The Island (Chpt 3)

Chapter 3



I lifted her to her feet, smoothed her hair for her and patted her bottom to signify she should just stand. Then I went to the chest and exchanged the cane for the small nine tailed silk corded whip we keep specially to use on a girl’s most secret parts. Yes, I had used it sometimes on Terry. Why not I sat down with the lovely wicked thing dangling provokingly from a negligent hand. Mabel looked at it. I looked at Mabel.
"What have I done, sir?" She was quite lost.
"Just been born female. Don’t you feel guilty?"
"You whip them others too, like this?"
"Worse."
"But you must want something."
"Total obedience. You must go beyond obeying. You must want to obey. Have no other thought bur obedience."
"Don’t you want to fuck me?"
"Not now. And watch your speech. Each vulgarity gets you the whip. You have earned it now. One stroke. Will you stand still for it?"
"On my ... on my ...."
"On your what?"
She didn’t want to say it. The secret word would not be ‘nice’.
"On my breast, sir?" Prospect of the whip had revived the sir.
"Yes, on your breast. You may choose which one."
"I won’t do it. I won’t. You’ve got no right .."



A little rest works wonders. When the worst of the hurt resides they discover they haven’t been broken after all.
Mabel fought with delightful fury. This time I needed her hands in front. When I unlocked one cuff she gave the battle everything she had. Teeth and claws and a good deal of very vulgar remonstrance. Even when I had her nicely stretched on to her toes she was still going strong. But the flood resided to a trickle and then died.



She looked at me with about three expressions at once. Anger, reproach, apprehension and a few other thoughts as well. Strung up like that, a girl rapidly comes face to face whit what she must. Then she looked at herself as though taking a last farewell from those two treasures sticking out of her chest. The suspension had flattened them out a bit. But they were entrancingly exposed for what I must do to them.
You noticed I have used the word must. I could no more have ignored them than fly. The two strokes that had already stolen their virginity beckoned like beacons. But I went and sat on the box again. Let the handcuffs hurt her for a little while before I started.



"I suppose it’s too late to say I’m sorry?" This time her face was really pathetic.
"It’s too late and you’re not really sorry. You just don’t want to be hurt."
"Not there, sir. No girl wants to be hurt on those."
"You have one other intimate place that this whip is well adapted to."
"Oh, thank you sir. Thanks ever so. Please whip me there."



Interesting. A girl’s breasts - her ultimate agony. I didn’t recall checking the point with Terry. I’d have to. Dorinda too. There was no doubt where Mabel’s weakness lay.
"Don’t thank me. I intend to whip all three. Two up, one down."
"You like whipping girls?" It was a flat accusation.
"All men like whipping girls. Most lack the courage or the cash."
"Isn’t there anything I can do ... or say? Anything, sir? Please, I don’t want to whipped anymore ... not anywhere."



Poor girl. She looked altogether too female not to whip. I couldn’t explain the subtleties to her, so I got on with the job. She looked at me as I approached in about the same way that wench looked at the tiger when the Rajah staked her out for bait. I could understand her feelings. They were valid.



It was glorious. Her breasts took the lahes exquisitely. They were firm and stretched. No jouncing. The cords bit into their softness with free access to the whole area. Her nipples were rampant. Her plight was provocative. She wanted to lunge, struggle and lift herself off the floor. But she was stretched taut and the handcuffs hurt too much for her to do any of these things. Even though all of her except her wirsts was free, she had to and let me whip her as I pleased. It was cruelly beautiful. Don’t suppose you want the gasp and grown detail. It can be a bore. There were lots of both. Stangely enough she did not plead anymore. She seemed resigned to simply enduring. The best thing she did was with her head. She’d fling it back and forth and look up to the ceiling as fearful of watching what she was doing. Then, in adsolute fascination, she’d lean forward and try and and look at her breasts to see what the damage was. Only once did she watch my arm and follow the lashes as they flickered down upon her chest.



I whipped one breast at the time. It’s much the best way. Terry tells me it’s twice as effective and much more personal. She says it’s as though each of her breasts is a person, each getting its own punishment. In any case, it’s just naturally a better job than to try and cover both with one stroke. I go from side to side, backhand one one. Sometimes, before the handcuffs got to hurting too bad, I could just stand still and wait for Mabel’s gyrations to present a breast to advantage and then let it have it.



They were glorious scarlett!
Mabel wept with abandon.



I let her down three or four inches. She knew why. She looked at me pitiously. But seemed resigned. All hope gone sort of thing. She even nodded dumbly when I told her to spread her legs. Hre penalty for closing them would be a return to her breasts.
She cried steadily. I did not mind. I think it’s good for a girl to cry while she’s being whipped. Saves ‘m getting tied up in a knot inside. I’ve leart what I can about tears from Terry. But I’ll never get the whole truth from the little minx because she uses them to get her way with me. One of her secret weapons.



Girls are beautiful when they cry.



***



"It isn’t just a picnic, darling," Terry said regretfully. Dorinda had not expected ‘Just a picnic’. There had been a moment when the handcuffs had been unlocked that she had hoped the day might be purely fun. But when she had also been denuded of her clothes, nakedness reminded her she was still a working girl. When she was alone with Terry she did not think of herself as a slave girl.



"I have an assignment," Terry conided darkly. "I didn’t do too well the last day we had together. So our Lord and Master tells me that when I bring you back for dinner you have to show a goodly number of fresh stripes. He says he does not kind where, just so long as he can count them."
"I expect we’ll find a place on me somewhere. Not to worry." Dorinda was happy. A whole day with darling Terry.
"He though up another quaint little notion that won’t be too easy. He’s going to look at your wrist. If the don’t show rope marks, we’ll be in trouble."



Dorinda considered. "If you want to carry the basket I suppose you could tie my wrists now and keep them tied all day. That would do it." She twinkled. "You can untie them for special duties, of course."
"You don’t want to be tied up all day."
"Not really. So how would it be if you hang me up by my wrists for half an hour just before we go back’ That will make me good." "Eell, if we have to. But let’s try and think of something else before the time comes. Dammit! He doesn’t want us to forget him. He’s promised the most awful punshment for both of us if I fail on this job."
"Won’t he be tired after Mabel?" There was a faint ascerbity in Dorinda’s voice.



