Lord Drialys - The Beautiful Flagellants of Chicago,Volume one

My gluttonous allegiance was interrupted much too soon by Miss Rosey who sent me back to the other room, so as to allow Lucy to get dressed.

I was frantically impatient to be alone with my sweet flogging lady, whose features were full of fresh excitement. As soon as Lucy was gone, after having kissed her new flogging friend with affectionate impetuosity betokening all Miss Farman's gratitude, Rosey turned toward me, darting her fine eyes into mine.

“At last I shall be able to flog you as much as I like! Come now, get your clothes off!” she hissed through her set teeth.

Her look, coupled with her threatening words, made me shudder. I undressed hastily, stretching myself obediently on the bed, impregnated with Lucy's delicious fragrant warmth.

Miss Rosey got the ropes and tied my feet and hands to the four corners of the couch on which my body formed the figure of a Maltese cross. Then, seizing a strong rod, she birched me without graduating her strokes. The first was dealt with an amount of vigour that proved she meant to give no quarter.

At every burning blow, I leaped and bounded, groaning deplorably.

“Aha, you don't laugh to-day, master!” said Rosey, happy to see me writhing and moaning.

Her switching rained down quicker and harder. I trembled in every limb, arching up and pressing down my loins each time my bottom came in for a terrible cut.

Miss Rosey had to rest in the middle of her task, to roll up her hair which had fallen down, covering her as with a veil in which the ends of the birch kept catching. She profited by her pause to take another rod, and it seemed that she had gained renewed vigour, for she began to whip me frenziedly, tearing shrieks of suffering from my hoarse throat.

I begged for pity, but the relentless queen of the birch shook her head, continuing to stripe my tortured backside, her eyes rolling madly. Her movements irregular and wild, like those of a bacchante.

From her lissom frame, whirling in a delirious slashing saraband, issued waves of vibrating salacity that encircled me. Every nerve in my pained body throbbed, as the flames of her burning birch licked my gory posteriors, and drew me near to her soul, as it were, in a vortex of unparalelled voluptuousness.

Casting the rod from her-she must have seen the lascivious effect her tormenting twigs produced on her slave-she quickly gripped the whip, and sent a dozen or more fearful strokes of the dread instrument made me plunge, tearing at my bonds as I stiffened all my limbs under the shock of the gruesome commotion.

This supreme fustigating effort caused a sweet rush of swimming pleasure to invade the secret being of the whipping woman as she threw herself upon me, delightedly kissing the part she had bruised and wealed. She undid the ropes, and took my place on the bed, while I fell panting on my knees, actuated by a greedy wish to kiss her small feet.

Indolent and disdainful, she permitted me to take off her baby shoes and softly draw away her long, silk, openwork hose. Her delicious, tiny pedal extremities appeared in all their luminous splendour, and I had not enough kisses and licking caresses to devour them as they deserved with the gluttonous lips and tongue.

“I'm still hungry to flog you?” she said suddenly, leaping to her feet, wet and bare.

With a neurotic twist of her lascivious loins, she stooped and picked up a new rod while I, tamed and obedient, calling myself for the birch's terrible smart on my raw buttocks, wsa just about to lie down again. But she had a new idea, seating herself on the edge of our couch, and throwing me across her lap like a child.

In this position, her arm had not much room to swing the rod. I was very happy at finding myself tightly clasped in her embrace, feeling her body pressed against mine. But she grew tired at having to birch me, without finding me plunging or quivering.

So she lost all patience, and ordering me curtly to bend over the bed, she got her whip again. After a few barbarous strokes, dealt with the greatest possible violence, I writhed on the carpet at her feet in a superhuman spasm where acute pain produced the acme of manly felicity. The gush of blood from my mangled bottom kept time to the throbbing torrent of my essence of virility torn from me by the red-hot searing stripes of the whip.

Miss Rosey ws perfectly exhausted. She reclined at full length, languidly on the bed. Her ravishing little feet were abandoned to my loving moist caresses. Seeing the adorable young creature close her eyes, I grew more bold. My fierce kisses of lust mounted in spiral garlands of wet tonguing delight all along her divine legs and massive thighs, until the sacred depths of paradise were reached.

My mouth officiated at the soft altar of female worship where every delight is centred. I greedily sucked the dewy rosebud, until Miss Rosy's soul melted between my clipping lips-and I once more joined her in the ineffable bliss of the highest degree of ecstasy to which man or woman can possibly reach.

The hours I passed with adorable Miss Rosey in our discreet apartment will always remain in my mind as imperishable memories, for she caused me to enjoy sensations that can never be forgotten.

I now had to think of my departure. It was drawing nigh. I regretted to have to go. In Chicago, I had met the incomparable female flagellants: Miss Nelly Lamb, Miss Florence, and above all, Miss Rosey, the sweet little hotel-bookkeeper, who, beneath an appearance of candid simplicity, hid the soul of a bacchante and the sculptural form of a legendary princess. Where on earth should I ever find again such a casket of pearls? My passionate devotion to birching games had increased and developed through being enjoyed in the company of such ideal partners.

That lovely Thursday with Miss Rosey had been one long dream of radiant voluptuousness, but her rod unnerved me, when it ought to have appeased my craving. Her strokes, on the contrary, had awakened my desires, creating an impetuous inward need for some great, energetical shock. Therefore, before leaving the windy city, I sought for some severe punishment, which I thought should be inflicted on my shrinking stern, not by a lascivious flogging beauty, but by a severe governess, capable of inspiring me with awe.

I was within an ace of going to see Miss Florence, when a fortuitous circumstance caused me to find something better.

I luckily met once again the disciplinarian matron of the neighbouring school, who, it will be remembered, had so rigorously birched the young chambermaid at my boarding-house. The flogging lady was alone at this time, and I had to summon up all my courage before I dared address her. I stammered out my request quite timidly, but I had hardly uttered a few words before she flatly refused.

“No, sir, I don't whip men for their pleasure! There are heaps of women who make a business of this sort of thing. Go to them!”

I persisted, telling he that I prized a beating at her hands, because she was no common whipping woman, and that to be punished by her was almost ah honour; a privilege possessing peculiar piquancy.

“No, no, I cannot consent,” she said, “except on one condition. Had you committed some fault that really deserved chastisement, I might see things in a different light.”

Her declaration caused a glimmer of hope. I fancied I had found a way to realise my secret longing idea by mentioning some trivial motive, but I had hardly opened my lips than she stopped me.

“You are about to invent some foolish story. It won't go down with me. If you should do something deserving of punishment, write to me at the school. I shall then reflect. If I judge that the nature of your backsliding permits me to intervene, I will drop you a line to that effect.”