"If you can contemplate this… this… I suppose it's a punishment for yielding to my blandishments yesterday. I don't see why Bolling's offer should appall. Sounds damn grim to me."
"You can't he such an idiot as to fail to realize Phemie and I love each other?" Yolanda accused hotly.
"Can lesbian joy match fifty thousand pounds profit'!"
"That's beastly! Besides, I'm rich. I don't need your money."
"You mentioned love. Does she love you while you're plying the whip?"
"Of course I do!" I exclaim angrily. "I deserve to be whipped and chained in the dungeon. If any girl ever asked for it, I did."
"Must guilt be present for the thrill to be sufficiently erotic?"
"Phemie, keep quiet! I'll deal with Mr. Pollard."
"Call me James." He was infuriatingly bland. I relapsed into sulky silence. Our guest intently examined my breasts. My Mistress marshaled her heavy artillery.
"Save the blast, Miss Harding. I'll take no for an answer." James Pollard's voice was quite without rancour. But he added: "For today." He was again the nice boy over whom I had made an ass of myself the evening before. The cold hand and the fear receded. But Yolanda was breathing hard. I could tell she wished to be rid of him. James must have felt it too, he waited only for dessert and coffee before making his farewell. Left alone, I again became aware of being a slave girl in sad disgrace. Meeting Yola's hurt eyes I could manage only an inadequate: "Oh, darling." Suddenly I was enveloped in scented beauty. Yolanda hugged and kissed me in a frenzy of emotion that instantly drew its own response from me. Somehow I got my cuffed hands over her head so that I too could embrace. For several minutes we were locked together as one. What we did afterwards took much longer, it was terribly beautiful. You are thinking about forgiving and forgetting, aren't you! My slavery does not work like that. Lying replete on Yola's bed I felt her playing with my hair and heard the words now overdue: "There's still your punishment, Phemie."
"Yes, Mistress."
"Why, oh why are you such a silly girl! I don't want to hurt you the way I'm going to have to. Telling him your purchase price. Oh Phemie!" I kiss her and nibble avidly at the perfumed flesh. I will soon be immured away from love. That knowledge is almost worse than the whip. "Punish me for that too, darling," I plead. "I want you to."
"No. Enough is enough." For me there is a glowing eroticism in being punished by Yolanda. I would loathe it from anyone else, but with her it is a tremendous sharing of love. I will scream and plead and long for it to be done, long for it to stop, stop for any reason at all. But my puss will swell and secrete its wet, and here and there while the things are done to me that must be done. I will know joy ineffable. So great is this fire of sensuality that under its influence I will plead for what I fear. I do so now.
"Darling, I was outrageous with Pollard. I'm worse than silly. I must be punished, I must!" Yola knows me. Her voice is tolerant. "Oh, very well, idiot. But you'll be sorry." Of course I will be sorry! I know I will. But this is how it must be. Yolanda rarely weakens, but when she does it is I who must be strong. We must never allow the beautiful wonderful thing we share to be eroded by casual mercy. Thus it is that an hour later I am in the dungeon. Its gloom is chastening, but I am buoyed by the close memory of Yolanda's flesh and Yolanda's lips.
"This is it, Phemie darling, the thing you asked for." I lose my handcuffs and am told to place my hands behind my back, palm to palm. I am already naked. I quiver at the knowledge of what my punishment is to be. I had not guessed. I will be a sorry girl indeed, but I stand in blithe acceptance as my wrists are tied with the cruel thin rope. Yola ties me slowly and with care.