Terry giggled. "You’re jealous." She frowned. "Im jealous too. I wish dear Mabel had got lost. She’s one too many. Poor little Terry is going to get submerged in all these nipples and breasts and hair. I used to have him all to myself. I don’t think Mabel’s much competition. But she’s got all the essential equipment."
"When are you going to whip me?"
"Anytime you like, darling. But I’ve just had a super idea. Think we might persuade Mark to give Mabel to me? I wouldn’t mind being cruel to her a bit. I’d have her trained in no time.
"Did Mark do things to you every day," Dorinda inquired shyly.
"Just about." Terry considered as they walked down the path. Dorinda carried the picnicbasket. "He couldn’t whip me every day. A girl doesn’t have enough skin for that. We tried all sorts of mixtures. We got whips that didn’t mark much. But somehow they weren’t genuine. It’s not really a thing you can play at. If it’s not real it falls flat. We tried a couple with a cane every day. But that turned out a flop necause I can take a couple without too much fuss. And if all you can give a girl is two, what do you do with her then?""she sighed. ""o that'’ where hthechains and the cords and all the rest comes in. He can make me stand in the stocks all day and I won’t have a mark."



"Will we get imprisoned? That cell you told me about."
"Of course. Mark loves locking a girl in there. She’s so damn glad to see him again. Marvellous for the male ego."
She giggled. "I say darling. Let’s go back and let’s have Amtiy lock both of us both in there. Chains and all. With the two of us it would be super."
"More fun than a picnic?"
"I’ll eat you alive. Come on."



Dorinda was intriqued. A day in a cell with this carnal moppet would be an experience. The c***d’s enthousiasm was infectious. To ask for imprisonment had to be absurd. But not on Kyrexos. Not with this joyous creature as a cellmate. In any case she knew she would never deny Terry anything. Terry never made her feel a slave.
Oddly enough, neither did Mark.



"With full chains, miss?" Amity was unruffled.
"Well, not our legs togteher," Terry giggled unashamedly.
"Quite so, miss. This way, please."
Dorinda found herself taking an interest beyond her expectations. Amy and Hislop were not of any world she had ever known. Hislop had a gift for making her feel well groomed even when she had no stictch on. Amity could not be ruffled. If they considered any of their emploer’s pleasures odd, they showed no signs of it.



"But this is the dungeon, Amity."
"More suitable, miss. The cell is not private."
Dorinda blushed. Terry was mollified.
It was a sizeable place. Small barred windows high up gave a fairish amount of light. It was maverloualy decorated with rings and chains. There was a wooden bench and a wooden chest. Sight of these facilities gave Dorinda the shivers, but only heightened Terry’s exauberance.



Amity might have been laying a table for two. A place for everything and everything in its place. She was intent, respectful, firm. It was evident that chains, cord and whips were within her province as well as was cutlery and linen.
"A considerable linkage between the ankles, miss."
Dorinda watched, breathless as metal bands clicked shut upon her youthful companion’s slender ankles. The joining chain so long that it impeded no movement, inhibited no stride. But when its wearer essayed to walk the links were a swirling motion around her toes so that, for an escape minded captive, they were almost as great a handicap as a much shorter span.
"You think of everything, darling." Terry was ecstatic.
A similar wide union was placed upon her wrists with similar effect. She could do almost anything. But the chain was heavy. It told the girl it held her captive.



"I think miss, you would find the metal collar and the very long chain with all its weight most irksome. May I suggest confinement at the waist?" She might have been seeking a decision on a menu.
"Amity, you’re a darling."
The wide leather belt must have been fashioned for the girl. It was snug and perfect fit. The padlock that joined it to the heavy chain closed with quite an ominous sound.
"There are other confinements, miss. But I suggest this ensemble."
"It’s gorgeous. I can’t wait to see Dorinda ...."



The wait was short. Feeling foolish, yet with a tingling fascination, Dorinda was soon testing her restraint. It was very heavy and very real. Her belt fitted with the same intimacy as did the younger girl’s. The chain that joined it to the wall was heavy enough that she would always be aware of it. She felt a little frightened at this unexpected confinement. While she was still kicking at her ankle chains to watch the linkage swirl, the door closed. Amity had discreetly withdrawn to leave the young mistress alone with her joy. There was a very solid thudding of a bolt. No doubt for the final effect.



"Oh, darling." The Two naked girls clinked their way to each other’s arms.
It could not be! It was impossible! It was too cruel! "Damn and blast." Terry was furious. "The silly bitch has chained us to opposite walls."



They could come close. Close enough to reach out and clasp hands. But their belts and heavy chains to the ring bolts in the stone allowed them no greater contact. Tug and strain as they did, they were held implacably. Two girls in a dungeon. Chained. Separate.



For a moment Dorinda wanted to laugh. Their plight had the element of cartoon humour. They were foxed. But she had no love for dungeons or such massive fetters. She had acquired a tolerant affection for the handcuffs. But these irons were grim. Disappointed, she felt like tears.
In pure frustration and rage Terry was fighting her chains. Not with any hope of escaping them. But as a vent for her spleen.
"What I’d like to do to her. Oh, how could she! It was going to be so beautiful, so absolutely gorgeous. I was going to eat you to pieces …" she sobbed in desolation.
"Perhaps she’ll come back," Dorinda ventured.
"She won’t y’know. Why should she." The little mistresses are safe and sound ..." she paused at a sudden vision, her face in a study. "Why, the rotten ...."
"She fixed us like this on purpose, didn’t she?" Dorinda divined.
"She must have. Amity’s not dumb."
"That picnic would have been nice," Dorinda wailed.
"Oh darling. I’ve never felt helpless like this before. It’s awful. It’s ..... It’s scary."
"But why? She’s got something up her sleeve."
"She’s got us," Dorinda mourned. "Is there any use in screaming?"
"No!" Terry screamed at the top of her voice. The stone absorbed the sound. "But it does make me feel better."
She screamed again. "Try it."
"No thanks, but hold my hand. I need you."



The two girls strained at their tethers, their belts cutting into their concave tummies. They could manage one hand. It was strangely comforting. The touch of someone you love had a power all of its own. When they reluctantly broke the link Dorinda sat upon the chest and Terry upon the bench. They belonged to the dungeon. They were its prey. Their chains were its hands upon their flesh.



