F. Campbell - Slave Girl and the lash

"No-" He was terribly troubled. "But it would be no picnic."

"I handled Royden. He and I were getting along famously when it… it happened."

"I can see you were, from the whipmarks'" I knew I was being foolishly female with that brand of feminine nobility that, I am told, afflicts girls my age. But I was getting visions of James Pollard dead in a ditch.

"I sort of collect whipmarks, darling." I giggled, "It's the way I get a living. If you take me back to Yolanda the first thing she'll do is thrash me for being so stupid in the first place… luring you into that bedroom."

"It was me who lured you. Bolling had picked up hints about you. No, Phemie, there's only one place for you right now, that's Castle Glynt." He smiled in genuine amusement. "If your beloved Yolanda whips your bottom for you, it's your hard luck. Incidentally, don't worry about me, there's a lot of Roland Bolling's in the world." It was all so lovely. I mean the falling into place. A sort of out of the fire back into the frying pan. I know I'm shameless and erotic and raging with lust at all times, but even with my darling naked James watching my nipples and puss and me with an amused and proprietary smile, the thought of Yolanda and Glynt and an end to fear sent my pulse racing. How good it would be! Me and James and Yolanda! The absurdity of such a triangle never entered my girlish head. "You mean it, darling'? You really truly want to take me back to Glynt?"

"I'd take you back even if you didn't want to go."

"Oh, darling!" I was breathless. "Then I'm no longer a prisoner'?"

"I've just rung up a 'No Sale'." Delightedly I turned my back to him and wiggled my handcuffs. "Then we don't need these, do we!" There was a silence. Waiting expectantly I became aware of it only after a good many moments had passed. I looked back coyly over one shoulder. James still knelt. He eyed me ruefully. I knew instantly what was coming. "I don't have a key, Phemie. Both of them were in the car." It was a funny feeling — not all bad! I mean, it's one thing for a girl to be handcuffed when she knows there's someone knocking about somewhere with the key, but it's quite something else again to suddenly discover there is no key. A silly vision of having my hands locked behind my back for life crossed my mind. I tittered.

"It's not funny," said James. I could see he was right. It wasn't funny! Looking over that deserted moor in the dusk told me no girl in her right mind would want to be wandering around across it, naked and with her wrists handcuffed behind her back. But I wasn't in my right mind. Maybe I never am! My predicament struck me as hilarious. I produced a fit of the giggles.

"Well, if you don't mind." There was faint reproof in James's voice.

"I am your slave girl, darling, it's quite appropriate. I'm sort of glad we don't have the key. It's you, of course. Without you I'd be scared to death and horrified, and probably very indignant. You will look after me extra special, won't you?"

"Extra special, Phemie girl. I love you." It was positively pussy puckering. I lay down instantly. No wandering shepherd's eye beheld the strangeness of our passing. One normally attired male and a naked girl in a blanket. James had torn a hole in the center of the rug so that I now wore it as a poncho. I did not miss the use of my hands at all. We were indeed an odd pair. But neither of us minded. Love is beautiful. James had to be severe with me from time to time when I got the giggles and wanted to lay down and spread my legs. He finally had to tell me, gorgeously embarrassed, that men can't do it every fifteen minutes the way I wanted. I promised I'd wait. It was hours before we walked over the gentle rise and saw the farm. The sight was not reassuring. It was as grim as the moor itself. All stone and slate, even the barn and few small sheds, a smallish place that missed rustic charm by miles. It sort of glowered at us in the gloom.

"Not a telephone pole in sight," James muttered disgustedly. I can't tell you why we did not rush to the door and knock. There was a quality about the place we both felt. It was like a small block house in the war. You felt sure a machine gun was trained on you from an embrasure somewhere and followed you as you moved. We half circled it before James guided me to a clump of bushes and made me kneel. "I'll go and thump on the door," he whispered. "They may not be too pally this time of night. You can come if I call." It was eerie. I wondered why we were acting like this. It was only a lonely farm. But we both felt something. I watched my hero. James strode in forthright manner in a straight line, climbing a fence and parting barbed wire. He did not have to open the gate, it was broken and sagged on its hinges. I saw him knock at what was presumably the back door. When there was no response he gave the panel a right royal thump that I could hear from a distance. When that got no results he walked round to the front and out of sight. It was then the hand clamped across my mouth. I didn't have any pants to get wet, but I peed just the way they say you do when scared nearly out of your skin. I was galvanized into a frenzy of ineffectual motion. The handcuffs defeated me. I cherish the belief I could have bit and scratched enough to have attracted James's attention when he came back into view. But with my wrists cuffed where they were I did not have a chance. My captor must have wondered at the unexpected ease in which he achieved the business of gagging me: a filthy handkerchief in my mouth and a spotted tie bound tight to keep it there and prison my tongue. It was knotted tight beneath my hair at the back of my neck. A large strong hand gathered up my hair and gave it a tug or two to exert authority. I found myself forced to continue to kneel and watch, sound and movement were denied. The distance to the house was littered with the odd bramble bush, scrub tree, or wrecked implement. I was thrown over a male shoulder so that my head hung behind and an iron arm embraced my legs. I was reduced to a silent package. My eyes were fearfully active so that I was able to understand that he who carried me was watching James. Whenever James was lost to sight in or around a building we took long loping strides from cover to cover until, when James disgustedly gave up and walked back to where he had left me, my captor was able to take the last steps to the stone portal, slip a key into the lock and get us both inside without James knowing a thing of what had happened. It was clever. There was no pause. My weight was as nothing to whoever carried me. I could have wept at the indignity of my utter impotence. I was a piece of baggage with a pussy! The absurd thought filled my fevered mind. A flap was pulled up from the middle of the floor, and a dank odor of rot swept up. In almost complete darkness I was carried down a few steps and dumped on damp earth, my feet were thrust against a post, lifted a foot from the floor to make me doubly helpless, and savagely bound there with what I guessed to be a bit of electric flex. It was very adequate and very tight. What happened then was one of the worst times of my life, frustrating and bereft of hope. Half sitting, half lying on my bare bottom, able to make no effectual motion at all and gagged into silence, I could still hear most of what took place above me. I even heard the slither of the mat thrust above the cracks of my dank prison and then the stentorian bellow of a country voice demanding of the outside night: "What's up, mate'! You in trouble?" James was back in short order. There was a jumble of voices, the last words of which I got distinctly: "I'll go and get her." In James's jubilant voice. Imagine it! The lout who had put me where I was and tied me tight must have been laughing his head off. I was going to be a silent audience to James's distress. Once he was back in the kitchen I heard it all.