus for the night as an additional punishment, but there would have been a kiss and whispered girl talk before she was left alone in penance. Something was wrong, something was desperately wrong indeed! In atavistic fear she panicked, sobbing and berserk she fought the straps, she fought the post, she pealed out cry after cry for help. But at the end of it the wood remained her only friend, she leaned against it, panting, cheeks tear stained, her wrists as firmly strapped as though she had not moved. Her whipped back made its own contribution to desolation.
Hopelessly, Ilona Paisley slipped back into her own world of unreality, the dazed and hazy place to which the whip had delivered her not long ago. In it she fitfully dozed through the night, the post and the straps giving enough support to make sleep possible. Exhausted and emotionally drained, she continued her cat naps into the morning. She had lost hope.
'Hey, Luke, I've found her.'
The stentorian male bellow galvanized the captive into life. Ilona stood erect, her hurt wrists grateful for relief. Peering beneath the bare skin of her captive arm, she beheld Rance grinning at her nudity in lewd satisfaction. Within seconds he was joined by Luke. She could have wished other rescuers but was irradiated by thankfulness even for this unprepossessing pair. 'Thank goodness.' She gasped gratefully. 'Thank goodness you've found me.'
'The gal's pleased ter see us, Luke. Hot damn, lookit' that back!'
'And her ass! Hey, kid, how come?'
'I was punished. I'd misbehaved.'
'And look at that collar on Her neck! Damn fancy. This Woods dame is quite a lady. Say, honey, ain't you ever in nothin' but grief?'
Ilona tried to smile. 'I expect it looks like that. Please undo the straps. . I'm so tired.'
'Gal's bin' tied to that post all night, Rance. No wonder we couldn't find her.'
Betcha' that weren't no coyote last night?' He grinned at Ilona. 'You do some fancy yowling, kid?'
'I was frightened. I got in a panic. Please unfasten me. I've been here so long.'
She endured their fondling of her sex and breasts without demur. It was a small price to pay for freedom. When the straps were unbuckled from her wrists she' slid to the ground, still leaning against her refuge, massaging busily. 'Thank you. I'm so grateful. I might have died.' She voiced her next urgency: 'Where's Miss Woods and the staff?'
'They're O.K., lady, doin' fine.'
It sounded as though they had been in an accident and were on their way to recovery. Her next query was cut short.
'What say we take the kid to the house, Luke. Betcha' she could use coffee and the can.'
They carried her. Not because she was weak but because she was naked.
Laughing, they allowed her to scurry to the bathroom. When she emerged, washed and refreshed, she slipped into a frock and returned to the kitchen. Once more she felt dazed. Except for the three of them the house was empty.
'Hey, whatcha' put that thing on for!' Luke viewed her covering with disfavour.
'Take it off, pronto.'
Ilona was already resigned to paying for whatever these two oafs might do for her, and she knew the coin. Resignedly, she returned to nudity. The hot coffee almost made it worthwhile.
'You're a damn beautiful woman.'
'Thank you. Where's Miss Woods and Nora and Josh?'
'Takin' yer right to 'em, gal. How's 'bout a couple o' fried eggs?'
She ate and drank hungrily, thankful for the rough kindness. They watched her every motion. 'We ain't gonna' fuck you right off, kid. You had a rough night.'
Rance's consideration sounded sincere.
'What yer wearin' that iron on yer neck for?'
'I'm not wearing it, not the way you mean. It's riveted on. I can't get it off.' Ilona flushed. 'It's something between Miss Woods and me.'
'I bet it is!' The remark was cryptic. Luke leered. 'How many times a day you eat her cat?'