"Don’t let’s just sit and weep," demanded Terry angrily. "Let’s talk. I was all primed to nuzzle you. I’m crinkly as blazes! Know what? I’m going to be carnal. If we can’t do it, at least I won’t be cheated out of talking about it."
Dorinda cocked a doubtful eye. It seemed a very small satisfaction. She looked with distaste at the links that joined her hands and rattled them petulantly.
"Two frustrated maidens in heat," Terry said bitterly. "Darling, how’s your clit?"
"Lonely. How’s yours?" Might as well play the game. They could certainly do nothing else.
"Throbbing of course. I’d play with it if it didn’t seem such a waste. I mean, with you over there. Those lovely nipples and breasts and belly and pubic hair and warm thighs and moist slit. Golly, I sound like the Song of Solomon. That old boy really must have liked girls. There’s a little fire burning in my cunny. Only you can put it out."
"My fire’s bigger than yours." Dorinda couldn’t resist.
"Darling! People are silly. Even me. We don’t talk about things the way we should. Right now all I want is your sex. I’m going to use the horrid word, just for emphasis. I want to crawl right into your cunt where it’s nice and warm and I’m surrounded by love. When I’m safely inside I’ll lick and play with your clit until I have you jumping around like a Mexican jumping bean."
She paused for a moment in thought. "Darling, looking at us right now it seems incredible that our mothers would never have admitted to possessing nipples or a cunt!"
Then, irrelevantly: "Do you get horny when Mark canes you? I do."



Dorinda laughed delightfully. Terry’s sunshine might save her day. Uninhibited girl talk might partially defeat her shackles. "Yes," she admitted. "One stroke and the fire really gets going. But if he keeps on caning me I just get hurt and scared. Until afterwards, of course. Then I’m all warm and wet and longing."
"Mark knows just where my turn off is," Terry admitted wryly. "My fire burns a lot longer than yours. But if he wants to he can put it right out and make me howl." She looked up suddenly. "Y’know, if he discovers us here he might just do that." She grinned confidingly. "I have to admit it, but Mark control me utterly. I’m like some musical instrument he plays. He can extract whatever he wants from me. I respond. His power to make me mind swamps the poor little tricks I play on him."



"Darling," Dorinda was diffident over what she must ask. "Which do we girls love best? A man’s phallus or each other’s tongues?" "Our tongues, silly. What a question. It’s lovely when Mark fucks me, but he’s only a zephyr compared to the storm that blows when your tongue is inside. Anyway, darling, men don’t have breasts. Or nipples like ours. Men aren’t made to play with. Girls are."



Dorinda explored again. She saw this ageless c***d as a storehouse of infinite wisdom. "When men whip us, do you think it is a sort of love play? A prelude to sticking their things into us?"
"That’s the least of it. But sure, it’s there. I think they find some sort of ineffable beauty in our striped skin. Like a brand. Their brand, marking us as their own. I’m damn sure that when we moan and cry and writhe it creates, for them, an endless orgasm. They can boil up and flow over for as long as it pleases them to whip us. The only reason they don’t whip us all day long is that we don’t have enough skin and they don’t want to waste a good girl by killing her. Simply really."



Dorinda was almost reverent before such knowledge. "I’ve read and heard about men who go to prostitutes to be whipped. It’s the only way they can become potent. Where does that fit?"
"They’re the chap who goes to an epicuran restaurant and orders a hamburger. Just dull clods."
"But girls love whipping girls. At least they do once they’ve tried it. What about that?"
"Would you love to whip me, darling?"
"With all my heart and soul! Right now there is nothing I can think of that would give me such joy, and I think a kind of peace ..."
"Mark and I have talked about that. Before you came there were times when I simply watered at the mouth at the thought of whipping Amity or her whipping me. We figured out that actually we are all of us half and half. Woman and man, I mean. Male and female. Unless stimulated the latent half never shows. But give it a chance ..."
"Oh, darling, I want to whip you so much!" Dorinda dumped reticence.
"I expect you’ll get the chance," Terry consoled. "Damn. If I hadn’t got us into this fix you could be busily caning my little bottom right now." She rattled her chains in a motion of bafflement. "But you see how Mark owns and controls us. If I go home a zebra he’ll punish us horribly. He’ll light the fire in my cunny and then put it out and go on and on and on ... Probably do the same to you. He’d consider us equally guilty."
"That goes back to the women’s lib thing. He can have his fun. But we can’t."
Terry grinned wryly. "It’s the way we are made. Their physical strength enables them to conquer us physically. That and the fire in our cunts delivers us into their hands. We haven’t a chance. We can use all our little tricks, but he can subdue us with one hand. At least Mark can. In suburbia men don’t use their strength. Or maybe there they don’t have any. But Mark rules this island. He rules us. He can do what he likes with us. Surely you know ..."



"Do you like him to play with your nipples and your sex and bite your ears and all the other tricks they play?"
"I adore it. You do too. Don’t let’s k** ourselves. I’m as much his slave as you are. More probably. He doesn’t know it. But he’s in love. It makes a man weak. I suppose it’s just nature making sure he looks after his c***dren. But I’m his sister. His love for me doesn’t inhibit anything. I’ll be whipped and whipped and whipped all our lives. Darling, what a delectable situation: he marries you and has six k**s, but just whips me," Terry laughed joyously at her vision. "Wouldn’t it be priceless: me getting whipped, then you getting all the sperm pumped into you to make another c***d. I’d be a surrogate something or other."



Dorinda’s response to this unattractive prospect was cut short by the opening of the door. Terry wasted no time,
"You idiot, Amity! You messed things up for us."
"No Miss."
"What do you mean no? You’ve got us fixed on opposite walls."
"Quite so, miss."



Terry glimpsed what Dorinda had long suspected. She cried out against so base a betrayal.
"You did it on purpose! ‘h, Amity."



"Yes miss. I took the liberty in accordance with a thought entertained by Hislop and myself. A small pleasantry, if I may say so."
Dorinda guessed that Amity was enjoying herself.
"It’s not pleasant at all. Hurry up, silly, and chain us both the way you knew we wanted," Terry demanded hotly.
"I’m sorry, miss. But that is not according to our plan."
The two captives looked at their jailer with concern. She eyed their predicament with polite amusement.



"You see, miss. Hislop and I felt that, perhaps, in recognition of a correction of your present circumstances you might be prepared to extend us some small favor." Amity was primly correct.
"You rotten cheat. You mean you tricked us like this on purpose and now we have to pay a forfeit?" Terry sounded more curious than angry.
"I would not have chosen the word myself, miss."
"Well, what would you have chosen? Make it simple, Amity. Never mind the pedantics."
"Being aware, miss, of certain enjoyments arising from a mutuality of interests between this young lady and yourself, we had wondered if you might be prepared to extend similar satisfactions to us."



