F. Campbell: Slave Girl and the lash

"If Yolanda would put chains on me I'd… I'd… I'd give up everything." In a surge of pity I reach out to enfold her. But with chained hands I cannot. I compromise by touching her arm with the age of old gentleness of feminine compassion. Suddenly I glimpse a thousand Molly Vinters around the world seeking a purchaser for something they cannot sell.

"She doesn't need to buy me like that story about you. I'd give myself. I'd sign a paper. Anything… " She is pathetically vehement.

"Why not ask?" I have no sooner uttered the words than a terrible jealousy flares within at thought of a companion in chains. Yolanda is mine just as much as I am hers! Yet suppose… Molly in her passionate need has become more female. I find myself stripping her and assessing her nakedness.

"I did ask. She said you were handful enough," Molly sniffed. "I could tell she wasn't interested."

"You might not like it. I'm always chained or tied, and I get whipped quite a lot. It hurts more than you'd believe." I have said the wrong thing. Molly is suddenly avid. "I would, oh I would!" Her hand is on my arm now. Curious eyes focus on us in the passing crowd. She becomes aware of them and lowers her voice. "Ask her. Oh, please? She loves you! If it's you that asks." It is very sad. I only tell it that you may get a picture I am trying to paint. I make a promise that will be hard for me to keep. I watch Molly Vinter fade away among the guests. I am wishing I had stayed with the men. Their little boy appetite for my puss is much easier to cope with.

"A touch of emotion, I suspect?" The voice was very male and very nice. Such man sounds make me think about my breasts and my pussy and my behind and hope they are all arranged to the best advantage. The tone of this one crinkled my pubic hair. It sounded faintly amused. He is even better than his voice. He was brand new. "The name is Pollard," he said gently. "Please call me James. I'm a gate crasher. I came because of you. May I shake your chain?" He did the proper male thing. Without waiting for me to say a thing he raised my left hand to his lips. My right hand had to follow, so he kissed that too. His fingers traced a path across my wristlets. "I recognize the workmanship," he said conversationally. "I don't have to ask if they are real." I was almost panting. I felt ashamed of myself. I'm not usually that susceptible. "Perhaps you'd like an introduction to your hostess?" I manage breathlessly.

"I have met Miss Harding elsewhere. I came to look at you."

"You make me feel like something in a cage."

"You are something in a cage." He is the right height, his eyes are the right color, I long to play my fingers through his hair. He is so perfect I can only adore and have no words. I am positive I will forget the hundred strokes and the dungeon if he leads me from the room. Yola should have left me chained to the pillar in Turpitude Tower.

"Does the delectable Miss Harding occasionally unlock you for an afternoon?"

"I can't go to bed with you. I'm terribly sorry," I utter the denial in self defense. I am trembling.

"You are utterly charming." He surveys me with a look I cannot fathom. It is not the stripping naked look. There is more to his regard than salacity. I am being weighed in a balance.

"You've had your good look at me. Perhaps you should go." He does not bother to answer such a puerile femininity, but takes me by the arm and guides me to the bar. A double Scotch is poured on top of another double Scotch and the reinforced potency is placed within my chained hand with a preemptory: "Don't sip. Drink." For me this is an enormous intoxicant. I dare not look for Yolanda. I am supposed to ask her permission. James Pollard takes one single Scotch and clinks my glass in a toast: "To more and better chains!" There is a small boy insouciance about him I cannot resist. Against all good judgement I swallow an enormous gulp. I am already on fire. The alcohol will only start a second flame. He sips and smiles at my adoration. He is quite shameless in his next remark.

"You're not wearing much, but it is an impediment, y'know."

"You mean you want to see me naked?"

"I'm sure you will survive the test."

"There isn't going to be a test." He touches my arm. A current runs all the way up and down to my puss. Without volition I gulp a second time and an astonished at how little is now left in my glass. I swallow that too as though in need. I am in need! More in need than I have ever been in my life. "I'm very nice naked," I tell him innocently. I hear the words as though someone else had uttered them.

"Will there be marks?" His lips have a sly twist I long to kiss away. Does everyone know Yolanda whips me? I do not care. I know I should flee, but have no such intent. "They're scarlet and purple," I admit brightly. He replenishes my glass. "On your bottom?"

"She couldn't use my back because of today." I sound apologetic, but hastily add in explanation, "I got them yesterday."

"Not an isolated punishment?"

"Oh no!" I giggle and boast. "I get whipped quite often."

"And you enjoy every… er, stroke?" I giggle again. "Well, the first few anyway."

"You scream?" Even to my pixillated mind his questions seem unduly probing, but I do not care. I compound my indiscretions by admitting I try not to make loud noises while Yolanda whips me, but that if she punishes me long and hard enough, I break down and howl with the best of them.

"I expect the dear girl had other, more inventive, inflictions?"

"You're being nosey. I shouldn't tell you." I giggle happily. "Ever seen a girl sitting on the horse?"

"I wouldn't have called riding-"

"Not that kind of horse, silly! I mean the narrow bar I have to sit on with my feet spread and tied so all my weight rests on my poor little puss." I make some more tipsy sounds and add: "It hurts."

"I am sure it does. I seem to have read somewhere — you enjoy this quaint exercise?"

"It isn't an exercise at all. I just have to sit… for the longest times."

"But there is a thrill?"

"There's a thrill between my legs." The whole scene strikes me as absurdly humourous. I give him my best giggle yet and admit sadly: "I usually end up in tears. How'd you like to have to sit on your whatsit like that!"

"You are usually… er, fastened for these fun and games?"

"I'm tied or strapped or handcuffed — it's really none of your business, y'know. Yola would murder me."

"Academic really," he assured me cheerfully. "What d'you say we adjourn?" Right at that point I should have marched up to Yolanda and demanded to be locked up for my own safety. That word adjourn! It flashed danger signals. But as this story progresses you'll see what an absolute idiot I can be sometimes. All thought of the awful penalty was driven from my mind by the positively cunt quaking smile James Pollard bestowed on me and by the vibrancy of his fingers on my arm. When he said softly: "You're terribly sweet, Euphemia." I was totally lost. I expect Einstein could explain about the space and time, I can't. By some sort of magic I giggled our way to my bedroom, the one I use when Yola doesn't want me for the night or I have a cold or something or maybe I'm downstairs or up on the Tower. I don't remember the journey, but there we stood looking at each other expectantly.

"And now you want to see me naked?"

"I would esteem it a privilege, Miss Carstairs."

"Don't be sarky. Suppose I call for help?"

"I would gag you and tie you on the bed."

"Oh, would you!" The heat between my legs was almost too much. The glad eagerness escaped into my voice. Caution was gone. "Spreadeagle and taut?" I was quivering.

"Taut as a bowstring and spread wide. Now, off with those clothes!" I did it prettily, wishing I had more on to take off. Watching me strip crinkles Yolanda so I could imagine what it was going to do to Mr. Pollard. Dear James! It was as though I'd known him a long time. He stood intent and absorbed, but never lost the little boy look and the nice smile. Taking off my panties I had to make a handful of the wet stuff so he wouldn't notice how sopping he'd made me. When I'd thrown them aside I was as naked as a girl can be. I posed with my hands up high and standing on tip toe and asked roguishly: "And how do you like your girls served, sir?"