"Want to call it off, puss-cat?" I will long to call it off when it is too late, but not now. I am in a throbbing ecstasy and my voice is husky when I whisper: "Oh no… oh no… no." My gasp could be of joy or agony as the rope circles my elbows. 'Round and 'round! There will be a number of the snug bands so that none will cut off circulation. Yola says I have rubber shoulders because my elbows meet so easily at my back. They meet now as she cinches and tugs and ensures even pressure. I will be well and truly tied. For poor silly Euphemia there will be no wriggling loose. My forearms are welded as one. My fingers, already searching, can find no knot. I am to be tantalized. The chains are taken from my feet, but a shackle is clamped upon my left ankle, from it trails the inevitable chain that tethers me to the wall. Like the one from my collar the previous night it will not permit me to reach the beckoning blanket. My Mistress clutches my nudity and kisses me fervidly. I cannot clutch but I can kiss. The emotion is too great; she runs for the door. I notice that this time she closes it on me gently and I can scarcely hear the sliding of the bolts. I am alone within the walls of stone that are my prison. I am tethered to the wall by the chain on my ankle. I am painfully tied. It is the cord around my elbows that will punish me for my indiscretion, the punishment my own tumescence prompted me to plead for. It will bed itself deeper and deeper into my flesh until my mind is filled with the single wish to be free of it. But I will bear it through the night. It will scorch and burn and mock me and I will come to hate it. But I do not hate it now… not yet! Tonight my stone bed will be doubly hard because of the way in which my shoulders are wracked back. I look down at my jutting breasts and reflect ruefully how even they will be hard to lay upon in their taut prominence. I allow myself a single glance at the blanket, then drive its mockery from my mind by a vision of the 'morrow, a vision in which I am bound and spread and helpless to await the whip, a vision of my writhings as it curls lovingly upon my skin. I chide myself for the vision, for it is not in fear or apprehension, instead it feeds the fire between my thighs. I cherish it. I shiver in exquisite helplessness. In turgid transport I sink down on the stone and seek a comfort I will not find. My mind roves backwards into what I call my 'dungeon dreams'. I think I was eleven the first real time. My body had changed enough that I was shyly aware of the parts of it I must keep covered. Even though it is what I call the first time, it was not the beginning of me. The 'me' I am trying to tell you about had been there from the beginning back there in my mother's womb. The experience and I were like two twigs in a stream that the current brings together briefly with an impact by which their course is forever changed. Miss Hilde was a nice teacher except that she caned our hands a lot. She caned the small open palms, tentatively and shrinkingly extended for punishment, hard enough to ensure tears and defeat bravado. We learned it was wise to cry at the second stroke. Dry eyes or a pout earned you two more, much harder this time and your "Thank you, Miss Hilde" had to sound very sincere. One or two of the girls got up to six, three on each hand. This was rare, but I was one of them. The canings were always for just cause which is never hard to find with a room full of giggling girls. The first times my palm was seared I wept with the best of them and returned to my seat hugging my wounded members. But, being me, it was not long before I became aware of a strange excitement and a heat between my legs whenever the cane was displayed or used. When it was to be used on me and I made my way up before the class; my tremblings were very soon not of fear but of another emotion I could not understand. I kept this emotion a firm secret. I was quite sure no one would approve of it. Checking with the other girls I learned that all they felt was pain. I was different. I found the difference exciting. I am sure Miss Hilde recognized a kindred spirit. She was always kind to me and helped whenever I was stuck with work I could not master. But she caned my hands more and more often until it was understood by the other girls that she had it in for me. By that time I was being cautious, so I agreed with them. I had a good thing. I was not about to spoil it. Without a word spoken Miss Hilde and I arrived at a nice understanding. If I was to get caned more frequently, or if I was to get four slashes instead of two, or six instead of four, I had to give cause. Since we both wanted me to do well in school I could not fluff my work. So I became saucy, or cheeky, or petulant, or even engaged in a bit of bravado up before the fascinated eyes of the whole class to whom three on each palm was the absolute end. I varied my repertoire so that no pattern would show. I became shockingly crafty in my pandering to the lovely feeling between my legs. When I met Miss Hilde's eyes and she swished the cane I positively melted. I expect she did too. But I did not know that then. Two strokes was gorgeous. After that I had to grit my teeth. The fire in my loins inhibited tears, so I provoked four often enough that I could come up with copious salt water — I was wise enough to discern that, for Miss Hilde, tears were de rigueur. The first 'real' time was the day after my mother accompanied father on a three week business trip.
