Monica
by F.E. Campbell


Poor Mama! Monica suppressed a desire to giggle. She managed to maintain her 
features in the sedate and dejected condition appropriate to the occasion. 
Mama's feelings would be hurt and her dignity and sense of what was proper 
affronted by even the smallest flicker of amusement. Monica wondered if her 
contemporaries in the gathering had the same mixed emotions as she herself. 
She believed it un-likely. But she was fairly sure that the assemblage of 
matrons all shared and carefully disguised the same mixture of guilt and 
relief that she suspected were, at that moment, battling in Mama's 
consciousness.. Poor Mama! It must have been a most difficult decision. 

The Tea things chattered on their tray and the veneer of a quiet Victorian 
afternoon was easily maintained by a polite murmer of gentility. Monica 
noticed that most of the talking was done by the Mamas. The other young 
ladies like herself had little to say, even though their Hostess, Madam 
Dubois, went to some pains to include them in her vivacity. Monica guessed 
that their thoughts must, in some measure, mirror her own. 

Just yesterday! It had begun with Papa. A different and frightening Papa who 
had used few words and been unmoved by tears and who, having delivered his 
ultimatum, left the study at the same time as Mama had entered it. Mama had 
been equally terse, equally well informed, equally adamant. 

"You have behaved impossibly." 

"Yes Mama." 

"You agree that the best thing for you is to be punished?" 

"Yes Mama." 

"You agree to enter Madam Dubois's establishment of your own free will?" 

"Yes Mama." 

There had been a lengthy pause. It was then that Monica sensed the conflict 
in Mama's mind. Since the awful decision had been reached and accepted by 
all there was doubtless a great surge of relief at having so difficult a 
task relegated to someone else, but a relief tempered by a guilt that a 
loved daughter stood condemned and consigned to the mercy of an Institution 
in which perhaps no mercy lay. 

"You do understand, my dear," there had been a pause for suitable words to 
form, "Madam accepts and deals with only the most recalcitrant and erring 
young women? I am happy to say that she confines her clientele to gentlefolk 
or the nobility, but because of the temperament and history of her charges 
her methods must of necessity be stern and painful and prolonged. Dearest 
girl; your father and I have agreed that we will not coerce you. But we 
realize your need of punishment is greater than we who love you can bear to 
inflict. You possibly have some knowledge of Madam's methods. Some of your 
friends may have spoken of it. I want you to be quite sure that you can 
contemplate this severity and accept it with humility. Think hard before you 
say a final yes." 

"I have thought hard, Mama." She had been tearful more at her mother's 
distress than at her own. "And I do agree it is the best way. I am sure I 
will hate it and wish to be home with you again. But I will try and bear 
what I must with humility." 

There had been tears and embraces and Papa had patted her shoulder with 
approval at dinner that night. And all through the family turmoil Monica had 
sustained a pleasurable thrill of excitement. A stirring of an emotion that 
had puzzled her for a long time and which she only vaguely understood. 

The next vivid impression was of Madam herself. Not what was to be expected 
at all. But better. Much better Monica decided. She wasn't that old, and she 
wasn't ugly, and she wasn't huge. In fact she was undoubtedly the most 
attractive and soignee woman in the room. Her greeting had been warm. It was 
as though she was truly happy to see Monica. There had even been a brief 
kiss. An unusually warm kiss for a first meeting. Monica could still feel it 
on her cheek. Again a thrill of excitement. There was nothing ordinary about 
Madam Dubois. Perhaps there would be nothing ordinary or drab within her 
house. 

The tea, the cakes and the conversation had been admirable, Madam Dubois had 
shown unusual charm, tact and understanding. What followed was handled with 
the same forethought and expertise. She now took up position in the center 
of the drawing room. Attention was instant. 

"The time has come for my permanent guests and I to take our next step. We 
will retire briefly in preparation. If you ladies will excuse us." 

She beckoned to Monica and several others. They followed her dutifully with 
only time for a backward glance at their parents. Up the stairs to four open 
doors. A young woman was thrust into each and the door closed and locked. 
Monica found herself alone in a small room bare except for a single chair. 

The single form fitting garment was disturbing. It was also attractive as 
was its wearer who unlocked the door and surveyed Monica with a competent 
smile of greeting. She was little older than Monica herself. She moved with 
a lithe grace that betokened strength. She wasted no time in greeting. 

"Please to undress." It was a command. Not a request. The accent was French. 
"You leave your things on the chair. You will not be needing them. I will 
care for them for you." 

Monica flushed. Within the framework of her life thus far one did not 
casually undress. She fumbled uncertainly with a button. 

"My name is Arlette, Mademoiselle. You will obey me please." 

Standing completely naked Monica was aware that she had crossed a threshold. 
She fought down the urge to use her hands to try and cover those portions of 
her person previously secret. 

"Your body is admirable, Mademoiselle. I am glad. It is pleasanter so." 
Arlette scrutinized Monica's nudity with studied care. "And now please to 
turn and place your hands behind your back." 

She had produced a length of cord and with deft practiced fingers crossed 
Monica's wrists and bound them firmly. "Please, you will come. I will hold 
your arm." 

Monica had known embarrassment when she had placed the last of her clothing 
on the chair. Now with her hands tightly secured behind her back she felt 
doubly naked. She could cover nothing, hide no part of herself. She moved 
and had awareness in a new dimension. 

The authoritative grip on her bare arm led her through corridors and rooms 
to stop finally before a large oak door. Arlette tapped. Monica suddenly 
realized that she was about to know the most abject shame of her life. Her 
worst fears were realized. The open door revealed a luxurious study. Madam 
Dubois sat behind an ornate desk, a pleasant smile of welcome on her face. 
Monica's Mama sat stiffly and uncomfortably to one side. Her features 
visibly held under control by determined effort. Monica felt herself one 
vast blush as she was positioned before Madam's desk. With three pairs of 
eyes fixed upon her she again fought the natural urge to shrink and cringe. 
Instead she asserted her compliance without words by standing firm and 
erect, feet braced apart, head back, breasts out-thrust. Perhaps, too, she 
was aware of a need within herself to maintain her pride. Despite her 
scarlet cheeks she smiled first at Mama and then at Madam and stood waiting. 

"Your Mama and I have discussed your case, my dear," said Madam Dubois. "We 
find ourselves in complete agreement as to the punishment merited. Since you 
have done me the honor to enter my house of your own free will you will not 
be consulted further. I will now formally pronounce sentence upon you." 

She paused and looked benignly at the naked girl as though expecting some 
response. Monica flashed a quick sideways glance but her Mama managed only 
to look pathetic. Monica felt herself the center of an "Occasion." In a 
courtroom now would be the moment to come out with 'guilty' or 'not guilty.' 
Or perhaps some impassioned plea. Again she stifled a desire to giggle. Did 
those other girls suffer the same surge of amusement at this point? She 
doubted that they did. Just her. So she said demurely: 

"Thank you Madam Dubois. I am quite ready." 

"You are sentenced to six months imprisonment." 

Monica prayed that shock would not register on her face. Six months! It was 
forever!! 

"You will spend the entire period as you are now, naked and restrained. 
There will be no minute of the time in which you will be free of cord or 
chain. Each night you will spend heavily chained in a cell. Sometimes alone. 
Sometimes with another girl. Your days will be spent in bondage. By that I 
mean that as a counter to the unlimited freedom you have so gravely abused 
beneath your parent's roof you will now know the other side of the coin. You 
will have no freedom at all. Each day you will be stringently fastened in 
such ways as will either rob you of all movement or allow you only enough to 
enable a shift in position or the turning of your head." 

Again a pause. Monica stood aghast, but silent. Good Lord, was there more to 
come...? There was. 

"The loss of freedom is salutary. But you will enjoy it in conjunction with 
another facet of training in which I place great confidence: the whip. I 
have found that young women are particularly susceptible to the whip. A 
male, I believe, may often shrug off this correction. But a girl with a well 
striated bottom or back will remember. It touches her femininity. Each weal 
she bears carries a message that she will not forget. And so, Mademoiselle, 
on each Friday you remain here as our guest you will receive twenty strokes 
with the cane on your bare bottom. In the event that you do not heal quickly 
enough between thrashings we can vary your penance by whipping your bare 
back instead. Of course," she hastily interposed; having caught a flicker of 
disjtress on Mama's face, "when the whip is used we will take care to 
protect your breasts and nipples; we have some small cups with which we 
shield them. They will not be cut." 

Monica's mind was in turmoil. Almost piteously she once more turned to her 
only hope of succor. But the stony misery of her mother's face dammed back 
the pleas and protest that her tongue strove to utter. Helplessly she stood, 
not knowing what to say. There had been temptation to throw herself at 
Mama's feet to clutch her imploringly in the way that, in the past, had 
always earned her clemency. But now, naked, and with her hands tied behind 
her back such a gesture could produce only the ludicrous. She knew miserably 
that it was too late. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could say. 

Arlette's voice was cool, but firm. "You will now come with me. 
Mademoiselle." Again Monica felt the strong grip upon her cool skin. As she 
was guided toward the door she tried to turn to her mother to make some sort 
of farewell but was propelled forward. Madam Dubois's voice was intended to 
be reassuring: "Don't worry, my dear. Obey Arlette. Your Mama will come and 
say good-bye to you in just a little while." The door closed and Monica 
stumbled hurried-ly where she was meant to go. 

It was a large room. Widely spaced posts rose from floor to ceiling. Against 
one of them a naked girl was tightly bound. Monica had not seen her before. 
The girl accorded them only a brief flicker of interest then returned her 
gaze to where a sobbing woman, who Monica recognized as one of the guests at 
tea, was embracing awkwardly another naked young woman who was also securely 
bound to one of the pillars. She, too, Monica recognized as one of her 
fellow classmates: it seemed as good a terminology for the group as any. She 
cringed inwardly in sympathy with the sufferer who obviously was feeling the 
deepest shame at her exposure and her helplessness to make even the 
slightest gesture to placate the distress in which her mother was whispering 
both admonitions and affection in a choked undertone. 

But Monica was able to give this small cameo of misery only a brief 
attention. She herself was thrust against a pillar. A strap circled her 
waist and was cinched tightly. She was held firmly against the rigid timber 
while her wrists were freed from the cord that had secured them behind her 
back. What happened to her then, she realized miserably, was probably a 
foretaste of her condition in the months that lay ahead. 

Arlette was more than competent at her task. Her fingers flew with surety 
and a cruel strength. Cords were drawn under Monica's armpits up over her 
shoulders, crossed behind her and knotted tightly. She found herself held 
immovably, shoulders wrenched back so that the cords bit deep and burned 
with an unyielding intensity each time she breathed. The stricture thrust 
her breasts forward provocatively. Instinctively she raised her hands to 
cover them, but her wrists were caught and pulled taut behind the post where 
they too were securely tied so that she could not move them. Then her ankles 
were deftly corded with two firm bands that circled both her ankles and the 
wood; one leg on each side of the post so that they were thus slightly 
parted enhancing her exposure. Tentatively she essayed a shiver of revolt. 
But found that she was held immobile. She could move only her head. She 
wondered miserably if her neck would be bound too, thus robbing her of even 
that small motion. But when Arlette straightened from her efforts and 
gathered her unused cords she smiled amusedly at her captive. Then left the 
room accompanied by the distrait mother who had managed her final good-byes 
during the time it had taken to render Monica helpless. 

The three captives examined each other. Monica uncertainly, the other new 
girl in mute misery and the stranger with a broad smile that Monica found 
vaguely indecent under the circumstances. 

"Hurts, doesn't it?" the strange girl asked. 

There was no answer. 

"It's a beastly way to be tied. The longer they leave you the more painful 
it gets. But maybe being naked hurts worse for you. Does it? My first day 
was so long ago I've almost forgotten. But being naked was pretty bad." 

"Then what are you looking so happy about?" Monica demanded. 

"Oh, I'm just amused. I've been given a job. Quite a privilege really. I'm 
supposed to brief you four new girls on what to expect and what to do. So I 
have been tied here for the afternoon." 

"You mean you are like us? In prison--to be punished?" 

"Yes. Sorry and all that ... should have told you. My name's Eve. Never mind 
the rest of it. I even have a title. If only that stuffy old Queen Victoria 
could see me now, she'd toss me in the Tower for life. Actually I'm doing a 
full year here with Dubby-we call the Madam that when she's not around. I'm 
seven down and five to go." Her face suddenly sobered. "It's a long time." 

"You seem damn cheerful about it," said the third girl resentfully. 

"No, not really. But I told you this is a privilege. It is. I get to meet 
some new girls who probably feel a lot worse than I do right at this moment, 
and I've been given permission to talk. In fact I've been told to talk. You 
have no idea how good that is. They say I talk too much so often I have to 
wear a gag all day or maybe they order me to silence with some awful penalty 
if I break it. So I'm going to talk. Please ask me questions...." 

Her chatter was cut short by the opening of the door. Monica felt certain 
that she was shamefaced and scarlet as her mother approached. Never had she 
known such bitter humiliation and such shame. She was heartbreakingly 
conscious of her out-thrust breasts and the black triangle that her parted 
legs exposed. Suddenly her courage failed. She did the thing she had 
promised herself not to do: 

"Mother please! Please take me home! Don't leave me here like this!!" 

It was hopeless, of course. She had known it would be. But she had had to 
try. Madame Dubois had smiled indulgently and stood watching as mother and 
daughter had shed their tears and made their fumbling farewell. When it was 
over Monica stood helplessly blinking back tears whilst the sad scene was 
repeated with the two other girls who were tethered by Arlette to their 
respective posts. Then the five girls were alone. There was silence for a 
few moments save for muffled sobbing. Eve broke it: 

"Welcome to the Club, girls," she said cheerfully. "Glad to see you are all 
trim and shipshape. I hate fatties and bones. How about names?" 

Monica heard a dejected girl's voice give her own name and other equally 
unhappy responses revealed a Marjorie, a Diana, and a Joan. Examining her 
companions she realized, with a pleased thrill that she could not truly 
understand, that without exception they were beautiful. She wondered if 
perhaps Madame Dubois insisted on that....But why. 

Monica knew a sense of unreality about Eve. The girl's voice was quite 
matter-of-fact, almost cheerful. Her features portrayed no distress. Yet she 
was bound as tightly as the rest and must have been suffering the same 
burning cords as they cut into the soft flesh. But Eve did seem cheerful and 
was obviously determined to fulfill her task. Perhaps that was the answer: 
she might be punished if she failed to instruct.... 

"You have all just been sentenced," Eve continued. "Only the period of your 
stay here varies. We are all punished in the same ways and with the same 
severity. But I have to warn you that you can easily add to your inflictions 
by disobedience, impudence or constant complaint. Dubby and Arlette won't 
countenance any of those three things. In fact they won't tolerate anything 
at all. They can guess what we are thinkingI've often been whipped just 
because of a look on my face. So watch that." 

"You mean we may be whipped more than the weekly whipping we have been 
sentenced to?" Diana queried bleakly. 

"Indeed you can!" Eve assured her cheerfully. "So now is the time for me to 
try and tell you about punishment. That's what we are here for. Just simply 
to be punished. Our dear Mamas and Papas believe that if we are punished 
enough we will be good little girls for the rest of our lives-maybe they are 
right. I know that if I could be set free to go home I'd promise anything 
right now. But that's something to remember: you have all agreed to come 
here of your own free will and now that you are here stark naked and well 
tied you will never be set free or given any chance to escape. But your 
biggest shock is going to be the punishment: You see, I think it's the same 
with all of us. When we are told about coming here we are upset and 
repentant and scared and want to make amends so when they tell us about 
being chained and tied and whipped we just think 'Oh yes. I expect I deserve 
it.' We don't really think about it the way we should. I bet there isn't one 
of you who has ever been tied as you are now or whipped on her bare 
skin...?" 

There was a shocked murmur of assent. 

"Of course not! Neither was I! I feel an idiot now the way I agreed to 
everything. The fact is we aren't thinking at all at the time. We allow 
ourselves some silly mental picture of a bit of discomfort and humiliation 
and the loss of our liberty-I think it's the loss of liberty that looms 
largest in our minds. All the dances and the parties we'll miss, and we feel 
a bit heroic at what we are doing. We don't really think about pain. But 
pain is what we ought to think of most because it's what happens to us most. 
I bet you are all hurting more at this minute than you ever believed a few 
lengths of cord could make possible? Am I right?" 

Another murmur of agreement. "But is it this bad all the time?" Marjorie 
demanded. 

"It can vary from much worse than this to just simple fatigue and boredom 
from having to stand against a wall all day because of a little band of 
metal round your neck-connected by a chain to a ring in the stone, of 
course." 

"But this cord is cutting right into my shoulders," complained Monica. "I'm 
scared to even try and move. It hurts too much." 

"Yes, I know. The way we are tied now is a bad one. Of course it depends on 
how long they leave us this way. The longer we are tied like this the more 
it hurts. But the real pain I have to prepare you for is being whipped. You 
just haven't any idea how bloody awful it is. Nothing that has ever happened 
to you prepares you for it. You think you'll grit your teeth and show 'em 
what you're made of and all that rot. But when Arlette slices into your bare 
bottom with that damn cane you beg and plead and struggle and do everything 
you promised yourself you would not do. You also do something I almost hate 
to tell you of: you howl. Up to that moment you never believe such pain was 
possible. But Arlette, without even exerting herself very much, can make you 
believe you are being sliced to pieces and each piece burned with a hot 
iron...." Eve paused, as though remembering. "The awful thing is that you 
never get used to it. It hurts just as much the tenth time as the first 
time. I suppose, in a way, being tied for punishment the way we are here one 
does get used to that. I suppose that you are suffering more at this moment 
than I am even though I'm tied just as tightly as you are. You do adjust. 
But it's in the mind. For the first days it's such an awful shock and the 
days seem endless. You get scared, really scared, that maybe they have 
forgotten you and that you'll stay tied that way on and on. But after a 
while you learn not to think or yearn for release. You just endure and try 
and think of other things. It's the awful yearning for the door to open and 
for Arlette to come and release you that makes the day twice as long and 
shreds your nerves. Remember that!" 

"But what's the Madame like?" Joan asked timidly. "She seemed so pleasant." 

"Being pleasant is Dubby's specialty," Eve conceded amusedly. "She does it 
well, and I really believe that's her true personality. I think she loves us 
all. We are 'her girls.' But just the same she is a true believer in the 
cord and the whip and keeping bad little girls naked and well restrained. I 
am sure she sees her work as quite noble in its way. Of course she's got 
Arlette. It's Arlette who really punishes us. Dubby has whipped me once or 
twice, but she doesn't often infringe on Arlette's province. She and Arlette 
seem to have a perfect understanding of their respective roles. Dubby gives 
Arlette complete authority, she does as she pleases with us. And let me warn 
you: Don't complain to Dubby about anything Arlette has done to you-anything 
at all. It will just get you another whipping." 

"You sound as though we get whipped all the time," accused Monica 
plaintively. "I was sentenced to be whipped just once a week. Doesn't that 
mean anything?" 

"It means that you can be quite certain of being whipped once a week," said 
Eve equably. "The sentence said nothing about the possibility that you might 
also be whipped every day. You can be. I remember once I was whipped five 
days in a row-just for poutmg. 

A further question died on Monica's lips. Arlette had entered and swiftly 
loosened Eve's cords, snapped handcuffs on her wrists and led her away. In 
quick succession she treated the other three girls in like fashion. Monica 
stood taut against her post and wondered if being left until last might hold 
some significance. She found herself hoping that it did. 

Monica's mind was in turmoil as she stood helplessly in her bonds alone and 
wondering after the last of her companions had been led away. Instinctively 
she struggled but was rewarded only by pain wherever the cords held her. 
Passive she subsided and tried to analyze her reactions to the rapid 
succession of shocks and impressions of the last two hours. It was almost 
too much: from a young lady of quality to a bound and naked thrall....Yet 
she could not deny a peculiar thrill of excitement and curiosity. She 
believed that she should be very frightened indeed. Was she? She examined 
herself and was not sure. There was an enigma in Madame Dubois and in 
Arlette, even in the girl Eve. The first two were quite different from her 
expectations. She would have used the words, much better. Eve was a 
strangely animated captive as a prisoner of seven months. Yet Eve had said 
nothing to encourage-quite the reverse. 

As the cords fell away Monica got her first intimation of Arlette's total 
efficiency. She was untied except for her ankles then, whilst her feet were 
still held tight against the post so that she could not move from it, her 
wrists were neatly and tightly tied once more behind her back so that never 
for a moment did she have a chance to revolt. Ankles freed she was guided on 
a journey that ended in a prison cell. Three stone walls, a barred window 
high in one, and iron bars and a barred doorway for the fourth. She could 
look through the bars into a limited view of the corridor. She herself would 
at all times be open to plain view for anyone who cared to pass that way. 
There was a cot and mattress. Arlette seated herself negligently. Monica was 
about to do the same but was jerked erect by a sharp command: 

"To stand before me please. Mademoiselle is to remember she is a prisoner. 
Prisoners sit when given permission only." 

She knew a moment of revolt, one of many she would feel in the days and 
weeks to come. Who was this French snippet to order her about! But a quick 
glimpse of a dilemma quenched the hot words that had risen to her lips: of 
what use to protest! She had acquiesed to the plight in which she now stood. 
Neither could she physically seek to stem the tide on which she was drawn. 
The bite of the cords about her wrists were a bitter reminder that she could 
not fight or even run. Passively she stood as directed. 

Arlette scanned her with amusement. It was obvious the French girl had 
accurately sensed her inward turmoil: "Mademoiselle would perhaps wish to 
struggle and free her hands. No? As it is in the books, to tug and twist 
and; voila, it is done." 

Monica would have loved to stamp her foot in vexation. But, instead, said 
flatly: "No thank you. You have tied me too tightly. I would only look 
silly." 

"Merci, not all are so sensible. Some fight very hard. They pull and pull 
and get very angry and call me bad words. Then I whip them. Very soon they 
behave and stand still, just as you, Mademoiselle, stand now." 

Monica knew a claustrophobic moment. To lose the use of both hands and arms 
left one terribly exposed, doubly naked. To be whipped like this was 
something best not thought about. So she said brightly: "If you will always 
tell me what I must do I will try and please you." 

"You please me very much," said Arlette. 

Monica was conscious of more blushes as Arlette studied her nudity with what 
seemed a knowing and practiced eye. Unable to cover any part of herself she 
decided to stand taut and to the best advantage. Doing so she became aware 
of Arlette's approval. 

"I think we will like each other very much," Arlette continued. "Perhaps we 
may even love each other a little." She looked up at Monica mischievously, 
"Did mademoiselle know it possible to love someone who whips you?" 

"I don't believe that," Monica stated firmly. 

"But it is true!" Arlette's voice held laughter. "But that is for another 
day. Now I think I must give you some small instruction. It is required that 
you should know some things and behave in certain ways. First I should tell 
you that you must call me Mistress, always. Madame, of course, is Madame to 
both of us. This shows respect. You will not forget?" 

"I will remember, Mistress." Monica felt she had shown the right spirit. 

"Tres bon, mon petite. Perhaps I may need to whip you a very little only. 
Just every week like the sentence say. It will be much joy to whip you. You 
have the figure magnifique. I will make you squirm to my delight. But now 
there are other things I must do to you." 

"The "other things" had been dramatically obvious to Monica immediately she 
had been shepherded into her cell. When Madame Dubois had spoken of chains 
they had seemed a remote improbability. But not now! Monica realized she had 
not seen so much chain ever before. Could it all be for her! 

It was! She watched, almost with incredulity, as Arlette with her usual deft 
decisive motions locked a metal band snugly about her left ankle. It was 
joined to another band by a very few links and this other band was now 
clasped to encircle her right ankle. Under Arlette's strong fingers the 
metal clicked shut with a frightening finality. It was as though the 
shackles had been tailored to fit so snugly did they grip her. There was 
nothing crude about them. They were beautifully fashioned and their 
mechanism worked with oiled perfection. 

"Please to walk a little, Mademoiselle." 

It was a strange sensation. Her first two steps were almost a stumble. With 
her hands fastened behind her back Monica had no wish to fall. Carefully she 
essayed tiny measured paces. She knew a flicker of fear at this new 
prisonment yet had to supress a desire to giggle. The linkage between her 
ankles accompanied her uncertain steps with a pleasant clinking sound as she 
made her brief journey and returned to where she had been ordered to stand. 

Next it was a lighter but broader band that exactly clasped her narrow waist 
and was fastened by a padlock at her back. It, too, snapped shut with a firm 
and final sound and Monica found herself attached by a quite long length of 
chain to a ringbolt set in the stone wall behind the narrow cot. The metal 
was a conscious weight upon her slenderness. 

"Oh no, please. Not my neck!" The exclamation was involuntary despite 
Monica's resolution to bear what she must. She eyed the shining collar with 
its long length of more slender chain that was now in Arlette's hand. Even 
before it was raised she sensed what its small circumference was intended to 
encircle. But her anguished eyes fell abashed before Arlette's broad grin of 
amusment so that she stood still and flinched only slightly as the cold 
metal clasped her throat and was locked snug with its chain falling behind 
her back and trailing to another ring set in the stone at the head of the 
cot. Light though the chain might be still it would constitute a constant 
drag upon the slight column of her neck. It seemed un-likely that she could 
ever grow unaware of it. 

"Mademoiselle wears chains beautifully." Arlette sounded pleased. She tugged 
at the cords around Monica's wrists so that a moment later Monica was 
rubbing the chafed skin where the cords had held her tight. But the red 
indentations were immediately encircled by metal so that the two wrists were 
held in thrall by shining bands joined by links of but four or five inches 
in length. Fascinated she raised her hands and examined her new prisonment. 
The fetter was a thing of beauty. It was a part of her. It would allow her 
some small freedom with her hands. But not much. In their totality the 
chains that had been placed upon her rendered her more helpless than she had 
ever been in her life. Obviously no hand and no tool could free her: only a 
key. A key that she herself would never be allowed to hold. 

"Again, mademoiselle. Please to walk-as best you can." 

It was a pitifully small walk. The chain linking her ankles swirled. Those 
holding her at neck and waist tightened and became heavy as she approached 
the limits of their tether. Having tested the limits of their tolerance 
Monica once more stood dutifully before the girl whose prisoner she 
unquestionably was. She felt herself blushing again as she sought a natural 
posture for her linked hands. Should she hold them joined before her, raise 
them beside her neck or allow them to fall listlessly to half cover the 
black triangle of hair below her belly. She chose the latter and waited. 

Arlette negligently resumed her seat on the hard narrow mattress. She hugged 
one knee and allowed her eyes to rove up and down the figure of the girl she 
had chained. Her tone was conversational. 

"They seem very much, these chains, no?" 

"They're horrible!" Monica burst out. "You don't need to chain me like 
this!" 

"Oh but of course! Pauvre petite Monique! These lovely chains are not just 
for to stop naughty girls escaping-just one of them would do that. They are 
pour le shame. Mademoiselle wears them for a penance. She will wear them 
every night while she is here." 

"But it's so silly." Monica was almost in tears. "There's nothing I can do. 
You are going to lock me up anyway and now I have to sit here with all these 
horrible things fastened to me. They won't stop me doing anything because 
there's nothing to do." 

Arlette chuckled. "Mademoiselle is lucky. She should not complain. She will 
sleep very comfortably when she has got used to arranging her chains just 
so. They will hold you but they will not hurt you. If you think you are sad, 
then think of Eve tonight. Because she was not a good girl she now wears 
twice as many chains as you. There are chains also on her elbows and her 
knees and chains joining her ankles and her wrists and her wrists to her 
girdle. Poor Eve, she is so heavy with chains that she does not stand at 
all, or try to walk." Arlette giggled. "Perhaps mademoiselle would like to 
be chained like that...?" 

"Oh very well." Monica hoped she sounded more docile than she felt. "I know 
I was sentenced to chains so I'll have to make the best of it." Her look 
toward her captor was pleading, "I will try and not complain too much. But 
it's all so strange and so new and so fast. I expect I'm frightened." 

Arlette did an unexpected thing. Rising she clasped Monica's head and kissed 
her gently and lovingly on the lips. "Not to be afraid, mon chere petite. I 
think I will love you very much, and I think after I have whipped you many 
times you will love me. You do not believe this now. But you will." Gently 
she lowered her lips and licked tentatively at Monica's nipples. Then 
enfolded them firmly. Monica stood, her cheeks flaming scarlet, aware of a 
quite new sensation. Arlette stood back and encircled the circumference of 
each breast with one finger in a light tracery of touch. She smiled. 

"There is a chain I did not speak of. It is very beautiful; made for firm 
breasts like these. It encircles the chest. Two rings fit around your 
breasts so that when it is tightened and locked at the back they stick out 
very nicely in front. It is very good for the playing with the nipples, such 
helpless little nipples when the chain is made very tight. I will chain you 
like that one day. But not now." 

