F. Campbell - Slave Girl and the lash

"I don't know anything, Master. I just got kidnapped. But someone was willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for me."

"Hmmmm! I'd consider it." I suddenly wanted Royden to buy me. He might be cruel, but he was more my kind than Gyorkos. Perhaps when he tired of me he would sell me back to Yolanda. Hope flared. "Please buy me," I pleaded. "I want you to. I'm frightened." I could tell he was pleased. But he was not going to allow a slave girl to direct the conversation. "Have you ever been hung up by your wrists?" He asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes, Master."

"Adds something to what we're about to do, don't you think?"

"Of course, Master. It makes me beautifully available."

"Good! Find what is needed." I delivered his drink and my obeisance on bended knee, then went in search of the requisite objects for my unearned punishment. The room had everything. It came up trumps. "They're padded. I hope you don't mind," I ventured tentatively as I handed him the leather wristlets. "But if you'd prefer something to hurt my wrists more, I'm sure I can find it. Or maybe rope?"

"These are perfect." He gave me a comradely grin. "Rings and all. Someone here must know what they're about. I suspect that trapeze affair is motivated by the switch in the wall." It was. I lowered the bar to where I could easily reach it. I was quivering. What I was doing was like being made to dig my own grave. But the emotion now uppermost within me was no longer pure fear. I set my Master's drink back on the bar and held out my hands so that he could relieve me of the handcuffs with the key that, sure enough, he had in his pockets. I took the steel bands, warm from my flesh, and hung them on the wall. I could positively feel his curiosity as to whether I was now going to cut up rough under the temptation of being free. I ended the suspense by proffering my hands once more so that he could buckle the wristlets. He did it with swift strong incisive motions. He made them tight. Cheerfully, I stood beneath the bar and raised my arms, looking at him with a respectful and inviting smile. A moment later my wristlets were snapped to each end of the trapeze, and my new Master was striding towards the switch. I am sure that for most girls, to be suspended naked by their wrists must be traumatic. You're so shockingly bare you feel almost entirely pussy and nipples, your helplessness is utter. It also hurts like blazes, a strange sort of hurt that isn't just your wrists. Your shoulders scream indignantly at what is being done to them. You have an instinctive compulsion to raise and lower your feet as though pedaling a bicycle that isn't there. For me it is not traumatic at all. For the first while I hang there in an erotic haze of sensation. I am bound, I am bare, I am delivered, I am vulnerable. But, above all, I belong to someone. I am completely female to be used. They can do what they please with me. It's a quite remarkable feeling. If a girl was not scared to death she would know herself exquisitely desirable. Silly, I suppose, but I was hoping Royden was enjoying me. I avoided his eyes, and just hung in sweet resigned nakedness. The burn of the cane across my bottom was so unexpected it drew a yelp of surprise from me, but its pain went only to feed my fire.

"We have a tendency to talk too much," Royden observed pleasantly, and struck me again. I knew that to keep silent would be an affront. I made the sounds of orgasm. They were not simulated. They are the most sensually satisfying sounds for a girl to emit in that context. They earned me a respite while Royden enjoyed them. I could hear his indrawn breath.

"I will concede that I have never beheld anything more beautiful." Some genuine quality in his voice made me glow with pride. I know I'm beautiful, but it's a lovely feeling when someone else agrees. He hit me again. I could not tell if he was striking me all out. The impacts were of the same intensity as when Yola hits me as hard as she can. It hurt fiercely. I wondered how many my fire could absorb before I started to scream. I passionately did not want to scream for a man. For darling Yola, yes, but not for the Male! I wanted to bestow on him only those sounds that would provoke his erection and agonize his desire. That way I would emerge the victor. Is that silly too? I expect it is. Royden caned my bottom with tremendous male verve and competence. The impacts of the cane burying itself in my flesh caused the bar to swing a little from side to side with me as a pendulum. Royden used my changing salient aspect to place his strokes to best advantage. I was being caned by a Master of the Craft. I had an absurd vision of him as a Head Master with morta-board and gown, and myself as some shockingly delinquent pupil. A little girl whose bottom had been bared for her iniquities.

"Do you cry at all, Miss Carstairs?" he inquired conversationally.

"I can if you want me to," I offered between gasps "A girl can, y'know, and they'd be quite genuine." He sliced me low on my bottom where it hurts most. "No. Just let tears flow if they're spontaneous. It's a nice effect."

"On the erection?" I tried to sound casual. He chuckled, pleased. "Naturally. The erection is the alpha and omega, isn't it! How about screaming?"

"I can't always control it. I'll try not to, but I probably will."

"Almost a challenge to me." His voice held dry humour. "I take it this gift of yours is not limitless, there's a brink you can cross so that you hurt and react like any other girl?"

"Yes," I admitted. "I'm terribly sorry. It's a bit of a let down for me too. I'd love to be able to laugh all through. But the pain's a lot more awful than you probably realize."

"Help if I cane you more slowly?"

"Yes. Thank you." The strike was as though he was making up for all the chitchat. I yelped again and kicked my legs. The pain worked its way through me from back to front. I could feel my nerves receiving it and passing it on, wave after wave. Being caned is quite an experience. It's like nothing else that can happen to a girl. There are worse things, but a girl's bottom has a responsiveness all its own.

"That one was most impressive, Mr. Royden." I paid maiden tribute to whatever his motivation might be. "Thank you for the pause." His next gift to me cut deep into the top of my thighs and produced that other kind of agony that eats into a girl's stomach and leaves you certain you can't bear another. My legs pedalled like mad. I made magnificent erection generating vocals that were quite impromptu.

"If I can make a deal I'm going to buy you, Miss Carstairs," said Mr. Royden, and struck me again on the same place. It was probably the most sincere tribute ever given to me. But I think I must have gone half mad with the pain. Two on my thighs, one on top of the other! For a moment they almost doused my fire. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but my legs flailed like crazy and the rest of me writhed and twisted worse than a puppet on a string. I did not trouble to look, but I had a feeling he was standing back in awe. After a long while he made an important announcement.

"I think we can discard the cane now, Euphemia, and move on to the whip." I controlled my vocals long enough to say: "Thank you, Mr. Royden, that would be nice." How absurd we were! How formal and correct! I sensed that, for both of us, it was keeping my torture on a plane above the commonplace or the disagreeable. We were being frightfully British. His use of my Christian name gave me an inordinate pleasure. I made my small moans and used my feet to kick away the pain they could not touch.

"Have you any preference in the matter of a whip, my dear?" Royden's voice had taken on a new warmth during the caning of my bottom.

"Please, could I have one without knots?"

"Of course. But there's quite a collection here."

"Knots cut me, Mr. Royden, and I've found that multiple lashes tend to bunch and give me a miserable sort of blow that makes ugly marks and bruises. A single thong is the most aesthetic and they hurt terribly, You can choose the length according to how you want them to snap around me. The shorter ones are the most accurate if you want to mark me in certain places or ways."