F. Campbell - Slave Girl and the lash

"Naughty, naughty, you're enjoying it, love." Yola wipes her wet hand on my flank. It is very wet indeed and leaves a smear I cannot touch. My fire between my legs is unkind to me in punishment. It goes on burning and supplying my puss with secretions long after I begin to find the pain unbearable. I have tried to explain this to Yola, but a wet hand is a wet hand, a sopping puss is hard to excuse. I cannot be sure my treacherous little slit will not continue to leak through the whole hundred. I am betrayed.

"I can't stop it," I complain. "But I'm hurting terribly. I'm ever so sorry for what I did."

"Want to ask forgiveness. Phemie?"

"No, darling, but I'll soon be crying."

"I'm not whipping you all out, y'know."

"Thank you. Honest, I really am grateful."

"Would you like a few between your legs? I'll take off the chains?"

"I can't bear the whip there, Yola, I just can't."

"If you like to ask for twenty I'll bring your sentence down to ninety instead of a hundred?" It is pure torture. Mischievous torture, but torture none the less. What a decision to confront a nude girl when she is strapped to the whipping post. I am positive that twenty up between my legs will drive me wild and make me scream. And yet… I do examine the offer, seeking an advantage that is not there. "No thank you, darling. But I'm ever so grateful," I say meekly.

"Are you being sarky with the gratitude bit, Phemie?"

"Oh no! Oh darling!" My denial is swift and not strictly truthful. I should know by now the hazard of imprudent speech.

"I think you were, pussy-cat. So now it's a total of ninety with twenty of them up between your legs." I might have known! I blink back tears. Yola is not being cruel. Anytime she detects insubordination she nips it in the bud. I have been nipped. I am about to utter my meek and unprovoking 'thank you' when I gasp in joy. Once more the hand has sought my sex, this time it stays and is very clever. For a little while I will forget the whip and will go with my love to a far exciting land of rainbows and sharp ecstasies. Yola loves me terribly. When it is done I lose my chains. It is a sobering moment when Yola unlocks them from my ankles. How nearly free I am, yet how rigidly held for the whip. I wonder glumly how many strokes I can bear now before I plead for the gag. I would love to take my punishment without the gag but have little hope. It is just too much.

"You will stretch your little tootsies apart nicely, won't you, darling?" Yolanda's voice is honey.

"Yes, darling, I promise."

"Would you like a few between your legs now while you're a bit rested, Phemie, instead of the full twenty at the end?" The offer is kind or cruel according to how you look at it.

"Are you going to make the whip come up under and hit my pussy?" I quaver.

"Of course. About half of them." I cannot win this game. "Yes, I'll have a few of them now, darling," I concede without enthusiasm. When I part my legs and open wide my thighs so they and my puss may be efficiently whipped I see myself in an absurd simulation of those scenes on the telly where the cop makes the suspect straddle against the car or the wall with their hands up and apart. That's me right now. I feel silly and am afraid I look the same. I am also scared. The first is just a thigh, the soft part well up. I cannot hold my pose, but hop and kick and howl. It hurts shockingly with a peculiar sickening pain all its own. I am learning the lesson I am supposed to learn. Right now I would promise anything with total sincerity. I force myself back into position with a gritting of the teeth. It is not easy to offer my poor wet pussy for what she is about to receive. She receives it! I make the strangest sounds. I could almost believe it is my little slit beneath my fur that utters them. The agony and the protest comes from her. I feel certain the thong parted her lips and entered, a whipped girl is fanciful. Without thinking, I pull my little act, my foot against the post and tugging at the straps that hold my wrists. Yola seizes the opportunity and gives me a quick snapping crack where I want it least. My leg returns to join its mate. Moving one soft thigh against the other I can actually feel the raised ridge of punished flesh. Trembling, I once more open myself wide. The cut does not slice me at the moment I expect. Several moments of agonized waiting pass until I hear the opening of the door. I thrill with hope. My Mistress has gone for a drink for me, maybe brandy! I will get a respite and a stimulant. I could drink the whole bottle. I close my legs and peep over my shoulder. Yola has not gone. The whip trails from her hand as she stands astonished as I myself. It was not she who opened the door at all. It was James Pollard.

"Perfect timing," he said jauntily. "A world premiere, eh! Wouldn't have missed it for the world." He had us startled into a momentary silence. Girl-like, I knew only that I was naked and was being looked at by a man. Ridiculous, of course, but there it was. I longed to cover myself. I didn't want him looking at my nakedness and the marks of Yola's whip. Whip marks are a terribly private and intimate thing. These were Yola's and mine. James was looking at them as though he'd never seen such things before.

"Please don't stop on my account," he implored with sincerity.

"How did you get in here?"

"Front door, actually. Had a bit of help, of course."

"What d'you mean, a bit of help?"

"A couple of the chaps. Terribly sorry, they're tying up your staff. Be down in a jiffy."

"You must be insane!" Yola's voice trembled.

"Frightfully easy, really." He was sparing only the odd glance for my Mistress. His eyes returned to my scarlet weals as though fascinated. "Get away with anything with a bit of gall, y'know."

"But why! What d'you want?"

"Eh?" Reluctantly he gave Yolanda his full attention. "Oh, you mean what's behind the visit. We're taking little sweetheart here."

"I won't go!" I exclaimed with absurd vehemence.

"Kidnapping?" Yola's single word was more an acknowledgement rather than a question.

"Of course. Knew you'd understand."

"But you can't, it's impossible!"

"It's not, y'know. Job's as good as done right now. Just debating whether you shouldn't finish the job you're on first before we pop Euphemia in the sack. Jolly pretty stripes… " James Pollard was still the beaming small boy. He radiated goodwill. For some intuitive reason I felt more fearful for darling Yola than for myself.

"Get out before I call the police. How many times… " Yolanda's outraged voice held little conviction.

"Quite so, love. You have to say what's expected. There's still the 'Unhand me, villain!' and the 'We will never yield' to come."

"You can't possibly get away with this."

"Sorry, I overlooked that one. Trans-Atlantic, isn't it."

"Even if you took Phemie she would not obey you. You're wasting your time."

"We'll just whip her until she agrees to be a good little girl," James said blandly. "That's what you do."

"I won't! I won't!" I was being a very small girl indeed. "Get out of my way. I'm going to phone the police."

"Mind leaving me the whip, love? I might as well carry on."

"You're impossible!" Yola was close to tears. Whatever she did would be wrong, It's funny, but neither she nor I thought of releasing me. Her concern was what to believe of what she had been told. It was too preposterous to be true.

"If I go upstairs will you come too? We can talk." She asked with less belligerence.

"And leave poor little Euphemia strapped to the whipping post?" he asked reproachfully. "The dear child has quite a few more strokes to come, hasn't she?"

"She won't mind."

"But we mustn't rob her of her just desserts."

"It amuses you to be facetious. You are also being objectionable."