Lord Drialys - The Beautiful Flagellants of Chicago,Volume one

“Come, friend,” she sighed. “Come quickly, and taste the delights with which you have cradled your thought s in visions of desire.”

Unable to move, I was as one possessed. I wished to hear her melodious voice continue singing her hymns of love.

“Let us remain her, divinity,” I replied. “I enjoy by the brain, and love to evoke a golden chimera in the flames of my musing daydreams.”

“Now come with me,” she murmured, “and I will show thee the altar of mystic torture.”

She forced me to follow her into an adjoining room, full of freshly-cut flowers giving out intoxicating fragrance. The walls of this chamber were completely hidden by red velvet hangings. In the middle of the vast hall was a long padded bench, on which, in the center, were two cushions, one on top of the other, held in this position by ropes of twisted gold thread.

There was no doubt but what this piece of furniture was destined for flagellating purposes. Several straps, nailed to its sculptured frame, were evidently intended to keep the lucky victim fixed in one position, when his body would be obliged to affect an arched shape, by reason of the cushions forced under his stomach. The posteriors would thus jut out, advantageously exposed to the descending rod.

Not far from the bench of torment was a small table, covered with a white cloth, trimmed with lace. On the spotless damask were a dozen birch-rods, slender and well-selected, the handles ornamented with bunches of multi-coloured ribbon.

“see,” said my adorable goddess, “the supple implements whence I cause heavy sparks to fly, electrifying the man who begs for the beneficent application of the miraculous twigs. Never do I use whips or martinets. Their action is brutish and uncouth-devoid of the slightest charm. But rods are my resounding harps. They chant the lilting lay of passive submission and impotent rebellion; their resonant strings are stretched to breaking-point. And then they are still, tuneless through excess of melting voluptuousness.”

There was a pause.

“Come!” she cooed.

“No, divinity,” I responded, retreating. “Let your grand words live in my brain and sink deeply into my thoughts for many days. Soon will I be here and throw myself at your feet, beseeching you to let me harken to the mystic melody of your harp-strings.”

She led me back to the hall of pillars and stretched herself on the sofa.

I knelt at her feet, where lost in silence, I contemplated for some time this sphinx-like, supernatural apparition.

In our time, the goddesses, formerly immortalised by Phidias and Praxiteles, have taken up their abode in the United States and thus do I explain this fact, which at first sight seems absurd.

In the balmy days of the Grecian Empire, that nation held the first rank. Its galleys ploughed the sea, and from all parts of the known world brought back the most courageous men and the finest of women. Numerous colonies gave up to the Greeks the pick of their populations, and these varied races, by breeding and mixing many strains of blood, engendered and brought forth the type of mortal perfection.

Nowadays, the Greeks are a decadent race. The harbours of their lovely land are deserted or choked up and its people are feeble and degenerate. The Greece of our epoch is in America. The heroes who have conquered the New World were also the choicest flowers of heroism in the old continents. Only bold and robust travellers dared affront the perils of the unknown country. Bold weaklings died off rapidly on a foreign soil. Thus was formed a selected set of inhabitants, to whom the United States owe their splendid women, admirably proportioned, and haughty bearing; whose perfectly-moulded figures are aesthetically equal to the most ancient Grecian ideal standard. The same causes have led to the production of a race of enterprising robust men, brimming over with vital energy.

“What do they call you, divinity?” I asked the sorceress.

“Nelly Lamb,” she answered. “My father was a Kansas farmer.”

“How did a goddess, such as you are, grow up on a farm in the wilds of North America?”

“We were eleven children in all,” she graciously rejoined, “all proud, herculean men, and tall, noble-minded women.”

I took my leave, delighted with my charming conquest. Leaving her a roll of bills, I swore I would soon return.

My solemn promise was needless; we both knew full well the invincible attraction we felt toward each other; bound by fate to meet again.

I was no sooner in the street, where I was carried along by the hustling throng than I regretted having refused the offer of such divine dew as I knew must be distilled from the be-ribboned birch of Nelly Lamb.

Doutbless, she was a perfect mistress of the flagellating art, but the state of feverish excitement I had been in, exacerbated my need of some violent upheaval to calm my nerves; the influence of the adorable woman's marvelous beauty; her cajoling, graceful ways-all this had combined to confuse my ideas, their present trend being towards some energetic action.

When, therefore, I recovered self-control, I felt inclined to continue my voyage of discovery, hoping to find, among other Chicagoan female floggers, the inexorable and authoritative domineering woman, who, conquering my will-power, would know how to force me to submit to the severe birching correction I so greatly required.

Before pursuing my exploration, I was obliged to return to the boarding-house, where I had taken up residence, to get a cheque-book my bankers had promised to send me.

By one of those mysterious hazards of life, an event took place as I returned to my lodgings which caused my inward excited feelings to be increased to the highest neurotic pitch. More oil was thrown on the fire of my secret passions.

A young hired girl, a fat wench of twenty, had been detected in an act of petty pilfering. From a lady boarder, she had stolen a scrap of lace which had been found in her room. The married couple who ran the establishment proposed their ultimatum to the wretched servant-girl: a complaint would e maid to the police and she would go to prison, or she was to submit with docility to severe corporal chastisement.

The silly lass was dreadfully frightened at the vision of a stone cell, and with much weeping, elected to endure castigation. Her master and mistress decided that she should undergo her whipping at the hands of a disciplinarian governess of a neighbouring school. She consented to carry out this private execution at the boarding-house, in return for her customary fee of one dollar.

As I returned, I saw the formidable person destined to dispense birching justice. The mere sight of her caused me to experience a thrill of deep emotion. This governess was a fine, tall woman, getting on for forty. Her frigid stare and imperious bearing made me shiver.

She was not alone, being accompanied by one of her young pupils carrying a bundle of rods wrapped up in a newspaper. Dragging her sobbing victim into a room on the first story, the severe matron locked herself in.

Urged on by an invincible inquisitive craving, I stealthily glided down the dark passage, until I reached a little cupboard-like chamber adjoining the room where the punitive drama was to be enacted. My narrow retreat was separated from the whipping room by a light partition. I could see nothing, but it was easy to hear distinctly all that took place. My heart beat heavily at the sounds that fell upon my ears.

First, there was a long interval of silence, broken only by the loud sobs of the young minx. Then came a curt order from the governess, telling the girl to undress. I heard her garments fall, one by one, on the floor.

“Don't give me any trouble or bother,” said the stern disciplinarian. “You know you're only getting what you richly deserve.”