"Just the housekeeper looking after you, dear?" Miss Hilde asked kindly.
"She's very nice. She let's me do everything for myself, bathe, dress, everything." Instinct told me this information was important. Miss Hilde was not much over thirty. Ancient in a child's eye, but an attractive woman. I suppose, quite apart from the cane, I had a crush on her. She was avid but cautious.
"Do you bruise easily, Euphemia?"
"Yes, Miss Hilde, but they're gone in a couple of days."
"Hmmmm. Three weeks, you said?"
"Yes, Miss Hilde." I was breathlessly eager.
"Have you felt my caning of your hands beneficial to your general deportment, dear?"
"Oh yes, Miss Hilde, I'm terribly grateful." It was like a rehearsed play, but I don't suppose we could have managed it without the stilted preliminary. Besides, we loved every word.
"I do think punishment most helpful to a girl of your intelligence, Euphemia dear. I am considering taking you a step further than just the cane on your hands… a fresh perspective for you?"
"Oh, thank you, Miss Hilde! Oh, yes please." She was well ahead of me. The furthest I could see was six of the best on my bent over bottom. I was enchanted by the prospect and wondered if I'd get it on the bare.
"Do you think you could come to my apartment for a couple of hours this evening — for special coaching, of course?" So simple! I arrived early.
"I think it much the best if you are nude, dear."
"Take my clothes off!"
"Not shocked, I hope'?" I showed her how shocked I was by stripping bare as an egg in ten seconds flat. Miss Hilde locked the door.
"I think it would be nice if I cane your bottom for starters, dear. Don't you agree'?" I'd have agreed to anything. The gates of Enchantment had opened and I had entered. But "starters!" I was too shy to ask what might follow.
"Would you like me to touch my toes, Miss Hilde?" I asked helpfully.
"You are so sweet, and so innocent, dear." Miss Hilde, surprisingly, kissed me warmly. I was in a seventh heaven. Sight of the cords and bits of rope and the straps did nothing to lower my elevation. They simply made me gaspingly excited.
"Are you going to tie me up, Miss Hilde?"
"You want me to, don't you, dear?"
"Oh yes, oh please!" It was as though I was offered the Crown Jewels. The thought of Miss Hilde's strong adult fingers tightening bonds upon my newly aware female flesh had me in a ferment of sexual excitation. At the time I thought of it only as a form of affection for my teacher. At that moment I loved Miss Hilde with a frightening intensity.
"This nice little table is just right for you, Euphemia." I'll swear it was instinctive: I knew what to do. I draped my slight nudity upon the shining surface of the narrow table she had pulled to the center of the big room. My legs dangled over the end. My breasts were only just beginning, but when my nipples frictioned on the wood they sent an urgent signal to the fire between my legs. I had become a quivering nymphet. I have wondered since if Miss Hilde had the whole thing especially made, I fitted it so perfectly. The contoured pad beneath my hips was a surprise, but it too fed the fire. When my ankles were strapped to the back legs they were well clear of the carpet and left me slightly open. This openness was emphasized when the big strap went over the small of my back and was tugged tighter and tighter until I gasped. The effect was to make my pert small bottom rear itself demandingly upon the pad and to cause my puss to peek out backwards. I could not see it, but when Miss Hilde fingered it lovingly from the rear I knew for sure where it was. I didn't have a lot of hair then, just pouting lips.
"I do think it's best to have everything nice and tight, don't you dear." She kissed the back of my neck. The touch of her lips, coupled with the new strange immobility of my person below my waist and the thrust of the pad, just about drove me into incoherence. But I came up brightly with: "Oh, it's lovely, Miss Hilde. I can't move… down there." Once again Miss Hilde's wise fingers explored my protruding quim, entering its engorged lips. "Oh, naughty, naughty!" she exclaimed archly. "Such a wet little girl!" I almost exploded. She walked around the table and me several times as though assessing her work and my plight. I expect she was simply gloating and savouring the delectable tidbit I must have been. I got kissed again.