Arlette resumed her pose on the cot. "It pleases me to tell you of some of 
the things that will be your punishments. I am cruel, am I not?" She looked 
up at her captive roguishly. "But it will give mademoiselle much to think 
about while she is chained alone here. At such times it is good to have such 
things for there is much loneliness for naughty girls when they are chained 
naked and locked up for the night in their cell." 

"But there are no covers on the cot," Monica pointed out, feeling that she 
somehow wanted to cling to the mundane. She had little wish to hear whatever 
it might be that Arlette obviously would enjoy telling. 

Arlette grinned with enjoyment at her victim's digression. "But mademoiselle 
will sleep sans covers just as she walks sans clothes. Mademoiselle must at 
all times know that her person is ready and available for the whip. 
Mademoiselle has been naughty....The air will always be very warm...." she 
added as an afterthought. "And now perhaps I should continue." 

Monica longed to protest the idea of sleeping naked on that sparse narrow 
mattress. Such a thought could have found no place in her former life. But 
that life was gone. She played now what seemed to be the only trump card she 
had left. "But, but surely you must...." She knew again that she was 
blushing, "there are times ... you will have to set me free...." 

Arlette giggled happily. "Mais non, Cherie." Deftly she rolled back the 
bottom of the mattress which had indeed seemed unduly long, "Voila! The good 
Madame thought of everything when she had these nice cells made in which to 
lock naughty girls. You see! No trouble at all! Your chains are long 
enough." 

Indeed they would be long enough, Monica realized. 

The complete facility was there cunningly hidden within the cold stone of 
the cot or bench on which her mattress rested. Miserably she realized that 
she could be chained and left as she was forever without need to move or 
release her for the body's functions. 

Arlette allowed the mattress to slip back and hide the utility. Happily she 
resumed: 

"Mademoiselle glimpses how she will spend her nights. So I will tell 
something of her days. Our good Madame when she sentenced you told you how 
you would be robbed of freedom each day....Ah oui ma petite, you are about 
to say that you have no freedom now! But that is not so. You can walk 
several steps. You can rise or lay down. You can sleep or stay awake. You 
can scratch yourself when there is a place that demands scratching. In fact 
you are almost free compared to the manner in which our young ladies-our 
naughty young ladies-spend their days." She smiled mischievously. "Has 
mademoiselle perhaps ever spent a day standing in the stocks?" 

"Of course not! You know I haven't...." Monica felt ashamed at such a 
thought. 

"Ah, but now you will. I will lift up the heavy wood with its nice little 
holes just made to fit and mon pauvre Cherie will place her sweet little 
neck in the big circle in the center and her sweet little wrists one in each 
of the little circles to each side after she has taken her lovely hair and 
brought it forward and allowed it to fall down beside one cheek. Then I will 
very carefully let the bar down and mademoiselle will find that she can only 
wriggle her hands or her head. They will be held tight so that she must just 
stand there until someone decides to set her free. But that time will be far 
away. So she will just stand there and think about how foolish it was to be 
a naughty girl. She will even still be wearing the chains upon her ankles so 
that she cannot even kick." 

"I don't want to hear any more," Monica said firmly but without hope. 

"But there are other kinds of stocks, too. Mademoiselle should not despair." 
Arlette continued imperturbably. "One is so simple. You place your so nice 
derriere upon a bench and then your so nice ankles in the little slots so 
that I may lower the bar upon them, and there you sit. Sometimes we stretch 
the ankles very wide apart; this is very shaming to naughty girls. The holes 
are there to use. But it is such an easy way to spend the day, is it not? 
But there is one little thing-such a little thing. Your hands are tied 
behind your back so that you cannot use them to ease your position and your 
weight upon that hard bench. As the hours pass you wish very much that you 
could. It becomes so hard. Sometimes the naughty girls cry...." 

"Surely it can't hurt worse than the way we were tied this afternoon?" 

Arlette shrugged. "It is for mademoiselle to dis cover. There will be whole 
days like that. The naughty girls do not seem happy on such days so perhaps 
it is very painful to be tied so. But I tell now of the other kind of 
stocks-the not so nice ones. In these our little girl must sit as in the 
last I told of but now there is another bar to which she must raise her 
wrists and watch them clasped in the little holes so that now she sits with 
her feet spread wide and her arms spread and raised in front. She cannot 
move at all. Our girls tell me it is very trying to spend the day thus. 
Often I feel sorry for them and try to ease their ennui by giving them small 
pleasures with my hands and sometimes with my lips. Just small pleasure 
comprenez vous. Just enough to make them long for more, and then I go away 
and leave them. I am very cruel ... No?" 

"I don't understand such things," said Monica miserably. 

"I think you do, Cherie. You will. You will welcome my fingers and my lips 
very much on those days when you will stand very straight and very taut upon 
your toes because your wrists are fastened tight very far above your head. 
Such a day seems very long indeed. You so much long to lower your arms. You 
cannot. You must stand so all day. It is very bad." 

Monica blinked back tears. The pressure of emotion and events were hard to 
bear. She wanted desperately to acquit herself well before this rather 
likable French girl who had become her Mistress. But it was hard. She felt 
supremely ridiculous standing naked as she was. Any motion she essayed 
resulted instantly in the sound of metal on metal. Even to shift her weight 
from one foot to another evoked the clink of chain. These small sounds of 
the links that held her kept her flushed with shame. There was no escaping 
them. They accentuated her nudity. The chains fastened upon her were a 
manifold emphasis of a bondage of which she was deeply ashamed. It was too 
late now but she ardently wished that she could undo those acts of her own 
that had brought her to this plight. Much of what the French girl was now 
describing became vividly real in her almost certain knowledge that she must 
certainly suffer such punishment. It was why she was here. But some of 
Arlette's references and promises left her disturbed by emotions not 
previously plumbed in her suburban girlhood. They were indeed disturbing. 
She knew that even though she might dismiss them verbally she would never 
erase them from her inward awareness. Nor did she wish to. She had even felt 
a guilty excitement. She felt sure, too, that Arlette was well aware that 
this was so. Monica was concerned at that moment on just how she should 
react to her beautiful jailer's teasing. She was normally a spirited girl. 
The chains and the graphic descriptions of punishments to come irked her. 
But she was under a control even more compulsive: her affection for her 
parents and her voluntary acceptance of this bondage, plus a wish that she 
could not stifle to try and do the things that she believed Arlette might 
truly wish her to do. Thus she stood a naked captive held in thrall more by 
a turmoil of emotions than by her chains. So she stood meekly with downcast 
eyes as she supposed a girl in her situation was "expected to stand. 

"But it is not always so bad," Arlette continued cheerfully. "Sometimes, 
maybe as a little reward, I will chain you just by the neck only to the wall 
so that you stand quite naturally. But the chain she will be but a very few 
links only so that you will not be able to move away. You just stand. I will 
tie your hands behind your back so that you cannot use them to give yourself 
pleasure to relieve the ennui-this is very tantalizing. You will wish so 
much to have your hands. But they will be tied tightly high at your back. 
You will stand and stand and think and think and move from one foot to 
another and wonder what the time is. You will even move the small inches 
this way and that and turn a little to the wall. But always you will end by 
just standing. It does not hurt at all. One almost wishes that it did a 
little. It is a punishment of the most simple, but I remember it made me of 
the most angry to stand." 

"You!" exclaimed Monica aghast. 

"But, of course, Cherie." The French girl's laughter pealed out in genuine 
merriment at the look on her captive's face. "You do not think that Arlette 
is without knowledge of what she tells. The good Madame has sometimes been 
displeased with her grisetteperhaps I have punished too much or too little 
or perhaps I have been lazy or without politeness. When this is so the hand 
of our good Madam falls very heavy and poor Arlette finds herself standing 
in some position she would wish to be without ... or maybe sitting. It is 
never nice what happens at such times." She made a little moue of 
resignation. "Then even Arlette must suffer a outrance though always a 
contre coeur." 

"You mean you get punished. Just like Eve and the rest of us?" Even to her 
own ears Monica sounded incredulous. "But why ... Why do you accept it?" 

Arlette produced a delightfully Gallic shrug. "It is that this work I do 
pleases me very much. I would not wish to go away from it. The good Madam 
when she is employing me explained that I would be required so to dispose 
myself at her pleasure for two reasons she desired. First that she truly 
believes that girls need to be punished. Second she so wished that no 
infliction should be greater or more severe than is wise upon her girls. 
Thus Arlette has received all of the punishments much like-what you call it 
... the guinea pig. So poor Arlette has been a guinea pig many times. It was 
not nice...." 

"You-you mean you have stood in the stocks-and all those other things...?" 

"Oh, oui, mademoiselle. So it is that it is known to Madam and to Arlette 
what our girls are able to endure. We do not punish them beyond that. 
Perhaps we take them to where they are quite sure they cannot endure. But it 
is we who know. Madam believes it is good that we should know this. Even 
though it has been of the most painful for Arlette to discover." 

Monica eyed her companion with enhanced respect. It was all quite 
incredible. But then the chains whose weight she bore with constant 
awareness were incredible. Arlette's cheerful chronicle would have been 
fantasy a week ago. Now she believed every word of it. She quickly quelched 
an entertainingly vivid mental picture of Arlette shamefully chained or 
standing chagrined in the stocks. She pleaded: 

"Please don't tell me more of these horrid things that I must bear. I'm sure 
they are awful and I'm sure I'll cry and make a fuss. I expect I'll find out 
all about them soon enough." 

"Mademoiselle has six whole months." 

Tears came to Monica's eyes: "Please, I can't bear the suspense. What are 
you going to do to me now?" 

Arlette shook her head with a mock frown. "That is bad. Madam's girls do not 
ask of such things. To do so is to be punished. I should whip now that nice 
round bottom." She grinned mischievously. "But it is the first day and all 
rules are not yet known. Madam says always to be merciful. So I will not 
make the so delightful red stripes where you sit. They will be for 
mademoiselle to enjoy another time." 

"Enjoy!" Monica wished she had bitten back the exclamation. 

"Mais oui, Cherie!" Arlette's eyes sparkled gleefully. "Perhaps not of the 
first time-it is of a hurting most terrible. But if Arlette helps then one 
day mademoiselle ... who knows." 

"You mean you'll be kind-that you won't make it ... hurt?" Monica's voice 
quavered uncertainly. 

"Oh, non, non mademoiselle. That is not what I mean at all. Mademoiselle 
will always be whipped of the most hard. It is much the best so. When 
Arlette whips you your bottom will know it is of the most severe and you may 
come to feel such other things beside the pain....But let us not of this now 
talk. It is for another day." There was laughter in the French girl's voice. 
"Mademoiselle is of the most curious. So I will tell her that she is now 
ready for sleeping. There is bread, water and fruit. That is all. 
Mademoiselle will be alone for the rest of the evening and for the night. So 
she may do much thinking. Mademoiselle is not hurting. Her chains will hold 
her very tight. But they will not hurt. Not if you do not fight them." She 
smiled archly, "Or does mademoiselle perhaps think that after Arlette has 
gone she will fight her chains and maybe get free...?" 

Monica knew she was being teased. But despite the knowledge she found 
herself raising her joined wrists and examining the metal bands that 
encircled them so snugly and the shining links that held them close. Then, 
disdainfully, she raised one foot and shook it so that its linkage swirled 
until it snubbed her ankle and held it taut. Each circlet of metal that 
prisoned her nakedness fit her with a precision and a tight caress as though 
tailored only for her. With a shrug of resignation she returned her foot to 
the floor and allowed her hands once more to fall so that she posed a 
picture of beautiful docility. 

"Of course not! You know I won't." It was hard to keep her voice even and 
without resentment. "I could never get free of these-these things...." She 
shook one wrist so that the answering clink of chain emphasized the fine 
degree of disgust with which she, a young woman of fine breeding, managed to 
clothe that last word. 

"So sensible a girl." Arlette approved. She grinned amusedly. "But you will 
see: after Arlette has gone and ma petite is all alone she will amuse 
herself to test what those nice chains will permit. It is natural so. We all 
do. But now I must leave my little caged pigeon. Arlette has much work...." 

With sure swift motion the French girl rose and, clasping Monica's head 
gently between her hands imprinted a soft warm kiss upon her lips, a kiss 
that Monica instinctively yearned to prolong but which left her watching 
dolefully as her lovely jailer left the small cell. The heavy metal barred 
door clanged shut with a harsh finality and Monica knew a moment of fear as 
the key was turned and the sound of well oiled bolts sliding home told her 
brutally that she was indeed captive. Arlette tossed her a laughing kiss of 
farewell and was suddenly gone. She stood naked in her bonds and gazed 
forlornly through the bars at the huge key to her cell where it hung 
mockingly on the wall across the corridor where Arlette had placed it. 

Monica would always remember this first evening of her captivity. But it was 
a strange mixture of emotions that she was prey to. The first was fear. With 
Arlette gone there was a total silence broken only by the sound of her own 
chains if she moved. Her so total enslavement was frightening. All movement 
inhibited. Caged within stone walls and iron bars and a door terribly 
locked. Her nudity made her doubly defenseless, doubly shamed. Suddenly the 
walls had eyes and she longed to cover herself. Suppose she was forgotten 
here-left locked and chained as the days dragged by! Resolutely she thrust 
such thoughts away. Her plight was exactly as she had been told it would be. 
There was no cause for panic. She remembered her sentence: to be chained in 
a cell at night and to be punished each day: to be regularly whipped once 
each week. She shivered, but not from cold. The air was warm. She was a 
normally courageous girl, but the time ahead was daunting. 

Striving to rationalize her condition she knew that she was able to contain 
her panic because of Arlette. Arlette had a way with her. Monica had little 
expectation of either connivance or leniency from this exuberant French 
girl. Madam Dubois's discipline would undoubtedly be imposed to the letter. 
But still it was good to know that the key to her chains was held by a girl 
of her own age with whom she might laugh and perhaps seek comfort. There was 
a reassuring glow in the memory of Arlette's lips....Monica found herself 
examining a seemingly irrelevant pleasure in her memory that her jailer was 
beautiful. 

She was tired of standing. She had stood thus since Arlette's order to do 
so. Now she could move. But how-where! To so immediately prove Arlette 
correct in her prediction would be annoying; but she had been right, there 
was a nagging compulsion to test the limits of her confinement. Monica took 
a tentative step toward the door, then another. The chains that held her at 
neck and waist uncoiled and followed her like obedient pets. Another hobbled 
shuffle and yet another....Suddenly her tethers asserted their authority. 
Her neck snapped back and there came a harsh tug at her waist. She stood, 
the chains taut joining her naked figure to the wall. It was infuriating. 
She was still several feet from the door. She doubted that she might even 
reach if someone was to offer her something thrust through the bars. She was 
worse off than even the animals in the zoo. They, at least, could reach the 
outer limits of their prison. There was a bitter humiliation in this 
knowledge that the cell door could as well have been left open. Chained as 
she was she could never pass through it. 

Dolefully she retraced her steps and tested the mattress. It was hard. She 
had expected it would be. She ate a peach and drank some water. A mental 
picture of her parent's dinner table and the savory food that would be 
dispensed from it left her aware that her punishment encompassed more than 
the loss of liberty. Prodding the mattress with her chained hands left her 
wondering if it might not also include the loss of sleep. It seemed 
improbable that a girl might lay on this unyielding bench and be quite naked 
with no covering whatsoever and every part of her held in the embrace of 
chains whose unaccustomed weight imposed a constant awareness and their 
clinking and rattle as she moved was like a small and mocking laughter at 
her discomfort. 

"What cannot be cured must be endured." Monica remembered the adage 
ruefully. She lifted her chained legs on to the narrow bench, stretched out 
and lay down. But there was chain everywhere. The links that had been all 
too short when she had striven to reach the door now coiled beneath her 
redundantly. Angrily she thrust them away and off the surface on which she 
must lay. But then their hanging length tugged at her as a weight at her 
neck and at her middle. She wished that she might have been chained only at 
wrist and ankle. These strictures were bad enough but could be borne. It was 
the long lengths of chain tethering her to the wall that had become an enemy 
to rest. Unhappily she tugged and pushed until they ceased to irk. 

Suddenly and strangely she fell asleep. 

It is to be supposed that Madam Dubois was well aware of the tonic quality 
of the unexpected. Certainly none of her new charges had imagined that on 
the first morning of their new condition they would find themselves standing 
in line on the polished floor of a well appointed gymnasium. Six naked young 
women, chained at wrist and ankle; otherwise free. There had been smiles of 
recognition as they had been shepherded together and some rueful grimaces 
over the noise of their chains. But they had been adjured to silence by 
Arlette as she had brought them from their cells. A silence that none would 
break for Madam Dubois herself was present and, even though her face bore a 
smile, her hand held a black and wicked looking riding crop. 

"Attendez! To stand very straight and to make a thrust out with the chest, 
please." 

There was a shuffling and much clinking. Stealing a swift glance sideways 
from her position at THE ENDof the row Monica felt an impulse to giggle-the 
room seemed suddenly filled with breasts and nipples. But she took a deep 
breath and stuck out her own dutifully and waited. 

"It is not good that young women have no exercise," said Madam Dubois. 
"Mostly, as you have been told, you will move very little or not at all. So 
each morning we will have the blood to circulate with drill that my good 
Arlette will instruct. Please to pay attention and obey. You wear the chains 
because you must. It is best so ... no silly ideas. But they will not impede 
the motions required." Madam Dubois's eyes swept benignly over the erect row 
of girls, "To not obey is to be whipped." Suddenly she cut the air in a 
swift arc with the crop. Its vicious whine prompted six female spines to an 
even greater rigidity, "It is a good sound-No?" 

Monica was tired and hot and damp when Arlette was through with them. Eve 
was the only one who had acquitted herself well. She was used to the chains. 
The rest of them found their metal bonds a handicap. There had been some 
sharp admonitions. But the whip had not been used. 

"It is good to perspire. But now we shower." Madam announced. 

The shower room was as unexpected as the gym. A bare stone compartment with 
a hose. On the opposite wall a metal ring. Arlette disposed her class around 
the room. She then motioned to Eve who obediently stepped up to the metal 
ring and offered her hands so that their chain could be padlocked to it. She 
thus stood with her hands held above her head, but not strained. She was 
free to move within the limits of the linkage that fastened her wrists. It 
was obvious that the position was not new to her. She stood waiting, not 
happily, but evidently with a knowledge of what was about to take place. 

There was no pause. Madam picked up the hose, turned on the water and 
directed the strong spray full upon the chained girl. Monica, watching, lost 
any illusion that the water might be warm. Eve gasped. The sardonic glint 
her eyes habitually held was instantly replaced by one of abject misery. 
Gasping and shaking the water from her eyes she turned this way and that in 
response to curt orders. Madam's voice was crisp: "Back," and then "Front," 
and again: "To the side please." Watching the helpless girl endure the awful 
spray that cleverly sought out every intimate part of her it was hard to 
know if this was an ablution or a punishment. Monica guessed it to be both. 

The water stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Arlette unlocked the padlock 
and handed Eve a heavy towel with which the chained girl quickly began a 
fumbling effort to dry her shivering nakedness as she moved to join the 
others. Arlette beckoned to Monica. 

Miserably she took the same stance as had Eve. Determined not to disgrace 
herself she raised her chained hands and heard the click as Arlette snapped 
the lock. She must stand now as though part of the wall itself. Her stricken 
gaze sought Eve to see how well it might be possible to dry oneself with 
chained hands. But at that moment the water struck her full force and all 
other things were forgotten in one great gasp of pure agony. 

It was far worse than Monica had imagined it would be. No doubt Eve had 
become inured to it. But she was not. The awful cold and the stinging jets 
bit at her as though alive. She had never known cold like this. Cold so 
awful that it enveloped and demoralized completely taking her courage with 
it. Dimly through the battering of the water she heard Madam's voice issuing 
the commands that she must obey. Pitifully she tried, but whichever way she 
turned the water sought her out relentlessly. As though from a great 
distance she heard her own voice: "Oh, please! No more! Oh, please atop!! I 
can't bear it...." 

Instantly the water did stop as though bv magic. 

"Mademoiselle perhaps prefers the whip?" Madam's voice was equally icy. 

Monica had never felt more bereft. Hands chained above her head, naked, 
water dripping from every part of her, unable to move from where she stood. 
Blinking she shook the water from her eyes. Instantly they focused on the 
awful slenderness of the whip in Madam Dubois's hand. She was sure it would 
hurt unbearably. She felt ashamed of her weakness. Reason dictated that it 
was better to endure the water alone rather than both the water and the 
whip. Once more she heard her voice pitiful in its hopelessness: 

"I am sorry, Madam. Please forgive me. I do not want to be whipped. Please 
continue my shower. I will be good...." 

"Tres bon!" said Madam Dubois approvingly. 

Once more the water sought and held its victim. A victim who, this time, 
turned and stood as she was told and who did not again cry out beyond the 
involuntary gasps that were beyond control. 

Thus Monica received her first shower. 

They were allowed to help each other dry. Each dis covered that there was 
much of the human anatomy that could not be towelled by linked hands. They 
were grateful. Arlette helped. It became evident that their next phase was 
immediately ahead and should be speeded. Chained feet sped this way and that 
with quick menacing steps. Monica found herself with Marjorie and Arlette in 
one more bare room. Its only furnishings appeared to be what looked like a 
couple of large wooden packing cases. But the sides of which were open and 
barred so as to resemble a cage. The tops were open. 

"Please to step in." requested Arlette cheerfully. 

Marjorie and Monica eyed the cages with dislike. They seemed far too small 
to hold a girl. 

"I can't step in. Not with my feet chained," Marjorie pointed out 
reasonably. 

"Mademoiselle is stupid-No?" Arlette took her reluctant captive by the arm, 
"Just to sit on the edge and lift feet over and in. So easy. See." 

Explained that way it was indeed quite easy. Monica doubtfully followed 
suit. Arlette had pushed Marjorie down into a sitting position. Monica sat. 
To do so she found herself hugging her knees. Her head remained above the 
level of the top. Surely she would not be compelled to bow it between her 
legs so that she would be compressed almost into a ball! But no. Arlette was 
busy with what appeared to be a lid. Monica now noticed that the top edge of 
the cage contained a flanged groove. Behind her neck she realized was a half 
circle into which she was fitting quite snugly. It was easy to guess the 
rest. But she watched as Arlette fitted the lid into its groove and slid it 
up the length of the cage towards her captive's throat. The lid, too, 
contained its small half circle which completed the prisonment of the neck. 
Arlette busied herself with lifting Marjorie's hair over the lip of the 
wood, then slid the cover home. She then pushed down a bolt at the bottom 
end so that the cover was now held immovably in its groove and the two 
matching half circles firmly gripped Marjorie's neck. Thus she was held 
captive, hugging her knees, within the cage. Her nudity clearly visible 
through the bars at each side. Totally helpless to reach the bolt that might 
free her. Her head quite divorced from the rest of her person which she 
could not see through the smooth boards that formed the lid. She sat with 
only her head visible above the box. She could turn her head. But that was 
all. It was held snug. It was simple. It was ingenious. It precluded escape. 
Monica hated it. 

But she sat quietly as she, too, was secured. When it was done and the bolt 
shot home it was a strange sensation to be held thus by the neck and be 
unable to see any part of the rest of herself. Her chained hands were now 
confined as they embraced her legs so that she could not even thrust a 
finger through the bars. Her toes were thrust against the bottom end of her 
cage. To stretch or to ease her position was impossible. She glimpsed an 
unhappy vista of the hours to come. 

"The first day is to be kind," Arlette explained. 

"You have company. You see each other. You talk. You do everything except 
get out of the little cage. No! Arlette will bring water to drink sometimes. 
Maybe if you are good girls Arlette will scratch the nose." She laughed 
cheerfully. "The nose it always itch when the neck is held so. Is same in 
the stocks. Is very hard to bear." 

"Of course it's hard to bear," said Marjorie petulantly. "You don't mean you 
are going to leave us like this all day?" 

"Mais oui! It is the all day that is for punish. An hour or two-pouf! It is 
nothing. But after awhile you will wish very much to get out of your nice 
little cage. Now I go. You will be here when I returnno!" 

The door closed. Their happy jailer gone the two captives stared at each 
other dolefully. 

"Bitch!" said Marjorie with feeling. 

"No!" Monica's fervent exclamation was involuntary. "She isn't like that at 
all. I like her. She's only doing what she must." 

"You can't tell me she doesn't enjoy it." 

"Well, yes," Monica conceded. "But she isn't spiteful or cruel or cold. I 
can think of worse...." 

"Yes, my old man for instance." 

"Who?" Monica's curiosity was piqued. 

"The Pater. Dear father: The nice man who sent me here." Marjorie's voice 
was bitter. "Don't you have one?" 

"Of course." Monica bit her lip. What did one say about one's male parent at 
a time like this. "But I wouldn't say...." 

"You wouldn't say he was cruel to you: that's it, isn't it!" Marjorie was 
vehement. "Well, mine is. I expect it will be a lot worse here. Look at the 
way we are fixed right now. But being home isn't much fun for me either. I 
don't suppose I'll get whipped here much worse than I did with dear old 
Dad." 

"Your father did that to you!" Monica was truly shocked. In her world young 
ladies did not have fathers who used whips. Mother had used a cane once or 
twice but that was all. 

"It's nice to talk to someone about it." said Marjorie resignedly. "Better 
than just sitting in these damn boxes and gaping at each other. It's going 
to hurt after awhile. I can tell already. So I might as well tell you the 
story of my life. Make you feel better about yours. 

"Mother died when I was born. I suppose he resented me for that. Aunt Amy, 
his sister, came and lived with us. She raised me. I think she resented me 
too. And I think it was her who got him started...." 

"Started?" 

"Yes. This punishment idea. Aunt Amy thought a girl ought to be punished for 
everything-that's the way I remember it when I was quite small. Then as I 
grew up she handed the whip and the cane to Father and after he had used 
them on me for awhile-they always found plenty of excuses-I think he got to 
enjoy the idea and he bought some of his own. Wicked awful things supposed 
to be used on horses, not girls. After I was about twelve years old he 
always made quite a ceremony of it. I had to bare my bottom and touch my 
toes, and I mustn't move. Sometimes I did move. Then I got double. He loved 
to have me bend over with my bare bottom in the air and just waitsometimes 
as much as an hour. He would leave the room from time to time so that I'd 
have to wonder if it might be safe for me to straighten up for a rest. But 
he caught me nearly every time; I think he just waited outside the door. So 
in the end I just bent over and waited like a good little girl. I think I 
must have been the goodest little girl in the county. But it never did me 
any good. 

"Then when I really began to grow into a girl; a young woman; a female or 
whatever you want to call it. You know ... all of a sudden you find yourself 
with two breasts and a curving bottom and all that lovely black hair below 
your tummy. That's when they really branched out with other things besides 
the whip. They called it: 'making me ashamed.' It did. I could have died." 

Marjorie paused as though remembering. There came a rueful twist of her 
lips, a half smile. 

"The first thing they did sounds almost funny now. But it wasn't then. It 
shamed and humiliated me beyond anything I had known. They were sporty types 
so there were always dogs and horses. There were kennels for the dogs. One 
quite big one kept separate and unused. The dog had died. They took me out 
to it one morning and chained me to it with a leather collar locked around 
my neck. I could sit outside where anyone might see me or crawl inside where 
there was scarcely room to move. But I couldn't get more than about four 
feet away from the damn thing because of the chain. It was wickedly 
mortifying. I felt as though the whole world was looking at me chained there 
like a dog. When I heard anyone coming I crawled inside. They left me like 
that for twenty-four hours. Gave me bread and water and left me alone. 

"They used a lot of things like that. It didn't hurt, of course, just shamed 
me. They looked after the hurting too. The whip was always around somewhere. 
But it's just in the last couple of years since I grew to be what Aunt Amy 
calls 'fully developed' that they got their worst ideas. They thought of a 
way to shame me and hurt me at the same time. 

"Aunt Amy knitted me what she called my 'punishment suit.' It was heavy soft 
wool and was in three pieces. I had to go to her room and strip naked and 
allow her to put the damn thing on me. It was really a pair of tights with 
no middle. The top was a sweater or vest effect. It fitted me like a glove. 
I might as well have been naked, it showed everything. It had a turtle neck 
and a snug tight fitting band that clung just under my ribs. Then there were 
two legs. You might as well call them stockings. When they were on and 
pulled up tight they reached all the way to the top of my thighs and clung 
there as though they were glued. You couldn't see a bit of my skin except 
for what really mattered, my bare bottom, my tummy and my cunny. It made me 
feel twice as naked as being totally stripped. She then gave me a wrap and 
told me to follow. I trotted after her like an obedient puppy. I was so damn 
thankful for that wrap. With all the things that had happened to me I had 
long since stopped being prudish, but there was something about that awful 
punishment dress that made me curl up with shame that someone might see me. 
Even with Aunt Amy after she had tugged and stretched it on me I'd blushed 
and wanted to use my hands to hide what was showing. Anyway she took me out 
to an empty shed that had once been used for storing something but wasn't in 
use now though it had been cleaned and kept tidy and in good repair. Maybe 
it was a good thing that it did have a good door and lots of clean windows 
set high in the walls. I suspected that whatever was going to happen to me 
in there I wouldn't want any more people watching than I had to have. 

