F Campbell - Drusilla

“Proctor, may I?”

“Of course, dear,” Proctor sounded proud.

Quigley stepped forward uncertainly. “Helen, what the devil! You don’t surely mean—?”

“Oh, but I do!”

“Take Diana’s place? Be whipped?”

“That’s right, darling. I’ll put on a much better show.”

“Helen, layoff. I want Diana flogged.” Belinda was not about to be robbed.

“But, darling, she can be!”

“Then let’s get on with it. If you want your ass tanned after, I’ll be glad to oblige.”

“That would be anticlimax, Belinda dear. Take your pretty crybaby home and be unkind to her, then bring her back for our next meeting. You can take the skin off her back to your heart’s content.”

“You’re so damned horny you can’t bear yourself.”

Belinda was off-balance, uncertain. She was also intrigued by a fresh vista of eroticism.

“I’m quite delightful when I’m whipped. Ask Proctor.” Helen contrived to mix coyness and carnality into a sensual blend.

“My wife is offering you all an immense privilege,”

Proctor droned in faint reproof.

“You mad at her or something?”

“Oh, Proc’! Your own wife? Flogged?”

“Gosh, Helen! You nuts?”

Proctor cleared his throat portentiously. “It is a matter of record that intercourse with a whipped woman is more stimulating. Lying on their lashed back imbues them with an added potency.” He parted with a pint-sized smile. “I must confess to a selfish interest.”

“Let’s whip every ass in the room,” said a male voice “Who gets the job of flogging her?”

“I bet she can’t take it. She’ll howl same as Diana.” Quigley raised a commanding hand. “Let’s take Helen seriously,” he commanded. “Proctor’s right. We’re being offered something way out. We should show gratitude.”

The voices droned on, but Drusilla saw only the motions of the protagonists who held the stage. The column slowly descended. Diana sagged in relief. Her hands’ were unstrapped from the bar and bound behind her back, wrists crossed, the cords cruel and implacable in Belinda’s hands. Diana was pushed aside and would have joined her fellow prisoner had she not been firmly directed to another vantage point. Evidently they were not to be allowed communion.

“And now, my little chickadee—?” Belinda’s invitation was caustic. The eye she cocked at Helen was sardonic.

Helen was radiant. She was in command, not only of herself but of the room. A mischievous confidence wafted from her like perfume. She pivoted slowly to include all, and flaunted a promise:

“I’ll show you.”

Drusilla knew it was beautiful. She could find no other word. It was also erotic—and startling. Startling beyond belief. Helen made herself naked. It was not a “strip” so much as a transformation. She shed her clothes with grace. Nude, she was doubly beautiful. No ribald comment greeted the emergence of her loveliness. With hands clasped behind her neck, she posed for them, thrusting her breast cones and her pubic mound. Having exhibited her body with studied enjoyment, she exploded her bomb.

Drusilla gasped. Her inhalation was echoed by all as Helen’s arm casually rose to place her fingers in her hair.

Bald!

The shaven feminine pate was like a beacon, drawing to itself all light, the focus of every eye. Helen’s discarded wig lay twisted on the floor. That which had been spoken of in jest had become shockingly real, a thing to grip the loins or touch the heart.

After the first gasp of revulsion, Drusilla realized the continuing presence of beauty. Helen had lost much but gained more. Her pubic hair was gone, shaven from her vulva, her belly and her thighs. Her sex was smooth and provocative in its own nudity, a separate part of her possessing its own personality. The thieving blade had left its own legacy of femaleness.

But it was the head, the denuded female head that riveted attention. Drusilla supposed all heads were not alike, and wondered momentarily about her own. Shaved, would she possess this sleek winsomeness! This smooth, feminine curve and plane, shadowed by a hint of roots within the taut treasure that, without Proctor’s razor, might never have been seen! What did it feel like! Her longing to explore its tactility was an agony in her heart. She tugged fretfully at the tie upon her wrists. The shaven Helen was delectable beyond words, an enchantment beyond the norm.

No one spoke. There was no need. The trebly nude young woman placed her wrists within the leather bands and smiled mockingly at Belinda as they were buckled fast with savage strength. The column rose, and with it the helpless hands and arms. The armpits were as devoid of hair as were the pubes.

The depilated darling of the party stood taut upon her toes. Her eyes were heavy lidded in a small half smile, sharing a secret with herself... The room waited breathlessly.

It was one of Belinda’s best. No doubt she was venting her vexation with Diana upon this new and helpless loveliness donated for her whip. The lash cut squarely across the wrenched shoulders to bestow its indentation and its crimson line.

As the shrewd blows found their cunning female nestling places, Drusilla realized she was witness to a small miracle. Helen was there, visible, naked, helpless and whipped. But it was her body and her limbs. Somehow the real Helen had found escape and was present only in the sensual movements that began with the first cruel slash and flowered and bloomed with each successive stroke. It was as though Helen was a separate spirit prompting the responses of muscle and sinew for her own enjoyment as well as for the edification of those who watched.

Drusilla flinched beneath each blow. She was there, strapped to the column. She knew! She found it hard not to simulate each undulation of the shaven nakedness. She longed for a taut, raised arm against which to caress her cheek as the thong cut her flesh. Helen was visibly finding joy in this frictioning of herself. Sometimes it would be her thighs, laved one against the other as her leg rose and fell or swung slowly to achieve maximum contact. When Belinda’s whip found its way between parted thighs they obligingly parted again in a wider separation to invite a second private punishment of shaven skin.

“Perhaps that is enough,” Proctor’s voice was gentle but authoritative.

Belinda paused. She was sweating more than the torso she was flogging. She found a handkerchief in her handbag on the floor and patted beneath her breasts and beneath her arms. Then, amusedly, performed the same service in the exposed armpits of her victim. “I’ve got to hand it to you, honey,” she affirmed admiringly. “You’re good.”

“My wife is superlative,” Proctor conceded grandly. “It will be acceptable that she remain strapped as she is should any of you wish to examine... ”

“I propose a toast,” said Quigley.

The bottles and the glasses clinked. A kindly hand lifted something to Drusilla’s lips. She drained it avidly. When she made to go to the side of her bound Mistress, it was Minnie’s hand and Minnie’s voice, “Here, drink mine, too. But stay away from Diana. You’re not allowed to talk to each other. You’ll be watched.”

Drusilla could have wept. It was all so hopeless. They were tied and had to do what they were told. They would inhabit separate prisons. Things would be done to each that the other would know nothing of. Belinda would be cruel, and in a week would bring Diana back to this room for the flogging she had partly escaped today. By that time she, too, might have earned a flogging! It seemed unlikely one would not come her way... ! Miserably, she turned her attention to Helen.

The whipped beauty was still busy. It was as though the thong was still finding its crevices within her skin. Her sensuous writhing had not stopped. Her cheek was still finding comfort against her arm. From time to time a foot would caress the column of her leg and thigh as high as it was possible for it to reach—and then the other! Helen was in a self hypnosis of sensation. She had enjoyed a love affair with Belinda’s whip. So far as she was concerned, her flogging could have gone on and on—! Drusilla circled and examined the striations. They were many! They were ridged! They were scarlet and purple!