"Do you think I should tie your hands, dear?" I was tremendously flattered by being consulted in so momentous a decision. Actually, Miss Hilde was just musing aloud.
"I think just as you are to start with, Euphemia. Are you ready now to have your dear little bottom caned?"
"Yes, please." It sounds a bit absurd now. We were so damn formal and correct. But the tone of our voices spoke more than the words. Hers was husky with emotion, mine palpitated and quavered with more vivid awareness than I had known existed. I remember the moment so well. I was surprised my hands weren't tied. I didn't know what to do with them, so I put one on top of the other beneath my cheek like small warm pillows. I was bursting with an exquisite suspense. How much would it hurt! Would I bleed! The possibility it might be more than I could bear never entered my mind.
"It's so different from having your hands caned, dear." The searing cut took me into a new world of pain and sensation. Square across my taut twin curves it split me into orgasm. I did not know what an orgasm was then, it seemed no more than a transcendent part of the glory Miss Hilde had the power to bestow, a glory beyond anything I had ever dreamed of. I reared against the buckle round my waist, more in a need to give my climax free rein than in agony. My moan was of an ultimate ecstasy. My small fists clenched upon the table beneath my back-flung head. I did not know it but I had become a woman. Everywhere in the story of me there is the whip. I think to go on and on about it is a bore, not for me but for you. Miss Hilde caned my bottom with her own cruel artistry until I screamed. Then she tied my hands down to the front legs and gagged me. I did not mind. I adored it all. The gag was cute so that we laughed over popping the ping-pong ball in my mouth and sealing my lips with the wide adhesive. It kept me adequately quiet in deference to the demands of apartment dwelling. Even when I longed to scream I knew it wise that I did not. It could be said I was the victim of a woman's lust, but between us there arose a complicity cemented without words. Each of us knew we had discovered the end of the rainbow. Even the second phase of my unearned 'punishment' that was not a punishment at all did nothing to dampen the erotic fire that sustained me through the pain.
"You are a wonderful, wonderful girl, Euphemia." Miss Hilde's voice positively throbbed with happiness. "It is time now to really punish you. You do want me to, don't you?" The moment the loving fingers peeled away my gag I spit out the celluloid ball and gasped ardently: "Yes, oh yes! Oh, Miss Hilde, you're so good to me." I was utterly sincere, utterly hers, loving her in a way I had never known love in all my eleven years. The bitter and awful scald of my caned bottom was instantly forgotten in the fresh promise of erotic fulfillment.
"It is a punishment for big girls." I swelled with pride and, I suppose, lust.
"You will be tied more beautifully, dear." What a wrenching of the heart it was to be set free! I parted from my bonds with sorrow, looking in awe at the red indentations on my wrists. But I was a'quiver with expectation.
"Sit on the floor, Euphemia." I watched the tight buckling of the leather anklets with fast beating heart. I was seeped in happiness. The black bands held all the beauty of costly jewels. I was to be punished as a 'big girl', but how were big girls punished? I was soon to know.
"I don't want anything ordinary for you, Euphemia, you have become so very special. Don't be frightened. Just trust me." I would have trusted Miss Hilde with my life. I watched the ropes come down from the small pulleys in the ceiling and wondered only how she had got them there. When the hooks slipped into the rings of my anklets I could put two and two together, but thought of retreat never entered my mind. I helped all I could with the replacement of my gag, my eyes sparkling into Miss Hilde's that were so very close as she worked on me. I was kissed. When my feet were spread and raised by the tautening ropes I knew only a tremendous sense of being female, a oneness with the woman who had caned me. Since my hands were still free I was able to ease my transformation from horizontal to vertical. My gag got a stern test in those first moments when I swung free of the carpet, but I had no thought of tearing at it, my fingers were busy seeking a tenuous contact with the floor. Miss Hilde mischievously raised me to where I could touch it with one finger only.