"In the middle of the floor there stood a heavy packing case. My Aunt 
motioned me to jump up on it. She then produced two objects that turned out 
to be wristlets. They were quite wide and padded with sheepskin. She buckled 
one on each of my wrists. I wondered what I had done to earn such comfort. 
Even though she drew the straps terribly tight they did not bite or cut like 
ordinary straps or rope. I soon found out. Each had an iron ring. When Aunt 
Amy pointed above my head I soon saw what I was in for. Obeying her curt 
command I raised my arms and, by standing on tip toe, managed to slip the 
rings into the sharp curve of a hook suspended above by a chain from the 
rafters. I was still busy placing them and wriggling my wrists so as to be 
as comfortable as possible when she jerked the box away and there I was 
hanging with my toes at least six inches off the floor. 

"I don't suppose that ever happened to you. So you can't have any idea how 
bloody awful it feels. The worst thing is that you can't do anything about 
it. You just hang and feel foolish and helpless. At first you kick and 
wriggle. But you soon stop because it hurts. I stopped, and there was good 
old Aunt Amy sitting on the box. I could see she was getting ready to give 
me one of her lectures. She looked so infuriatingly approving of what she 
saw. Me! 

"I got the usual. I expect you know it too. The duties of a parent. Have to 
be cruel to be kind. Spare the rod and spoil the child. But this one ended 
up with a really grand finale. They had decided there was no need to exert 
themselves to whip me. From now on whenever I was to be whipped I would be 
hung as I was right then and the groom would do the job. It was like her 
saying: 'After all, what are servants for!' She made it sound as though I 
should feel glad that good old George the groom had been promoted from 
currycombing the horses to currycombing the horses and whipping the young 
Mistress. Probably another half crown a week. Imagine my feelings...." 

Monica could well imagine such feelings. She had a brief awful vision of a 
man entering the room they were in at that moment and leering at her nudity 
through the bars of her cage. Such a thing could not happen, of 
course....But just suppose! She cringed. 

"What was George like?" she asked, torn between horror and curiosity. 

"You know the word 'yokel' or the jokes about a country bumpkin: well that's 
what George our groom was. He was about my own age and he was likable 
enough. All I'd ever had to do with him was to give him the odd order about 
a horse to ride or some errand for the Pater. Now, all of a sudden, I was 
told that George would come in and whip my bare bottom while I was strung up 
like a gaffed salmon. I could understand, then, my Aunt's concern over my 
punishment dress. After all, George was just a servant. It would be only 
proper that he should see just the part of me he was working on and no more. 
But that 'part' loomed very large in my consciousness as I hung there and 
listened. I was terribly aware that he wasn't just going to see the curve of 
my bottom that he had to whip. He was also going to see my 'front.' But this 
did not seem to bother Aunt Amy at all. It was part of my punishment-this 
'shame' idea that had become such a big thing with them...." 

"I don't believe it...!" said Monica without conviction. What she was 
hearing opened up horrific vistas quite beyond any personal experience. She 
was both fascinated and repelled. 

Marjorie grinned, amused at her companion's Victorian reticence. "Not to 
worry. I'll tell you anyway. 

It passes the time. You do believe it, of course. You just think people 
shouldn't talk about such things. I do declare this place must be an awful 
shock to you!" 

"Anyway, having delivered this bombshell, my Aunt left and firmly closed the 
door. I just continued to hang there wanting more than anything else in the 
world to cover up that nice little furry spot between my legs. I knew I was 
all alone. But I felt as though everyone in the south of England was having 
a good look at it. 

"It took George quite a long while to show up. That was part of the 
punishment, of course. You'll learn all about waiting here. It's awful. When 
he did show up he was just as I'd expected; red faced and sweating. His 
features were about the mixture of servile embarrassment and unholy joy that 
you'd expect. I pitied him for one and envied him the other. It was a 
memorable occasion for our groom! He gaped in popeyed amazement at my naked 
middle, then dragged his eyes away from it and studiously looked elsewhere. 
He took off his hat and kept turning it in his hands. I'll do the best I can 
with his dialect: 

"'E, Missy, I be sorry ter see 'ee like this, I be." 

"George wasn't a bad chap. I knew he felt he had to say something even if it 
wasn't true. I suspected that he was closer to Paradise right then than he'd 
ever expected to be." 

"I expect ther Missus tole 'ee, like, what I got ter do ter 'ee...?" 

"I let him have it with both barrels: 'Yes, George,' I said. 'You are going 
to whip me on my naked bottom." 

Marjorie chuckled reminiscently. "George had been red before. Now he went 
scarlet." 

"It ain't nothin' I wants ter do, young Missy. But I got me orders." 

"I wasn't going to let him down easy, so I suggested that if he didn't want 
to whip me he could just kick the box over and I'd get down and we could 
have a nice chat instead. Poor George. I really think he was in agony. But I 
could see, too, that it was hopeless. 

George would do as he had been told. After all why wouldn't he! Any man 
would give a lot to be able to whip a naked girl while she was hung up by 
the wrists." 

"They wouldn't!" exclaimed Monica hotly. "I'm sure they wouldn't...!" 

Marjorie smiled complacently. "They would, you know! Poor kid. You have a 
lot to learn. Men love whipping girls. They'd say they didn't. But I know 
better. Women love it too-at least some do. I'm damn sure our good Madam and 
our so charming Arlette adore doing it." 

"George was no conversationalist. He took off his coat in a business-like 
way that sent shivers up my spine. He went behind me. Looking over my 
shoulder and twisting a bit I watched him hang it on a nail and take down 
quite the wickedest of the long slender riding crops that dear Old Dad had 
purchased 'specially for his naughty daughter's bottom. As they say in the 
novels: I knew at that moment that 'my time had come." 

"'It be twenty strokes I has ter lace 'ee with, Missy,' George announced in 
a husky voice. And then, without any warning he gave me the first of them. 

"I don't suppose you have ever been whipped," Marjorie continued 
meditatively. "You will be. It hurts more than you believe possible. Of 
course I'd been whipped many times before. But never hung taut as I was now. 
Good faithful George whipped me harder than anyone else had ever done. I'm 
quite sure he honestly felt he had to-quite apart from also enjoying his 
work. I remember I kicked and squirmed and yelped. Hung like that a girl can 
writhe into all sorts of shameful contortions. I did them all. But it did no 
good. George patiently waited until my naked bottom swung around into what 
he considered its best possible position and then sliced it again. By the 
time I'd had ten strokes, just half my sentence, I was almost hysterical 
with agony. Every time a lash fell upon a weal already on my skin it was so 
awful that I about went into a gymnastic display at the end of my chain. If 
it hadn't been for those cuffs I was strapped with my wrists would have been 
cut to the bone. 

"But these gyrations did one thing for me. As I swung back and forth I 
managed a look at George as he stood there waiting with that damn whip. He 
was really sweating now. But it wasn't with exertion. Inside the front of 
his trousers there was a damn great bulge. I knew what that meant-I expect 
you know too, even though you are probably too prissy to admit it! I could 
have killed the big oaf! To think that suffering what I was having to endure 
made him feel that good....It was infuriating. But it also gave me an idea." 

"George," I said. And I made my voice as hurt and little girlish as I could. 
"If you'll stop whipping me now I'll let you have me." 

"Well, he stopped alright. He walked round in front of me, and this time he 
had a damn good long look at the only thing I had to bargain with before he 
looked up at me without saying a word. I could see I was going to have to 
spell it out a little more clear-ly. It wasn't easy. I'd never had a man 
before. If the pain hadn't been so awful I'd never have thought of such a 
thing. In a very small girl's voice I said: You can stick that great big 
thing in your trousers into me all you want if only you'll let me down and 
not whip me any more. You want that, don't you?" 

"Never had a maiden offered her all more humbly. And never did it do a 
maiden less good. Can you guess what that farmyard lout said:" 

"I be doin' that ter yer anyway, young Missy, when I be through wi' yer 
whippin'." 

"Imagine my feelings. I'd never felt so naked and alone. I realized 
instantly that hanging helpless as I was I could not bargain. I could not do 
anything except suffer what others wished to do to me. But I had to try: "If 
you do that Daddy will horsewhip you and send you to prison." I vowed with 
as much conviction as I could muster." 

"Will 'ee naow. Ter Guvnor won't be knowing!" 

"I'll tell him!" I said hotly, feeling sure of this trump card. 

"I thought 'bout all that." George said ponderously. 

"Afore I decided what I'd be a'doin' to ee." He leered up at me knowingly. 
"You ain't goin' ter tell no one because if yer gets rid of me then next 
time yer a 'hangin' like this then it'll be old Hawkins the Coachman who'll 
be a'doin' the whipping. Yer wouldn't like that would yer?" 

"George was right. I wouldn't like it. Old Hawkins was very much the old 
family retainer. Very loyal. Often very drunk. He was also religious in a 
way that I suspected would prompt him to lay on the whip twice as hard and 
twice as much-you know, for the good of my soul. And in the end I'd probably 
find him doing just what George was going to do-or worse. There are worse 
things, y'know. But I made one more try: 

"I won't be hanging like this again." I said firmly. Not believing a word of 
it. George didn't believe a word of it either." 

"We know that 'baint so, don't we young Missy. I 'specs 'ee be a'hangin' ter 
way 'ee is now right often the way I hear." 

"George sounded positively gloating. I knew I was for it. I'd never felt 
more hopeless. I just wanted to get the whole damn business over with. It 
would be heaven to get my feet on the ground again. I just didn't care any 
more about what George was going to do to me when I'd been whipped. I was 
even curious and half excited. I'm sure all girls are about that first time. 
I bet you were...." Marjorie laughed at the blush that suffused Monica's 
features. "Alright, alright, don't pretend! You don't have to say a word. I 
know." 

"Anyway, I just gave George the most haughty glare I could muster arfd 
closed my lips tight. He just grinned like a Cheshire cat and took up his 
position behind me once more. "Ee have some right fine marks on that nice 
little backside o' your'n." He observed. "Only ten mor' strokes ter lay on. 
I be give 'ee real good 'uns naow." And right there he gave me number eleven 
that was so awful I actually screamed and danced at the end of my chain like 
a puppet. 

It finally ended. These things do. You'll discover that here. While it's 
going on you can't bring yourself to believe that they'll ever stop. But 
they do. We'll be let out of these cages sometime. But it'll seem like 
years. So I hung there, hurting like blazes. But thankful that the awful 
pain in my wrenched arms and shoulders would soon be over too. I had a 
surprise coming.... 

George wasted no time. While I was still sobbing and gasping from the last 
stroke that felt as though it had cut me in two he opened up his trousers 
and took out a weapon so big and so stiff it scared me. I just couldn't 
believe it could all get inside my slim little middle. He kicked the box 
over and got up in front of me so close I could feel that damn thing rubbing 
against my belly. Before I could get my feet adjusted he had grabbed me from 
each side under my bottom with his great hams of hands and lifted me up so 
that my feet were on each side of him and my cunny was pressing down on the 
tip of that thing that was going to go inside it. He was frighteningly 
strong. He handled and held me as though I was a doll. I was so shocked and 
amazed at what was happening to me that I didn't even say anything. Looking 
back I realize George was being kind. He was not brutal as he could have 
been. He did not ram me down in one first stroke. But played with my cunny 
by letting the hard moist tip rub against it so that it soon slipped a 
little way in quite easily. I was still hanging by my wrists. He held my 
legs prisoner under his muscled arms. He began to raise and lower me gently 
and then with increasing range so that each time I came down I was more 
rigidly impaled. I hurt quite a lot. You know how it is for a girl that 
first time, so I don't need to tell you. He achieved the impossible and got 
the whole enormous thing inside me. Even a novice as I was could tell he was 
enjoying himself very much. When it was over he quickly kicked the box away 
before I could get my feet on it. I was still hanging. He looked at his 
Thing as he buttoned himself up. Then up at me. 

"I see it be just time for 'ee, Young Missy. I be sorry for it hurtin' like. 
Next time it'll be real champion for 'ee." 

"Next time!!" I suppose he could see the great big question mark on my face. 

"Oh, aye. I got small job ter do in stable. Then I be back ter do 'ee 
agin'." 

"But let me down! Oh please let me down!" I pleaded. 

"George looked genuinely surprised. "I can't do that, young Missy," he 
explained. "The missus wer' very firm 'bout that, she were. "Let the young 
hussy hang there for an hour afterwards" she says ter me. So that's what I 
got ter do. I be right sorry for 'ee. But I'll do 'ee as often as I can so 
mebbe 'twont seem so bad." He turned and left. This time I heard a lock 
click in the door. 

"Think about it. It was bloody awful. But I suppose you could make a funny 
story out of it. I'm sure a man would. I'd been stripped, hung by the 
wrists, whipped and violated. Now I had to go on hanging with my arms almost 
pulled out of their sockets. My only immediate prospect of relief was that, 
having been competently deflowered, George would come and 'Do me' as often 
as he could manage it in an hour. 

"So I just hung there and waited and, sure enough, good Old George came to 
'Do me' three more times. I suppose you can guess that after the next time I 
enjoyed it. I really think George tried to be kind because it soon began to 
feel wonderful so that I even forgot the pain in my arms. It was such a 
relief, too, when he held me like that. My weight was off my wracked 
shoulders. The last time I wished he'd go on and never stop. It was such 
ecstasy that I gasped and groaned and cried out almost as though I was being 
whipped again...." 

"But that's a terrible way for a girl to be treated by her guardians." 
Monica declared. "Why didn't you run away?" 

"Oh I tried that." Marjorie assured her cheerfully. "I tried it the next 
day. But they must have been expecting it. I was caught red handed. I was 
really scared. I expected to get the skin whipped off my back. But this time 
my dear Aunt thought of something that she said: 'Fitted the crime'. 

I was locked in a cupboard until evening. Then Auntie let me out and 
announced that we were going for a walk. And that's just what we did. You 
can imagine I was mystified. The only unusual thing about our 'walk' was a 
very ordinary looking bag that my Aunt was carrying. Our's is a big country 
type house with a lot of ground-mostly park. Lawns run down from the house, 
but between us and the main road we are shielded by a sizable wood. Aunt Amy 
led me down the path and along one of the many small paths that bisected the 
trees and shrubs. She took me to a point where it was just possible to see 
and to hear the scarce bit of traffic that used that road. She then looked 
around as though searching for something. I was absolutely quivering with 
both curiosity and apprehension. After a few moments she seemed satisfied 
and, taking me by the arm, led me a few paces to where a small tree stood 
quite alone. I suppose the trunk was six or eight inches. It had a couple of 
boughs branching off at a height of five or six feet. It wasn't much of a 
tree. But it was ideal for what she wanted it for. She then told me to 
strip. 

"Afterwards you think of fine heroic things you could have done. I could 
have run for the road or stamped my foot and said 'No!'. But, of course, I 
did neither. Like a good little girl I started to undress. I took my time, 
hoping that Aunt Amy might relent or maybe keep some little something on. 
But every time I looked at her questioningly she shook her head, so it 
wasn't long before I stood in front of her quite naked and scared to death. 
I had figured out what would happen: I would be tied to the tree and whipped 
all over: that was why I was naked and that was why my Aunt was doing the 
job. It wouldn't have been proper for George or any of the servants to have 
seen the young Mistress in the altogether. I was shivering with fear about 
what was in that bag. What kind of a whip would it be! 

"But it wasn't a whip. When Aunt Amy turned it upside down a lot of metal 
objects tumbled out. She made me hold out my right hand and I stood naked 
and feeling foolish while she fitted a metal band round my wrist and 
fastened it tight with a padlock. A piece of chain was attached. She took 
this and, lifting my hand to about eye level, passed the chain round the 
tree trunk above the first of the branches, so that it could not be pulled 
down, drew it tight and padlocked that too. She then explained that since I 
had wished to leave my home she was going to give me the opportunity to do 
so for at least one night. Instead of my nice comfortable private bedroom 
with its soft warm bed I could stand there naked until she chose to come and 
release me. I could, of course, shout for help and perhaps someone on the 
road might hear me and come to my rescue.-She passed this suggestion to me 
with a fine sarcastic relish. She knew damn well I wasn't likely to do that 
and have any Tom, Dick or Harry come and find me naked and chained to a tree 
just waiting for anything they might want to do to me. I was too far from 
our house for any noise I might make to be heard there. Actually I was 
scared to death someone on the road, a coachman or rider who could see over 
the hedge might catch sight of me. I was covered with shame at the thought. 
Whatever they did I wouldn't like it. I knew it was useless to plead. So I 
just stood and watched Aunt Amy walk back towards the house carrying every 
bit of my clothing with her in the little bag. 

"It was a cleverly awful way to punish me. Night was close. I had to stand 
there naked with my wrist chained just high enough that I could not lay down 
or sit down or even kneel. I had to stand. It was a warm night. But that was 
about the only good thing. There were gnats and I was kept busy slapping at 
myself with my free hand. I couldn't even reach all of myself so they had a 
field day on my skin. It was a tantalizing position. Except for one wrist 
which I could not move even an inch from it's fastening on the tree I was 
quite free to move as I liked. But that one wrist held me there by the tree 
as effectively as though I was swarthed in chains or rope. I looked around. 
There was no cover. I stood nude for anyone to see who might care to look. 
From time to time I could see movement on the road and hear the rattle of 
harness or a carriage. At such moments I pressed myself against my tree as 
though I was a part of it and prayed that the driver would not look too 
deeply in the trees. I thought of poachers and crawly things, and as it got 
dark I had to really work at keeping down panic. Sometimes I couldn't stop 
the tears. But I stood there through the night. It was awful. I tried to 
sleep but every time I nodded away I fell and jerked my wrist. I was never 
so thankful to see anyone as I was to see Aunt Amy in the morning. But she 
just gave me a drink and an apple and left me there pleading and crying 
until she was out of sight. That was a bad moment: the knowledge that I was 
not going to be set free. I was terribly tired and drooped exhausted against 
the tree all day. When night came again I became frightened and desperate. I 
jerked at that damn chain until my wrist was bleeding. But, of course, it 
did no good. About the time I knew I was there for the night Auntie showed 
up and set me free. I'm ashamed to say I kissed her and kept saying thank 
you all the time I was putting on my clothes. And that was that. Aunt Amy 
had planned it all very shrewdly." 

Marjorie fell silent. She grinned ruefully across at her fellow captive. 
"Sorry to be a bore. Didn't mean to. Got carried away. You're the first 
person I have been able to tell it to. Thank's for listening." She frowned, 
as though with effort, then asked: "I'm starting to hurt, how about you?" 

Monica had been hurting for some time, but had been sufficiently engrossed 
in Marjorie's chronicle that it had been easy to ignore. Suddenly she longed 
to stretch her legs and to shift her weight from one cheek to another. The 
cage, with it's close stricture round her neck, denied her. 

"How long have we been like this?" She asked hopefully. 

"I don't know. That's part of the punishment." Marjorie explained. "It's one 
of the worst parts-not knowing." 

"It feels like hours and hours. I'm so stiff and cramped I could scream." 
Monica said wearily. I can't really move at all. This business of fixing our 
necks this way-it prevents you doing anything." 

Had it been possible for Monica to move within her small cage her reflexes 
would certainly have prompted her, for at that moment Marjorie pealed out a 
most horrendous scream. 

"You gave me an idea, darling." Marjorie gasped. "Let's see how much our 
little Frenchie will stand for." Once again her voice split the air so that 
Monica shrank aghast. She could conceive of no possible benefit from her 
companion's vocal protest; a protest that was continuous.... 

But when Arlette arrived it was an undramatic entry and a negligent 
sauntering over to Marjorie's cage. She raised one foot on it and leaned 
forward smilingly as though her prisoner's screams were but a whisper. 

"Such a foolish little girl." she said quietly. "Please to stop such noise." 

Marjorie's face reflected a most convincing spasm of agony. "Let me out of 
here." She gasped. "I'm dying!" 

"Then we will have so nice a funeral, with flowers." Arlette responded 
cheerfully. "And now, please, much quiet." 

For answer Marjorie let go with one more piercing shriek. 

Smiling quietly Arlette went to a large chest in a corner of the room. After 
rummaging a few moments she returned carrying an object that at first 
baffled Monica, but which she soon recognized as a gag: a broad leather 
strap with buckles: in it's center an extrusion of rubber. Marjorie 
recognized it, too. "You're not going to put that on me!" She said defiantly 
and forgetting to scream. 

Without answering, Arlette bent and placed the rubber against Marjorie's 
lips. The rebellious captive closed them tight and made muffled negative 
sounds from behind clenched teeth. 

"Ma'am'zelle has her small joke, no!" Their jailer observed pleasantly. 
"Please to observe. I have here a pin. I now start to push it through 
mademoiselle's ear. When mademoiselle opens wide her noisy little mouth, I 
stop." 

Eyes flashing anger but without demur the sorry captive parted her lips and 
accepted the rubbed pad. From the careful motions as Arlette pushed it all 
the way in it was evident that it must completely fill the mouth of the 
punished girl. Arlette then buckled it very tightly at the back of the neck 
beneath the victim's hair. 

"I think now we have much peace." she announced with satisfaction. 
Thoughtfully she wiped away tears that Marjorie had been unable to control. 
"It is most good that our little mademoiselle should cry. Tears become her. 
Here, I wipe away." 

Arlette had brought with her a tray with a jug and glasses. Monica drank 
eagerly the water offered. Marjorie watched with a woebegone expression. 
"Bad girls do not get drinks." their jailer announced primly. Then, quite 
without warning, she bent and kissed Monica full upon the lips. It was a 
long and lingering sweetly moist caress to which Monica found herself 
responding with a surge of warmth that left her blushing. A moment later 
their jailer had gone, the door closed, the bolt shot home. 

Monica felt guilty. True, she was still a prisoner and in pain. But compared 
to Marjorie she felt almost lucky. That leather band across her companion's 
jaws looked wickedly tight and uncomfortable. Marjorie was angrily moving 
her head this way and that within the narrow compass that her confinement 
allowed but was obviously finding no alleviation to this new infliction that 
had been fastened upon her. The small verbal offering that was all she had 
to give sounded, even to her own ears, pitiably inadequate: "I'm sorry, 
darling. Terribly, terribly sorry...." 

Thus, slowly the hours of their first captive day dragged by. 

* * * 

In telling the story of Monica's incarceration in the establishment of Madam 
Dubois it would be tedious to recount in detail the pain, the shame or the 
boredom of each hour of each day. The punishments she bore were varied and 
ingenious. Most emphasized, as Madam Dubois had told her they would, her 
loss of liberty. They were rarely designed for pain, but rather to cause her 
to yearn for such simple privileges as to take a free step, or to walk, or 
to stand, or to stretch, to raise her arms or to lower them. It is therefore 
amusing and perhaps pertinent to tell of her second day. 

The center of one of the main corridors of this sizable mansion widened out 
into a circle. Perhaps designed for statuary or a fountain. In the center of 
it now there stood a fluted marble pillar five feet high. From the flat 
surface of the top of the pillar a polished metal rod extended up another 
fifteen inches. At its base a single shackle and eight inch chain were 
immovaly stapled. Prompted by Arlette Monica mounted the stepladder provided 
and gingerly stepped on to the marble surface which was of no greater 
diameter than would accommodate her two bare feet. Arlette locked the 
shackle on her right ankle, removed the steps, then stood back and regarded 
her prisoner approvingly. 

"Ma petite cherie makes a statue the most beautiful. So lovely a nude." 

Monica felt the familiar blush. Would she never get used to being naked! But 
at the moment she was more concerned with keeping her balance. The top of 
the pillar on which she stood seemed a long way from the floor. She dare not 
slip or fall or seek to lower herself from her pedestal. To do so would 
leave her horribly suspended by one ankle. Experimenting she discovered that 
there was indeed an adequate surface on which to stand. With care, and 
remembering her tethered ankle, she could even turn this way or that. 

"The rod is so that mademoiselle may not sit or even squat." 

Monica knew a moment of anger. They had thought of everything. She would 
simply have to stand erect all day. There was nothing else she could do. She 
felt shamefully exposed as she watched Arlette pick up the ladder, throw her 
a kiss, and then disappear down the passage. In a few minutes she heard 
other footsteps and realized with horror that this punishment must 
inevitably include being stared at by the staff or anyone else using this 
part of the house. A middle aged charwoman came into view carrying a mop and 
pail. She looked up at the chained Monica with no more than a cynical 
amusement as she passed. Monica realized that some unfortunate girl probably 
stood as she was standing every day so that those who passed found the sight 
un-remarkable. She was angry with herself for shrinking and trying to cover 
as much of her person as two hands might contrive. She knew then, as other 
maidens through the ages had discovered, that two hands can never properly 
shield from view those three treasures they so ardently wish to hide. She 
let her arms fall to her sides and stood fully erect. Let them look, damn 
them! Thus she stood out her second day. By evening she was so tired that 
she welcomed her small cell and offered herself gladly for her chains so 
that she might dispose them about herself on the bench and fall asleep. 

On her third day Monica entered an unsuspected door. She always remembered 
it. Nothing was quite the same ever after. 

It was a strangely narrow room. Walking carefully in her chains Monica 
allowed herself to be led inside. Arlette closed the door. "Today we have 
the privacy, ma petit." 

Monica was glad. The previous day had filled her with aversion to being 
stared at. She surveyed the room in which she would spend this day. It 
seemed harmless. The usual rings in the walls, of course. But it was well 
lit and cheerful. It contained no more than two narrow benches set end to 
end. Obeying Arlette's gesture she climbed up to one, watched as her lovely 
jailer pushed the benches tight together, then allowed herself to be 
positioned so that her bottom rested on the lower one and her back rested on 
the other. They were small. There was no more room than that which she 
occupied. Even so her thighs and legs hung over the end. Passively she 
helped as Arlette unlocked the chains from her wrists. Then became acutely 
aware as her arms were pulled down and slightly back and her wrists strapped 
firmly below where she could not see them one on each side of the bench. 
Testing she found that she could not raise her shoulders, and her head only 
with difficulty. Her immediate field of vision was occupied by her breasts 
which this stricture had thrust into prominence. 

Next a leather strap cinched tightly about her small waist. Then the chains 
from her ankles; to be immediately replaced by tightly buckled leather 
anklets. Arlette surveyed her prisoner speculatively, then affixed long 
buckled straps to rings, one on each side of the narrow room at the height 
slightly above the level of the bench on which Monica was secured. Next she 
did something that caught Monica by surprise and brought a protest to her 
lips; a protest she angrily quenched. She was tired of being ashamed. Let 
them do as they wished. But what Arlette did next shocked her sense of what 
it was proper for a girl to do or to have done to her. Her right ankle was 
raised and thrust sideways so that the ring on it's anklet could be clipped 
to the strap from the wall. Her left ankle was served in the same way so 
that now her most intimate privacy was spread wide. 

Monica understood now the narrow room. It was ideal for the straps that 
controlled her legs. Arlette now pulled carefully on the buckles, first one 
leg then the other, until they stood out rigid at almost a rightangle to her 
victim's tightly strapped body. Being slightly raised they ndw supported the 
weight of Monica's haunches so that when Arlette removed the lower bench 
from beneath her captive's bottom it's position in no way changed except 
that now it hung suspended beyond the rest of the bench to which its 
agonized owner was attached. 

"Oh please, please Arlette! Not so tight. It's tearing me in two." 

Soothingly and exploringly the French girl ran her fingers up and down the 
strained legs and thighs feeling the taut tendons. She shook her head. "Non, 
non! Is not enough. I tighten just a small bit more. I do not want ma petit 
to be able to move even of the smallest." 

Monica sobbed and pleaded as each of her ankles were drawn out another notch 
in the strap. She cried that she could not stand it. She was being split in 
two. The pain was unbearable. In panic she struggled but found that the only 
part of herself that she could move even the smallest fraction of an inch 
was her head. 

Arlette listened understandingly. "It is very bad, yes. Arlette knows this. 
But is not so bad as all that noise. It is that you think too much of all 
that part of you that you show for all to see. This shaming is what you feel 
worse than pain, I think." 

Monica's being was swamped with an awareness of something so awful that she 
found courage to tell Arlette of a condition that normally she could never 
have voiced. 