A small silence fell upon the trio. Dorinda wanted to giggle. Amity was too good to be true.
"You mean you want us to nuzzle your cunt?" Terry excised circumlocation.
"There are more suitable synonyms, miss. But yes, that is our wish."
"Why didn’t you say so? I’d have obliged you long ago."



"It is not an easy subject for one in service to initiate, miss."
"And now, if we say no you’ll leave us chained like this?"
"That is my intention, miss."
!Amity, you’re priceless. Silly girl. Off with your clothes."



Dorinda had never seen a female become naked in less time. Amity’s body was nicely correct as the rest of her.
"Which of us relieves your lust, you conniving creature?"
"I had thought both of you, miss. I would be honoured of you would be first, considering a longer acquaintance and all."
"Here’s the carnal couch," Terry invited impishly. "Come and get it, you panting pervert." With much clicking of chains she rose and waved their wardress invitingly to the bench.



Dorinda found herself disinclined to be a spectator to Amity’s victory. What she shared with the gorgeous c***d was all their own. She turned her back and stared at the wall. She would pay her penalty when the time came. She longed ardently for the padlock at her waist to be unlocked. She had no other interest in Amity. But she shivered at the knowledge of how completely they were in the woman’s power. Mark would not concern himself with their whereabouts until dinner. The day was long. The sounds were evocative. No fine rounded periods now. No correct prolixity. From the gasps and groans, and even small cries, it was evident that Terry’s tongue had touched an unsuspected chord. Dorinda wryly reflected how wrong we can be. Amity would have seemed to her as unlikely a subject for such ministrations as Eleanor Roosevelt or Queen Victoria.



"Thank you, miss. You are most competent." An unruffled Amity rose and tidied her hair. "I cannot recall when I have enjoyed myself more."



"You’ve got a super clit." Her mistress’s tribute was sincere. "Do you want me to nibble your nipples until you come round again?" "Most kind of you, miss. But I won’t be greedy. I’m most anxious to make myself available to Miss Dorinda’s skill."
"You don’t deserve her, Amity. Not after that trick."
"Quite so, miss. I am most cognisant of good fortune."
"Don’t be so stuffy. You want your quim eaten and your nips nipped. Don’t sound like the chairman of the board."
Amity eyed Dorinda with pure hunger. "May I arrange myself, miss?"



There was only the wooden chest within the range of Dorinda’s chains. The captive girl motioned to it and gave her best barber shop smile.
"Make her squeal, love." From Terry it was almost an order.



Amity squealed.



It was long after the squeals had lapsed into moans and the moans into gasps and the gasps into a replete silence that there came the knocks on the door. When it swung inward it disclosed the astounding vision of the perfect butler carrying a large tray.
"Refreshments ladies?" Hislop was at his best.
The butler was not an old man. He was simply a young man born with dignity of middle age. Dorinda had a momentary vision of Hislop and Amity in bed. She felt sure their passion would be contained within the confines of protocol.



"Hislop, you’re a darling!" Terry easily forgave.
"A pleasure, miss. Amity and I are most appreciative of what you are doing for us."
"Want do you mean .... us?"



"I am sure, miss, you understand I am included in the, errr, the activities. I am sure Amity ...."
"You mean you expect to shove your thingummy into us?" Terry had no illusions.
"Yes, miss. But not, if I may say so, in the orthodox manner. I would appreciate a deviation from the norm."
"Not up our ....?"
"No miss. I have never approved of what you were about to mention. It is vulgar and best confined to the working classes. I had in mind the employment of your lips and tongue."
"You want us to suck your cock?"



If Terry was seeking to shame him, she failed.
"Thank you, miss. You are most concise."
"What have you got to eat and drink?"
"There are sandwiches, miss. Some excellent sherry and a pot of coffee."
"You are a jewel, Hislop. Do I gnaw at you before or after?"
"I would suggest after your own contribution. I am sure I would find an intermission beneficial before yielding to Miss Dorinda’s charms."
"Re-charge your batteries?"
"A graphic expression, miss."



For the girl it had become a game, an intriguing game. For Dorinda it was pure farce. Absurd, ridiculous. But happening!
"How would you like me, Hislop? On my knees with you standing? Or would you like my kisses sitting down?"
"I would prefer to stand with you, miss. I will sit on the next occasion."
"You mean, you’ll be to weak to stand," Terry giggled. "Don’t touch a thing, Hislop. Leave everything to the young mistress."



Dorinda watched this one. Knowing that she herself had to provide the encore she felt the weight of her chains more heavier than ever. The thing asked of her was trivial enough. There was no emotional involvement. Yet there had been a steely compulsion ... Amity had been implacable. A sense of true slavery encompassed the chained girl. She was being coerced into a sexual submission that would probably be disagreeable. The full humility would be demanded. She would give it. But without love it became frightening. A girl chained as she was chained had no will. She must obey.



Terry did everything with a flourish, superbly. Within the tolerance of her tether she knelt before the man she must serve and slowly unzipped his fly. Each motion was studied as though a camera was recording her performance. Hislop visibly quivered as she reached in extracted a most rigid member. Whilst the butler looked into some far horizon of his own she enveloped the engorged maleness with her lips and gave it her full attention. Hislop was taken to another world.



Dorinda and Amity watched enthralled.



"The Portuguese sardines are much the best. They make an excellent sandwich," Hislop stated afterwards. He munched with relish.



"After that gollop I got from you I’m not sure I have any room," Terry complained mischievously, but took a sandwich. "Fellatio and fish. Quite appropriate."
Dorinda wished she possessed such resilience.
"I must say that association with you, young ladies, is a real experience."
"How d’you know Dorinda won’t bite your knob off?" Terry inquired.
"Miss Matson is a lady." Hislop’s voice was frigid with disapproval.
"But honestly, Hislop old boy, you fellows do take an awful chance when you stick that thing in a girl’s mouth. You didn’t know it, but I was tempted to bite yours."
"You are joking, miss."
"No really. If I had something like that attached to me I’d be dammed if I’d stick it in anyone’s mouth. What would you have done of you’d suddenly found yourself minus knob?"
"I fear, miss, this is an unprofitable exploration. May I offer a glass of sherry?"



"You know what you can do with your sherry, don’t you? Sherry is just an excuse for not providing a decent drink. Give me coffee." Terry cocked an eye at Amity. "You are going to chain us decently?"
"Of course. One good turn deserves another, miss."
"Will you want me to service Hislop regularly, darling?" She turned to the butler. "I could be under the table while you were polishing the silver. Darling Dorinda could milk you whenever Mark isn’t looking."
"Hislop is not seeking excess." Amity’s voice was acid.
"Would you like to whip me, Hislop?"



