F Campbell - Golden Wrists

She was very sweet in her progress, her repentance was real. I could well imagine what the nettle leaves were doing to her. With some compassion I told her she must return to the center of the hall and stand there for ten minutes before her neck would once more be collared to the chain. No doubt Amy computed odds and realized my offer was as good as she would get. With one more sweet little cry of despair, she fled back the way she had come to stand in the center of the huge room. Her feet were rooted to the floor but the rest of her was in constant motion as she twisted and contorted in fiery agony. The distress was beautiful on her face. I loved the way she jerked and pulled on her wrists in an uncontrollable effort to use her hands. The steel edges of the handcuffs bit into the flesh in a lovely infliction of additional punishment.

All the girls watched and learned their lesson Disobedience would earn them all this torment, and they didn’t miss that point.

When Amy’s sentence was served, she was taken back to her former place, her neck locked in its waiting collar and her hands once more freed to enable her to with swift and savage motions to rid herself of punishment panties and bulging bra. She hurled the bra and its awful contents as far a she could. When her turn came to extend a bare arm and palm, she did so in meek obedience and nursed the resultant wound in the same manner as all the rest.

My main concern was, of course, Elizabeth Lord. Elizabeth’s eyes had become sultry, lush lips swelling at the approach of the cane. I had previously arranged it would be I who would inflict Elizabeth’s punishment. I was aflame with desire, and gazed down at her swelling breasts, rampant nipples, and cinched waist with a hunger I did not bother to conceal. When our eyes met, it was she who was in command. “You wish to cane my hands, Miss Durrant?” Her husky voice held no tremor.

“You know I do. Elizabeth. Hold out your hand.”

I realized it was not because of my command that her eyes clung avidly to mine as the lovely bareness of her arm offered me an open palm. I struck it savagely.

Nothing happened! It was several moments before Elizabeth retrieved her punished palm in a manner of someone forgetting it was there. Slowly she allowed it to fall passively to her side. Equally slowly her other hand came up. Never did her eyes leave mine. “You may as well cane both of them, Miss Durrant. You do it wonderfully well.” She was mocking me.

Damn the woman! I wanted to take her to bed, not bruise her, flesh. But with every girl watching, I struck again even harder, a wicked stroke Elizabeth accepted calmly. Her voice was even. “Thank you, Miss Durrant.” It even sounded of real gratitude.

I could not let her get away with it. The performance had been superb, absolutely breathtaking, and I knew every maiden in the place was envying her control. Casually I suggested. “Perhaps your right hand again, Elizabeth?” There was a flicker of the eyes but that was all. The scarlet palm was once more there, awaiting my cane. I longed to shower it with kisses but knew I must show no weakness. Once more I cruelly cut the palm. The blow got a noticeable wince out of the gorgeous girl. But, as though by previous arrangement, her left hand replaced her right and her eyes mocked mine again. Delivering Elizabeth’s forth stroke and sensing rather than hearing the choked back cry of anguish, I broke the lock which held our eyes, and moved on to the next girl. That girl extended her palm as if mesmerized.

Victory was Elizabeth’s.

Betty and Constance were a tower of strength. Without them I would have been lost. They were beautifully methodical in the manner by which they never gave any girl freedom long enough to get ideas. Our pretty maidens were taken from bondage to bondage and punishment to punishment without the faintest opportunity to run, or fight, or effectively argue. Arguments were arbitrated by the cane, or, in more difficult instances, by a whip. By the end of the second week, we had a cage full of the most obedient young ladies in the United Kingdom. The school uniforms, having served their purpose, were stripped away and stored for future use. Nakedness was the true condition for the girls of Rockley, and I made sure they were constantly bare. After the canning of hands, I allowed a couple of days to pass before having Elizabeth Lord brought to my office in all the glory of breasts I could swear had swelled an inch, and a forest of pubic curls I could swear had grown even more. Prudently, I had ordered her wrists crossed and bound with thin twine behind her back.

We went through the meeting of our eyes and the challenging wait for the other to provide a clue. It was Elizabeth who broke the silence. “Why don’t you strip naked, the same as me, Miss Durrant? We both know what you want to do. Okay, okay, don’t get snooty, it’s what I want, too.”

I could not control laughter. She was a joyous creature and full of sap. Her husband was undoubtedly a clunk. I could think of nothing relevant to say except, “Are you hands still hurting, Elizabeth?”

“Not as much as my wrists are with this damned thin stuff you’ve had them tied with.”

“That’s good. Elizabeth, why do we beat around the bush? You want something, what is it?”

“You know what I want, you idiot! I want sex. But after watching the way you flounder around. I want something more. I want to see you exactly as I am now. One day I will.”

“What would you do with me?”

“Thrash you and love you. What else is there!”

I laughed with pretense. It was good to be with Elizabeth.

“You’re dreaming, Elizabeth,” I told her flippantly. “You’ll never get to thrash me, but that reminds me of why I had you brought here. I suspect it’s time I thrashed you. If you wore britches, I’d say you were getting too big for them.”

“Damn it, Diana, you don’t have to be the omnipotent goddess with me. And you needn’t think that caning of my hands didn’t hurt. It was the worse pain I’d ever known. If you’d given me a couple more like that, I’d have broken down. But you know that.”

We laughed away my wry admission. “I can’t have the girls regarding you as an invincible leader,” I told her soberly. “It’s natural they should look up to you but that performance you put on with the caning of your hands left all of us gasping. They worship you.”

“Okay then, whip me until I grovel at your feet.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay then, take me up to bed. You don’t have to untie my hands. I can manage.”

“I can’t do that, either. Elizabeth, you’re impossible! I don’t want you groveling at my feet but somehow I’ve got to make you cry Uncle and do it while those pretty little dears in the cage are watching. Sorry!”

“That sounds like the prelude to the whip. Are you going to have me flogged while forty nine teenagers busily secrete?”

“I’ve thought of it, of course. But whipping a naked girl is passe, even though it is basic.”

“If you whip me. I promise I’ll scream. And I’ll kick and twist like crazy so the little dears will know I’m hurting. But, please don’t whip my breasts ... Please?”

Elizabeth Lord was altogether too much. I took her to bed.

It was several hours before we bothered to talk, but eventually Elizabeth came back to a subject which held a fascination, and which I suspect she was deeply afraid of. Once more her approach was flippant. “If you really want to shame me in front of them all, Diana, why don’t you have me hung up by my heels with my legs far apart so they can all see everything I’ve got. You could have me whipped in that beastly condition. I’d be so ashamed, I’d cry.”