"Arlette, Oh please. My lips ... you know, my lips down below. You have 
stretched me so wide they are open. I can't close them. It's awful." 

Arlette's laugh was pure merriment. "So what, ma petit. There is only 
Arlette to see, and I wish it so. What is such a little opening between two 
girls. See, I will close them-so." Deftly she did so with nimble fingers. 
Then laughed, "But voila! These douce little lips they open right up again. 
Perhaps they are wanting something-a man maybe?" 

Monica writhed inwardly at the mere thought. "You are teasing me Mistress." 

"So now it is 'Mistress', ma Cherie. My little pigeon must wish to please. 
You have forgotten, haven't you. For such forgetting your Mistress should 
tighten each poor little leg one more notch." 

"I'm sorry, Mistress." In her present position Monica found it easy to be 
humble. 

"Mistress is much forgiving." responded Arlette cheerfully. "Now I go and 
get the man for which my little pigeon's lips open so invitingly." 

Monica was aghast. Surely such awfulness could not be. To be seen like this 
by a man. To be left like this at the mercy of a man. It was unthinkable. 
Suddenly she remembered Marjorie-it must have been unthinkable for her too. 
But it had happened. "Oh no, no, no! Oh please ... don't do that to me!" It 
was a cry of pure agony. 

"But mademoiselle has had a man. It is not something new." Arlette pointed 
out reasonably. 

Monica heaved at her bonds in anguish but succeeded only in throwing her 
head from side to side. 

"It is the reason mademoiselle is here n'est ce pasthis man! Our good Madam 
makes so large her business because of these men-always men. And such 
foolish girls." Arlette looked and sounded pensive. "Do not feel so shamed. 
Perhaps he did not give you pleasure, this man. It is sometimes so. You do 
not wish to try again...?" 

Monica clenched her eyes and flung her head from side to side in negation. 

"Well then, perhaps not today me pauvre petit. Arlette has a man who is 
always most pleased to be of help." She chuckled merrily. "But it is not the 
thing Arlette likes most to do. Perhaps sometimes to relieve the ennui. That 
is all. But now, ma cherie, you feel much shame because your pretty lips are 
pouting. I help." 

Monica gasped. With what emotion she did not know. Arlette had come to stand 
beside the bench. Without warning she reached down and firmly cupped the 
furred source of Monica's distress in one small hand. "It feels better, no?" 

Nothing in Monica's previous knowledge had prepared her for this ultimate 
sacrilege of a stranger's hand, albeit a female hand, being placed so firmly 
on the sacred spot. True, her mind had toyed with such a fantasy. But she 
had not believed that even a doctor or a husband would so presume. In her 
world such things were "Not done." Yet now, in this shameful exposure the 
hand of a beautiful girl was warm upon her. She closed her eyes again, 
fearful of what they might betray. She believed she should feel guilt 
because she passionately did not wish that hand to leave its resting place. 

For minutes the French girl stood motionless, quiet-ly smiling as she gazed 
down at the pinioned naked girl. Then gently she bent and sought Monica's 
lips with her own. The hand that had covered as though to protect now began 
a tender rhythmic caress. The kiss was long. A kiss such as the naked girl 
had never known. As the mobile lips were withdrawn at its end Monica opened 
her eyes drowsily and smiled into the beautiful face so close to her own. 
Involuntarily she opened her lips again, her tongue flickered moistly, her 
eyes pleaded. Fiercely the hovering lips resumed their coupling, tongue 
entwined with tongue. The tender hand, moist now with that which its own 
touch had generated, began its loving quest.... 

Monica surrendered, not to what was so obviously the inevitable but to a 
force of physical and emotional ecstasy. A depth of human awareness for 
which she had never been prepared and of which she had no previous 
knowledge. Her unuttered protests against the spreading wide and violation 
of her most secret place slithered away from her consciousness as foolish 
words that might have shamed. She would not utter them now or ever. She had 
started on a journey to an uncharted land of infinite wonder. She could not 
now retrace her steps. She did not want to.... 

Arlette was deeply moved with tenderness for this exquisite girl whose 
nakedness had been delivered into her hands. She would so use it as to wring 
the utmost subtleties of sensation for them both. Rememberings endowed her 
fingers and her lips with evocative skills. 

To Monica the pain from her sundered legs had become a dull glow of 
awareness that she was possessed. That she was owned. That she herself had 
ceased to be. With closed eyes she traversed the paths of beauty to the 
Wonderland that only Arlette knew. It was a strange tempestuous adventure. 
The visions of such beauty as she had known were there, so that she walked 
by streams and through sun dappled woods and saw Camelot in mist upon a 
mountain. But there came deep canyons into which she plunged with cries 
almost of pain so that her head tossed from side to side and her limbs 
strained against the strictures that held them. Then would come a time of 
peace until, without warning, she was plucked from Earth and raised into a 
cloudy kingdom of pure light where she was held and held until with small 
songs of utter joy she was allowed to drift back to the sweet damp grass of 
a June meadow. Only once did she open her eyes. It was then, with a gasp of 
pure happiness, she saw her Mistress in glorious nakedness kneeling above 
her so that she knew she was about to be guided into the most ultimate 
ecstasy of them all. 

Monica did not remember falling asleep. She must have drifted into slumber 
from some quiet place when her Love had gone away. Opening her eyes she 
noted the light had changed. She suspected the passage of hours since she 
had been fastened thus. There was no change in her condition. She was still 
spread wide. Still unable to move. No doubt it had been the pain and the 
aching that had wakened her. She was alone. Drowsily she thought about the 
pain and the ache. She could do nothing about either. But it seemed that she 
could bear them. She knew this was so, not because of fortitude, but because 
of memory in which they played a part. She could feel that her secret lips 
were still stretched invitingly open. She did not care. 

She was filled with wonder. Wonder at what had befallen her and a most 
curious wonderment at what might happen now. There flitted through her mind 
a reflection that her Love might easily have set her free. Why had she not? 
Or she could at least have eased the awful tug of the straps upon her ankles 
and thus given her less pain. But she had not done so. Monica was still 
stretched tight and bound fast. Why? Surely after what had happened she had 
earned surcease. Her mind toyed lazily with the thought then discarded it. 
It did not matter. If pain was her condition, so be it. She examined the 
possibility, quite happily, that perhaps the straps might be tightened more. 
Thus it was in a happy reverie that Monica spent the remaining hours of her 
punishment. She wished that her Mistress would return, either to give more 
pleasure or to inflict more pain. It did not matter. What mattered was that 
she existed. That once more her fingers would touch the compliant flesh. 

The two girls radiated happiness that evening when it came time for Monica 
to be chained. Their glances constantly met and lingered as Arlette busied 
herself. 

"Make them tight, tight, tight on me darling." Monica pleaded. 

Her Mistress laughed delightedly. "Of course I make them tight. So very 
tight with my love. My little pigeon must never, never escape from me. See, 
like this!" She clicked one of the metal bands loudly shut. 

"Mistrss, please....Remember that first night? You told me of other chains 
used to punish. You said that Eve was wearing them. Put them on me now. I 
want you to." 

Arlette smiled at her naked prisoner with amused affection. Lightly she 
kissed the raised lips. Without a word she fetched the metal bands and 
links. Monica stood erect, her pulse quickening, her eyes bright. 

In other ways, at other times, with someone else this new shackling would 
have been hard to bear. Those who had devised it had done so shrewdly 
understanding a captive's desolation at the obvious redundancy of chains 
that could not add to their already total helplessness and thus could only 
be to punish. 

First Monica's elbows were joined behind her back. The metal bands clasping 
her arms tightly above the forearms. The linkage just long enough that she 
would not be in actual pain. Next chains linked her manacled wrists to her 
manacled ankles. Her hands must be held low before her. If she need touch 
her face she must then squat down to obtain the necessary slack. But even 
this was then denied. Other short chains fastened her wrists to the band 
about her waist so that, except for quite small motions, she had lost the 
use of her hands altogether. It would be difficult for her to feed herself: 
possible perhaps, but hard. 

Following her Mistress's laughing suggestion Monica essayed to walk. There 
was much clinking of chain and a resigned shuffle back to the bench. "It is 
enough, ma petit? You are happy?" 

Monica breathed a sigh of wonder at herself. She found joy in this tight 
clasp of metal that must substitute for her Mistress through the hours of 
the night. But quite another wish was now uppermost in her mind. Looking at 
her chains she felt dismay: 

"Darling, can we ... I mean-will you ... how?" 

For answer Arlette slipped out of her clothes, "Mais oui, Cherie. We can and 
we will-oh, so very much. First I chain you, then I love you. That is good, 
no! I think it is very good. Now, Cherie, you lay down. I help with the 
chains. When they hurt you it will be a good hurt. See, Arlette removes none 
of them. Cherie will wear them all. But now I push them this way and that 
and here and there-so! The chains, they will not stop Arlette doing anything 
at all that I wish to do to you. Also they will not stop you doing anything 
at all I wish you to do to me. Chains are to stop escape. They do not stop 
pleasure. See-your Mistress knows the way. Now I show my little pigeon...." 

Once more time passed. Once more Monica traversed the Wondrous Land. When it 
was over and as she drifted into sleep she heard, quite clearly, her 
Mistress tell her that on the second day from today she would be whipped. 

Since her first dismay when hearing Madam Dubois pronounce her sentence 
Monica had carried with her, most of the time, a vague disquiet. The good 
Madam's discourse on the virtue and effectiveness of the whip left little 
doubt it would be used. She was to receive twenty strokes each week. Now, 
knowing the day itself, her whipping became a constant companion in her 
consciousness. Events of the last several days had made such an impression 
of awareness to all things that Monica was able to consider the impending 
infliction of a whip upon her bare skin with a greater degree of detachment 
than would have been possible only a week ago. She thought much about it 
whilst enduring her punishment in the intervening day-a quite relaxing day 
by the standards of Madam Dubois. She was required only to stand against a 
wall to which one of her wrists had been chained well above her head. 
Tiring, frustrating, but giving much time to think. 

She could understand Madam Dubois's opinion that to be whipped was a far 
more searing experience for a girl than for a man. There was something so 
personal about it. That a whip or a cane wielded, even by another girl, 
could seek out and attack her most secret recesses would be hard to bear or 
to forget. Yet Monica found herself strangely fascinated by the prospect. 
She was astute enough to recognize within herself the hope that it would be 
Arlette who would whip herand the obvious reason for that hope. It was 
certainly not with any belief that her lover would hurt her less: Arlette 
had told her very plainly that she would whip her far harder than she would 
the other girls. Had told her in fact that all her punishments would be more 
severe because of this love they shared. Monica had not bothered to try and 
discover why this should be so. She had asked no questions. She was amazed 
and happy to discover her own contentment with the secret knowledge. She was 
glad that it should be so. She felt no urge to reason or dissect. 

Arlette had explained that Madam Dubois employed a second Mistress. Her time 
was taken with other girls so that Monica had not yet seen her. But her 
existence would make it possible for the two of them to steal much time 
together for they shared their work as suited them. Her name was Hester. She 
was as blonde as Arlette was dark. She would be present to help with the 
whipping. Monica would not be the only girl to be whipped that day. Arlette 
said it would be a quite ceremonial affair done with much ritual as 
prescribed by Madam Dubois in her conviction that to whip them regularly was 
the greatest service she could render "Her Girls". Monica found herself 
wanting to giggle at the prospect of something resembling a debutants Ball. 

But the humor was fleeting. She felt only pure horror at the thought of 
being whipped by Hester or by the good Madam herself. With them she would be 
defenseless. Naked without the garment of her love. What had Eve said: "A 
worse pain than you had ever believed possible...." 

It was the room that Monica would always think of as 'The first Room'. The 
room by which she had first entered this new world: the room of the pillars. 
To each of these pillars now there was fastened a naked girl. She herself 
was one of them. The fastening was such that at first glance the girls 
seemed free-simply reaching up to eye level, one hand on each side of the 
pillar, for some reason of their own. A second look would show that each 
wrist was firmly cuffed so that the girl could not advance and lean against 
the pillar, the rigid fastening at that height rendered it painful to bend 
her arm. She must stand passively at arm's length to receive the whip. 

Madam Dubois was speaking. Monica admired her poise, her charm. She was 
indeed a beautiful woman. Her very correctness made incongruous these rows 
of naked palpitating femininity. Her smile showed only a pleased affection 
for "Her Girls". Her voice was warm: 

"Since you are to stand as you now are for the day I have decided that your 
whipping will be divided into four inflictions of five strokes each to be 
given you at intervals as may be convenient to us. I like to keep in touch 
with my girls so it is my intention today to myself give you your first 
five. I will be busy elsewhere afterwards so I will leave the balance of 
what you must bear to be dealt with by Hester and Arlette." Her eyes roved 
round the room as though with a personal message for each girl, "You may be 
surprised by the manner in which you are secured. You have much freedom. I 
want you to understand that you have permission to kick and to struggle as 
you may wish. I think it good for those of you who are new that you have 
this liberty. The whip will not hurt less and you cannot evade it but it is 
perhaps less frightening for you than if you were immovably bound-that is 
for another day." She paused, as if for effect. "We will now commence. One 
of you may volunteer to be the first. Your request will be made politely and 
formally: "Madam, please whip me." I am waiting." 

Except for a small shuffling of chained feet there was silence. Diana was 
quietly weeping. Her head bowed, coping with the tears by brushing her 
cheeks against her prisoned arms. Monica felt embarrassed: To ask to be 
whipped might sound false as though currying favor. It was Eve who came to 
the rescue: 

"Madam, please whip me." she requested in a firm voice. Monica wondered if 
it was bravado or a wish to aid the rest of them to whom the present moment 
was terrifying, whereas Eve had told them that for her to be whipped was 
commonplace. 

All eyes now focused on Eve. She stood erect, her eyes seeking nothing but 
the post to which she was fastened. Her features impassive. Madam Dubois 
carefully took up a position behind her. She carried, now, a most wicked 
looking long and limber cane which she proceeded to swish up and down so 
that it cut the air with a whine that evoked visible tremors from the naked 
girls. Without warning it cut a wide arc and embedded itself cruelly across 
the lower softer part of Eve's bottom-a bottom that still bore some quite 
vivid traces of a previous caning. Monica felt a tremendous admiration for 
the sufferer, apart from a gasp and a jerk at the impact Eve had shown no 
other reaction. The second blow was equally fierce; its result the same. 
Watching, Monica sensed that Madam Dubois viewed the situation as a 
challenge. Confirmation was immediate. Tapping her victim's thighs with the 
cane Madam requested: 

"Open wide the legs, please." 

Obediently, but with obvious reluctance, Eve spread her feet to the limit of 
the chain that joined them. Since the girls were expected to walk with 
shackled ankles this chain was fairly long, certainly long enough to enable 
the girls to kick or writhe as Madam had intimated they might wish to do. 
This separation of her feet that Eve had found possible placed a new strain 
on her raised arms and made shamefully open and exposed that part of her to 
be punished. 

Madam Dubois studied the new pose, made tentative motions with the cane, 
changed her own stance slight-ly, then made a vicious slash that curled 
round one cheek and ended deep within the innermost recesses of Eve's being. 

The stroke had been deliberately intended to break Eve's stoicism. It 
succeeded. She gave a small cry of agony, threw back her head and lashed 
again and again frantically with one leg as though to rid herself of so 
great a suffering. Her ankle chain clashed and clattered on the floor until 
her struggles slowly subsided and she again stood waiting. Madam changed 
sides and, with equal skill, repeated the stroke with identical results. 
With the fifth stroke she did not touch the bottomcheeks at all, but struck 
upwards inside the thigh with a cunning knowledge that sent the prisoned 
girl into such gyrations of pain that Monica feared she might injure her 
wrists. 

Without comment or delay Madam Dubois went to where Diana's tear stained 
face was fixed upon Eve's suffering. 

"We see much of tears here, cherie. But we do not approve them. You will 
stop crying. I am now going to whip you. Not as severely as you have just 
witnessed-that silly girl was being obstinate. But I will whip you hard. If 
you choose to start crying again I will double your dose. So, ma petit, you 
may decide: five strokes or ten strokes. I do not mind at all." 

Diana's features were a study in emotion. Monica guessed that too much was 
happening too fast. She watched, breathless, as the fresh victim swallowed 
her tears and choked back her gulps and stood erect as she had seen Eve do. 
But the result was predictable. At the third stroke Diana once more burst 
into a flood of weeping and compounded her offense by cries and exclamations 
of anguish together with pleadings for Madam to "Please stop." She leaped 
and twisted and turned in a way that wrung Monica's heart. But the 
inevitable result of her loss of control was that she actually did receive 
twice the number of strokes that she need have had. It was a lesson to the 
rest of them. Monica found herself making a fierce vow to acknowledge 
suffering but to choke back tears. It would seem that this was what Madam 
expected of a young lady being whipped. 

Watching the third girl being whipped Monica realized that perhaps Eve's 
choice of being first might have much to commend it. Eve's immediate 
punishment was over now and she stood watching, tired and strained, but able 
to muster a rueful grin when her eyes caught Monica's. Whereas Monica was 
increasingly aware that, with her own flesh still unmarked, she was enduring 
a vicarious suffering with each lash that fell upon those who preceded her. 
As she watched each stroke and heard each pitious cry her store of courage 
ebbed. She resolved to remember. 

When the last stroke had fallen on other female flesh Monica found herself 
facing the first stroke that must fall upon her own. She was palpitating 
inwardly, her heart thudding with a beat she feared all must hear. But she 
managed to keep her features reasonably composed as she watched Madam Dubois 
advance. A composure that became doubly difficult when, instead of whipping 
her, The Madam tilted her chin, turned her head and kissed her on the lips 
with a warmth to which Monica involuntarily responded, then watched 
bewildered as their beautiful executioner returned to a position on the 
floor from which she could command the room. 

"We have here an exception to a rule." she explained bestowing her Mona Lisa 
smile. "I have received on ma petit Monique the reports most favorable. She 
has been obedient and most understanding of that which she endures. Her 
Mistress, our good Arlette, is most proud of her and has asked a privilege 
on her behalf." Madam paused portentiously. "It is a privilege which perhaps 
our dear Monique might willingly forego. But it is privilege nonetheless. 
Believing it beneficial to all I have approved." Once more Madam Dubois 
produced a suspenseful pause. Monica had a feeling of being tested. Her 
heart was beating even faster now. "It is quile simple. Her Mistress Arlette 
has asked to be allowed to whip her at all times today. Not, as I am sure 
you all suppose, with the intent of a punishment less severe-quite the 
reverse! So proud is Arlette of her charge that she intends to whip her with 
unusual severity in the belief that she will so comfort herself as to give 
pride and encouragement to all who watch." 

To Monica it was another of those moments she would never forget. Not for 
the words Madam Dubois had spoken, but because of her own reaction to them. 
Appalling as the prospect might be, and she caught a look of shocked 
commiseration from Eve, her heart had slowed and she felt only a great peace 
and happiness that it would be Arlette who would whip her and no one else. 
Awful as she supposed the pain would be she would have gladly accepted the 
addition of hot irons as long as it was her Love who applied them. Her eyes 
sought those of her Mistress and found reassurance. Arlette held the cane 
now. But Monica did not care. What she had beheld had been of love. 

What profit can there be to count the strokes of a whip or the cruelty of 
its pain. In Monica's stay within that house she was to be whipped many 
times. She came to know much of pain and how best to bear it. It would never 
be, for her, as it was with the others. For her the whip was an umbilical 
cord joining her to her Mistress-to her love. Thus, in this her first 
knowledge of it, she was to make discoveries those others would never know. 
A sentence of pure agony so great as to become its own alchemy in a 
transmutation of sensation into an exquisite sharing between herself and 
Arlette. 

Like most first things it was to be remembered as such. Monica would always 
remember that first cutting slash and the protest of her tortured flesh. But 
with it she was to recall the small smile she managed to direct toward Madam 
and the lifting of one fettered foot in recognition of the pain she had 
received. As the second stroke bit deeply into her bottom she knew what she 
must do to survive. She closed her eyes and forced herself to drift into 
that Land she shared only with she who held the whip. Her leg jerked against 
its tether and there were small tremors on her flesh, but her face remained 
serene. Even when told, as Eve had been told, to spread her legs wide she 
did so without fear. The ensuing agony was so exquisite that it took her 
once more to the depths and to the heights so that she was only dimly aware 
of the undulations of her nakedness and of her feet once more obediently 
separating to make taut the length of their chain. 

Thus Monica came to know the whip. 

It was evident that Madam Dubois did not favor fraternization between her 
girls. There had been many days between the time Monica had spent alone with 
Marjorie and the moment now, after Arlette had left them, that she stood 
looking down at the youthful Joan. She herself was locked in the standing 
stocks. Joan sat on her bench with her feet spread very wide and locked in 
the other pillory, her wrists tied behind her back so that she could give 
herself no ease or relief from a position that would become increasingly 
taxing as the day wore on. Yet, true to her promise, Arlette had given 
Monica the worst position. She had suffered these stocks before standing 
with head bent and arms widespread. Almost she could envy Joan her bench to 
sit on even though it would become cruelly hard by evening. But Monica had 
come to adopt much of Eve's cheerful cynicism about her punishments. She 
suffered them without complaint. So long as it was her Mistress who snapped 
shut the lock or drew tight the buckle she was content. Today would be a 
change. She had someone to talk to. 

"Are you really only fifteen?" She asked curiously. 

"Of course. Why not?" asked Joan cheerfully. She was a bright child who 
seemed happily unaware of her curved femininity. She wore nudity like a 
gown. 

"Well, it's young to land in this place." 

"Oh, I don't know," Joan said thoughtfully. "It's the same thing that brings 
us all here, mostly, isn't it? Hester says it is." 

Monica was not sure what to say. 

"It's this thing here between our legs," Joan continued unperturbed and 
oblivious of Monica's hesitation. She peered pensively down at the dark 
triangle that her punishment now so prominently displayed. "You can see mine 
better than I can, and I can see your's better than you can the way you are 
fastened, so that makes us even." 

"But surely not with you!" Monica felt absurd. Why be polite. 

"Why not with me?" Joan laughed up at her fellow captive. "Because I'm only 
fifteen or because it doesn't look as though its been used much? Why on 
Earth do they have to stretch us like this so its always in full view?" 

Monica felt it tactful to answer only the last question : "They think it 
shames us. It does. I hate it...!" 

"It doesn't bother me. They can look at it all they want. Everyone else has. 
But it hurts. I'm going to hate this in another couple of hours. I think 
they are horrid to tie my wrists like this. I can't do a thing." 

Monica uncomfortably found herself looking at the younger girl's most secret 
place now so wantonly in view before her eyes. Did it look well used? Did 
they ever? Were you supposed to be able to tell. How much of such 
unmentionable things was this precocious moppet aware of. 

"You mean you have been sent here because of a...." She had been going to 
say: man. But amended it quickly, "because of a ... a boy?" 

Joan grinned up at her and laughed gaily, "A boy! Of course not. I'm not 
here because of a boy. I'm here because of a girl." 

Monica's entry into the Wonderland that Arlette had created for her was 
still sufficiently new and secret that her first reaction to Joan's 
unabashed admission was embarrassment tinged with disapproval. Then, 
guiltily, she dissembled: 

"What on Earth do you mean?" 

"Oh, come on now! Don't tell me you don't know all about it. I knew all 
about it before it actually happened to me. I'll admit I hadn't quite 
believed all the girls used to whisper to me. But I found out." 

"And you got caught?" Monica's curiosity was rising. Joan was an entrancing 
little creature. 

"Of course. We were bound to get caught sooner or later." She giggled. 
"Mummy and Daddy were so shocked. I felt quite sorry for them. I didn't feel 
the least bit repentant-at least not until I got sent to this place. 

"If it ever is all over." rejoined Joan somberly. "It seems like forever. 
I'm sentenced to six months. That's your time too, isn't it? Hester told 
me." 

"Yes. I think that's what most girls get." agreed Monica. "It's awful for 
poor Eve. I feel sorry for her. But she seems cheerful enough. But if she 
can bear it we can. You adjust. You discover small compensations and 
comforts. One of the things I have had to realize is this getting chained so 
heavily every evening in our cell. The first couple of nights it was awful. 
I just hated having those things locked on me everywhere and having to 
rattle and push them around all night so you didn't lay on them. But now, 
after being like this all day, I go to my cell quite happily and even help 
Arlette put the chains on and then I lay down and go to sleep, I'm so damn 
tired and I feel so good that I'm able to do it-even like that." 

Joan nodded. "Funny, I've recognized it too. With me it's been being kept 
naked all the time. I couldn't bear it at first. Seemed as if a hundred eyes 
were staring at me all the time." Her familiar giggle returned, "All men, of 
course. But I've got used to it. Of course they keep it warm so that it's 
possible. I like it. It's so very convenient. Except for the fun of picking 
them and fixing them I don't want to wear clothes again. I'm a brazen hussy. 
I like being naked. I suppose one thing that helps in this," she continued 
speculatively, "is that all us girls have decent shapes-even the Mistresses. 
There isn't a fatty or a thinny among us. I'm glad. I know I look nice from 
the way Hester looks at me." 

"There are other ways, too." Monica pointed out. "I know today's a bad day 
for us both. But about half the time they make it easy for us. Just some 
little bit of us chained to a wall so we have to stand. Tiring and 
frustrating but not cruel. On those days I find I can get into a sort of 
dream so that the time does pass without too much agony." She strained and 
brought her ankles back together. "But not today." she said ruefully. 
"Today's bad...." 

In all her times of loneliness, and they were many as she stood chained or 
pilloried, Monica often asked herself how well she might have borne her 
punishments had not Arlette been a part of them. Arlette made all things 
bearable or even glorious and wonderful. It was a question Monica could not 
answer. But the other girls did survive. She wondered about Diana. Weeks had 
passed but she had not yet shared a punishment room with Diana. Her 
curiosity was piqued one morning when she found herself delivered to Hester. 
Perhaps today was to be the day. But when they entered the punishment room 
it was Joan who stood against one wall with her wrist chained above her 
head. Without a word Hester treated Monica in like manner and left. As 
usual, bolts slammed in the door after it was shut. Joan was ecstatic. 

"Oh I'm so glad it's you." She enthused. "They have kept me alone for just 
days and days. I'm aching to talk. I'm aching to do something else, too. But 
Hester's horrid chaining us to opposite walls like this-and by one hand, 
too! Just to make it tantalizing." 

In mock anger Joan looked up at the chain that held her slender wrist and 
tugged and rattled it in a hopeless effort to get free. Monica laughed. 

"Silly, you know we can't get loose. Let's be thankful Hester left us one 
hand to do what we like with. See, I can blow you a kiss...! And just to 
show you how much I'd love to I'll even try and jerk my chain loose." 

Amusedly she gave a half hearted pull. Her wrist shackle fell open. It hung 
with its chain from the ringbolt in the wall, empty. 

Bemused by the unexpected both girls stared fascinated at Monica's wrist. It 
was free. Through its owner's mind there flashed the instant thought of 
escape. It died as quickly as it had come. Her ankles were still chained and 
the door was stoutly fastened. It was Joan who broke the astounded silence: 

"Hester closed it but not hard enough to snap the lock. I remember now I did 
not hear it-you know how awful it sounds." 

Monica's reaction then was instant. Her ankle chain swirled as she crossed 
the room, taking her companion's head in her hands she kissed her hungrily 
on her lips: "There, there, there. Again and again and again. I've been 
longing to do this ever since last time. I'm going to love you to pieces 
before I chain myself up again...." 

Later, when Joan had caught her breath she demanded: "But darling, why? What 
do you mean: chain yourself up?" 

"But I do have to." Monica wailed. "Don't you see. I can't get out of the 
room, and anyway my ankles are chained just as your's are. And I can't get 
you free. If Hester comes and finds me like this I'll be punished. Maybe we 
both will." 

"Silly, silly!" sang Joan gaily. "Don't you see. We can have all day. When 
we hear her at the door you can just go and put the band around your wrist 
but don't snap it shut. She won't notice. Just look unhappy-that'll fool 
her. Then toward evening you can chain yourself again. But by then we'll 
have had the most wonderful day ever...." 

Monica found indeed that it was truly wonderful. The younger girl was 
ecstatically responsive. Every touch brought its small moan or little cry. 
She was hungry for a girl's hands. They knew happiness. Their only sorrow 
was the shackle that implacably gripped Joan's wrist suspended high. It 
frustrated the total consummation of their desires. But Monica found joy in 
her total possession of this vibrant body whose one free hand sped knowingly 
to its task. They shared, and loved. 

