F Campbell: Margo

By the time she had traversed the park and made her way around Franklin Square, Margo was breathless. In the crowded lobby of the Boulter Building, the rise and fall of her breasts was attracting male attention. It was nothing new. She was used to it. She was not a girl to hold it against men for acting like men. If nature had so endowed her, she felt only gratitude for her good fortune. Just as she felt it for her narrow waist and trim hips. Her bottom was a subject best ignored at this moment.

She entered the elevator positive she was late. Norma Boulter had kept the top floor for herself. Above it was the penthouse in which she lived. The panel beside the main entrance bore an impressively gilded reference to the many companies whose head offices were her own. Threading her way past the appraising eyes of the feminine staff, Margo was aware of measuring glances which centered on her frontal equipment. No doubt they were attributing it to falsies. Most girls did, but that did not matter either. What mattered was the mahogany doors just ahead. Bea Maxwell, the secretary, produced her usual smile and cocked an eyebrow at the clock.

"Hello, Miss Davis. Just one minute late today. You're doing better all the time."

Margo had once trembled at this point. But that was seven weeks ago, and she supposed with a shrug that the girl thought she was a supervisor. She pushed at the mahogany slab, which had probably cost a king's ransom, and entered the holy presence.

Norma Boulter was ageless. One was never quite sure if you caught her too early in the morning that she might be less than beautiful. Her hair and features were regimented. She kept control of them, allowing neither to show any feminine weakness. Margo was willing to believe there was no weakness behind the cold gray eyes. The head of Boulter Inc. pressed the button to kill the intercom, the phone, the Dictaphone, and the tape machine. She, too, looked at the clock before raising a languid regard upon her flushed visitor.

"One minute late, Margo." She shrugged. "I suppose that shouldn't bed too bad, all things considered."

"It's very difficult to arrive precisely at the right moment Miss Boulter. If you would give me a little more leeway?"

"It doesn't matter. It's your loss you know. I'd like to see you five minutes late each time. But anyway just one extra today."

Making herself bare for Miss Boulter's attention was still a thing of shame, particularly inasmuch as what they were about to do did not call for such total exposure. But Norma Boulter had been adamant.

Her terms were "naked or nothing".

Margo supposed it did not matter. For the occasions on which she visited Miss Boulter, she wore as little as possible so she could shrug out of the several trifles with ease and speed. She went to the second desk, which always had an air of waiting especially for her, and draped herself across its polished surface, its sharp edge indenting below her pubic bush. She held breathlessly still which Norma Boulter walked around to grasp a bare arm and handcuff its wrist with one of the severed handcuffs not normally in view. She repeated the process with Margo's other wrist, to leave the visiting girl with arms widespread and breasts thrust hard down upon the utilitarian wood. Miss Boulter then got the yellow cane and flexed it back and forth suggestively while she talked. It was an unnecessary and cruel little ritual she obviously enjoyed. It had not been included in their terms of reference, but since it did no more than add extra shame, Margo had not complained.

"Are you ready for your punishment, Miss Davis?"

"Yes, Miss Boulter, I'm ready."

"Do you deserve the thrashing I'm about to give you?"

"Yes, Miss Boulter, I deserve it. Please whip me hard."

This part of the ceremony never varied. Margo supposed it revived in Miss Boulter's mind some erotic memory of childhood. Perhaps she too had once been thus caned and punished. But Margo had not felt she knew Norma Boulter well enough to ask questions. After all, it was the check that counted.

"The usual ten, Miss Davis? And one extra for being one minute late. A total of eleven."

"That's right, Miss Boulter. I'll try not to make too much noise."

"You always say that, dear." The voice of Norma Boulter was becoming increasingly vibrant, her flexing of the cane ore emphatic. "Perhaps it's just as well you have never been ten minutes late. It would tax you sorely." The older woman's hands sought and caressed the tautly bent and stretched curves she was about to pain.

"You carry a few fading marks from week to week, dear. Be sure and tell me if you wish to move to another part of you. You are really still quite virgin."

Margo could guess where the other parts would be. She made one more good resolution to arrive punctually on time and thus extend the useful contribution of her derriere. Ten strokes were just beyond endurance but not enough to break her down totally. Both females understood this fine line and walked it cautiously.

"You may keep your legs close together this time, Margo," Margo Boulter said primly. "We experimented last time with having you open them wide for the cane to have entry. But you are fastened too close to the desk to make that practical. But it's something I will give some thought to. It is the obvious place to whip or cane a girl, fear more suitable than that portion of you I've caned so far. Now, are you ready?"

"Yes, Miss Boulter."

She would never be ready. No girl could ever be ready for the force of a blow with a cane across her bent-over buttocks from Miss Boulter's savage hand. It hurt like fury and every time Margo vowed she would never submit to this again. But she always did. Once again, it was the power of the check. Margo clenched her teeth and tried to match the rhythm of the fearful waves of pain.

Knowing the extent of her punishment always helped. Both she and Norma Boulter used that word in reference to what was actually an erotic enjoyment of the older woman's. Margo always supposed a girl did not have to do something bad in order to be punished. It was a most suitable word, and she always thought of what was done to her as exactly that. She tried hard not to listen to the snickering whir of the approaching impact. But it took several strokes before agony enveloped her so totally that she thought of nothing else.

When a girl is caned by Miss Boulter, she was caned but good. But Margo had no way of knowing or comparing the severity of what Miss Boulter did to her each week. The practice of punishing young females by corporal means had been discontinue by the time Margo went to school.

But she had heard of it, and older people sometimes referred to it, always jokingly. She doubted if any schoolgirl had ever had a creaking bottom caned with the severity Miss Boulter appeared to consider normal.

Margo Davis thrust hard against the sharp edge of the desk as it burrowed into the softness of her loins in order to ease the stress of her wrists. Each time Miss Boulter struck her bottom, there was an involuntary spasm of revolt with her hands against the steel biting her wrists and holding them widely apart. The magnificence of her breasts made them also vulnerable. Nothing would touch them. But they were thrust down hard upon the surface in a manner the owner would like to relieve but never could. The handcuffs were tremendously unkind, hot they held her safely and after the first arrangements had been made, she had decided against seeking any amelioration of her lot. In a way, she was glad about the handcuffs. She really did not wish to free herself of being punished. It would be an untidy act and stupid in that she had made a contract for exactly what she was receiving. But it would have been infinitely more comfortable if Miss Boulter had used straps upon her wrists. Margo presumed it unlikely that would happen.