"A strap over your gag, dear, just in case-" It was broad and tight and pliant. My fingers would not easily loosen its buckle at the back of my neck. They did explore but were gently slapped away.
"I would tie your hands, dear, but I'm curious to see what you will do with them." To me, at the age of eleven, a whip was just a name. I surveyed the one now in Miss Hilde's hand with wide-eyed curiosity. I was more concerned with the exposure of my pubes. I was sure it must be proper for me to be to be so spread, just so long as it was a teacher who had done it to me. But I was not sure if mother would approve. I adored it. I went into writhing orgasm again when Miss Hilde artfully cupped my wet lips and kneaded them. The whip took me into a new enchantment of sensation. Miss Hilde used it on my back and waist, and for the first few blows the frightening new pain did not more than prolong my contortions as though the orgasm went on and on. Whilst I could wriggle and bend and buck, my widely spread legs prevented me changing my basic position. I was totally available. Miss Hilde whipped me with care and artistry. The lash curled on my slenderness and, often enough, licked at my breasts. But they were not sufficiently developed to provide a hazard. I am sure my hands were erotically entertaining for the woman with the whip. They sought my wounds, they sought the floor, they waved in frantic acknowledgement of agony. Once they flew to the buckle of my gag, but were thereafter dissuaded from such tampering by a vicious slash of the cutting thong into the cleft of my sundered thighs. I screamed in pain and amazement that a girl be whipped upon her puss. The gag muted the peal of anguish, but the message was clear. My hands heeded it, their frantic frustration was total. The fear came gradually with the rhythm of the scorching strokes. Not fear of Miss Hilde or of the whip, but fear that my fire would die and its glory depart. I think my complete helplessness and the upside down exposure alarmed me in the same manner as a fish must be astounded to find itself hauled up on dry land. It was then that Miss Hilde received my full, but unconscious, gift of writhings and twistings and the clutching of hands which I wish now I could have witnessed myself. I put on quite a show. No matter what I did, the whip cut me. I could not escape it, but in a purely primal instinct I tried, oh how I tried! When I knew I would die, the lashes stopped, a strong firm tongue entered my puss-lips. I did not recognize what was happening to me at first, only that I was ablaze with something far too beautiful to understand. Within seconds I longed only that the glory and the whip go on forever. With Yolanda it does. Forever and ever… I'm terribly lucky. It is Yola's cords upon my elbows that dissolve my misty memories of Miss Hilde. They are now hurting me enough to gain my full attention. I cannot see them but I know how deeply they must be embedded in my skin. I twist my shoulders fretfully against the strain, my eyes rove for some expedient by which I may gain release, hopelessly of course. I always go through these motions, it is instinctive. But I cannot get loose, I know I can't. I am tied for sure. I will have to endure the punishment of my corded elbows. It has now reached an intensity of pain that contributes nothing to the warmth between my legs. I just hurt, and I wish it was not happening to me. When the light fails I will cry. By darkness there has been no Yola and no supper. I have been a bad girl. Bad girls do not eat much when chained in dungeons. Before total gloom possesses me I amuse myself by walking to the length of the chain on my ankle and then contorting and stretching to see if I can hook a toe in the blanket. But my most painful striving leaves me many feet short. I shrug resignedly, I am getting only what I deserve. I return to my corner and my chain and look down at the stone. It seems impossible that I can sleep. But I am used to pain and discomfort. I fall into a dream laden slumber and do not properly wake until the light of morning is feeling its way into my prison. It is the day. I have thought much of the whip while waiting for Yolanda. I cannot possibly sustain joy through so severe a flogging. I have no expectation of acquitting myself nobly. I will probably plead and make a fuss. Yola may be forced to gag me.