The silence was electric. Dorinda sensed that Terry’s insouciance had touched a nerve. With a stricken look of do or die, Hislop said very simply: "I think I would give my life for such a privilege."
His words hung there in the dungeon. Etched in time. Immortal. A declaration.
Terry’s young eyes widened in understanding. "Poor Hislop," she said softly. "I’ll let you. You can whip me. There! Feel better?"



"Hislop is fully occupied," said Amity with decision.
"I suppose I am," Hislop sighed. His glimpse of heaven had been snatched away.
Terry’s surprised gaze switched to Amity. "Don’t you let him whip you? You should, y’know."
"I cannot regard it as one of the acceptable sports, miss." Amity like the rock of Gibraltar, if it could talk.
"Would you mind if he whipped me?"
"I would regard that as an ambition above his station, miss."
"How about Dorinda then? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind once. You know. AS charitable act. She’s not your employer."
"It would establish a precedent, miss. Quite wrong."
Terry’s brow cleared. Her eyes shone. "There’s only one answer then. He can whip you."
Amity flinched. "I do not care to be whipped."
"You’re a silly ass," Terry dismissed her and turned to Hislop. "Give me another sandwich, darling, and then go to darling Dorinda. She can hardly wait. Haven’t you noticed? That thing of yours is ready."



Dorinda performed her task. Not with love but with mischief. She bit and felt him stiffen in alarm. How easy it would be! She abandoned the delightful thought and sent her tongue to work. Amity directed the operation, ensuring the final clean up after the orgasm. Perhaps she was concerning with the washing. With willing tongue Dorinda relieved her of anxiety. Hislop’s sex was clean and dry and very limp by the time she was finished with it.
The butler gathered the remnants of the lunch and left the dungeon.
"Well," Terry demanded ominously.
For a moment Dorinda knew that Amity considered leaving them as they were. They had captured Hislop. She could not forgive. But then, swiftly and efficiently she did the thing she had promised. Keys turned, locks clicked.
"You really ought to let him whip you, darling," Terry advised her earnestly. "Much the best way to hold a man."
Amity blushed and hurriedly left. The door slammed. The thudding bolt told the two girls they were alone. This time, the chains were long enough.



Each had their own Nirvana, their Ultima Thule, their paradise. The slave girl and her sister found their own.



"I say, darling. The light is fading."
Dorinda had long been aware of the increasing gloom. It was several centuries later. Centuries that had passed as fleeting moments of ecstasy in which the two of them had floated on cloud and ridden the wind. "It must be past dinner." She agreed doubtfully. She had been aware of an uneasy feeling of helplessness since they had first been so heavily chained.
"I don’t care if they keep us chained here forever," Terry was replete and happy.
Dorinda was not so sure. She thought lovingly of Mark, her master. She remembered Mabel. She had no wish to part from Terry. But she longed to be free. The chains had not hindered them from making love. But she had never previously known such a weight of metal upon her limbs. It was frightening in its prohibition of easy movement. When they embraced they must first carefully dispose their fetters and heavy links. They were truly slave.



A dungeon in twilight is not a happy place.
"Once more, darling. Once more," Terry pleaded dreamily.
With a deep knowledge of possession Dorinda lowered her lips to the scented well. Terry moaned in delight ....



"Another bad day by the look of it."
Mark’s voice reached them through a haze of sensation.



The two girls sat up, blinking.



Dorinda was desperately afraid.
Silence! Each delinquent looked pleadingly at her master. They did not speak. What was there for them to say? Mark surveyed the guilty pair enigmatically. Dorinda wished the floor would open up and swallow her. She buried her face in her chained hands and wept, the span of links swinging from her hands in a clinking loop.
Terry eyed her brother resignedly. "All right, darling. What do I get?"
"Both of you should remember what I promised you. What was that?"
"A trashing." Both pairs of female lips uttered the word in unison involuntarily. The penalty was vivid in each mind.



Impelled by the same instinct the frightened couple shuffled toward the man they had disobeyed. Reaching the limit of their tether they sank to their knees in front of him and bowed their heads. It was a beautiful piece of artistry born in a flickering hope for clemency. Mark killed the hope.
"I’ll make it a good one. You can be sure of that."
His sister looked up at him imploringly. It was easy for him to interpret the question in her eyes.
"Yes, kitten, the whip you loathe."



Terry wailed and joined her tears to those already floating. "Don’t use that awful thing on Dorinda. She doesn’t deserve it. I’m the one to blame."
"You’re a pair of idiots," Mark affirmed, baffled. "Dorinda’s as bad as you. She doesn’t have to let you talk her into things."
"Oh, but she does. She does have to. She’s my slave too, y’know. We can’t ask her to obey you in everything and me in nothing." "You’ve got a point there, love. Just a little one, maybe," Mark acknowledged. He turned and looked down at Dorinda. "Have you been obeying her in the belief that if you didn’t I’d punish you?"
Dorinda squirmed. How define a communion so amorphous. "We did start out like that, master." Her eyes appealed. "But in what we are guilty of now I am as much to blame as anyone. Please don’t punish Terry more than you punish me. I did what I did knowing the penalty. I’m guilty. I won’t make excuses ......."



"Such nobility! I suppose this is my cue to let you both off with a caution," Mark laughed at their woebegone faces. "But I’m not going to. You’ve behaved absurdly: making Amity put you in this place and loading you up with all those ornaments." He paused and eyed the kneeling figures and the chains, clung to them. His eyes glinted. "You must have wanted them. Far it be it from me to spoil the sport ..."
He left them where they knelt. The door closed behind him with a thud.



Dorinda was bereft. The chains, the deepening gloom. The certainty of the whip. All confirmed her premonitions of the day. But beyond those loomed the fact that her master had returned to daylight and dinner on the terrace, a dinner probably shared with Mabel. Without doubt Mark would be in the picture with him in some way. The thought made the dungeon doubly dark.



Terry disconsolately and noisily rose to her feet. "Oh darling, I’ve botched everything." She looked at her fellow captive piteously.
"He’s made up his mind. We are really in for it. I can tell."
With equal dolor Dorinda joined her on the bench. Arranging her chains she said: "When will he whip us?"
"That’s what scares me, darling. I expected it to be the first thing that happened to us. I was sort of resigned to the awful whip and the pain and the tears for a couple of hours, or maybe longer if he left us tied up. But now he’s got me guessing - all deliberate of course. He says suspense is good for me. I can’t bear it. But I suppose you’ve caught sight of the same thing I have."
Dorinda indeed caught sight of the obvious. "You mean that since we were fools enough to ask for this fix we’re in, and against his orders too, we can damn well stay in it ..."



