F. Campbell - Slave Girl and the lash

"I don't want anything ordinary for you, Euphemia, you have become so very special. Don't be frightened. Just trust me." I would have trusted Miss Hilde with my life. I watched the ropes come down from the small pulleys in the ceiling and wondered only how she had got them there. When the hooks slipped into the rings of my anklets I could put two and two together, but thought of retreat never entered my mind. I helped all I could with the replacement of my gag, my eyes sparkling into Miss Hilde's that were so very close as she worked on me. I was kissed. When my feet were spread and raised by the tautening ropes I knew only a tremendous sense of being female, a oneness with the woman who had caned me. Since my hands were still free I was able to ease my transformation from horizontal to vertical. My gag got a stern test in those first moments when I swung free of the carpet, but I had no thought of tearing at it, my fingers were busy seeking a tenuous contact with the floor. Miss Hilde mischievously raised me to where I could touch it with one finger only.

"A strap over your gag, dear, just in case-" It was broad and tight and pliant. My fingers would not easily loosen its buckle at the back of my neck. They did explore but were gently slapped away.

"I would tie your hands, dear, but I'm curious to see what you will do with them." To me, at the age of eleven, a whip was just a name. I surveyed the one now in Miss Hilde's hand with wide-eyed curiosity. I was more concerned with the exposure of my pubes. I was sure it must be proper for me to be to be so spread, just so long as it was a teacher who had done it to me. But I was not sure if mother would approve. I adored it. I went into writhing orgasm again when Miss Hilde artfully cupped my wet lips and kneaded them. The whip took me into a new enchantment of sensation. Miss Hilde used it on my back and waist, and for the first few blows the frightening new pain did not more than prolong my contortions as though the orgasm went on and on. Whilst I could wriggle and bend and buck, my widely spread legs prevented me changing my basic position. I was totally available. Miss Hilde whipped me with care and artistry. The lash curled on my slenderness and, often enough, licked at my breasts. But they were not sufficiently developed to provide a hazard. I am sure my hands were erotically entertaining for the woman with the whip. They sought my wounds, they sought the floor, they waved in frantic acknowledgement of agony. Once they flew to the buckle of my gag, but were thereafter dissuaded from such tampering by a vicious slash of the cutting thong into the cleft of my sundered thighs. I screamed in pain and amazement that a girl be whipped upon her puss. The gag muted the peal of anguish, but the message was clear. My hands heeded it, their frantic frustration was total. The fear came gradually with the rhythm of the scorching strokes. Not fear of Miss Hilde or of the whip, but fear that my fire would die and its glory depart. I think my complete helplessness and the upside down exposure alarmed me in the same manner as a fish must be astounded to find itself hauled up on dry land. It was then that Miss Hilde received my full, but unconscious, gift of writhings and twistings and the clutching of hands which I wish now I could have witnessed myself. I put on quite a show. No matter what I did, the whip cut me. I could not escape it, but in a purely primal instinct I tried, oh how I tried! When I knew I would die, the lashes stopped, a strong firm tongue entered my puss-lips. I did not recognize what was happening to me at first, only that I was ablaze with something far too beautiful to understand. Within seconds I longed only that the glory and the whip go on forever. With Yolanda it does. Forever and ever… I'm terribly lucky. It is Yola's cords upon my elbows that dissolve my misty memories of Miss Hilde. They are now hurting me enough to gain my full attention. I cannot see them but I know how deeply they must be embedded in my skin. I twist my shoulders fretfully against the strain, my eyes rove for some expedient by which I may gain release, hopelessly of course. I always go through these motions, it is instinctive. But I cannot get loose, I know I can't. I am tied for sure. I will have to endure the punishment of my corded elbows. It has now reached an intensity of pain that contributes nothing to the warmth between my legs. I just hurt, and I wish it was not happening to me. When the light fails I will cry. By darkness there has been no Yola and no supper. I have been a bad girl. Bad girls do not eat much when chained in dungeons. Before total gloom possesses me I amuse myself by walking to the length of the chain on my ankle and then contorting and stretching to see if I can hook a toe in the blanket. But my most painful striving leaves me many feet short. I shrug resignedly, I am getting only what I deserve. I return to my corner and my chain and look down at the stone. It seems impossible that I can sleep. But I am used to pain and discomfort. I fall into a dream laden slumber and do not properly wake until the light of morning is feeling its way into my prison. It is the day. I have thought much of the whip while waiting for Yolanda. I cannot possibly sustain joy through so severe a flogging. I have no expectation of acquitting myself nobly. I will probably plead and make a fuss. Yola may be forced to gag me.