Any suspicious sound sent Monica frantically back to her wall. She found it 
easily possible to clasp the metal band so that it seemingly imprisoned her 
wrist She would stand for a few minutes until sure of safety then slip the 
wristlet once more and resume her lovemaking. At noon Hester made the usual 
routine visit, gave them a drink and left. She noticed nothing. Monica 
managed a convincingly weary pose. Then when silence returned, her lips and 
her hands found Joan in so great an absorption with sensation and emotion 
that, after minutes had passed, both girls stood frozen in pure horror at 
the sound of Hester's voice: "You seem to be enjoying yourselves." 

Opening eyes that had been tight shut in happiness Joan and Monica saw that 
Hester must have soundlessly opened the door, slipped inside, and stood 
watching them: for how long it did not matter. She had seen enough. She 
surveyed them enigmatically. Then, as though this was a routine task, she 
pressed each girl back against the wall and carefully examined their nipples 
and their pubic hair. Next she looked at Joan's chained wrist. It was 
bleeding slightly from abrasions its owner had been unaware of in her 
striving to give as much of herself as she could. Hester nodded as though in 
confirmation. Then gave her attention solely to Monica: "Come with me." 

Madam Dubois was her usual charming self. Standing unhappily before her 
Monica felt sure that should the Madam ever attend a hanging the victim must 
feel her presence and privilege. Her own nudity and her chained ankles felt 
untidy by comparison with this immaculate woman whose clothes always had the 
look of having arrived from Paris but an hour ago. 

"It would seem that the evidence is quite conclusive." She nodded at Hester 
and then turned an inquiring gaze at the naked girl. "Have you anything to 
say my Dear?" 

Monica could think of nothing useful to say. So contented herself with a 
demure, "No Madam." 

Madam Dubois smiled warmly as she enumerated points: "Leniency might have 
been of the most possible had you behaved as you should. When you dis 
covered that the lock on your wristlet had failed to catch you could have 
easily locked it yourself and acquainted Hester with its fault when she came 
to you later. Or you could have remained free and asked Hester when she came 
to you later. Or you could have remained free and asked Hester to re-chain 
you at midday. You did not do these things. You deliberately deceived our 
good Hester. You deceived her with motives of the most deplorable." 

Madam paused and eyed the culprit appraisingly. Monica longed to use her 
hands to cover herself but fought down the impulse. She longed, too, to 
defend herself. But remembering the reason some girls were in this house she 
knew she had no defense. But she tried: 

"Joan is not guilty, Madam. The fault is mine." 

"That is to be considered. But she is not without culpability. Such a sweet 
girl. Have you a proper shame?" 

"Yes Madam." Monica felt injustice. But was trapped. 

"Tres bon. And now, my Dear, we must decide what to do with you. What do you 
suggest?" 

Monica suspected she was being played with. What a question to ask one 
already convicted. "I should be punished, Madam." she said firmly. It seemed 
best to get the sad business done with. 

"Mais oui! What an admirable girl." Madam bestowed her warmest smile. "So we 
will punish you. Not today. Not tomorrow. But on the day after that you will 
be fastened in a manner appropriate to give the utmost exposure to your so 
lovely person and receive one hundred strokes with a whip." 

Monica was aghast. One hundred strokes! It always taxed her endurance and 
courage to the limit to accept the regular twenty without breaking down. 

"But Madam," she stammered, "A hundred! I cannot stand a hundred-no girl 
could. Oh, please Madam ... please." 

"Ma pauvre petit. Do not so distress yourself," Madam Dubois's smile was of 
the warmest. "Come, come Cherie. You are in good hands here. We will not 
strip the skin from your pretty back. It is not as you think. It is not with 
the cane. The cane is for the bottom. They suit each other. But now, with 
one hundred strokes it is much the best that we use instead a whip-such a 
beautiful whip. You shall have all day, Cherie, in which to feel its caress, 
and so that no part of you may receive more of it than it can bear you will 
be whipped from the knees to the top of your shoulders at the back, and in 
the front some appropriate number across that part of you that always get 
you into so much trouble. Voila. You feel better?" 

Again Monica felt it an unfair question. True, the description of her 
punishment just outlined plus the almost affectionate voice used to so 
outline it had, in a small measure, restored her courage. Perhaps it might 
be bearable as all other things in this house had proved bearable. But she 
had to ask: 

"Who will whip me, Madam?" 

"Does it matter?" Madam gave a Gallic shrug. "A whip is a whip. But it will 
be your own Mistress, Arlette, who shall give you the strokes. Arlette is, 
as you know, of the most severe." 

Again that same thrill of relief she had known once before. However 
frightful her ordeal might be; if it was Arlette who held the whip she would 
survive it. 

"And now," said Madam Dubois benignly, "I think, my dear Hester, you had 
better take our little pigeon to her cage and chain her very tight. She will 
have much time in which to consider what is going to happen to her on the 
day after tomorrow." 

Hester led Monica away. She did indeed chain her very tightly and with as 
many chains as she could find places to put them. When she had locked the 
door and gone away Monica sat miserably on her bench. She could scarcely 
move so weighed down with chains was she. It would be a long evening and a 
long night. If she slept, she would dream about the whip. 

Monica knew a feeling of unreality. The night had passed. Even loaded with 
the extra chains she had slept. Now, once more she was standing before the 
desk of Madam Dubois. Arlette stood quietly to one side. Her Mistress had 
brought Monica here. Why? Why not a punishment room? 

"Please remove the chains from Monica's feet." Madam requested. 

Monica watched wonderingly as Arlette complied. With the fetters gone it 
felt strange. It was the first time for a long while that" her ankles had 
not borne their weight. Dark circlets remained as a reminder on her skin. 

"And now, ma petit Monique, please to put on your clothes." 

The quiet command was almost like a blow. It caused the same sensation in 
the pit of her stomach that the sentence of the whip had created the 
previous day. Put on her clothes! It could mean but one thing. Pitiously she 
entreated: 

"Please Madam, don't send me home in disgrace. I've hurt them enough." 

"Our little girl jumps to the conclusion, yes." Madam Dubois was amused. 
"Please to do as I ask." 

Her clothes were neatly stacked on a chair. Tears came to Monica's eyes at 
the sight of these small treasures that she and Mama had bought with love. 
She had scarcely expected ever to see them again. It was so long ago now 
since that awful day she had removed them and entered another world. 
Fumblingly she put them on. 

"There is a mirror and other things. Our little girl must look her best." 

Arlette had to help. But finally she stood, a smart and attractive young 
lady of fashion. Incongruously she wished that she was naked again. The 
clothes felt stuffy and uncomfortable. 

"It is a holiday." said Madam Dubois. 

As in a dream Monica did as she was told and followed where Arlette led. 

For the girl who had been a prisoner it was an hour of incredible sensation. 
A tremendous question mark in the mind: a question no one seemed concerned 
to answer. In walking, her steps were still inhibited by chains no longer 
there. The clothes made her warm and uncomfortable. When the door of the 
house closed behind them she reached for Arlette's hand-almost afraid. 
Should she fear freedom! Or was this freedom! The scent of the trees and the 
wet earth was so very good. Suddenly she knew how much she had missed such 
things in prison. Momentarily her spirits soared. Surely what was happening 
must be good. How wonderful to be walking down this street. How much better 
than being chained in some dull room. She felt a twinge of guilt about Joan 
and wondered what her daily punishment might be. Shyly she glanced sideways 
at her companion. Arlette was sauntering casual and unconcerned. Why, oh why 
didn't she explain. End this suspense. Falteringly she asked: "Darling, 
what-oh what are you going to do with me?" 

Arlette smiled then and met her eyes. "Me? Why nothing Cherie. Arlette does 
nothing with her little pigeon. It is for her little pigeon to decide what 
she wants to do. Voila!" 

"Oh, Arlette, I don't know what to do. It's all so sudden," Monica smiled. 

"So! Then we sit on a bench in the Park and talk." 

"But why?" Monica demanded when they were settled. 

Arlette's hand was warm upon her arm. "Because, Cherie, when today is done 
you will have made much discovery about yourself. Madam will have made much 
discovery, and your parents; they too will know much about their little 
girl. Their so dear little girl." 

"You mean I'm being put to some sort of a test?" 

Arlette's shrug was delightful. "It is what you make it, ma petit. Have not 
its possibilities occurred to you?" 

"You mean I could run away?" 

"I could not stop you," Arlette agreed. 

"Or you and I could spend a lovely day in a hotel somewhere?" 

"That would be most enchanting." 

"Or I could call a hansom and go back to my parents." 

"They would surely welcome you." 

Monica stamped her foot angrily. "Oh, don't be such a tease. Help me!" 

"I think now we go to a Corner House where you will see much people and we 
will have good coffee and little cakes and little sandwiches," Arlette said 
sagely. 

In the afternoon they shopped. Lunch had partly returned Monica to normalcy. 
Harrods was a joy to her. Almost she bought a dress, then rejected it. "How 
do I know I will ever wear it?" she asked petulantly. 

Arlette was like quicksilver. "We look then at the perfumes and the 
jewelry," she evaded tactfully. 

A strange afternoon. Part happiness, part angry frustration. The empathy 
with her Mistress was ever present. But it helped the turmoil of Monica's 
mind not at all. It was not until dinner at the Strand Palace that the 
French girl became positive: 

"I must advise mademoiselle to go home." 

"Oh, don't call me mademoiselle!" Monica pleaded. "It sounds like those 
first days. And how can I go home-how can I?" 

"You mean, you will feel that you have failed?" 

"Yes." 

Arlette shrugged. "Oui, I know all about the duty. And the guilt. Go then to 
a relative or to a friend. There must be many." 

"Oh, no. I couldn't. Suppose they found out...." 

Arlette placed her hand tenderly on her companion's arm. "My dear one. This 
is your hardest day, n'est ce pas. Arlette knows. So much harder than the 
chains and the stocks-pouf, they are nothing. Perhaps not harder than those 
days when I whip you. But still, not easy." 

It was all hard to believe here in this once familiar place with its 
orchestra, the bustle of waiters, the subdued hum of polite conversation. 
Surely her small cell and her chains and her weekly whipping must be a 
dream. It wasn't, of course. But it had that quality. 

Arlette continued. Almost as though talking to herself: "There is not the 
curfew. But it is evening. It is well that I remind you of tomorrow. If 
tomorrow you are in the house of Madam Dubois I will fasten you naked so 
that you are stretched and taut and throughout the day I will place upon 
that lovely body I adore one hundred weals that will become red and purple 
and black and will be worn for so long a time as those marks now on your 
bottom; but worse, much worse. You will scream much while I do this. Even 
though I do it with love there will be times when you will scream. To be 
whipped so is very terrible. Think on this Cherie. Now we go to the 
theatre." 

It was nearly midnight when they said good bye. There were tears. Monica had 
never felt so bereft or so alone. She wondered if she could have forced 
herself to return with her Mistress had the whipping of tomorrow not 
existed. She did not know. But it was too terrible a punishment for her 
store of courage. Miserably she watched Arlette's cab out of sight. Now she 
would go home. She longed to feel her mother's arms and hear her father's 
voice. But not like this. She shrugged resignedly and hailed a cab. 

Sight of her home brought more tears. So dear and familiar a place. 
Frantically she told the driver to circle for ten minutes. It would give her 
time to compose herself. The horse's hoofs beat a tune that said over and 
over: failure, failure, failure. As the time came close she opened her bag 
to have her fare ready. On top of her handkerchief, where only Arlette could 
have placed it, lay a small padlock, one such as had so often secured her in 
this way or that during these past weeks. She sat gazing at it long after 
the vehicle had come to its final halt. The cabbie had to break her reverie. 
It was late for young women to be out alone. Mechanically she gave him an 
address.... 

It was Arlette who opened the door. Passionately they kissed and clung. 
Reaching her cell Monica flung her clothes to the ground as though they 
contaminated her skin. Neither spoke. There was no need. Proudly naked 
Monica extended her wrists for the chains. Then her ankles. Thankfully she 
lay down asleep. 

Morning brought its own bitterness. She could have been safe in her own room 
at home: she expelled the vision. Her day could have been of comfort and 
diversion instead of pain: she closed her mind to the knowledge. Had she 
chosen nobility or simply been a fool! She rejected the choice. What was 
left? She knew what was left: Arlette! Musingly she peeled and ate a peach, 
her chains providing a metallic accompaniment to each motion. Why must she 
face her motives and determine them. Did they matter. She was where she was. 
There would be no retracing of steps-she felt sure of that. So why was she 
here! Love for her parents: Passion for Arlette: a need to prove something 
to herself, courage perhaps! Guilt and a need to atone. Monica shook her 
head resignedly. It was something of all of these. In their totality they 
had brought her to this day. This most awful day.... 

So great was her fear of what she was about to suffer that her teeth started 
to chatter as Arlette led her, ankle chain snubbing at each step, to the 
light bare room where she would spend her day. The absurdity enabled her to 
provide a half hysterical laugh which Arlette shared. It made her feel 
better so that she was calmly able to raise her arms as her Mistress 
directed and watch as her wrists were strapped tight to a horizontal bar 
above her head, her arms spread wide. Arlette then unlocked the fetters on 
her ankles and set them aside: 

"Please now, to spread very wide the feet apart." 

Monica obeyed, and fleetingly remembered Joan. 

Looking down now she saw that just beyond each of her widely separated feet 
a ringbolt in the floor held a short chain that ended in a heavy leather 
anklet. Arlette fitted these on her and buckled them tightly, then went to 
the wall and by the turning of a winch handle caused the bar above Monica's 
head to slowly raise so that the captive girl's arms were drawn up causing 
her ankles to tug at their fastenings in a futile effort to ease her 
position. The victim gasped as first one and then the other heel left the 
floor. When Arlette stopped turning and flipped the ratchet the naked girl 
hung in the form of an X. Arms and legs spread wide. Half hanging by the 
wrists, half standing on her toes. She made a wickedly beautiful picture. 
Stretched and taut. Her head slowly turning from side to side as she sought 
to assess the degree of her bondage. It was the only movement she could 
make. 

Arlette ran light fingers caressingly up and down the strained beauty of the 
girl she possessed so totally. They lingered here and there and evoked gasps 
from parted lips. But even as she slowly knelt and her lips and then her 
tongue reached for their ultimate quintessance of ecstasy not even a shiver 
or the ripple of a muscle was possible from the rigidly held nudity. Monica 
responded with moans of happiness and a constant tossing of the head. But 
that was all. Even when it was done she hung no less taut though her head 
fell back and was still. She knew at that moment that the whip could find 
every secret part of her and that she could contrive no motion to evade 
it-not even a quivering of her flesh. 

A minute passed in blissful satiety before Arlette broke the silence: "Is it 
that you sleep so long, ma cherie?" Her voice conveyed slightly more than 
the question. 

Monica longed to prolong her mood. But reality returned. What now! But she 
knew what now. Raising her head she met her loved one's eyes. Then saw the 
thing in Arlette's hands. It was quite beautiful. Perhaps three feet long, 
tapered, black, supple, responsive to every pressure of the feminine fingers 
that controlled it. Arlette played with it pensively, ran it through her 
fingers and across her hands, coiled it, let it fall negligently its full 
length to the floor. Neither girl spoke. The whip had its own eloquence. 
Then, with that same thoughtful air, the Mistress draped a coil across her 
victim's taut arm, let it fall over the shoulder and down her back, drew it 
forward and down across the lifted breasts. Monica quivered inwardly. But 
the small gasps emerging from her parted lips were the same sounds that 
ecstasy had evoked just minutes before. Guided by Arlette, the leather had 
an almost silken touch. The two girls gave themselves utterly to this 
taunting suspense. To Monica it was a delicious prelude to something she 
dared not contemplate. To the Mistress it was the first notes of a symphony. 
Her whip was the bow tentatively testing the taut string. 

"Ma pauvre petit! We must sometime begin. It is best now." 

Monica nodded in acquiescence. Her eyes still half closed. She could not 
speak. 

Waiting for the pain that would be new and different and more awful than 
anything before, Monica recalled all those other times when she had cringed 
before that first stroke of the cane across her buttocks. It was always the 
worst moment of all. The Mistresses prolonged it purposely. To counter the 
unbearable she had managed to create a limbo in the mind into which she 
retreated lest she plead and scream. She was always cruelly plucked from it 
by the first cutting blow across her flesh. But it helped. A naked girl 
under the whip clutches at even the smallest victory. 

It curled around her slender concave waist. A band of fire, a thousand 
knives, a white hot brand. Everything within her writhed the dance of agony 
that her strained nudity was helpless to perform. Somehow she kept the vow 
she had made not to scream. A gasping moan escaped but she bit it back. The 
tossing of her head between her raised arms was her true confession of pain 
beyond bearing. Pain encompassed all her consciousness except for one small 
agonized comer of the mind bracing for the next stroke and pleading: 'Oh, 
not yet. Not yet-not yet...." 

The Mistress leaned against the wall, her eyes hungrily focused on the thing 
she had done to the naked girl suspended before her. It was so beautiful, 
this circlet of red at the narrowest part of the rigidly held body, a red 
division on the white skin, rapidly becoming a raised weal like a neat belt 
dividing the slim hips from the first thrusting rib. So great a pity that 
the tortured child could not bend and examine herself. She would be so proud 
of what she bore: a scarlet circle of pain on a field of white. Arlette was 
pleased with the simile. It would be a pity to give the second stroke that 
would spoil the effect. 

It was Monica who finally broke the silence. 

"Darling?" 

"Oui, Cherie." 

"Oh, darling, it was so awful-worse than I thought. Is it, is it possible 
for a girl-for me, to stand-to stand a hundred?" 

"It is sad, ma petit." Arlette gave her French shrug, "But it is possible 
for a girl to bear. It is of the most possible for my little pigeon. She is 
not as others." 

Monica gave a small mute nod of acceptance. If her love said it was so, then 
it must be so. She strained at her fastenings in a wish to observe her 
wound. But they defeated her. Sight of her waist was denied. 

"Oh, darling. I didn't scream that time. But I will the next-oh, I know I 
will...!" 

"It does not matter, little pigeon. It is good to scream. It is not 
forbidden. I will make you screamso very much." 

Arlette came and began a gentle play with her fingers on the naked nipples. 
"There. It feels better, no! But I must not take all the time on this nice 
thing. We have so much to do, ma petit." Playfully she pinched each bud she 
had teased erect. "But it is good that I should tell you now that when I 
whip higher on your back I will make you wear a pretty bra' of leather. I 
will put it on you so that these two so beautiful things I love and which 
you love too will not be cut or even marked. The whip shall strike but it 
shall not touch. Madam, also, is most demanding in this." She gave a small 
trill of laughter, "It is that when a young lady is returned to her home 
from the establishment of Madam Dubois she should be in a condition of the 
most perfect." 

"How long will it be before these marks I'm going to get today disappear?" 
Monica asked dejectedly. 

Arlette pursed her mouth considering. "Perhaps a month, Cherie. Probably 
longer. My little pigeon's bottom already has so many fine colors, now I 
must add to them. Of a certainty it will be more than four weeks. But it is 
not for to worry. You will look adorable with your stripes." Again she 
laughed a merriment Monica could not share, but which somehow made her 
plight seem less harrowing, "Your Mistress will take much care with each 
stroke so that afterwards you may wear them with pride. The other girls will 
be jealous, no!" 

"You're teasing," accused Monica. Not really minding. A feminine instinct 
had been aroused. Would she look nice wearing the stripes of a whip! Would 
she ... would the other girls....She remembered the multi-colored bottoms of 
all the girls, herself included. There was something erotically pleasing, 
especially when a single stroke stood etched upon the fair skin. "I suppose 
it doesn't matter much. It's simply months before I get sent home." 

"You do not wish to go home." There was still laughter in Arlette's voice. 

Monica's mental struggle to produce a protest to what she felt was an amused 
accusation: a protest which might be truthful and which she herself might 
believe in, was interrupted by the opening of the door and the sudden entry 
of Madam Dubois herself. As usual her presence dominated the room. With 
measured steps she circled the pinioned girl until she stood beside Arlette. 
As greeting she uttered but one word: 

"Exquisite!" 

For almost a minute she surveyed the naked stimulation of an X that was 
exposed so immovably for her inspection, and the ridged red weal that 
circled its center, "You are a very beautiful girl," she told Monica. "You 
will be a very beautiful woman." Almost to herself and as an afterthought 
she added, "The thought disgusts that a man should ever possess you." Then, 
in a changed tone, "My dears, the two of you have created something quite 
beautiful. If we but had an artist to immortalize so glorious a nude." 

Suddenly she became practical. She addressed Monica: "You will tell me, my 
dear, your feelings at this moment." 

The request caught the prisoner unprepared. How could she feel! Was this a 
trap? Was some obvious statement required of her-something humble perhaps? 
She did her best. At least it was the truth: 

"I feel afraid of what I have been sentenced to, Madam." 

"Nothing else?" 

If Monica could have moved she would have squirmed. She had no answer. How 
unjust it was to bait her so. Very well! She was to receive a hundred 
strokes. Did it matter much if that became two hundred-or three hundred? She 
found herself in a welter of emotion in which nothing mattered. Her voice 
was level, but without hope 

"I did what I wanted most to do. It was judged wrong. I have been sentenced 
to a hundred strokes with a whip. I must accept this sentence. I am 
fastened, as you see, so that I cannot move. I have received the first lash. 
Because of it I have to tell you that I am desperately afraid. I don't want 
to scream. That is all Madam." Monica's head dropped. 

"Of course, my dear, you are afraid. I know that. But is there no other 
emotion?" 

"I expect you mean guilt, Madam," Monica responded wearily. "Humility? That 
I should feel contrite." She shook her head, bemused. "I don't know. I have 
asked myself these things. Other girls have asked me. I am here because of 
my parents. It was their wish." Suddenly she had a flush of intuition, "I 
cannot tell you why I returned to this house yesterday. But I did return to 
be as I am now." 

Madam Dubois nodded reflectively. She seemed to ponder. Her foot tapped the 
floor. Monica had a desolate vision of two hundred strokes instead of one. 
But Madam was a woman of surprises: 

"You enjoyed your shopping, mademoiselle?" 

Anger almost prompted Monica to demand: 'Whip me and be done with it!' 
Instead, she said meekly: "Yes Madam." 

"Tres bon! So today again you go shopping with our good Arlette." 

Astonishment blotted out every retort. Monica stared blankly at her 
tormentor. Madam Dubois burst into laughter. 

"Ma pauvre Cherie. I am too cruel. There is no one hundred lashes. You have 
had them all. That so beautiful mark you will wear for so long a time." 

Monica was dazed. She felt no relief: "But why...?" 

"Why, ma petit! Perhaps I do not know why any more than you do. Let us say 
that you have been tested and not found wanting. We are very proud of you." 

"You mean I won't be whipped-not any more?" Cautiously she added, "This 
time." 

"Not any more-this time." Madam acknowledged. "And because we are proud of 
you and perhaps love you a little you are to have an afternoon of 
happiness." 

Madam Dubois mused for a moment as though remembering. "Of course, our 
discipline. It is important too. So mademoiselle will spend the rest of the 
morning as she is now. It is not comfortable, that pose. I am quite sure. 
Then in the afternoon Arlette will take you as I have promised." 

Gaily Madam kissed her astounded prisoner warmly on the lips. "Come, 
Arlette. We leave our little dove to quietly think. And to wish, perhaps, 
that she were not fastened as tightly as she is." In a moment they were 
gone, the door closed, the bolt slammed home. Monica was alone. 

Captivity as total as endured by the girls of Madam Dubois teaches much. 
Each girl was no more than an extension of her Mistress. What the Mistress 
tossed to them they must accept. If, sometimes, it was a scrap of joy they 
must cherish and savor it to the full. Monica sought to do this now. Slowly 
there was enveloping her the full realization that she was not to be whipped 
after all. A glow of happiness pervaded her being: a flood of tenderness for 
the woman who had remitted the awful punishment. Had they ever intended to 
inflict it! She did not know or care. It was over. But now captivity 
reasserted itself. Madam had supposed her pose distressing. It was. 

Monica had no idea of time. She was to be released around midday. She did 
not know how far off that moment might be. Suddenly with the whipping gone 
she found herself one large ache with points of pain at wrist and ankle and 
at the upper point of the inverted V that were her legs. The manner in which 
she had been fastened for the whip was a punishment in itself. A severe one. 
It was almost a vertical rack. Absurdly she found feminine comfort in 
Madam's exclamation: 'Exquisite!' It was nice to know that she looked 
beautiful; even if it did hurt. She tried to struggle, to ease her position, 
but could extract no faintest tolerance from her bonds. Her Mistress had 
done her work well. Never in the past or in the months still to come would 
Arlette show her the faintest trace of mercy or favor in her punishments. 
Thinking of Arlette she smiled happily. But with that smile there was much 
pain from every point of her stretched nudity, so that it was accompanied by 
a tear that trickled slowly down her cheek. Resignedly she settled herself 
to wait. 

Monica chose the Park. She wanted to ask questions more than she wanted to 
shop. She was not sure whether she was angry or pleased or just curious. "It 
was all planned, wasn't it? Hester left that chain unlocked on purpose?" 

Arlette considered the question, pushing a leaf this way and that with her 
foot, a half smile on her lips. "I am not supposed to tell you, Cherie. 
Madam would be most angry and I would get much pain," She gave a shiver that 
might have been simulated or real. Monica could not tell. "But, yes. You 
have guessed right. Hester does not make such mistakes." 

"Why?" 

"Does it matter, dear one? I am not sure that I know. Perhaps a test. Your 
parents may have asked that it be done...." 

Monica knew a moment's thankfulness that she had not entered her home that 
decision wracked night. 

"But what has it proved?" 

Arlette laughed gaily. "It proves, ma petit, that you do not wish to leave 
Arlette. For this I am glad." 

"I'll never want to leave you, Arlette." 

"Even when I whip you very hard and chain you in so many ways?" 

"Silly! You know I don't mind. If Hester did it I would mind terribly." 

"You would not have returned that night if Hester had been your Mistress?" 

Monica knew that here she had reached the core of her own doubt and concern. 
Was it need of Arlette or duty to her parents. As though reading her 
thoughts Arlette suggested: "Why worry, Cherie. What you did must have been 
the right thing. Otherwise we would most certainly not be sitting here." 

Monica realized that this point was indeed the crux of the matter. So, she 
had done the right thing. Her mind leaped ahead. 

"Darling." 

"Yes, Cherie?" 

"When it's all over-the six months, I mean. What then?" 

"My little pigeon will go home. So happy." 

"Oh, darling. You tease. I mean-about us." 

Arlette examined the lovely animated face. "You would wish to stay a 
prisoner always?" 

Monica thought about this a long time, her features tense. London rolled by 
the two girls unnoticed. Arlette watched the battle before her musingly. 

"Yes. I would wish that rather than lose you." 

Arlette's eyes were troubled. "I know. It is not easy." She brightened 
mischievously: "Perhaps if I am very cruel to my little pigeon she will be 
most happy to go home when her time comes? That is what I will do. It is 
simple, no?" 

Monica matched the mood: "How splendid! T never thought of that. When I do 
not love you any more I will tell you and you can stop." 

They shared their laughter and their happiness. "And you will not go to your 
home when the time comes this evening?" asked Arlette slyly. 

"My home is where you are," Monica said seriously. "And today I'm not going 
to create awful decisions to face." She laughed infectiously with pure 
happiness. "Come, darling. I will buy you a silk blouse at Liberty's. No use 
buying clothes for me. I won't be wearing any. Let's shop." 

They had dinner at the Cafe Royale. They were chatting happily over dessert 
when a male voice interposed: "I say there, if it isn't Arlette! Greetings 
mademoiselle." 

Monica looked up, annoyed. Her freedom was short. She did not want it wasted 
by strangers. She was even more annoyed when Arlette found it necessary to 
make introductions. He was the honorable Freddie Arbuthnot. Monica was quite 
sure that in her life before Madam Dubois she had met a hundred like him and 
thought them ridiculous. She made an effort to show disinterest. But the 
honorable Freddie was not abashed. 

"I say," he gushed to Arlette in a frightful old school tie voice, "What an 
absolutely ripping girl. Where have you been keeping her?" 

Monica stifled a giggle. She wondered if this fop's equanimity would stand 
the strain of knowing where she had been kept and what happened to her 
there. 

"Mademoiselle is a friend," Arlette informed him equably and 
non-committally. "And now, honorable Freddie, please to run along." 

"The old dismissal, what!" said Freddie unperturbed. "You would cast me into 
outer darkness." 

"Mais oui! Mademoiselle and I have things of which to speak." 

"Why not talk about me?" asked Freddie helpfully. "Because there is nothing 
of which to talk. You are a-pouf...!" Arlette dismissed the subject of the 
honorable Freddie Arbuthnot with her Gallic shrug and a wave of the hand. 

Freddie turned his charm upon Monica. "I say, that's a bit thick, you know. 
I'm really most frightfully interesting. I can tell you are aching to hear 
the story of my life-you are, aren't you?" 