Terry clashed her fetters angrily." Oh, damn!"
There was not much else to say.
The prisoners held each other as closely as their chains allowed. It was their only comfort left.



Hope rose momentarily when Amity appeared. But was quickly dashed.
"I’m sorry, miss. I really am. But it’s Mr. Mark’s orders." She busied herself with the big chest.
"Oh Amity, not more chains!" Terry wailed.
"Well, miss, I suppose you have sort of asked for it. The master said something about making the punishment fit the crime."
"I’d run if I could," Terry vowed. "Mark’s just being mean."
"Whatever you say, miss." Amity eyed her prisoners questioningly. "I don’t suppose you are going to be silly."
"You mean are we going to hold still while you clamp a lot of horrid things on us?" Terry demanded disgustedly. "Oh sure. What the devil can we do. Look a couple or right Charlies, wouldn’t we, trying to struggle."
"Movement is not completely inhibited, miss."
"Balls."
"Thank you miss. And now I think, the neck please."



Dorinda watched, cringing, as a metal collar was locked upon the slender neck. A long length of lighter chain led to the wall where it was padlocked to a ring.
"Oh Amity. It’s b**stly. All that chain. It drags at my neck."
"Quite so, miss."
"I could kick you when you say that. You sound snug."
"I’m really sorry about this one miss. I fear it will seem an unkind imposition."



The leather belt was removed. The shining steel that replaced it was not unduly massive. But it was metal clinging above the slender hips. From it ran the same tether to the wall, but also heavy links ran down to the ankle shackles.
"Darling, it weighs a ton." The girl on whom it was fastened shook herself and tried to kick to test the new confinement. The result was to evoke a cry of protest.
"But Amity! This doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t stop me doing motions I could do before. Just makes it more miserable."
"I believe the intent to be punitive, miss."



It was Terry’s turn to watch. Dorinda meekly accepted the collar and grimaced at it’s cold clutch and weight of metal that her neck must bear. She knew she would be forever rearranging the tether to seek easement of the strain.
"Amity." Terry’s voice had come to live.
"Yes, miss." Their jailer’s voice was politely attentive.
"If we were very nice to you and made you come about six times, would you take these last things off? They’re just so much." "Thank you miss. But I would consider the risk inadvisable for all of us."
"You mean Mark might walk in and catch us?" Terry chuckled.
"He caught you, miss. Red handed so to speak, if I may say so. I would find a similar situation most mortifying."
"What would he do to you?"
"I would rather not say, miss."



The youthful captive’s laughter gurgled accusingly. "I bet he’d chain you to the other wall."
"There is a clause in my contract to that effect, miss," Amity admitted reluctantly. "At the master’s discretion so to speak."
Dorinda was startled. The housekeeper had dropped her small bombshell without a qualm. A mental picture of this precious female chained as they were chained was entrancing. Bizarre, but quite in keeping with the rest of Kyrexos.
Terry could not allow so delicious a tid-bit to be ignored.
"Come on. Oh please, Amity. Do it. I’d love to have you chained with us. It would be such fun. Do you no end of good. By morning you’d be talking normally."
"Thank you miss. But it would not be fair to ‘Islop."
"See, you’re exited. You dropped an aitch." Terry tried to clap her hands. The effort produced a fine metallic orchestration.



Amity stepped back, her task completed. Dorinda surveyed herself ruefully. The weight of what she must carry was frightening. It would be too easy to think of things she had read. To be chained for life in a dungeon ...
She wanted to test her bonds and explore whatever tolerance they might concede. But not before this woman who had placed them upon her nakedness. She could wait.



"What are you going to give us for supper, darling?" Terry asked expectantly.
Amity was distressed. "I am indeed sorry, miss. But the master felt it appropriate that none should be served."
"But we’re hungry." The girl’s voice was anguished. "You mean the absolute rotter’s treating us like two bad little girls sent to bed without supper ...?"
"I fear so, miss."
"But you’ll smuggle us something, won’t you darling?"
Amity sounded genuinely distressed. "Water only, miss. I cannot counter the master’s wishes."
"We’re famished."
"I’m sure you are, miss. It has been an exacting day."
"Oh damn and blast! Wait ‘till I get at him. I say, Amity, it’s almost dark. What about some light."
"The same prohibition, miss. You are not to have any."
They watched her go in silence. Then clung together as best as they could and wept.
It was very dark and much later when they remembered to make love.



Breakfast was not encouraging. A little water, a little bread, a little fruit. Amity refused to answer questions.
"He’s going to teach us some sort of lesson," Dorinda decided. "We really must have hurt him."
"He’s not hurt. I know he isn’t. He’s just working out some notion of his own about behaviour and discipline. This could go on for days." "And we still have to be whipped." Dorinda found it hard to forget.
Amity’s mien, on her return, boded ill.
"May I have your word, ladies, that you will not resist? That I may expect obedience?"
"What on earth are you going to do? Behead us?"
"No miss, But the master feels your day might be better employed than just sitting."
"Nice of him. Okay - do what you must do."
"If you will allow me, miss."



It took very little time. When it was done and Amity gone, two naked girls surveyed each other from opposite walls, their hands spread wide at head level, wrists clamped snugly to the stone. They could stand without strain. But stand they must! There was no pain. That might come later. Two maiden quims invited a guest that would not come. It was a very frustrating pose.



Dorinda looked at the two piles of chain beside their bench. It seemed impossible their slenderness could have endured it. She felt miserably certain it had been left there to be used again. It felt so good to be rid of it, that for a little while she would feel a sense of relief in her new plight. It would not last. But, for the moment, only her wrists felt bonds.



No one came. They spent the day alone. Drooping wearily as the hours passed, their pinioned wrists protesting as they accepted a little of the weight that had tired the legs so long. As the light faded the two girls became two pale ghosts in the uncertain light. Inconsistently, at night, their chains came almost as a boon. But now the separation that had sundered them through the day continued. Their tethers were on opposite walls. No tears or pleas or threats prevailed. Once more their ultimate bribe was rejected. On opposite sides of their dungeon they wept themselves to sleep.



The following day was both better and worse. Less tiring. But a shaming posture. They lay upon their backs, bottoms tight against the wall, legs up in a "V", ankles chained to the stone. Their view was restricted to small portions of the wall and ceiling. They could only see each other by painful strain and twisting. Their hands were free, but to what purpose.