"Is your puritan conscience purged, silly girl?" Yolanda turns me about and examines my roped elbows, the penalty I provoked her into inflicting. It has made me pliably contrite.

"I'm sorry, darling. I was stupid."

"And now you want me to untie your arms?"

"Oh Yola, yes… yes! I'm dying."

"You're not, y'know! I'm a good mind to leave you like this."

"Oh please, no!" I wail in anguish. It is a game she plays often, but I am never sure. Sometimes she actually does leave me to go on suffering. I never know. I sink to my knees and press my head hard against her sex. Even though she is clothed it will affect her. Perhaps she will take me to bed. But even then she may not untie me…

"You're a saucy pusscat and I know what you're trying to do." Her fingers are loving in my hair. "I'll give you a choice. You can stay as you are, elbows roped, or we can start your whipping." It seems a cruel choice, but it is not. I know I must wade into my punishment and get it over with. "Start my whipping, please," I ask meekly. It is heaven to get rid of the ropes. I squeal as they are peeled from me. The weals are beautiful and shocking. My ankles are then chained so that I may attend the bathroom and eat my apple and drink my water. I long for food but dare not ask. Soon I stand naked with one wrist strapped each side of the whipping post. I am ready. My ankles are still chained. Yola loves to hear the clatter of the links as I kick against the pain.

"One hundred, Phemie."

"Yes, darling."

"Want to be gagged?"

"Not yet." It is not the worst whip. With some of the whips a hundred would kill me. I know this one of old. It will hurt bitterly but not injure. Unless Yolanda strikes me unduly hard I may not bleed. But a hundred! My poor back! The heat burns hard in my loins as the thong snaps across my shoulders and burns deep. How beautiful is pain when it is Yola who bestows it on me! I twist within my bonds as sensuously as I can to give her happiness. Motion helps me too. Being whipped hurts twice as bad if I cannot move, at least I think it does. The second strike bites the center of my back and curls beneath a breast. My motions now are the pure artistry of suffering. I need not simulate. Both of us are happy beyond words. Whipping posts are cruel. I have seen pictures of those in which a girl embraces them, her hands pulled 'round and bound on the other side, or perhaps they are tied to a hook above her head. But not this one! The straps upon my wrists are broad and tight at the level of my chin. I can neither advance or retreat or bend my elbows. I must stand at arm's length so that all of me is fully exposed, the whip can curl. It is a really wonderful whip and curls beautifully around my waist. I quiver and gasp with the pain and try to look down to examine the slim belt of scarlet that I will wear. What I can see is marvelous, but I cannot see it all. It will wait. It will have lots of company. As darling Yola strikes me again and again the pain mounts to where I begin to wish I had never allowed James Pollard to lure me from that room. Without meaning to I kick and stamp my naked feet so that my chain clatters delightfully on the stone. If Yola is pleased at the sound I am glad. What I long to do is raise one foot, brace it against the post and tug. It is a thing I have done often. It is quite useless except that it gives me an emotional release. I am fighting, trying to get free. The fact that I cannot does not matter. I am lucky I cannot do this, for the act carries a penalty. Whenever I have done it Yola seizes the opportunity to snake the lash into the thigh I have exposed. It is one of the places where I cannot bear the agony, I always howl. Sometimes I look over my shoulder at the girl who is whipping my nakedness. It is not to plead or in apprehension. I simply need the small smile she grants me. It tells me I am loved but that the end of my whipping is far away. I have lost count. I am supposed to keep a count, but when the number I must bear is great I always forget. I have to hope my darling knows. A hundred strokes will take so long. They will go on and on and on in the calm measured rhythm Yola employs with pauses only long enough to keep me continually at the peak of the crescendo. Cessation means mischief. The blows stop now. While I am panting to catch up with my lost poise, a small enquiring hand inserts itself between my legs and palms my puss.