"No." said Monica, as rudely as she felt one could be in the Cafe Royale. 

"Let it never be said I thrust my nobility where it is unwanted," said the 
honorable Freddie theatrically. "You have scorned a good man's love. I hope 
you have a perfectly foul time without me. I bid you adieu." He sauntered 
casually into the crowd. 

"He is a-what you say? A silly ass." Arlette dis missed their visitor with a 
gesture. "A pleasant silly ass and sometimes useful if one is bored. But 
that is all." 

"I was rude, wasn't I?" 

"It is the only way to deal with Freddie," said Arlette as she deftly 
inserted a spoon into the peche Melba. "His feelings, they cannot be hurt. 
Think no more of him. And now, my very dear, of the theatres which shall it 
be...." 

Their's was a very happy day. 

It must be admitted in the days that followed there were often times when 
Monica wondered if the French girl was actually following her own 
suggestion, seemingly made in jest, to be especially cruel. Nothing specific 
but rather an absence of those periods in which the daily punishment was 
more from boredom and immobility instead of pain. There had been two days in 
a row in which she had stood with arms stretched above her head; an 
exhausting pose in which to be chained. There had been a day in which one of 
her wrists had been chained high above her on the wall and one ankle 
fastened thirty inches above the floor, so that she perforce stood on one 
leg yet had one free hand that was powerless to aid her in any way. Two more 
days had been spent with both feet and wrists held in the stocks. It had all 
been tiring and a drain on her confidence in herself and in her Mistress. 
She had taxed Arlette with the direct question. But had received in reply 
only a cheerfully bantering evasion. Thus she came finally to the morning 
when she was guided, her ankle chain swirling and tinkling on the stone 
floor, to a room she had no wish to enter again. It was a bright and 
cheerful room. It held the bench and the iron rings set in the wall with 
their buckled straps hanging. 

"Oh no, darling, not this again." 

"But, of course, Cherie. It has been so long." 

"It's awful. Are you going to stretch my legs as wide apart again?" 

"Mais oui, ma petit. Perhaps even a little more." Arlette assured her 
mischievously. "So that those wicked lips are well parted to invite...." 

"Invite what? You are a tease." 

Arlette shrugged. "What else: a kiss: maybe a tongue. You would enjoy teeth, 
maybe? Little teeth that bite." 

"Oh alright. I'll be a good girl and won't argue. I suppose you want me to 
get into position?" Pouting, but remembering that this room held good 
memories as well as bad, Monica climbed on to the bench, lay back and 
allowed her arms to fall down each side. She even sought and found the 
straps and placed her wrists in them so that it took her Mistress but a 
moment to buckle them tight. Raising her feet she shook the chain that 
joined them, "Why not leave them chained, darling? Wouldn't it save 
trouble?" 

"Mademoiselle presumes to make the small joke." Said Arlette with mock 
severity. "Mademoiselle will be sorry." 

"Twenty strokes as well?" Invited the prisoner puckishly. "For insolence?" 

"A so tres bon idea." Agreed Arlette cheerfully as she unlocked and threw 
aside the leg irons. "But first to buckle tight the anklets, so. And now to 
pull tight the straps." She giggled. "Never have I seen Mademoiselle so well 
displayed." 

Monica wished that she herself could see what she was sure must be a most 
extraordinary spectacle. As before, she could not move. Her legs were 
stretched apart to an extent she would not have believed possible. It seemed 
as though the eyes of the whole world must be riveted on her black triangle 
of hair. She was thankful there was only her Mistress to see. This 
punishment was wickedly shaming. 

"Oh please, let them back an inch, Sweetheart." She pleaded. 

Arlette tested the tension of the taut thighs and legs thoughtfully. Then, 
brushing the hair to each side examined the lips normally hidden but now 
parted and exposed. "My little pigeon is now just as she was before." She 
announced brightly. "But we progress, n'est ce pas? We pull the buckle one 
more notch." And despite Monica's pleas and groans, some simulated and some 
all too real, she tightened the straps into their next resting place. 

The naked victim tossed her head from side to side. "Oh darling, it's 
awful." She complained. "I'm splitting. I bet my poor cunny's wide open. I 
can even feel it is." 

"Mais oui! Tres convenient for one who would give you pleasure, little 
pigeon. See, I put my finger right on that tender spot." She did so, 
laughing down at her victim. The intimate and knowing contact sent Monica 
gasping and surging against her bonds. Without further words the Mistress 
knelt, as before an altar, and bowing her head used her lips and her tongue 
and her teeth to take the bound girl into that Wonderland that only the two 
of them knew. When it was over and the last gasp had become a quiet sigh of 
happiness she softly withdrew and closed the door. 

At such times Monica never wished to return to the consciousness of whatever 
punishment she might be suffering. Certainly not today to an awareness of 
the stretched legs that made her doubly naked. She stayed in her Wonderland 
for as long as pain would allow. She had developed a faculty for immobility 
and relaxation that eased the strains she was constantly subjected to. If 
you refused to let your mind dwell on your plight it helped. An acceptance 
that there was nothing you could do about it helped. The visits of her 
Mistress helped. Arlette came as often as her duties allowed. She brought 
pleasure with her. Pain was something that could not always be ignored. 
Madam Dubois would have professed shock if told that her Girls suffered 
actual pain in their confinement, and in this she would have been 
technically correct. Except for their whippings, there was no actual 
infliction. The pain came from long immobility or from some strained 
position such as Monica now endured. It began simply as an ache or as 
fatigue and intensified, to some degree, in proportion to whatever 
apprehension or panic its victim was prone. Monica had learned this. Keep 
panic at bay and much of the pain went with it. Never think in hours, only 
of the minute that was now. Thus she now lay stretched upon her altar of 
discomfort so that the minutes passed in a glowing reverie in which the hand 
of her love still rested lightly upon her senses. So great and fulfilling 
had been her orgasm that she drowsily hoped her lovely dream might last 
until her Mistress came again. She did not know how long she lay thus, eyes 
closed. At peace. Nor does it matter. It was a long time. A time brought to 
an end by an awareness that crept upon her senses. Intangible, yet enough to 
provoke her to reluctantly open her eyes. What she saw caused them to widen 
in a stare of pure horror. Framed within the wide V of her tortured legs 
there looked down upon her the vapid but beaming countenance of the 
honorable Freddie Arbuthnot. 

To Monica it was a shock so devastating that no coherent reaction emerged 
from the turmoil of emotion within her mind: shame, fear, outrage, anger 
seethed. But the only words that came to her lips were a pleading but 
ineffectual: "Go away!" 

"I've only just arrived." Her unwanted guest pointed out reasonably. 

Never had the prisoner been more keenly aware that she could not move an 
inch. What weapon had she to use against this mortifying invasion. Words 
were not likely to pierce the sang-froid of the Honorable Freddy. She knew 
the type. But there was one more feminine weapon she could try: 

"I'll scream!" she threatened. 

"Please do. I'll wait." His voice was infuriatingly cheerful. 

Monica could have killed him. Every muscle she possessed surged against the 
straps that held her. She knew she was blushing and inwardly cringing away 
from the shaming exposure to which Freddy's eyes now seemed locked in amazed 
fascination. "How did you get here?" she asked miserably. 

"The usual way, dear girl. Front door and all that." 

"If Madam finds you she'll call the police." 

"Mais oui!" Freddy chuckled. "Bit of French that. Madam's gone to the 
country for the day." His eyes never left the parted lips that the helpless 
girl longed to close but could not. As though remembering a message he 
continued: "Arlette said to tell you she sent me with her love. Damned nice 
of her, what!" 

"Arlette didn't send you." 

"She did, y'know. We're old pals." 

Misery enveloped the impotent victim. She recalled that Arlette had 
mentioned a man a long time ago. But why would her Mistress betray her to 
this absurd man about town. She recoiled from a thought that had sought 
entry to her mind these last several days....At any rate it was certain that 
The Honorable Freddy could only be where he was by Arlette's connivance and 
consent. "What do you want now you're here?" She demanded. 

"Oh I say! Steady now old girl. Keep it decent and all that...." 

"Please, Freddy! You shouldn't see me like this. You know you shouldn't. 
Please go away and leave me alone." 

"Well, well, me proud beauty! Methinks ye sing a different tune." 

"Very well. I was rude yesterday. I'm sorry. Is that what you want?" 

"No." 

It was on her tongue to ask him then what it was that he did want of her. 
But, unhappily, she realized that she knew perfectly well what he wanted and 
how very easy it would be for him to take it. Panic drove her to explore 
every hope: "Freddy, surely you have some decency." 

"None at all." He assured her imperturbably. "I'm going to fuck you." 

It was like a blow. The word had been whispered in cloakrooms, with a good 
deal of furtive giggling. She had never heard an adult use it. Now a man was 
going to do it to her as she lay naked and stretched wide to receive him. 
The four letter word burned her with fear and disgust. "You filthy beast!" 
She exclaimed bitterly. 

"Not very chummy, I must say." Freddy complained. "This could be a bit of 
all-right y'know if we were palsy-walsy." He lapsed into a shocking 
simulation of the Cockney accent: "Ain't much use yer plying the 'aughty 
lidy-not with that little arse 'igh in the air and yer cunt wide open an' a 
winkin' at every bloke wot passes." 

Monica felt certain that scarlet must surely be suffusing every inch of her. 
She sought for words to refute and to wound. "You bore me." She said with 
loathing. 

Freddy guffawed coarsely. "I say, jolly good, that! A pun, by Jove." 

Monica was furious with herself for the ill chosen word, yet felt a 
hysterical desire to giggle. "Don't you have a mother?" She asked bitingly. 

"Steady on, old girl." Freddy remonstrated. "Can't possibly do it to the 
Mater-incest and all that." He now closely inspected Monica's hairy triangle 
with its gaping invitation. "Don't suppose she's ever been in quite this 
position. Much more sporting to do it to you y'know." 

"Let me loose Freddy, please." 

"Sorry, love. Arlette's orders. No letting loose." Again his inane guffaw, 
"Besides, we'd never get you into a position half as good as this. 
Absolutely ripping!" 

Despite herself, Monica almost involuntarily joined his hilarity as he 
stuttered: "I say, old girl-another pun-what! Absolutely ripping! Oh, I say. 
You must be all-ripping, I mean. Jolly good." 

"Haven't you any pity?" 

"Not fer a 'aughty lidy like wot you be. Too good fer the likes o'me you 
are. I know yer kind. A good fuckin' is wot you needs. I'm goin' ter make 
yer ask fer it." 

"You know I won't do that." 

"Ah, my proud beauty! Next line goes: Unhand me villian! Doesn't it! There's 
no hope, y'know. You're quite at my mercy. Probably beginning to enjoy it, 
aren't you? Good Old Freddy will help a bit-like this." His hand decended 
and began to gently massage her sex. His other hand was raised in 
admonition, finger wagging. "No-no! I know the next line too. It's: Get your 
filthy hands off me you swine. Right?" 

Monica squirmed in fury. It was exactly the words that had risen to her 
lips. Now she tried another tack: "I'll tell my father. He'll hound you into 
the ground." 

But nothing could dent Freddy's armour of complacency. He was using both 
hands now. His fingers and palms were knowing and adept. Her loins and 
bottom hung suspended in the air so that they were an inviting offering for 
his ministrations. Monica could not see his hands at work. But she had 
become warmly aware of them. It made her angry and flushed. 

"But you won't be seeing Daddy for a long time, will you Poppet." Evidently 
The Honorable Freddy knew a good deal about her. "By that time, my shrinking 
violet, this day will be but a happy memory." 

"Happy!!" Monica put all her loathing and distress into the one word. 

Freddy sighed romantically. "Alas joy is but fleeting. We must seize it as 
it passes." His finger expertly explored within her open lips and found what 
it sought. Monica gasped and again fought the straps. "Can't move much, can 
you." Said Freddy approvingly. "Just say the word when you want me to fuck 
you." 

Monica did not deign to reply. But in the silence which ensued she became 
horrifyingly conscious that The Honorable Freddy Arbuthnot possessed a skill 
in dealing with female flesh that she would not have supposed him capable 
of. She knew that she was enjoying what he was doing to her. It was bitterly 
unjust, she reflected, that her own senses should play traitor. 

Angrily she realized that if this continued she would soon be unable to 
stifle a rising passion. 

When his hands were withdrawn her hope was short lived. Freddy undressed as 
casually as he did everything else, hanging his clothes absurdly on the 
ringbolts set in the wall for a quite different use. Monica could raise her 
head scarcely at all, but looking sideways she was able to see that The 
Honorable Freddy was one of those men who looked better with his clothes off 
than with them on. Apprehensively her eyes sought that object which was of 
the most vital concern to a girl in her predicament. It was huge and erect 
and very hard. It did not seem possible that all of it could be thrust 
within her and that her sex would accommodate it. Stripped, Freddy came and 
stood beside her. "Ready to say the word?" He asked encouragingly. 

She vouchsafed no reply. She knew she was helpless. She knew he would arouse 
her; had in fact already done so. She knew he would have his way with her. 
But she did not have to be humble. She would cheat him there. Furious with 
the cheerful face beaming down on her she closed her eyes. But it took an 
effort of will to keep them closed and to regulate her breathing when his 
lips enveloped a nipple and deft fingers began to manipulate her other one 
while his other hand returned to its previous explorations with her sex. 
With gusto combined with a telling finesse her tormentor played upon her 
femininity as a skilled musician might play upon a harp. 

It was an unequal and unfair contest. Monica was angry with herself and the 
weakness of her flesh. She was soon panting and gasping under Freddy's 
ministrations. She could not move, but reflexes fought her bindings. She 
longed to be free. She was shamed that he might think her easily aroused. It 
was such a little time past that she had been a virgin. There had been but 
the one single unsatisfactory union with a male that had brought about her 
entry into Madam Dubois establishment. It had taught her little beyond the 
mechanics of what a man could do to a woman physically-nothing of the 
emotions. It was Arlette who had generated within her the full fire of 
womanhood. Arlette was a past Mistress in every subtlety of sex. So skilled 
was she that she could take any one of Monica's limbs or any part of her 
body and bring her to a climax by that which she would do with it. In the 
time they had been together Monica had learned more from her Mistress of sex 
and of herself than most females of her station learned in a lifetime. 

Freddy was, thus, not working on the barren ground that society and her 
parents would have approved. Monica was a woman whose every sense was taut 
and eager to respond. 

Her intelligence dictated now that she adopt the same tactics that she used 
in her punishments. Don't panic. Think only of this moment. Ride with the 
tide. It is doubtful that Monica had ever heard the gem of wisdom offered to 
the female facing rape, often credited to the Chinese sage Confucious. But 
of her own initiative she allowed her senses to guide her into it. 

Without warning Freddy bit her cruelly and laughed at her cry of protest. 
"Ready to ask nicely?" 

"No." 

He resumed his task. For a moment Monica thought he was actually doing what 
he had threatened. Her cry of pain caused him to desist. 

"Be sensible, poppet." He smoothed back the hair from her face, obviously 
admiring the angry features glaring up at him. "I'm not cruel, y'know. But 
you are going to pay for that slight in the Cafe Royale. A grand Duchess 
dismissal, that was. So just to even the score you're going to ask me to 
fuck you and you'll do it in your very best Sunday afternoon voice-Just as 
though the Vicar was present." 

"I won't!" 

Freddy chuckled confidently. "You will, y'know. I've thought of the very 
thing to put you in an asking mood." He slipped under her outstretched foot, 
grinned with obvious relish at her hairy sex, then turned his attention to 
the buckled strap that held her right foot taut. "I'm going to keep pulling 
these tighter and tighter until you say those magic words." 

"You can't. You'll kill me." Monica knew panic with a vengence. 

"Oh, I don't suppose so, poppet." Freddy rejoined as he fumbled at the 
strap. Then added cheerfully: "I expect you'll begin to split a little 
before anything drastic gives way." 

"I'm splitting now!! Oh, please! Don't-don't, don't...." 

"I'll just do it by degrees." Freddy assured her. "I'll pull this one up one 
hole, then I'll pull the other leg up one hole, and I'll go back and forth 
until you come out with that nice little speech. Remember now, nothing angry 
or talking to the tradesman tone of voice. Give of your best. Embellish it a 
bit. Go into detail. Be specific." He tugged at the buckle. 

It meant much to Monica that she treasure this last shred of pride. The pain 
as he tightened the strap was frightening. But she allowed no flicker of 
emotion to cross her face. Within her mind, however, simple reason was 
betraying her fortitude just as was her flesh. Freddy had roused her in a 
way she would not have believed possible. His hands and his lips had done 
their work well. He had taken his time. The bizarre eroticism of her 
condition had also been a potent stimulant. She had been shamed but 
intrigued. Her stimulated flesh demanded that Freddy finish what he had 
started. With shame she knew that she longed for him to continue. If only he 
did not insist on her total humiliation! She must indeed have hurt him 
bitterly that evening. If only she could stand the pain-surely he would not 
dare injure her. 

As though in answer, The Honorable Freddy turned his attention to her other 
leg. Monica knew she dare not risk whatever its further tightening might do 
to her. Pain sliced at courage. She accepted defeat. She would have to 
capitulate. She would have to say the words she hated. That one awful word! 
If only he had not demanded that!! Miserably she felt certain that she had 
best make her request with its obscenities as flowery and explicit as she 
could. She felt sure he would demand further shameful things should her 
first try fall short of what he wanted to hear. "I'll say it!" she gasped 
heartbrokenly. 

The honorable Freddy paused in his task and looked down at her with a 
pleased and amused expression. He kept silent. Monica took a deep breath and 
plunged: 

"Darling Freddy; please fuck me. Please stick that great big thing of yours 
right into my cunny and fuck me very hard indeed." 

She could have wept at the degradation. 

The Honorable Freddy stood in silent admiration. Finally he enthused: "I 
say, y'know, that was jolly good!" Then, nodding with quiet satisfaction, as 
an afterthought: "A few more days with good old Freddy and you'd turn into a 
really corking girl." 

He said no more. Monica was sure there was nothing more to say. She knew a 
moment of gratitude when her tormentor placed the second stool beneath her 
bottom so that the strain on her wracked body and legs might not be made 
more severe by what he was about to do. Thoughtfully and without prompting 
he also loosened the strap on her right leg in the same degree that he had 
previously tightened it. The relief, small as it was, seemed heavenly to the 
bound girl. 

As usual Freddy exhibited great skill, tempered, now, with what almost 
seemed a faint tenderness. Monica's earlier dismay proved groundless. So 
aroused had she become that Freddie's huge weapon slid into her with a 
lubricated ease that brought her first gasp of ecstasy. She longed that her 
legs might be free, and her arms, so that she might clasp this male thing 
possessing her. Yet she found a strange and savage joy that she was 
stretched wide to invite and to receive. What better way for a girl to offer 
herself! The fact that offering herself had been her very last thought or 
wish was forgotten now in the flood and intensity of sensation that Freddy's 
manipulations evoked. The Wonderland she entered now was a different Place 
from that other. They need not be compared. This one was not shared. She was 
taken there by force. But as she was led through its canyons and its peaks 
it became a journey she hoped would never end. It did end, of course. But 
the male thing did not leave her. She lay beneath its weight not caring. 
Soon they began again to traverse the now familiar way. They made their 
pilgrimage again and again and again.... 

The Honorable Freddy left as silently as he had come. His victim remained 
stretched in her punished nakedness. No word passed. It seemed to him as he 
went that the girl he had ravished was asleep. He was content that this 
should be so. Monica herself wanted nothing more than the exquisite 
exhaustion with which repletion had released her being from awareness of 
pain. She lay suffused with a glorious satiety. Her mind empty of conflict. 

It lasted a long time until the moment when she sensed Arlette's presence. 
Her Mistress stood between the strained thighs, looking down, features 
pensive. The silence remained unbroken, but their eyes locked and held. It 
was a communion of understanding. Yet Monica knew a feminine compulsion: 

"Why?" The word was whispered more than spoken. 

Arlette did not answer at once. She continued her meditative contempation of 
the captive. Then, as one humors a child: "You know why, Cherie." 

"It was because of Joan, wasn't it?" 

"You gave her what was mine." The French girl's voice now held emotion. 

"But darling, she was lonely-so terribly lonely. It was all I had to give." 

"Perhaps. Cherie. The Honorable Freddy, he was lonely too." 

Tears filled Monica's eyes and overflowed. She shook her head to rid her 
cheeks of the salty drops but they were replaced by others. It had been an 
incredible day. Her emotions were as taut as her limbs. She had no will to 
fight or to justify. If only her Mistress would not reject her. That was all 
that mattered. Almost happily she surrendered to the feminine solace and 
sobbed quietly. 

The Mistress wisely allowed the overtaxed emotions to find release. She was 
smiling gently as she finally patted the tired face dry. Then bent and 
bestowed a full warm kiss that was like a benediction to the bound girl. It 
was a kiss of forgiveness, and more. 

"My little pigeon does not hate her Mistress?" 

"Oh no, never-never, never!" The declamation was vehement. 

Arlette kissed her again. A long kiss of love. When it was done she said 
somberly: "It is understood then: each day I punish you because of something 
you have done. Something of which I do not even know. Madam knows and your 
parents know. But Arlette does not know or care. Yet I punish you very much. 
It is understood. I am your Mistress. Now it is understood that I also 
punish you very much when you displease me who loves you. Because I love 
you, you belong to me. N'est ce pas?" 

To the bound girl upon the bench her Mistress's words brought a surging 
relief. They were a clearer delineation of the bond between them than she 
had understood. It was what she wanted. What she had always wanted but only 
dimly glimpsed. She felt a great need at that moment to prove her joy: 
"Darling...." Her voice was hesitant and uncertain, "Whip me! I do not know 
if what I did was wrongI suppose it was. But it displeased you and made you 
unhappy, so whip me. Whenever I displease you, darling, whip me. Always...." 

The Mistress answered silently with seeking lips and gentle hands. Then: "Of 
course I will not whip you, Cherie. Not this time. You have been punished 
enough. Arlette knows that when her little pigeon first saw that so silly 
Freddy she must have been much shamed and afraid. And in these last days 
Arlette has been most unkind with daily punishments of the most severe. No 
easy days for ma petit. So that is enough. But next time you are a so 
foolish girl you will be whipped to hurt very much. Please to remember." 

Arlette playfully caressed the bound girl's nipples. Then did the 
unexpected-she loosed the straps that held the outstretched legs unbuckled 
the anklets and threw them aside. Monica's feet were completely free. 

"Madam is away today, so little mice can play." She mimicked. "No one will 
visit our little pigeon to make sure her wings are properly clipped." She 
shook an admonishing finger, "But that is all the setting free. Mademoiselle 
still cannot move very much, and so she will stay until the proper time. But 
this is a small gift from Arlette that she may do as she wishes with her so 
nice legs and close her naughty lips so that they do not tempt." 

It felt so good! Almost worth the travail to now know this miracle of 
freedom. At first she could scarcely move them. But soon she was pedalling 
an imaginary bicycle in the air. It was a pure joy. "Oh, I love you, I love 
you, I love you!" She laughed happily. Then, remembering: "But what about 
Madam Dubois? Won't she find out?" 

"Mais mon, ma petit. Hester and I have the small understanding. What is it 
said: the scratching of backs. No one will know." 

"I could tell her." Said Monica archly. 

"So I am at your mercy!" Arlette threw up her hands in mock resignation. 
"You are having what they say; the whip hand. I must do as you say or else 
you tell? My little pigeon likes the thought? It is true." 

"Silly, silly!" Monica laughed. A thought struck her: "I bet she'd punish me 
too." 

"Of a certainty she would punish your Mistress the most terrible." Arlette 
agreed. "I would be much afraid to even think of what she might do to me. To 
let the honorable Freddy in here was very bad-But to let him have his way 
with Madam's favorite pupil...." She raised her eyes in mock horror. "It 
does not bear the thinking." 

"What is Freddy to you?" Monica asked with curiosity. 

Arlette shrugged. "I have told you. When one is bored he is amusing. In his 
stupid way he is quite nice. I have known him long. He wishes me to marry 
him." 

"Marry Freddy!" Monica would have sat upright had she been able. 

"It is absurd, no!" Arlette produced her Gallic shrug. "But I am most poor, 
and the Honorable Freddy is of the most rich." She twinkled at her naked 
captive. "We French are most practical about such things. It is not a bad 
thing to marry someone for his money. One may be kind even if one does not 
love. It is a small something I keep: this wish of his. Like a Bank account 
for the rainy day." 

It seemed an un-likely event. Monica let the subject drop. But it had roused 
a question in her mind: a quite real fear. 

"Darling, talking about Freddy and-and what he did to me...." She found it 
hard to ask, "Couldn't I have a baby?" 

Arlette spilled laughter. "And have a so big tummy, yes! And have to explain 
to Madam! It is too terrible to think. Do not concern yourself beloved. 
Arlette made so very, very sure." Again the tender play upon the nipples. 
"These nice things are for Arlette only. No baby shall have them." 

"Then we have nothing to worry about...." Monica sighed with happiness. 

"You are too beautiful for worry, ma Cherie." Arlette whispered. 

After that they did not talk much for a very long time. 

* * * 

The following morning it was Hester who unlocked her from the wall of her 
cell and tested the fetters on her wrists and ankles. Monica knew 
intuitively what lay in store. Hester refused to answer her questions as to 
where was Arlette and why. Hester herself was obviously disturbed. She 
wasted no time. "You'll know soon enough. Come with me." 

Apprehensively the naked girl did as she was bid. Her ankle chain made its 
usual accompaniment to her measured steps. She raised her hands and examined 
the chain that joined her wrists. It was not usual for her hands to be 
chained at this time. It seemed an ill omen. She had little hope of good as 
she was pushed into Madam Dubois's office. 

Madam Dubois never changed. Her kiss on Monica's startled lips was as warm 
as ever, as was her smile. 

She dismissed Hester with a nod, then turned her full attention to the naked 
captive standing uncertainly in her chains before the ornate desk. 

"Mademoiselle, yesterday, found her punishment bearable?" 

"Yes Madam." 

"Yet it was one of the most severe. The stretching of the legs, n'est ce 
pas." 

Monica was angry with the involuntary movement that caused her chains to 
respond. "It is bearable, Madam." 

"It was bearable perhaps because of-what shall we say, 
mademoiselle....Diversions? Some small pleasure...?" 

Monica squirmed again. Miserably she realized the clinking of her chains 
were almost an admission. She buried her face in her chained hands to hide 
the tears; tears that she could not blink away. She started to cry with 
small choking sobs. 

Madam Dubois quietly allowed the emotional storm to run its course. When the 
shoulders had ceased to shake and the linked hands had smoothed and dried 
the cheeks. Then asked: "And now, my Dear, would you like to tell me about 
yesterday?" 

Monica looked at her inquisitor in misery and shook her head. 

"Very well then, Monica. I will tell you." Madam's voice held a no nonsense 
ring. "Yesterday while you were undergoing a punishment that exposes a girl 
in a manner that none outside this house should ever see, Arlette introduced 
a young man into your presence and left him with you for several hours so 
that he might have un-interrupted enjoyment of your body. It is understood 
that you were fastened helpless to resist. But it is understood, also, that 
you had no intention of reporting this incident or laying a complaint as you 
had every right to do. You also had a duty which you have shamefully 
ignored. I know this young man. He is a follower of Arlette." Madam shrugged 
disdainfully. "He is neither good or bad. I have no interest in him. He did 
only what Arlette allowed and planned. It is she who is guilty." 

"Oh no Madam! Please. She is not! It's my fault...." Her words sounded 
hollow and false even to her own ears. 

"Please, my dear, don't be absurd. How could the fault be that of a girl 
immovably bound? I know your affection for your Mistress and, being a woman, 
I understand your wish to feel guilt. I can assure you that you are not the 
first of our sex to view ravishment with horror which, before long, becomes 
pleasure and even more. For this you wish to feel guilt. To take some of the 
guilt from Arlette. Nonsense! Don't be a silly girl." 

Monica dabbed at her eyes. It was something to do as she stood naked 
awaiting judgment. She had no hope. 

"What should I do with the two of you?" 

"You can punish me. I suppose I deserve to be whipped." Monica felt she must 
make some response. Be contrite. Ask for something terrible in the hope thus 
to evade it. "But please don't punish Arlette. I ... I, suppose you must 
discharge her...?" 

"You do indeed deserve to be whipped, my child. Arlette will not be 
discharged. She would not wish it. She and I have an understanding. No girl 
is without fault: she will accept whatever punishment I impose, just as you 
did when you came here. It is the best way." 

"Where is Arlette?" Monica quavered. 

"Come with me, my child. I will take you to her." 