On the third day they were whipped.
They suffered together, receiving single lashes alternately. The other’s agony always before their eyes as they felt their own. Amity used the fearful whip. Mark had vanished from their ken.



That morning, released from their chains, they had been suspended by their wrists, heels barely on the floor. Amity left them to wait. They hung, well separated, in the big dungeon, the most hated whip between them on a stool specially provided so that it be well displayed before their stricken eyes.
"Is it possible to bear, or will we faint?" Dorinda had built a devastating vision of suffering within her mind.
"I didn’t faint, darling. But don’t let that fool you." Terry searched her memory for consolations. "It depends on who whips us. I hope it’s Amity. She doesn’t hit as hard as Mark. She probably thinks an employer - that’s me - has to be whipped with respect. Then it’s a case of how fast they let you have it. I’m damn sure I couldn’t take fast from that awful thing. I would faint. I think you’ll find now we’ll get it laid on slowly and spread over a long time. If it’s any comfort I can tell you they won’t whip you nipples with that thing."



Was there comfort anywhere? Dorinda cringed in her nudity. She longer for the whip to get it over, to pass through the agony over to the other side. But she longed, with equal ardour, that the whip not touch her at all. She felt no bitterness against Mark. He had told her she would be trashed if she touched the forbidden fruit. She had knowingly gorged on it. Thus it was proper that she now stand naked with her hands high, the familiar bite of the cords urgent on her wrists, the whip before her eyes. Soon she would know its searing cuts and scream the pleas of a slave who has transgressed.



How awful to stand thus. More naked than naked. Curvature of breasts and Venus mound accentuated by the traction of her arms. Only the soles of her feet were denied the whip. She had read of the bastinado. No doubt Mark had too. That day would come. To be whipped on the soles of her feet. How awful. How a girl would scream.



It was though all of her cried for the whip. The cords held her curved. She heard their voices. Her breasts did not know themselves inviolate. They cried ‘Whip me, whip us both. We’re too beautiful not to feel the lash! It’s our destiny.’ Her bottom, her poor caned bottom jutted, curving its pinkness and its fading stripes in its own special demand: ‘Whip me, master. I am designed for the whip. Millenniums of men have whipped the bottoms of millions of naked girls. Whip me, whip me, master. I am a slave.’



Two bands of chord held her, sacrifice. They cut into her wrists. Only two bands of chord ... Yet she was their slave. She would stand, naked and palpitating, to be whipped just because they told her to. So that she might know herself truly divorced from freedom and from choice they cut her skin en bestowed upon her flesh their own brand of pain. Soon they would bleed. She was a slave.



The secret place between her legs. It had known little of secrecy since Mike had handcuffed her that fatal night. The night of decision. The night she had been delivered to Kyrexos. She could not tough her dark triangle. She could not shield it from the whip. Would she be compelled to part her legs so that the lash, the cutting tip could find her loins and bed itself upon the seat of joy? How terrible it was to be whipped upon her cunt. She considered the word as Terry had considered it. A hateful word. Yet what other word was so apt? The slit by which she was pleasured. The portal by which men entered the world and sought surcease forever therein. Should he or she who whipped her pause for a moment to cup their hand thereon she would glow with gratitude. It, too, cried out: ‘Whip me, whip me, whip me!’



She wished she had the courage to request a gag. She would not dare. Amity and the authority vested in her would not approve. The girl under the whip should rightly howl. She should writhe and scream. This was her tribute, her acknowledgement of just punishment. It was like signing a piece of paper to say: '‘Yes, I have received so and so many strokes upon my female flesh. The liquidation of an IOU.



It was Amity who picked up the whip and looked from one to the other of them with amused speculation in her eyes. No words. No pleas for mercy. No attempts to bribe. Two naked girls, hanging helpless without thought or hope or escape. The whip was the center of their being. It owned them as did the woman who held it. All of the girl who was Dorinda, save her voice which was mute, cried in some strange paean of exultation: ‘Whip me, whip me, oh, please whip me ....’



Amity swung the sneaky length. It curled around Terry’s waist leaving a narrow neat belt of punished skin, the buckle of which was a drop of blood where the tip had cut. The lovely slenderness swung under the whiplash pull of the blow, the female lips acknowledged it. Dorinda quailed. The next stroke would be her own. All the agony hers to cherish.



Amity contrived a twin. They would wend their way though their whipping together. Their maiden flesh equal under the lash. Their fault expiated with a just precision. Dorinda heard her voice cry out to join that of the girl whose tongue had given her delight. Men hated and feared this union of girls. Always they would whip the flesh that had found joy in what they had not shared.
How exquisite a ritual. Terry ... Dorinda ... Dorinda ... Terry. The naked breasts jerked and shuddered. The slender hips writhed this way and that. The cords held. The wrists bled. The girlish bottoms swayed. But the whip mastered them. Amity struck where they believed themselves immune. They yielded all their agony.
Dorinda drifted on a cloud of pain from which she witnessed the striation of her lov3ed one’s flesh and knew it for her own. How beautiful it was. She knew gratitude. She could not see all her nakedness. But Terry was the mirror of herself. Lash and lash. They were made one by the whip.
They felt each other’s strokes rather than their own.



Long afterwards they hung. A whipping was a thing of ritual. It had its prelude and its epilogue. The striped and blood flecked bodies of the girls hung from their cords long after the lash was done. Amity left them to their pain and to their thoughts. No doubt custom believed they would vow never to transgress again. They hung, longing for release, willing to make any promise to set themselves free of bonds and free of pain, yet lusting for each other with great hunger. The victory of the whip is in the moment when it beds itself within the cringing flesh.



On the fourth day they were freed of chains and cords. They spent it in paradise and in tracing each others wounds with fingers, filled with love. Their chains had been piled back against the huge chest. No part of them was confined. The dungeon door alone stood between them and the world of sunlight. But it held them captive.



To Dorinda it was a new experience. Confinement within four walls. Imprisonment. Loss of liberty. It had its own piquancy, its own portent and foreboding.. Previously in her captivity on Kyrexos she had always been bound or chained. Now she made the strange discovery that bonds were less frustrating than to be obliged to live within a room because you had no key for the door.



"I told you it was a b**stly whip," Terry said plaintively. "Look at us both. We’re all over little cuts where the end of the lash wrapped around. We won’t get rid of all the marks for at least three weeks. I bet Mark will want us both to wear clothes so his conscience won’t bother him. Don’t do it! I’m simply going to flaunt my weals and wounds at him."
"If he wants clothes on me I’ll have to wear them. I’m a slave," Dorinda pointed out.



