F Campbell - Drusilla

“I thought it was me who was supposed to get them?”

Drusilla exclaimed naively.

“You may rest assured you will,” Quigley responded gallantly. “But we have here a case of negligence. It will be summarily dealt with. Minnie, touch your toes.”

“Yes, dear.” Minnie was breathing rapidly, her attractive breasts in agitated motion.

Four vicious cuts with a cane that had appeared from nowhere. Drusilla flinched with each. Fresh red bars joined faded lines on Minnie’s humbly proffered posterior. The bent nudity gasped and swayed but managed to last the course. Minnie wept the hurt tears of childhood.

“Four will be adequate,” said Quigley grandly. “Thank you, dear,” Minnie sounded relieved.

“You may stand, but do not dress. And now Drusilla!”

“Oh, all right! How do you want me?”

“You must not sound bitter, Drew. You are taking part in a simple process of justice. You may adopt the police search pose. We will move the table.”

Drusilla discovered the humiliating quality of voluntarily offering her person for punishment. Mostly she had been bound, relieving her of participation other than as a recipient. What Minnie had just done seemed heroic. She recalled, cringingly, the act of holding out her hands to be caned. Doubting her fortitude, she turned and faced the wall, her palms on each side of her tether.

“Feet well back and wide apart.”

Drusilla could comprehend the posture’s value. She was shamingly vulnerable. Looking cringingly back she saw the cane that would cut her and the man who held it. Why oh why hadn’t she had the sense to keep quiet in front of Belinda! She might have known!

“Minnie, you were given a directive. You will now obey it. Eight strokes. Hard!”

“You’re much better at it than I am, Quigley dear. Couldn’t you... please?”

“M—i—n—n—i—e!!!”

“Yes, yes. All right. I just thought—” She accepted the cane and looked appealingly at the girl she must punish. “I’m terribly sorry, darling—”

“Minnie, you have nothing to be sorry about. Drew has earned punishment. You administer it.” Quigley had a gift for logic.

“Don’t mind me, Minnie,” Drusilla ventured forlornly. “Would you mind not looking at me, dear? I feel so embarrassed. I feel so badly—”

“Would you like four more, Minnie? You are nude for that reason.”

“No, no! Oh, dear!” Minnie bestowed another apologetic glance upon the girl she must cane. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to hit you awfully hard, Drew.”

“It’s all right, Minnie. I understand.”

“Well, now that we’ve got that settled—!” The male voice said clearly that enough was enough.

Coming from Minnie, the blow was surprisingly painful and shockingly accurate. Drusilla clenched her jaw. She must try and behave so that poor Minnie would not get into further trouble. She arched her back to show good intentions. Her bottom reared.

Drusilla was competently thrashed. Minnie’s expertise could be attributed to her husband’s influence. It was out of character. As an earnest show of good faith she made number eight a memorable slash that extracted a reluctant moan from the owner of the bottom.

“Excellent, dear! Lovely marks.” Quigley sounded proud. He turned to the punished slave girl. “You didn’t feel obligated to remind Minnie of her lapse, Drew?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“A pity! It was delinquency. You understand?”

“Yes, Quigley.”

“Stay exactly as you are. There will be two extra. I will administer them myself.”

“Yes, Quigley.” Drusilla knew one of her legs was visibly trembling. The pain and the pose were hard to cope with.

“You will find them salutary.”

Why the devil didn’t he come right out and say he was going to hurt her like hell? But Quigley was Quigley. Mechanically, Drusilla said: “Thank you, Quigley.”

Her handcuff had been loosed from one ankle to enable her to obey the command to “spread her legs.” Now, when her master cut her cunningly between her thighs, Drusilla yelped and flailed one foot so that the loose steel jerked and jingled. In the midst of her agony she repeated over and over to herself. “One more! Only one to go.” She was certain that had the number been greater, stoicism would fail and her pose crumble. Grimly, she tensed motionless.

Quigley changed sides. The cane sang.

The Albertsons’ downstairs room had been made festive.

Its less agreeable features had been cunningly disguised or removed. Trestle tables formed a “U.” Their napery and cutlery were impeccable. Candle-light and wine lent glamor. In the center of the “U”, so that every guest should have an uninterrupted view of her nakedness, stood Drusilla.

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t derive some enjoyment from this yourself, Drew,” Quigley had said as he strapped her wrists at each end of the rigid bar that was, itself, a part of an even more rigid column descending from the ceiling. When Quigley touched a button the column rose. It stopped barely short of compelling her to stand upon her toes. Drusilla thought, absurdly, of periscopes.

“Should take out a patent,” said the Master proudly.

“It’s a real innovation.”

“To make me stand naked for everyone to gawk at as they eat?” Drusilla had enquired acidly.

“Can’t tell me you won’t get a thrill out of it,” Quigley had admonished. “I can tell you this, if it’s any comfort, you’re about as lovely a statue as I’ve ever seen. Minnie did a fine job on you.”

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy the ridges on my bottom!”

“An occupational hazard of which you need not feel ashamed,” said Quigley primly.

“I’m going to feel damned good and ashamed of standing and offering all my erogenous zones for a bunch of strangers to sit and look at.”

“They are not all strangers, Drew. There are Minnie and I and the Pendletons.”

“I’m not sure that isn’t worse.”

“The evening will bring some surprises.”

“I bet!”

Quigley had shaken a warning finger. “I’ve told you before, watch that tongue. You’re ideally positioned for a correction.”

“Sorry, Quigley. I’ll try.”

Drusilla’s repentance had been sincere. It was hard to eschew normal retorts with people you had known for a long time. It was harder still to realize that such retorts were punishable by weals upon her skin. But her burning bottom was a helpful reminder, for which she was almost grateful. She had plenty of time in which to consider these matters. Having been safely prepared, she was abandoned to her musings while awaiting the arrival of the guests. The caterers were an unobtrusive husband and wife who affected not to notice her. She rejected the thought of appealing to them for help. It would only lead to another punishment. Wryly she recognized it as a slave decision.

No one had told Drusilla to meet the eyes. She shrank from recognitions. As the tabled filled, she kept her gaze detached and distant. It was her choice to observe far horizons or to bow her head in shame. She had already discovered that to bow her head placed an additional strain upon her arms and neck, so she stood erect, her skin tingling under the impact of delighted eyes.

“A little beauty,” Belinda Pendleton boomed.

“Shouldn’t have parted with her. You’ve made a good job of her, Minnie.”

“Just look at her bottom!” It was a feminine voice, ecstatic. “You never do that neat a job on mine, Timothy.”

“You don’t have as neat a rump.”

“Are you going to brand her, Quigley?”

“I noticed her underarms. Don’t tell me you’re letting her hair grow?”