F Campbell - Drusilla

“Sorry you’re my slave?”

“No!” The negative was vehement.

“Want to be untied?”

“No!”

“You’re a darling, and quite incredible. But it won’t save you a single stroke.”

“I don’t want it to—Arrrrrragh!”

Drusilla clung to her love for the woman who yielded the cane. The pain would go away. But the love would go on and on. It was so wonderful—so wonderful! She gasped and twisted her way through to the fourteenth cut. She was sure her bottom behaved outrageously, but she did not care.

“You’ve had it, poppet. Feel better?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Drusilla gasped. “Oh, Di’!” The cane cut her ruthlessly.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I forgot.”

“I had to do that, dear. I mustn’t start letting you get away with anything.”

“I know. But it’s so hard sometimes! Oh, Mistress, are you going to untie me?”

The cane savagely added a sixteenth weal to Drusilla’s scorched flesh. “You mustn’t ask. You mustn’t hint,” Diana admonished.

Drusilla burst into tears. The fortitude that had coped with the fourteen strokes crumbled. Diana stepped back and viewed what her cane had wrought, her heart torn by its beauty, her sex flaring at sight of the ridged flesh and bowed loveliness of the girl she now possessed utterly. The tears were sweet. They fell, one by one, to join the other pathetic stains upon the floor.

“There, there! You’re so beautiful. The punishment’s over.” Drusilla’s head was cradled against Diana’s middle. The familiar perfume and the scent of sex dragged the tied girl back into her new world. She nestled lovingly against Diana’s vibrant femininity.

“Poor little darling. I’ll always be beautifully mean to you.” Diana stroke the damp hair, then bent and kissed the nape of the bent neck above the locked collar. “You’ve earned a little something,” she whispered mischievously.

Drusilla allowed the thousand tingles of sensation to possess her being. She felt no need of words. She hurt, she glowed. Her spirit soared, her shoulders ached. Her wrists were afire but the ropes were falling from her ankles and knees under Diana’s urgent tugs. The world was very wonderful and wholly good. Her wealed bottom was singing its own paean of praise for benefits received.

“Now you can kick, darling. Nice feeling?”

“Mmmmmm! Ohhhhhh—!” The moans were of joy. Diana’s heart raced. Once more she retreated to behold her palpitating creation. The still helpless nakedness was stretching a tentative leg back and forth and sideways. Most intriguingly she was kicking and flexing from the knee, savoring their freedom. The rope from her bound wrists to the pulley swayed and shivered from her small essays in a limited freedom. Drusilla was helpless but happy.

“You do have to stay there, darling.”

“Mmmmmm... ” It was an ambiguous acceptance.

“Slave girls are never let loose after punishment.”

“Mmmmmm... !”

“You can bear it, can’t you, darling?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it, Mistress? I haven’t a thing to say.”

“My, you are coming along nicely, Drew.” Diana clasped the submissive head in loving hands. Raising it against the compulsions of its bondage she sought the eager lips. The two women kissed longingly and long. When she knew herself consigned once more to lonely pain, the prisoner did not complain. It was forbidden and she would obey. Drusilla’s shoulders wept but she did not. At the door, Diana paused. “I won’t leave you there all day, darling.”

“Mmmmmm... !”

“I want you rested for this evening.”

The bowed head raised in surprise. “Mistress?”

“Cocktails at seven, Drew dear. The Pendletons.” The Pendletons! Drusilla moaned. The Pendletons had money. Drusilla had always thought it silly to try and keep up with them. But Belinda Pendleton was a force and her consort, Homer, was an amiable shadow from a world of distant ‘deals’ beyond suburbia. They exuded a generous patronage to the hoi polloi. Their food and drink were always superlative.

“So nice for you two to be together.” From her middle-aged eminence, Belinda Pendleton contrived to infuse her remark with coy significance. She viewed Diana and Drusilla with a knowing eye. “I’m sure you get along splendidly.”

“We sleep together,” Diana matched innuendo with impudence.

Belinda Pendleton was un-shockable. She oozed benevolence. “And which of you is... ? Dear me, there is a word?”

“I am,” said Diana sweetly.

“I should have guessed, dear.” Their hostess cocked an assessing eye at a flushed Drusilla. “Such a lovely collar! And that padlock! I do envy you both.” She bathed them in approval and melted back among her guests.

“She’s guessed it right off,” Drusilla wailed. “Oh, Di’, I told you!”

“So what, darling!” Diana was radiant. “You’re mine! I’m showing you off.”

“But my collar! It’s so—so—and the padlock!”

“My brand on you, darling. But I love them looking. I’m the most envied woman in the room.”

“But, Diana darling, I’m scared to walk.”

“Enjoy it, silly. You’re a positive traffic stopper.”

It was true! Drusilla wanted to laugh and scream and cry. It was too wonderful and too absurd. The locking of the band about her middle was still a vivid happening. Diana had been laughing at her concern.

“I’m never going to let you out without something on you somewhere, Drew.”

“My collar’s on me. The padlock’s like waving a flag.”

“Not enough, darling. I want you wearing something from me to you. Something under your clothes that hurts.”

“Oh, Mistress, please!”

“You know you’re dying for it. Look!”

Drusilla remembered her gasp and the instant heating of her sex. The silver belt was as lovely as her collar. She feared it but desired it more than anything else in the world.

“It’s got a quite simple lock. But you’ll never get it off with your fingers. Raise your arms, dear.”

It had been instant ecstasy. She had raised her arms without thought of consequence. The chill of the metal round her waist had melted in to the clasp of love. After the click at her back she had lowered her hands and sent them questing.

“You can’t get it off.”

It had seemed terrible tight. But, in front of the mirror, Drusilla could only gasp and emit exclamations.

“Now walk.”

She had forgotten! When her hips jauntily flaunted her loins she turned, aghast. “I can’t go out like this!”

“Of course not, silly. You’ll be dressed.”

“Not that—my walk! Oh, darling!”

“I’m going to be so proud, Drew.”

Drusilla sipped and glowed in her mistress’s approval.

She understood that the party was another test. It was desirable that she be seen out and around. Desirable, too, in their own private way, that she be constrained and kept aware of her condition. The belt nagged, but it was a lovely sex-wetting nag she adored. If only her hips... ! In sauntering across the extensive floor she might as well be beating a drum.

“We mustn’t cling, darling. You’re on your own.”

The strictured slave watched her mistress mingle with the groups. Drusilla knew she could not possibly just stand. She downed her drink and headed for the bar. Her hips proclaimed her a whore. The giggle was insidious. It was Minnie Albertson.

Minnie was a thirtyish moppet who would never grow up. She clinked glasses with Drusilla and whispered throbbingly: “Belinda’s on to you.”

The embarrassed slave felt out of her element. She gulped hastily and felt a conspirator. She liked Minnie, but even the stricture round her tummy did not dissipate inhibitions. “On to what, Minnie?” she asked innocently.