F Campbell - Margo

But she did not care. All she wanted was to get the ordeal over and done with and move on to whatever Rossland had in store for her. She felt sure her whipping would be for Henry Ross, a beginning and not an end. He had imprisoned her in Rossland. He could also set her free.

But Margo wan destined to be a viewer before she was watched by many eyes. She was taken from the cell to the room where it would happen. She saw a dangling rope and waiting straps. But they were not yet for her. A handcuff on one wrist was freed and attached to a ring in the wall, so she must stand and behold whatever first took place. It was a shock to both the woman and the girl to confront each other in this place of punishment, both naked, both sentenced to the lash. For Mildred, the dishonor and degradation of having her own slave witness her flogging was as great a shame as Margo would endure before the eyes of the entire school. Neither said a word. Their eyes flashed a female message. The slave girl found her mistress utterly lovely in her nudity. It seemed impossible that any man would whip a body made so well for love. But she herself was to be whipped, so it evidently was a thing a male could do easily. Margo looked at her handcuffed wrist hanging from the wall and silently cursed the impotency it imposed.

The preparations were simple. The victim's hands were bond in front of her and hoisted above her head. Her legs were spread and secured by anklets chained to either side. This left her sex open and exposed, compelling her to stand in the one posture without being able to turn or wriggle with the strokes. The chained girl stood in stunned amazement that this woman would allow Henry Ross to bind her without demur. It was a phantasmagoria, a vivid nightmare of the impossible. But there it was. Mildred had been securely bound and made shamefully naked by the man who evidently owned them both. If Mildred was without recourse, then certainly she was without hope. When Henry Ross picked up the whip, Margo used her one free hand to cover her eyes.

"You there! I want you watching." The male voice was fierce.

Margo opened her eyes and allowed her hand to fall listlessly at her side. She was quite helpless and knew that what she was being forced to witness was in part a punishment for herself. She had eaten the forbidden fruit and now must pay the price.

The master was a man of resource. He had no sooner picked up the whip than inspiration dictated his next move. He set aside the weapon with which he would strike and cut female flesh, and instead turned to the girl chained to the ring. Decisively, he went to her, unlocked the single cuff, and joined it to its fellow behind Margo's back. She could now move from the wall, but was more helpless than before. She looked at her master questioningly.

It was very simple – fiendishly simple, utterly male in its concept.

The slave girl was forced to kneel between the bound legs of her mistress and found herself confronted by the source of all their agonies. Margo scented its familiar pungency and knew what she would be compelled to do. The bindings of Mildred's ankles, far to each side, displayed her sex, obscenely open and available.

"Eat her. Go on, eat the bitch. You wanted to. I caught you doing it." Margo knelt. It was strange to be confronted this way with something which in bed had seemed wonderful, but which now was simply disagreeable. Strange too to have no hands to be no more than a seeking mouth and a searching tongue. But the scent of Mildred Harridance enveloped Margo in a cocoon of its own powerful perfume. She longed for her hands and tugged at the metal on her wrists to no avail. She was a female armed only with her mouth. With a tiny moan, she thrusted to her task.

There began then the strangest of rituals – love and lust and pain. The impacts of the whip on the naked back of the headmistress of Rossland transmitted themselves through flesh and blood and bone to the hungry mouth of the kneeling girl. Margo winced with each of them. The headmistress herself was transported to a land few women ever know: a land of female agony and ecstasy, combined. Strive as she could against the bonds, she was so totally exposed to the male wrath that she could evade neither leather nor lips. In the small motions she could make they both followed her implacably. Margo's view was limited to pubic fronds, but mostly she closed her eyes and pretended none of this was happening. She ignored the heat generated in her own sex, but she could not ignore the excitement of the sweat and smell now blending itself with Mildred's own perfume. No doubt it was her fancy, but she could swear the impacts now sounded wet on Mildred's skin.

Henry Ross wished there was an audience. Margo was lost to him in that capacity. She was busily and almost blindly involved. It would have been pleasant and effective to have had two lines of naked maidens watching this punishment of two female mouths, too hungry for their own good. There would have been cringing and wincing in every heart and each one of them would have learned a lesson. But he valued Mildred's authority. She had known Rossland well and yielded unto Caesar that which was Caesar's. The pain and shame of what was being done to her how would keep her in line. But he would keep an eye on her. She could use herself with the other girls, but Margo was his alone.

Mildred Harridance did not scream. Margo could not imagine what resources she called upon to remain silent through the agony. Perhaps it was Rossland itself, with all the authority it had placed on her, that helped her now. When the last stroke had fallen, she simply hung limp and sweating without comment. The girl left kneeling and solitary in the room could well imagine what would now take place. Dismally, she turned to the task of ridding her mouth of pubic hairs without the aid of hands. Her future seemed hopeless.

The school filed in to take positions around the four walls. They looked at the kneeling girl and the dangling ropes askance. Margo did nothing. She considered getting to her feet, but what then? Mistresses would have stopped her from leaving the room, so all she could to then was to stand in stupid isolation, tugging at handcuffed wrists. It was better to kneel, to give complete approval, she widened her knees apart in the position Henry Ross so dearly loved. She bowed her head and closed her eyes and entered a kingdom of her own, a kingdom inhabited solely by punished girls.

Henry Ross took his time. When he finally appeared, he was freshly washed and attired in slacks and a white silk shirt. There was a freshness about him, and if any girl present could guess what he had just engaged in, it did not matter. He was the master. He motioned to a pair of mistresses to do the world he himself had done on Mildred. In deep breathing silence, they bound Margo for her punishment. Hands together and held high, feet wide spread and locked fast. She could not move, but could evade nothing. Her sex was open to the thong.

Margo sensed the master's mood. It was transmitted to her with each leather strap which cut her skin. The punishment was potent and terrible enough, but she was not being flogged. There was something lacking in the vigor of the blows. Henry Ross had found some surcease for his anger, some venting of his spite. What the newly stretched girl was receiving now was the residue of a greater anger, now appeased. It was still very terrible, but Margo was becoming adept at gauging the cruelty of punishments. Once more, her mind returned to the dream, to the smoke-blackened room and the scourge. This was nothing like that. There she had bled. She would not bleed now. But quite soon in her punishment, she screamed and continued to scream intermittently to the end. After the final stroke, she was left to hang limply as she was. Her audience filed out in orderly fashion. Henry Ross was the last to go. Margo was left to hanging in the punishment posture for an hour. She supposed it was for emphasis and to give her the opportunity to savor the scalding agonies which persisted in the more intimate crevices discovered by the lash. She could use her hands to assuage nothing. Her back burned, her buttocks were scalded and scored. Her belly had received the overlap of enough strokes to say that it tqo had been whipped. It sang its own song of anguish. Her sex throbbed painfully and distressfully. She wondered if it had been cut or injured. But she could see, nor could she feel. She hung in passive sweatiness until the master once more appeared. They spoke no words as she was freed. But he caught her as she was about to fall and once again carried in triumph the trophy of his anger, bearing her to his bed where her bottom and her back and all the rest of her were to pay its female price for being female.