Monica remembered the room. She had spent a day in it. Bare except for the 
ringbolts in the wall, the chest, and in the center of the ceiling a pulley. 
Arlette was standing beneath it. She was quite naked. A broad band round her 
right wrist was fastened to the pulley rope. It had been tightened until the 
naked girl stood only on her toes, her right hand strained high above her 
head out of her reach. She looked frightened, but managed a wan smile. 

Madam Dubois wasted no time in backing Monica against the wall and locking 
the metal collar about her neck. The girl found her tether short. She could 
not take even a single step. She would have to stand there straight and 
erect and facing her punished companion as she teetered on her toes only a 
few feet away yet totally beyond reach. 

"First I should tell you," Said Madam Dubois, "That it was not Hester who 
betrayed you both. I believe her innocent. The means by which I learned of 
your scandalous behavior need not concern you. It is sufficient that I 
know." She turned her full attention upon Arlette. "You will be punished 
today. That is all. It will then be done. You know what awaits you?" 

The naked victim nodded miserably: "Please Madam, not this all day. It is 
too awful. Please give me a lesser time on the rope and perhaps whip me 
instead?" 

"I do not approve a Mistress being whipped in front of one of her charges." 
Madam announced curtly. "It is our little Monique's penalty to stand and 
watch your suffering. She will not enjoy it. She will feel guilt and will 
suffer with you. Your pose, which I have chosen with much thought, will not 
lessen your dignity as a Mistress in her eyes. But it is not good for her to 
see her Mistress whipped. The whip is for her, not for you." 

"Please Madam, not all day...." 

"You elect the alternative? I will give you one more chance to choose the 
easy way. It is your last." 

Arlette shook her head negatively. She was too close to tears to speak. But 
watched, with a hopeless foreknowledge, as Madam Dubois went to the winch 
and began to turn. Watching, in shocked fascination, Monica beheld the 
pinioned girl rise higher on her toes and then, with a gasp only half 
suppressed, rise slowly until she hung suspended by one wrist, her feet 
eighteen inches above the floor. Monica understood why the wrist band was 
broad. Rope would have cut the skin and stopped circulation. The wide 
leather would carry the weight of the naked girl, perhaps not without pain, 
but without injury. 

Next an anklet was tightened around Arlette's right ankle and another round 
her left wrist. Madam lifted and bent back her victim's leg and fastened the 
two bands together with a single link. Now the weeping girl hung from one 
wrist. Her other wrist and its opposite ankle were joined at her back. Her 
left foot hung without support. 

Madam produced a triangle of wood. A broad base tapering to a rounded point 
about two inches in diameter. This she carefully placed beneath the naked 
foot that remained the only member of the punished girl that was not 
fettered. It was high enough that the foot could find a resting place on its 
rounded point should its owner desire. Monica realized that to rest weight 
on the triangle might well be more painful than to hang by the wrist without 
support. It would be a cruelly tantalizing alternative through a long day. 

Madam Dubois surveyed her work approvingly. "I leave you now mademoiselles. 
You have a whole day together. You will have much to talk about. Adieu." A 
moment later she was gone, the door closed, the bolt shot home with its 
menacing thud. The suspended nudity turned slowly on her rope which 
gradually slowed until, fortunately, she hung facing her companion. 

It was a terrible punishment. Monica surveyed the grotesquely contorted 
figure of her love with anguish. She understood now that pitious cry: 'Not 
all daynot all day....' She could not bear to watch, let alone endure. It 
wrung her heart to see the small loved foot reach for and find that small 
point of wood, rest there for a moment and then withdraw because of pain it 
could not bear. It was horrible to stand impotent. But she could not move 
from the wall, could offer no help. It was Arlette who broke silence, her 
speech punctuated with sharply indrawn breaths that told her distress more 
graphically than words: 

"Oh, ma Cherie. I did not want you to see me like this. Madam is too clever. 
She knows that which hurts most." 

"She's a beast!" Monica asserted vehemently. "To leave you like that all 
day-Oh Darling...." 

"No, no, beloved one. Madam is not so. This-this thing you see now; it is of 
an understanding of long ago." Arlette's voice was already pale and tired. 
"The fault is all mine. We would not be as we are had I not been of the most 
foolish and jealous. So I deserve to hang like this." For a moment her voice 
broke, "But oh Cherie, I do not have the courage such as you. My little 
pigeon will be ashamed of her Mistress before the day is done." 

"Scream." Monica urged. "I think it helps. I always wanted to." Then, 
suddenly curious: "How did she find out?" 

The punished girl tossed her head angrily. Even this small motion caused her 
nude body to start its turning from the rope. With difficulty and a grimace 
of pain her foot sought the triangle and levered her back to face the girl 
chained to the wall. "Oh it was so foolish! That Freddy, he was smoking a 
cigar when he arrived and I did not take it from him soon enough. One of the 
maids she caught the so fine aroma and explored where she was not supposed 
to be. She hid and saw him leave your room. She heard us talk and watched 
him leave the house. She tell madam. Pouf! I would so like to hang her in 
this way that I am hanging." 

Angrily Monica tore at her chains. It was a simple expression of frustration 
without hope. Madam had indeed been shrewd in her punishment. Even though 
she suffered no pain at all, standing thus all day would inflict its own 
agony. To be compelled to watch her love's wracked and strained nakedness 
was more than she could bear. "How bad is the pain?" she asked dejectedly. 

"Ma Cherie, I do not know. My shoulder and my wrist, they are on fire. It is 
I think that I could bear it for an hour. But for all day I do not think I 
can bear this. This so silly thing that she had done to join my ankle and my 
wrist, it makes me feel the most foolish and strains me more. To move is 
pain. So Arlette will try to be very still. I hate that thing beneath my 
foot...." 

They tried to talk. But what was there to say. Monica suspected that even 
the effort of speech hurt her suspended companion. Each small gasp of 
distress tore at her compassion and her love. The morning wore on. The 
punished girl allowed her head to fall to one side. Her eyes closed. Her 
features drawn as were the natural lines of her lovely body. She might have 
been asleep had it not been for her gasping breath and the small moans she 
could not suppress. From time to time she would essay to relieve her weight 
by seeking the triangle with her one free foot. But it was never for long. 
When the hurt foot fell away again she would turn slowly this way and that 
on the rope that held her captive. After awhile she gave up trying to 
control such motion. It was obvious that even the smallest movement hurt 
her. 

Monica stood miserably without thought of her own weariness. Each moan and 
gasp tore at her. By midday Arlette's fortitude broke and her moans became 
cries of protest and agony. She even began to twist and writhe. One louder 
and more pitious cry was more than Monica could endure. She herself began to 
scream: "Help! Help!" and continued to scream at the top of her voice until 
finally the door opened and Madam Dubois swept into the small room. 

"Stop that noise. Stop it! You silly girl." She examined the suspended 
captive casually but with interest. The captive girl's moans making no 
impression on her habitual smile. "So much noise...." 

"But Madam," Monica pleaded, "She cannot stand it any more. She becomes 
hysterical. Please, oh please let her down." 

Madam Dubois ran her hand up and down her prisoner's nudity. "And what of 
you, my dear?" 

Arlette uttered no words but, instead, moaned an unintelligible cry of 
anguish. Her head raised, then fell back and was flung from side to side. 

Monica threw caution to the winds. "You see! You are killing her! You must 
set her free-you must, you must, you must...!" She flung one foot against 
her chains in the only gesture she was free to make. 

Her vehemence captured Madam Dubois's interest. She scrutinized Monica's 
tear stained face. "It is that you love her, n'est ce pas?" 

The heartbroken girl nodded without evasion: 

"Yes." 

"So!" Madam considered her two captives thoughtfully. Then turned to Monica: 
"You would wish to take her place...?" 

"Oh yes-oh yes! Yes Madam....Please let me!" Her outburst had been almost 
involuntary. Monica was glad it had been so. Such a request might be 
impossible to make if fully considered. But she knew her lips had not 
betrayed her. 

Madam Dubois nodded quietly as though confirming some inward opinion. Her 
gaze rested benevolently upon the naked girl chained to the wall. A girl 
with tear stained face and pained eyes: "So! Such love is rare. Arlette is 
most fortunate. Yes, Cherie, it shall be as you say." 

Without further preamble she went to the winch and loosened it. A moment 
later Arlette was sitting in a twisted posture on the floor. Her limbs still 
fastened and held. Her agonized face lifted in supplication. Tears streamed 
down her cheeks. 

"Please, no. Oh, it must not be...!" Her voice was husky. Almost a whisper. 

"And why not, my dear? Is it that you so much wish to hang there?" 

"Oh, non, non, non! I do not wish it." Her voice was tired and despairing. 
"But she must not do this. It is not right that she be punished for me." 

Madam Dubois surveyed the naked girl upon the floor reflectively. "You wish 
me to raise you again?" 

Arlette's sobbing intensified. But she nodded vigorously. 

"You love Monica, don't you?" Madam Dubois sounded amused. 

"Mais oui! I love her so much." Arlette's voice held spirit and life again. 
"It was bad, that thing I did to her." 

Madam Dubois laughed lightly. "What a pair you are! Both so noble. It is of 
a puzzle to know what to do with you. But I do know. Ma petit Monique shall 
have her wish-Quiet now! Not another word or you will both be sorrier than 
you are...." She shook an admonishing finger at the girl on the floor. 
"Quiet. 

You will obey." 

Whilst the girl on the floor wept quietly and sought to dry her tears with 
one hand, now free, Madam Dubois unlocked the collar from about Monica's 
neck. She also removed the chains that linked her hands. Next Arlette was 
freed from all restrainst then, her arm grasped firmly, she was taken to the 
wall and locked there with the band still warm from Monica's neck. Her hands 
were chained with Monica's chains. She accepted what was done to her limply 
and without protest. 

Monica was trembling. She wanted to be dealt with before her courage ebbed 
too far. Her feet were still chained-Madam no doubt sensed her state of mind 
as too unstable to warrant freedom. Almost urgently she offered her right 
wrist and mutely and sadly watched Madam Dubois tightly buckle the broad 
leather wristlet upon it. Without instruction she positioned herself below 
the pulley and raised her hand to which the rope was attached. Madam turned 
the winch until the victim's hand and arm were stretched high so that she 
stood on tip-toe. The pinioned girl watched unhappily as her ankle fetters 
were removed, she was safely secured now, and saw them locked on her fellow 
captive's feet. She then voluntarily put her left hand behind her and lifted 
her right foot so that Madam could lock them together. It was a shaming and 
strained pose that she now held. A moment later her toes left the floor, her 
wrist and shoulder felt as though they would be wrenched from their sockets. 
Gasping with pain and shock she looked down and saw the tormenting triangle 
placed in position. Almost without volition her foot found it and tried to 
ease her weight. But no matter how she placed it the pain soon became too 
great to bear so that her foot fell away and hung alone. 

No one spoke. Monica wanted to keep her features composed and her voice 
unbroken until Madam had gone-so said nothing. Arlette; engrossed with tears 
was too ashamed to speak. Madam nodded approvingly and left. 

All things come to an end. Always afterwards they called it The Awful Day. 
So indeed it was. Monica had never so taxed her courage or overestimated her 
endurance. She had passionately wanted to bear her ordeal with serenity so 
that her love, chained there to watch as she had been, might not suffer the 
same agonies of remorse and guilt. But as the hours passed the unforgiving 
attrition had its way with her naked defenselessness so that she too, just 
as with her companion, began to moan and finally to utter those small, 
almost animal, cries that were an elemental protest against a relentless 
pain. Thus it was two shamed and exhausted young women who were freed as 
evening came. Madam Dubois, enigmatic as ever, gave an unexpected order: 

"It is over. You, Arlette, will escort your charge to her cell. You will 
chain her as usual. You will also chain yourself naked as you are. I have 
arranged your chains for you." Seeing the unspoken question in their faces, 
she laughed good humoredly. "Oh, foolish ones. It is not as you perhaps 
deserve. Those chains, they are not on opposite walls." 

Their night was happier than their day had been. 

The Awful Day had brought them closer. Both wondered. But neither 
questioned. The elements for the sundering of ties had been present. But had 
not prevailed. They were happier than before. 

With Arlette clothed they reverted to the routines of the House. The Awful 
Day but a shared memory. The punishments Monica bore each day were as severe 
as they had ever been. Neither questioned that this should be so. Madam 
Dubois was her usual charming self and showed much affection to both the 
Mistress and her captive. Time passed. 

For all of Madam Dubois's "Girls" the highlight of their week was the day in 
which they were all fastened to their columns and whipped. Not that they 
enjoyed being whipped, but the ritual had a social aspect that was a break 
in monotony. It was during one of these sessions that Monica's curiosity was 
piqued by the birthmark. 

She had known little of Diana. They had never been fastened close together 
or shared a room. On this day the other girl had been turned so that Monica 
could see upon her thigh a mark too positive to be a bruise. There was 
something intriguing about its shape and form. That night she queried 
Arlette. The French girl grinned amusedly and said: "So, you want to know. 
Tomorrow I will see to it." 

She kept her word and even made it easy for them. They were backed against 
opposite walls, a metal band was locked tight about their waist holding them 
fast. That was all. 

"I suppose this could be worse." Diana vouchsafed as her fingers explored 
the metal that clamped her narrow waist. "But I bet we'll hate it by 
evening. But then, we always do, don't we! I guess that's the whole idea." 
She grinned, a trifle ruefully, at her similarly pinioned companion. "Say, 
is your bottom sore from yesterday? Mine sure is." 

Monica guessed that Diana, like the rest of them, had made her own 
adjustments to captivity. She seemed cheerful and unconcerned as though 
reconciled to authority's aberrant whim. There was something about her 
speech-"Are you English?" She inquired. "I'm curious." 

Diana's laugh was half embarrassed, half amused. "Oh sure. I know. I don't 
sound quite right, do I. But, yes. I'm English. By rights I ought to be as 
nicely English as you are. I started out that way....But something went 
wrong. I visited America." The last words were bitter. 

Monica waited. But her companion had cupped her face in her hands and was 
contemplating some horizon far beyond the confines of their cell. She waited 
for what she felt was a polite interval and then voiced the query that had 
brought them together: "I say, I know-I know you'll think I'm horrid to ask, 
but what is that mark on your thigh?" 

Diana lazily returned from the distant place. Lifting her leg she turned it 
so that she might contemplate the source of the question-a question that 
obviously amused her. Yet her words, when she spoke, were bitter once again. 
"Pretty, isn't it. It's a brand." 

Had she produced, without warning, a small bomb, a live cobra, or some 
horrible obscenity, Monica could not have been more shocked. What was the 
proper thing to say now. She made a faltering effort: "You mean-you 
mean-someone...." 

Diana was unperturbed, her voice pleasantly conversational : "Yes. Someone 
branded me. They do it with a red hot iron, y'know. It hurts." 

"But ... why? You let them...?" 

"Of course not, silly! No one sticks their leg out to get a white hot chunk 
of metal clapped on it. I was tied tight; I can still hear myself howl. Gee, 
I sure did howl!" 

Monica's face must have reflected her shock at an act not commonly 
contemplated by London gentility. Diana laughed with genuine amusement: 
"Cheer up, Sweetheart. It's not all that bad y'know." 

"It's awful!" 

Diana gazed at her fellow prisoner as though making an assessment. She took 
her time: "Yes, it's awful. It was its very awfulness-along with all the 
rest, that landed me in this pickle." There was amusement in her eyes. "You 
want to hear all about it, don't you? Can't blame you for being curious." 

"Don't tell me unless you want to." Monica still felt a need to be polite. 

"I don't mind telling you. But there's so damn much of it-Not that we 
haven't got the time." She fingered her metal belt ruefully. "And there's 
another thing," She paused awkwardly, then plunged: "It's good to talk about 
it. But after they know, people sometimes act as though I'd got leprosy. 
It's just so incredible that no one believes that I wasn't at least partly 
to blame. And then there's the feeling I'm soiled. I remember once reading a 
book about an Italian feud. The daughter was deflowered-I love that word-by 
the son of the other clan. Her father caught them in the act and shot them 
both. It seemed damned unfair." She tittered amusedly. "I had a feeling that 
Daddy felt he ought to shoot me: just to keep the family name pure. Instead 
he sent me here." 

"Oh it can't be that bad." Monica protested. 

"If it was any worse I wouldn't want it to happen to me," the other girl 
said reflectively. "See what you think about it." She giggled. "After you 
hear it all you'll probably ask to be chained in another room so you won't 
catch whatever I'm supposed to have. But anyway, there's a sort of preamble: 

"Mother had a brother, my Uncle. He was one of those frightfully masculine 
type. Empire Builder and all that. Always shooting things. When he was about 
forty he packed up, took all his money, and went to America. He's supposed 
to have chosen America because he didn't want to be called a colonial. He 
ended up in a place called Oklahoma-it's a State. He bought a ranch and 
built a great big house. Soon after mother got a letter saying he'd married 
one of the local belles. A bit younger than him, but there were no photos, 
though my new Aunt wrote a lot of letters that were bubbling over with 
affection and invitations to visit. Mother thought she was probably vulgar 
but quite nice. A year or so later one of these letters told us that my 
Uncle had been killed in a riding accident. 

"Oklahoma is so far away that I suppose ordinarily that would have been the 
end of it. Just one more Englishman buried in a foreign land. But the 
letters kept coming: warm, sympathetic, full of affection for the family she 
had never seen. Finally one of them suggested that I go out for a long 
visit: 'Just to round out dear Diana's education'. The idea caught on. It 
even seemed like a wonderful adventure to me. So Mum and Dad shipped me off; 
the feeling all round being that we were taking advantage of a glorious 
opportunity." She grinned wryly. "It was. But not for us. 

"My first misgivings came on the train. It took so damn long. There was no 
end to that place. Besides, I was quite young to be alone. It was my first 
time. I didn't like the men who leered at me. But I've got to admit that 
almost everybody was very kind. Maybe it was a premonition. 

"You have to go to Oklahoma to believe it. Even when I saw it I didn't 
really believe this could be happening to dear little Diana. The Conductor, 
a really nice old gentleman, put me off the train-they do it with a step 
affair, there's no platform, I found myself standing on a bit of dusty 
ground by the track. My luggage was in a pile a few feet away. There was a 
funny little shed-more like a tool shed instead of a Station building. There 
were also a few of the locals come to see the train, and these included a 
couple of real red Indians and a squaw. They were a rough, ragged, miserable 
lot. All of them were looking at me. But the biggest surprise of all, of 
course, was my aunt Caroline. 

Diana paused as though reliving the scene. Monica tried to picture it. But 
it was another world. Patiently she awaited her companion's mood. 

"She didn't seem much older than I was." Diana resumed. "We had all got the 
idea that she would be close to Uncle's age. I know I had. Now I was being 
warmly kissed and hugged by someone not long over being a girl. I discovered 
later she was twenty-seven. Along with the greeting I was also being very 
thoroughly examined. A better word might be appraised. I then got shock 
number two: Caroline produced a pair of really horrendous male creatures and 
introduced them as brothers Floyd and Leroy. She pronounced it as two words: 
Lee-Roy. One of them needed a shave. Both needed a wash. They also needed 
clothes. They were dressed, if you can call it that, in what is best 
described as bits and pieces. Even their Stetson hats, which they doffed 
with a great flourish as though unused to such a nicety, were filthy. 

"If you could say that Caroline appraised me, these two oafs did more. I 
felt like a prize heifer. Their eyes undressed me so that I felt more naked 
than I have ever done even here-and goodness knows we're naked enough in 
this place. But there was quite a flutter of welcome. I had to be kissed and 
breathed on by both of them. All the vocalizing was in a dis gusting 
perversion of the English tongue that shocked me as much as any other single 
thing. It appeared, too, that I had also lost my name. I had become "Sugar" 
or "Honey-chile' " or some other Southern absurdity. Later on Caroline found 
her own name for me. In its way it was worse. 

"There was a team of horses and what they called a buckboard. A two seated 
thing with room for luggage. The boys sat in the front and took turns 
driving. I sat in the back with My Aunt. I can't call her that, and I won't. 
But that's what she was. I felt lost and forlorn and afraid. It was all so 
strange. I might have digested Caroline, right then, but Floyd and Leroy and 
that strange dusty countryside was more than I could manage all at once. 
There was no road. Just two dusty tracks worn by wheels. I'd thought the 
train long. Well, so was this. We'd started early and about mid-day we 
camped and ate. They had brought food. It was strange to me. But some of it 
did taste good. This cheered me up a bit. But not much because the further 
we went the more I had a feeling that something was wrong. Caroline's 
conversation took an odd turn. She had started with pure gush and a great 
show of family. How were my parents? What sort of house did we have? Did I 
like America? Then, gradually, she worked around to the family finances and 
what relatives we had and where they were, and what did Daddy do? Were my 
parents likely to ever visit Oklahoma? It went on and on. I sensed she was 
driving at something. But I didn't know what. Perhaps she was just vulgar. 

"We must have driven over twenty miles by the time we reached the Ranch. The 
letters had been right. The house was big. All wood, which seemed strange. 
There were a lot of outbuildings, paddocks and things-they call them 
corrals. Everything became very business-like. The boys took care of the 
horses-there didn't seem to be any servants. Caroline took me upstairs to my 
room. Uncle had made it all very English, so that part didn't seem too 
strange. My next shock came after I had washed and changed and went 
downstairs. Caroline had changed too. She had met me in clothes that were 
not too far removed from what I was accustomed to and wore myself. Now she 
had on almost nothing: a pair of men's trousers that were far too tight and 
had been cut off well above the knee. They were ragged. I couldn't tell 
whether her other garment was a shirt or a blouse. All I could really see 
was that this was too tight also. Very much too tight. Her breasts pushed it 
out tautly in front. She wasn't wearing anything under it. I could see the 
indentations made by her nipples. It was also open down the front far lower 
than it should have been. My first thought when I saw this wanton display 
was: what would my mother think. 

"She saw I was startled: "It's a warm country, Sugar. Don't need much 
clothes. You're like to smother in all them things you got on. You want to 
help with supper?" 

"No servants! I'd never helped with supper in my life. But it seemed best 
not to say so. I did my best with the simple things she suggested. The boys 
came in, their hair wet from having given each other a turn under the pump. 
We sat down to supper. 

"Their table manners were on a par with the rest. They ate hugely and 
without conversation. They used a word that sounds quite impossible when I 
say it here, a word I came to hate. The food wasn't food. It was 'vittles'. 
Go ahead, laugh! They kept shoving dishes at me and I managed to eat enough 
not to feel rude. But I wasn't hungry. Then Caroline and I washed the dishes 
while the boys sat on what we would call the verandah and they referred to 
as the 'porch'. Dishes done, we joined them. Then the horror began. 

Diana shook her head as though to rid her mind of a memory. She looked 
appealingly to her fellow captive across the room. "Look, Honey, if you want 
me to stop just say so, anytime. When I tell this I have to try and make 
whoever it is believe me. I have to tell it the way it was. You may not 
believe what I say I didn't really believe it even when it was happening. 
I'm going to have to use words you won't like. I don't like 'em. They're 
ugly and horrible. But Floyd and Leroy and even Caroline used them a lot at 
that place. So I have to if I'm to make you understand. 

"They didn't even waste a minute. No small talk at all. The first thing 
Caroline said when we were all seated was 'Take your clothes off, Sugar.' It 
didn't hit me right then because I thought I'd not heard her properly. I 
just sat there, startled. But Floyd left me no doubts. His voice was clear 
and forceful: "Strip naked yer silly bitch!" 

"I'd never been naked in front of adults since I was an infant. Don't 
suppose you ever were either? So you know how I felt. I just sat there 
pretending I hadn't heard a word, and sort of hoping the nasty dream would 
go away and that I'd wake up safe in England. It didn't. Floyd pulled me out 
of the chair, then held me in front of him by both wrists while Leroy and 
Caroline undressed me. Stripped would be a better word because they just 
tore my things off and threw them to one side as though I would never need 
them again. When they had me totally naked they resumed their seats. Leroy 
held me helpless and exposed in front of them. They listened with obvious 
enjoyment to all my protestations and threats-I think I even threatened the 
British Navy. I went through the whole range of outraged womanhood, and 
British womanhood at that! I tugged and struggled all the time, but it was 
quite ineffectual, Floyd held me with ease, and you can't do much harm 
kicking with bare feet. They watched, and I knew they enjoyed that too. I 
was sobbing, of course. When I finally tired and stood limply trying to 
cross my legs, I couldn't cover anything else, I just sobbed and sniffed and 
waited for them to kill me. Caroline took over where I'd left off: 

"Now get this straight, you fancy-pants English whore. You belong to us. You 
can't escape, we'll make sure of that. The boys are going to have fun with 
you, and I'm going to have fun with you. Here and there we have a bit of 
business you can help us with. You may as well figure you've been kidnapped. 
It's as good a word as any. Don't get ideas about ransom. That ain't what we 
have in mind. You ain't going to get killed either, so quit snivelling. We 
want you to scream and howl all you like. We enjoy it. You will be hurt. But 
you won't be injured and you'll have good food. See, we're real kind, ain't 
we. When we are through with you-and that's a long way off yetwe'll send you 
home all nicely dressed and in good health after your wonderful holiday. And 
we're going to fix it so that no one will believe a word you say." 

She turned her attention from me then and spoke to her brothers: "O.K. boys. 
Take her down to the shop. Best get that bit of iron on her." 

"They had a complete blacksmith shop in one of the buildings. Caroline sat 
negligently on a box, Floyd kept his grip on me, and Leroy got the forge 
going and displayed a considerable skill with a job I watched in horror. A 
fascinated horror, I'll admit. From a long strip of metal about two inches 
wide he cut a short length which he proceeded to measure round my ankle. I 
was in no way surprised. I had guessed as much. I was to be chained like a 
slave. It turned out even worse than that. It was really something to watch. 
He was clever. He heated that bit of iron, pounded it into shape, punched 
holes in it, then when he had cooled it in water for the last time he set it 
in a vise and smoothed and polished it. Floyd sat me on a box and made me 
put my foot up on the anvil. The open circle was passed around my ankle and 
closed tight with a clamp affair they had. But before the closing Leroy set 
a metal ring in a channel he fashioned so that when the anklet was set in 
place the ring hung loose but as an integral part of it. Then he thrust two 
rivets through holes prepared on each side of the ring and on the inside of 
my leg and flattened them down with blows of the hammer that I felt sure 
would miss and hit me. I have never sat so still in my life. This done he 
again took a file and smoothed and finished his work. Even I almost had to 
admire it. My left ankle was firmly gripped by a band of heavy metal that 
fitted as though a tailor had measured it. Snug so that it would not slip 
and chafe, but not tight enough to affect circulation. Riveted as it was no 
one could remove it except a blacksmith. Certainly I would never be able to. 
From the band and inside my ankle there hung the heavy metal ring, not large 
but enough to take a link or a padlock. I felt like a slave girl. 

"They gave me no time to think, but propelled me over to one of the barns. 
The metal felt heavy and strange on my ankle and the ring sometimes made 
small noises so that you would never forget you wore the damn thing. As 
though there was some sort of hurry about it they tied my wrists together in 
front, threw the rope over a beam and dragged me up so my feet were off the 
floor. They have done that to us here, so you know what it's like. But that 
first time is awful. It was with me then. I felt doubly naked. Caroline 
briefed me again: I was to get five lashes with a whip. Not because I'd done 
anything, but just to show me how it felt to be strung up naked and whipped. 
Then I would always have the choice of doing what they told me or being hung 
up and whipped-never for just five lashes again. It would be more. As many 
more as might please them at the time. 

"I'd never been whipped in my life. But you read about it happening to 
criminals and such. You think because of your better breeding and being 
British and all that you could bear the punishment with a stiff upper lip 
like a pukka sahib. I tried. I turned and twisted under an intensity of pain 
beyond my wildest imaginings, but I did manage to keep quiet for the first 
three. After that, for the last two, I howled and pleaded and screamed. 
While I was doing it some little voice inside my head told me that I 
probably would do whatever they wanted rather than hang like this again. 

"When that was over, and while I was still whimpering with pain and rubbing 
at the tears on my cheeks, Floyd grabbed my hair and used it to guide me to 
whatever was next. It turned out to be the house and my own room. They 
tossed away a rug so that I was able to see something previously hidden. It 
was a massive staple clamped and bolted into the floor, from it there coiled 
a long length of chain. The final link of this was then padlocked to the 
ring on my anklet. I would have a considerable freedom. But I could not 
leave that room. The two boys left. I was alone with Caroline and my shackle 
and my chain. 