Her companion examined the premise. "‘Spose you’re right," she admitted. "Damn odd spot for a girl. Gosh, darling, Mark and I are really messing up your life, aren’t we? I’ll never be able to carry off this slave thing the way Mark can." Her eyes sparkled. "Darling, I’ve got a corking idea. If he demands clothes, refuse to wear ‘m. See what happens."
"That’s no corking idea. I’ll just get whipped some more," Dorinda had no doubts about her status and the penalties that went with it. Terry giggled. "I don’t see what’s to stop me whipping you if you disobey the order I just gave you. See, I order you to stay naked." "That hazard occurred to me tight at the start," Dorinda admitted. "I could easily get jockeyed into a contretemps that would entitle both of you to slash away at me."



Terry giggled with delight. "I’ll provoke such a situation just for fun. See what happens. When it comes to the crunch I’ll have to concede of course, or we’d both be getting our tails caned."
"Being a slave girl isn’t easy."
Dorinda’s rueful statement evoked merriment. "Tell me, darling," Terry said earnestly. "If I order you to do something you hate, would you disobey?"
The slave girl gave the question much thought. "Before I can really answer that one I’d have to ask you if you would whip me of I refused."
"Yes, I’d whip you, or ask Mark to."
"Then I’d obey. In that spot a slave girl has to obey. She has no choice. But if I knew you wouldn’t punish me I’d only obey if it was something that gave you much happiness.
"I will whip you, darling. You know that, don’t you?"
"Of course. I want you to. Don’t give me privilege because of this happiness we find together. If you did I think it would make us both disloyal to our master. He is my master, y’know. I have to see him as that. Good heavens, if he wasn’t, what would I be doing in this dungeon?"
"Darling, let me lick your wounds again."



Dorinda disposed herself upon the bench. Terry’s mouth and tongue sought a whip cut, laved it busily and went on the to next. They did this for each other throughout the day. They made factual the old expression of ‘licking one’s wounds’. A whipped girl cannot bathe in a dungeon or find salve for cut skin. They could not lick their own. But they could employ the oldest remedy upon each other. This they did with joy and sensuous delight.
But in the mind of each was a single dominant thought. When would their dungeon door open?
It was on the fifth day they were forgiven and made free.



Terry’s guess had been correct. The slave girl was clothed. The master’s edict had been firm. Dorinda dared not disobey, nor did she wish to. Quaintly enough, Terry had clothed herself expensively in gorgeous scraps. But then, the occasion was a gala one. The first dinner for what Mark now referred to as the ‘ex convicts’. A sort of coming home. A return to grace. Dorinda’s joy was marred by only the one small cloud.



The question inevitably arose. When the three of them were seated round the table Terry impishly asked it.
"Mark, darling, in what awful predicament have you got poor Mabel tucked away?"
Mark looked smug. His eyes twinkled back and forth between them. Making them wait for what was obviously an pronouncement. Dorinda’s pulse quickened.
"Fact is, dear girls, good old Mabel isn’t with us anymore."
He had their complete attention. Dorinda’s small cloud vanished. Mark enjoyed his sensation.
"While you two enemies of society were doing time I saw quite a lot of Mabel. More I saw the girl the more I realised she was very much surplus. Didn’t need her on strength, no place in the ranks as it were. One extra bed and all that. So I put the old intellect to work and came up with a cracking good idea."
He paused and beamed at his rapt audience. "Couldn’t very well drown the dear girl, and I didn’t relish the boat trip to dump her where she could pick up some transportation. But then, I remembered Mike ..."



"Mike! Surely Mike ..."
"Quiet girl! Don’t interrupt. It’s more subtle than you think." He grinned at Dorinda cheerfully. "I remembered we were about at the time this Mike chappie said he’d return to pick you up. It was a natural. I took Mabel down to the spot where he set you ashore and chained her to a tree. Off to one side where she couldn’t reach it and couldn’t read it I placed a sign. It read: ‘Dorinda’s gone. Take me’. The key to Mabel’s chain was attached."
"Oh Mark, how could you," Terry managed to giggle and be shocked at the same time.
"I’ll admit to a twinge of conscience. But the more I saw of Mabel the more certain I was that Mike might find a lot in common. Besides, it was the chance of a lifetime. Killed two birds with one stone. When I went to check on her comfort the next morning, she was gone." Leaning back in his chair Mark gave his audience a benevolently Macchiavellian smile.
"I’m so glad," said Dorinda. Then blushed at Terry’s knowing wink.
"Champagne, Sir," said Hislop with deep approval.
It was Mabel’s epitaph.



***



"I’m not going to be a bit nice to you today," Terry warned happily. "Mark monopolised you nearly a week. Today’s mine. You’ll suffer."
"No dungeons, please." Dorinda’s plea was real.
"Oh, all right," the younger girl conceded. "I boobed. I don’t want to get back in there either. We’ll have our day in the sun. Isn’t it lovely to be naked again?"



Dorinda was happy. To be with Terry again was a delight. She was secretly weary of rooms in which she suffered strangely devised discomforts while her skin was given time to heal. Mark was almost Calvinistic in his pre-occupation with her training. She was a much punished girl. If Terry chose to whip her she would bear it cheerfully. It would not be as bad as her other inflictions. They would be together in the glorious sunlight.



"Hands behind your back, darling. Wrists crossed."
"What? No handcuffs?"
"I’m going to be cruel. Cord chafes."
The slave girl stood passive and allowed herself to be bound. The cords that were looped and drawn tight around her wrists were intimate, a part of her. A beloved reminder of she who had tied the knots. They were tight. But she made no demur. She had grown used to handcuffs, they gave a greater latitude than she would now possess. She started and looked back over her shoulder when her neck was encircled.
"Told you I’d treat you like a slave," Terry chuckled. A nice cord tether I’ll lead you around by. But that’s all. Except for the long thin crop. I’ll carry that."
Dorinda was amused. It would be fun. The youngster was going to make amends for her previous failure. She would set herself right in her brother’s eyes.



"You’re remembering those orders, aren’t you?" she teased. "Put some marks on Dorinda where I can count them and make sure her wrists are chafed. Right?"
"Clever, clever," Terry laughed. "Sorry about the marks though. Sort of a closed season on marks lately for both of us. But don’t forget, dear. Amity attended to our backs and sides. She left our nice fronts quite virgin. Which bit of your front would you like me to whip, darling?&q