"Once more Caroline did the talking for her family. She used a reasoning 
tone of voice that horrified me on one hand and reassured me on the other. 
She wanted to keep me away from hysterics. She explained that they were 
going to keep me a long time. So the first thing I must do was write home a 
cheerful happy letter to tell of my safe arrival. They would post it. She 
asked me not to be silly unless I wanted to go back to the barn. I wrote two 
letters. She tore them up because of words I'd used in the hope of telling 
some sort of message. She threatened that if I did it again it was the barn 
for sure. I believed her. The third letter satisfied her. I even addressed 
the envelope. I didn't want to go back to that barn. My middle was circled 
with the most awful red weals. 

"She tucked my letter away. Then explained that during the day I would have 
a lot of freedom because it would be almost impossible for me to escape. 
Every time I tried it would be the barn. I would always be naked. Any 
attempt to cover myself would be punished. I would do some work that would 
be shown me. But my main function would be to service Floyd and Leroy. 

"It was like when she told me to undress. It didn't register at first. But 
when you live in the country as my family does you get to know what 
servicing means. I sat more or less shocked for a minute. Then I told her I 
was a virgin. It did no good. She seemed quite interested and pleased. She 
said the boys would be pleased too, and that they would toss a coin to see 
which of them would have the pleasure and privilege of breaking my 
maidenhead. 

Diana smiled sardonically, her voice bitter: "Sounds absurd telling it here 
like this, doesn't it. I don't really blame anyone for not believing me. It 
was all so matter-of-fact. They shoved everything at me so fast. Caroline 
told me in a conversational sort of way that they did not want to give me 
time to think or to fight. I was sort of being trained along a narrow line 
between what my mind could accept and my body endure. They did not want to 
take me over into hysteria or breakdowns. Their motto must have been: 'Keep 
her active'. So, in the same 'Auntie' like manner and voice she went on to 
explain that Floyd and Leroy didn't have much chance for a bit of fun in 
this frontier place. Girls were few and far between, so I was a golden 
opportunity for them. She spoke of those two bastards as though she was a 
mother with two small children who were being given some nice toffee. She 
actually did have this sort of feeling toward them. So, she explained, I 
would have to understand that I would always be available. If, for instance, 
she sent me for a pail of water and one of them met me half way and ordered 
me to get into a certain position right out in the open there, I would have 
to do so and allow him-and this is the word she used quite casually-to fuck 
me. I was to be docile and to even help him in any way he instructed. I sure 
needed instruction then. I wasn't quite sure what she was talking about. 
But, of course, I learned. 

"Of course I wept and pleaded and put my head in her lap and tried the two 
girls together stuff. But it did no good. She patted me and kissed me in 
much the same way you fondle something you have just bought at Harrods. She 
said I must be tired. It was evening now. Nothing more would happen to me 
today. I should get a good night's rest. I was to remember that I was 
chained and that no matter how I tried could not get free. In other words I 
wasn't to make a racket all night trying to get that thing off my ankle. 
Just go to bed. 

"I did. I even slept." 

Diana sent Monica a whimsical smile that was almost pleading. It was easy to 
guess that what she had to say now was not pleasant. She continued her tale 
somberly: "You know what it's like to be fucked, don't you. I don't suppose 
the first time is ever good for a girl. Actually though it wasn't as bad for 
me as I had expected. Knowing what I do now I realize they didn't want to 
damage the merchandise. All three of them played with me for what seemed 
hours until I was in quite a state. Leroy won the toss and when he pushed 
that damn great thing into me he did it with the same skill that he had 
shown in his other work. So I lost my maidenhead laying on some straw in a 
barn in Oklahoma. I got fucked nine times that first day. Leroy got one up 
on Floyd somehow." Seeing the look on Monica's face, Diana hastened on, 
almost tearfully: "You hate that word, don't you! Well, so do I. But it's so 
damn descriptive. There's not other word that paints the act in its proper 
colors. I was fucked! Why use some silly euphemism!!" 

She fell silent then, remembering. Her face buried in her hands. Her 
shoulders shook so that Monica knew she was crying. It was horrible like 
this to be unable to help. She poked at the metal round her middle 
resentfully. But it would never release her to give succor to the weeping 
girl. But the tears ended. The cheeks were dried. Diana grinned 
apologetically and carried on: "You'd have thought that first day was it, 
wouldn't you. That I'd plumbed the depths. I thought so. But I was wrong. 
When Caroline had said that the boys wanted a bit of fun she meant it. And 
most of the time she was right there with them. You see...." She searched 
for the right words. "I hardly know how to describe Floyd and Leroy. 
Caroline had all the brains. They were like a pair of loutish adolescents. 
They were younger than she was. They looked up to her. She managed them. 
They seemed quite fond of each other. To them I was a plaything. A new and 
wonderful toy. Something they had always wondered about-a girl! Now they 
owned one. They were as pleased as a small child with a Teddy Bear. They had 
almost no sense of right and wrong. I am sure they were convinced that 
anything they wanted to do to me or to make me do was quite alright so long 
as they did not injure the pretty toy. Caroline had dinned that into them 
very thoroughly. 

"The bits of fun were haphazard. I'm sure they were always spontaneous. The 
first happened the next day. During the morning they had each of them used 
me twice-See, just for you I avoided that horrible word! So in the afternoon 
they were playful instead of lustful. They had me follow them around while 
they did some chores. It was while they were feeding a pen full of quite 
young calves that Floyd gave a great guffaw and went and whispered in 
Leroy's ear so that they both turned and grinned at me. I could feel quite 
sure that whatever was going to happen would not be good-for me, that is. 
Floyd actually ran to the barn and came back with a few bits of cord. They 
tied my hands behind my back then lifted me into the pen with the calves. 
Another bit of rope cinched my belly to the rail and two more bits spread my 
legs and tied my ankles wide apart." 

"You know one time I almost got away but when they caught me the punishment 
was awful." 

Diana made a hopeless gesture with her hands, her eyes appealing. "Y'know 
what we whisper in cloakrooms and read about in those books we aren't 
supposed to see. About those enormous things some men are supposed to have. 
Well, even after what happened to me I still can't claim to be an authority. 
I don't know just how big these things can get. I'd only seen Floyd and 
Leroy's in my whole life. They'd looked and felt awful big to me. This thing 
I was looking at now was a damn sight bigger. I just don't know. I suspect 
we girls can stand a far bigger thing being stuck into us than we think we 
can. Anyway, as I stood and looked I just couldn't imagine that what I saw 
could possibly go up inside me. I reasoned that it was sticking up so high 
that I couldn't manage to get up there or to squat on it or whatever they 
would want me to do. The three of them stood smirking and enjoying my fear 
and puzzlement. They let me stew for quite awhile. Then the boys each took a 
wrist and with their other hand under my armpit lifted me easily so that I 
hung suspended above that awful prong. Caroline produced a small jar and 
liberally smeared grease all over it. I started to kick and fight. But they 
held me easily and Caroline pointed out, with her usual sweet reason, that I 
could either keep quiet and let them do it as painlessly as possible or I 
could fight and probably get torn and hurt. 

"Quite a choice, wasn't it. As they held me with ease above that horrible 
thing the last wish in my mind was to be impaled on it. But, of course, I 
knew that regardless of what I did, that was exactly what was going to 
happen. I pleaded and begged. They laughed. So I just went limp and let them 
do what they damn well pleased. 

"I suppose it was one more case of not wanting to damage the merchandise. 
After all, that portion of my anatomy they were dealing with was being used 
several times a day by the boys so no doubt they valued it. Anyway, they did 
take great care and a bit of time and some help from Caroline. When they 
released me I was standing, not quite on tip toe, with Leroy's wooden 
masterpiece further up inside me than anything had ever been before. They 
backed away. Tentatively I explored my situation. 

"To have got everything so exactly right I think they must have had 
Caroline's assistance as a model and guide. At that moment I could not get 
both my feet flat on the ground without hurting. That meant it was as high 
as was practical for their purpose. My first effort, of course, was to try 
and step off it. Quite hopeless. Then I tried to get high on my toes so it 
would slip off-or rather, so I would slip off. I couldn't get anywhere near 
high enough for that. I wondered if it would have helped if I'd had my 
hands: I'm not sure that it would. Anyway, they had taken my hands away from 
me. So I ended up just standing. Held there by impalement on a wooden prick. 
It was an infuriating, shameful way to stand. I wished I was dead. 

"All three of them obviously viewed my plight as immensely amusing. I've 
never seen three people more pleased. The boys kept slapping their legs and 
emitting great guffaws of merriment. I could have killed them. 

"Purty lucky gal', I'd say." Offered Leroy, winking broadly at the others. 

"Sure wish I were a gal' with sumpin' that nice to sit on." Said Floyd. 

"Ever tried one bigger than that, Flossy?" Asked Caroline pleasantly. 

"I knew I was scarlet. I stood there hating them. 

"She ain't never goin' to run away agin'. Not and leave anythin' that good 
behind. Never find nothin' like it elsewheres." Leroy suggested. 

"You try a'jumpin' up and down on it, Flossy. Oughta' feel damn good!" Floyd 
bellowed with laughter at this sally of wit. 

"I knew, for sure, that jumping up and down was one thing I couldn't and 
wouldn't be doing. 

"You are a lucky girl." Caroline said. "I really envy you that big beautiful 
thing. Y'know, it's going to feel wonderful after awhile. I bet if we ever 
get around to lifting you off you'll ask us to leave you right there." 

"She was welcome to it as far as I was concerned." 

Diana made a moan of resignation and shrugged. "They tired of it after 
awhile and went away leaving me standing there. It wasn't much fun. But 
eventually I did manage to stand flat footed-I suppose things had sort of 
got adjusted inside me: maybe I'd stretched-That sure did help." Suddenly 
she flamed scarlet. "But about that time I'd begun to realize that Caroline 
had known what she was talking about: that blasted thing inside me did 
actually begin to feel good, too good! Every time I moved there was a 
response. I couldn't move much, of course, but it didn't take much. I was 
wickedly mortified. I shrunk in horror from the thought I might have an 
orgasm right in front of their leering grins. Then it dawned on me: that was 
part of my punishment, along with just having to stand. It was just the sort 
of thing they would think of. 

"Look, Sweetheart, enough is enough. I'm not going to bore you with all the 
detail of the time I stood impaled. Sure enough, and no matter how I fought 
it, I had orgasm after orgasm. I just couldn't help it. They were sometimes 
there when it happened. You can imagine how I felt with their eyes almost 
burning holes in me while I gasped and twisted. By the time that faculty was 
getting exhausted night had begun to fall. It sure felt lonely and hopeless 
standing there as it got darker and darker. I could well imagine having to 
stand there all night. I got awful scared at the thought I might fall asleep 
and my knees buckle. I could injure myself horribly. But about ten P.M. they 
lifted me off and chained my ankle in one of the stalls in a barn and I 
spent the night naked on some dirty straw. They had made their point that 
running away was not a good idea. But, in spite of that, I did try it again 
and again they caught me." 

"This time my agony was even worse. There are no words for it. I suppose 
it's the ultimate in pain, the final agony. Those moments when they hold it 
steady to let it burn to the depth they want is unbelievable. I survived the 
"H". But when they came back again with the bar to go across the top I 
fainted immediately when they held it against my skin. It was one bit of 
luck I had that day. 

Diana sighed and shook her head. "Sweetheart, I'm not going to go on and on. 
I could. But you have the general idea. There were days and weeks of this 
sort of thing. Never a day's rest. I don't suppose there are many girls ever 
who got fucked as often as I did in that time. As I said; I got to like it. 
Why not! Finally whenever I saw one of the boys coming with that look on his 
face I just lay down and spread myself ready for him. I didn't get whipped 
for the last six weeks. They wanted me well healed. And, blast them, my skin 
got as clear and pink as a baby's. Daddy was able to tell Caroline things. 
She did get some money and stuff, and finally announced that I would be 
going home the next day. I was taken to the blacksmith shop and the band 
struck off my ankle. It had been so well made that the red circle it left on 
me had disapeared long before I got back to England. On that last evening 
Caroline read me her letter. 

"It was wicked, a work of pure genius. So sweet, so tender, so hurt! I was 
being sent home in disgrace. Bad, bad Diana had been caught carrying on a 
wicked, wicked affair with an awful, awful man who lived close by. This 
deceitful Diana had deceived all who loved her. Pretending to go riding 
every day, she had instead, spent the time with the awful man doing the 
worst possible thing a girl could do. But this was not all! Oh no! Not by 
any means. This depraved Diana was a devotee of unnatural lusts. During an 
orgy, when under the influence of the Demon Rum, she had persuaded her 
paramour to implant a brand upon her flesh as evidence of an unholy bond. No 
longer could the state of Oklahoma offer refuge to a degenerate harlot.... 

"Sure enough, the next day I was sent home. 

"Her letter had been mailed long before she read me the copy. It reached my 
parents before I did. When I got home I found two stony faced people I 
hardly recognized. 

"But I was certain all I had to do was tell the truth. I did. But the more I 
told it the stonier those faces became. You see, as I told you, the whole 
thing is just too damn awful for anyone to believe. Someone in Oklahoma 
might believe it. But no one in England was going to. Nobody did. 

"I was sent here." 

* * * 

The days and weeks of Monica's sentence trickled away. It could be said that 
one was much like another. But this was not wholly true. The Mistresses 
varied the victim's daily bondage, often in ingenious and frustrating ways 
so that no girl ever knew what awaited her. The weekly whipping was an 
exception to the rule. It was strictly adhered to. The girls' bottoms were 
at all times vividly streaked. Monica found that her flesh never managed to 
clear away the evidence of the last infliction before the new one was 
superimposed on it. The girls, wryly but half humorously, compared their 
inflamed posteriors whenever the opportunity arose. They wore it as a sort 
of badge. In their constantly emphasized nakedness it almost came to 
constitute an article of clothing. 

At about the end of her fifth month as a prisoner the morning came when it 
was Hester who opened the cell door and unlocked the chains. She smiled, 
knowingly, at Monica's obvious alarm. 

"Not to worry. Your beautiful pet isn't in trouble again. We are just 
changing prisoners for the day." 

"Why?" 

"That's not for you to ask." Hester admonished severely. Then, nodding 
sagely: "You see! You need a sterner hand. Arlette's been too soft with 
you." 

"She hasn't!" Monica flared indignantly. "You know she hasn't! Madam herself 
said I was the most punished girl in the house." 

"Temper, temper! My, you do need a taste of the whip. Arlette spoils you by 
loving you. But I won't. It doesn't interest me." 

"But where is Arlette?" Monica recklessly pleaded. 

"Just as I told you. She's probably busy hanging Eve up by the thumbs. Madam 
has this idea of changing, and I've wanted to have a go at you for a long 
time. So here we are. Can't say I'm flattered at your greeting. But you'll 
be more polite by evening-I promise you. And, by the way, that question, 
too, will cost you some strokes." 

"It's not my day to be whipped." 

"You forget, my dear Miss, for bad behavior a girl may be whipped at any 
time and in any way her Mistress sees fit." 

Monica did remember this injunction. Arlette had never whipped her other 
than on the one day. Her other inflictions were stringent enough: perhaps to 
compensate. But she had avoided the whip on the tender flesh of her beloved. 
But Hester was not Arlette.... 

"I'm sorry." she said humbly. 

Monica wore only the wrist chains when they entered the Room. Its floor had 
been cleared. She was invited to lay in the center on her back. Quickly 
obeying, she watched Hester strap the familiar bands on her ankles, then the 
ropes to opposite corners of the ceiling. Soon she found herself lying with 
spread legs and well raised feet. Her chained hands made her position 
awkward. Surprisingly, Hester unlocked them. 

"This thing's got you into a lot of trouble, hasn't it?" She put her hand on 
Monica's dark triangle. "Don't you ever get angry with it?" 

Monica recognized sarcasm. But thought it wise not to provoke. "No, 
Mistress." 

"Well, you should. I always feel these damn things are a nuisance to us 
girls. Sometimes they are everything. At other times they act as though they 
have a life of their own and make us do things....I'm going to punish yours. 
It won't be you I'm punishing." Her hand tightened and shook. "It will be 
this thing quite separate from you. You'll be able to watch." 

Without explanation Hester tightened the last rope and left. Monica found 
herself quaintly positioned. Now that her hands were free she was able to 
sit up and use them to support her. Her legs were not so cruelly stretched 
as when in a similar position on the bench, but they were well separated and 
raised. If they were raised a bit more her bottom would be off the floor. 
But as she was, she believed she might reach a buckle on her ankle and free 
herself. She tried. She tried very hard indeed, and failed. She realized 
that Hester had left her just to tantalize. She doubted that the Mistress 
was finished with her as yet. As usual, she reflected, her fur was 
prominently displayed. 

About the time the captive had resigned herself to spending her day thus, 
her Mistress returned. She carried a whip such as Monica had not seen 
before. She eyed it apprehensively. A glance that Hester did not fail to 
intercept. Still without a word, the girl in charge went to the ropes, by 
the time she was finished with their, adjustment the naked girl on the floor 
found her bottom well raised so that she now lay only on her shoulders. By 
raising herself on her elbows she could look up between her parted legs, and 
over that portion of her anatomy that The Mistress seemed most concerned 
with. But it had become a strained position. It was infuriating to have her 
body free and her hands free and to be held only by her ankles. She began to 
catch the implications of Hester's words. Suddenly she was frightened. 

"This should all be new to you." Hester said, holding up the whip for 
inspection. "Arlette never used one of these on you because it's made for a 
particular spot that she liked to keep just for her own use. See, it's got 
several strands of lovely supple leather just exactly right for places that 
might injure easily. Every girl has several places like that. I'm sure you 
can think of them." 

Hester playfully dangled the leather thongs so that they tickled the bond 
girl's sex which was now lifted and held so prominently as to positively 
invite attention: "I'm going to whip this until it's really been taught a 
lesson." 

Monica was horrified. Her helpless exposure magnified the prospect of pain. 
Surely this could not happen to her...."Arlette will be angry." She warned, 
and as a final threat: "And Madam too!" 

"Arlette won't know anything about it until afterwards." Hester pointed out. 
"She may even find it amusing that her favorite plaything now has some new 
colors. Don't be too sure she may not be pleased because I've done it 
instead of her. She probably wanted to, but didn't because it's you. As for 
Madam this is one of the approved punishments. I've seen her use it 
herself." 

"Oh, please don't do it to me." She asked without conviction. 

"I'm not doing it to you, silly." Hester insisted, enjoying her small 
fantasy. "I'm doing it to little cunny here. She's been bad. You'll be able 
to watch and see her get her just desserts. You're lucky y'know. It's not 
every girl that's able to watch anything as interesting as this--especially 
when it means so much to her. If you raise up on your elbows you'll have a 
real good view of every stroke. See, I'm going to stand in front and whip 
down between your legs so that almost every cut will streak down on your 
belly. You'll have a really marvellous view." 

If this sarcasm was Hester's habitual approach to her charges, Monica felt 
glad she was not one of them. How lucky she was to have fallen to Arlette. 
The satirical attitude would be hard to pierce. But she tried: 

"Please forgive me, Mistress. Don't whip me like that." 

"I'm not sure it's you that should ask." Hester carried on her little game 
as she dangled the whip across that sacrificial spot the victim was trying 
so desperately to defend. "It's this little thing here. 

Perhaps you'd like to plead on her behalf, since she can't talk." 

Monica decided to be abject. It must be what Hester wanted. "Dear Mistress, 
my Cunny asks forgiveness and asks you not to whip her." She cringed at the 
sound of her own words. 

"Isn't there a better and more explicit name for her than that?" 

The naked girl groaned inwardly. She hated that word. "Dear Mistress, my 
Cunt asks forgiveness and asks you not to whip her." 

Hester had been correct. The victim had a perfect view of her own torment. 
With agonized eyes she watched the whip make a wide swift arc and cut 
ruthlessly into her sex. True to the forecast the ends of each lash spent 
themselves upon her belly. Red stripes followed them. 

As the full awfulness of this intimate punishment bit at her Monica realized 
a new shame. One, no doubt, artfully contrived. Being free, her torso and 
her arms and head reacted to the impact with an involuntary heaving and 
writhing that enabled her to make, what she considered, was a shameful 
display of herself. She wished she could have kept still and absorbed the 
anguish. She cringed at the gleam of amusement in Hester's eye. 

When she did manage to compose her still quivering nudity Hester resumed her 
little game: 

"Do you feel, Miss, that my nice whip may be beneficial to our bad little 
girl?" 

"Yes Mistress." Monica managed to whisper. What else could she say! 

"I think perhaps a little harder?" 

"Oh, thank you, Mistress! But no harder please. It seems quite adequate." 

Hester pursed her lips as though considering. "Well, we shall see." Once 
more the helpless girl watched the leather slice the air and bed itself 
between her legs. At the moment it struck she was quite sure one thong had 
found its way between her lips. Again she felt shame at the paroxysm she was 
quite unable to control. When it was over she miserably realized that her 
sex was still wickedly exposed inviting its next stroke. Anger flared at the 
injustice of her inability to shield or protect it. That after every 
contortion it should be exactly in position as though mutely pleading for 
the whip. 

The next stroke was deliberately severe. The worst. Monica could not contain 
her cry of hurt. Her eyes sought Hester's pleadingly. They must have been 
eloquent: next time the whip sought her less brutally. 

Hester enjoyed the day. The whippings were intermittent. The Mistress's 
absences prolonged so that, alone, Monica managed to rest, her arms flung 
listlessly to each side, her weight resting mainly on the back of her 
shoulders. Before her eyes, always, the red and purple stripes that she must 
wear. She cherished a small erotic hope as she looked at them that Hester 
might be right and her Love find joy in the colorations she would kiss. But 
it did not lessen the pain. Her sex burned and smarted and her scalded belly 
quivered. She drew some small comfort from the inflictions in her belief 
that this whip would indeed not injure. But, Oh, it hurt-it hurt ... it 
hurt. 

Convinced that she must suffer thus until evening, Monica was overjoyed by 
an unexpected interruption. It came in the form of her own dear Mistress, 
Arlette. Her heart bounded with joy, a joy that doubled when Arlette 
released her-a strangely silent Arlette with troubled face. When Monica once 
more stood upon her feet, free of all bonds, she happily and as a token of 
love picked up her chains and held out her wrists for them to be locked on 
her. But Arlette smiled and shook her head and took them from her. She bent 
and scrutinized the work the whip had done, her expression enigmatic as she 
kissed and kissed again. Then, holding hands, she led her captive from the 
room. 

It was evident that her Love had no wish to speak. So Monica, too, kept 
silent as they sped through the great house. She was not surprised when they 
entered Madam Dubois's office. Having ushered her into the presence her 
Mistress left and quietly closed the door. By the strangeness of these last 
moments Monica knew with a certainty that this was no ordinary summons. 

With great kindness, and infinite gentleness, and with love, Madam Dubois 
told Monica, quite simply, that both her parents were dead. 

* * * 

We meet death as best we can. Our grief is measured by our love. Afterwards 
nothing is as it had been. Nor will it be again. We are changed. In the 
first days we enter a new world. It is better or it is worse. It is 
different. It is a time of vivid impressions: of words and faces-some of 
them quite strange. Some, you know, so etched upon the mind you will carry 
them to the grave. 

It was so with Monica. She felt, she adjusted, she sorrowed. She made her 
way through family and friends and lawyers and bankers and the servants into 
this strange new life for which she was unprepared. She was young. She 
reflected, with some wonder, that she bore the adult responsibilities thrust 
upon her with a far greater serenity than she would have commanded had she 
never entered the House of Madam Dubois. She was sure that this was so. 
Instead of confusion at her sudden freedom from prison, she entered her new 
world with a remarkable assurance that surprised herself and others. It was 
a though her time in chains had given her strength and poise. 

Death had come to her parents by way of a railway accident. It had been 
simultaneous and instant. Being the only child she inherited their entire 
estate. She was rich. The lawyer carefully explained those ways and by what 
means her wealth was measured. She was glad, but not surprised. She had 
known it would be so. There were no great decisions for her to make. 
Everything was in good order and well planned. Things would go on just as 
before. Everything, that is, except her life. Even that, it was explained to 
her, need take no new course. The home she had always known was a 
functioning entity with the familiar servants and staff. Around it the 
familiar friends and family on call. When the time came to place behind her 
that special time of mourning, Monica knew with certainty that she was a 
very fortunate young woman. She was also, considering the age in which she 
lived, astoundingly free.... 

As she moved forward into the social and domestic routine normal to her 
station, there remained a constant of which she was never long unaware. Her 
love for Arlette and her knowledge of the house of Madam Dubois became clear 
reality set against a background of the mundane. In this background there 
surfaced a number of young men. She had been told of their inevitability. 
She had become temptingly elegible. She had been warned to view them 
analytically. She had been amused and had wished she might have told her 
mentor of Arlette. Arlette was a bulwark against which an army of male 
attention could not prevail. But among the introductions, the invitations, 
the importunities, there emerged a single masculine presence that left her 
startled and irritated. 

The Honorable Freddy Arbuthnot had sent a polite and formal card of 
condolence. Buried among a hundred others she had thought little of it. But 
when the maid announced his name as standing on her doorstep one afternoon 
his very temerity sparked a curiosity that led to his entry into her home 
and the sharing of afternoon Tea. 

She had expected to feel embarrassed. After all, her condition at their last 
meeting was a memory ill designed for nonchalance. She determined her 
strategy as cold anger and contempt. No doubt he had come to gloat or to 
enjoy humor at her discomfort. She would defeat him. But The Honorable 
Freddy's sangfroid, as they murmured the polite rituals of greeting, was a 
weapon that matched her own. She had glimpsed previously the possibility 
that his inane exterior might be a veneer upon some harder substance. She 
had blushed when their eyes first met. Surely he was remembering her as 
quite different. But her color gradually returned to normal as he turned the 
conversation to casual and pleasant observations of London life. He avoided 
the foppish prattle but there remained a humorous twist to his lips 
reminiscent of the Freddy she had known so briefly and so strangely. When 
small talk had served their purpose he brought her to the inevitable 
confrontation. She had wished to thrust it at him. But, suddenly, in a quiet 
firm voice tinged with a hint of laughter he said: 

"I'm not in the least bit sorry, y'know." 

Monica considered this carefully. She did not wish to yield points. As 
though reading her mind Freddy spoke for her. 

"Cad? That one comes easily to mind. Then, of course, the statement that I 
am not a gentleman. Then: how do I have the effrontery to thrust myself upon 
the poor bruised flower....Care to carry on from there?" 

Monica wanted very badly to carry on. A flood of denunciation strove for 
utterance. But she sensed that the cold contempt was now a little late. She 
said, almost wearily: 

"You are impossible! You just sit there...." Hastily she clutched her 
indignation: "Of course you are a cad. Oh-and all the rest. I'm not going to 
say it on top of you saying it. The only reason I allowed you in here was to 
discover why you had the temerity to call. Curiosity, I suppose. So I 
probably deserve any witticisms that may amuse you." 

"I wanted to see you again." 

"Why?" 

"I wanted to see what you looked like with your legs together."' 

Monica stamped her foot angrily, "There, that's a rotten thing to say. Can't 
you be serious?" 

He gave her a level glance that met her eyes head on and killed her impulse 
to pull the bell cord to have him shown out. 

"Poppet, I am serious. I'm in a serious mood this P.M. That's why I came to 
see you. Compliment, really....You see, m'dear I can talk to you in a way I 
couldn't possily do to your contemporaries. Y'see Madam Dubois took you a 
long way down a road they will never travel-" 

"You mean I'm soiled. So I'm fair game...?" 

Freddy made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Nonsense! You know better 
than that" He paused, considering. "Don't know all that you girls have to 
put up with in that place. But you come out ahead. Way ahead of the field." 

"So?" 

"So I thought I'd come and tell you I'd like to do it again." said Freddy 
cheerfully. 

It served her right, Monica reflected angrily. What else could she have 
expected. "I'm flattered." She said coldly. 

"Y'know I give a lot of thought to this profession of mine-being a cad, I 
mean." Said The Honorable Freddy somberly. "I'm really not a bad sort of 
chap. Some people even like me. But when it comes to poppets like you I'm 
all those things you wanted to say and didn't." 

"You're just a rutting animal." 

"I've considered that. But if that was all, I can easily buy all the pretty 
little shop-girls and tarts I could manage. Believe me, it's easy. But I'm 
like a hunter who scorns a sitting duck or a fluffy bunny and goes out and 
stalks a lion or a water buffalo." 

"Which am I?" Asked Monica tartly. 

"Well, you get the simile." continued Freddy unperturbed. "That time I spent 
with you was one of the most vivid experiences of my life. Everything about 
it was remarkable. Particularly you. Trouble is...." He gave her a quizzical 
smile. "It's habit forming. I've thought about you a great deal." 

"I can imagine just where your thoughts centered." Her voice was icy. 

"No. There's more to it than that. In a way you and I share something. In 
your case it's whatever Madam Dubois did to you. I don't pretend to be one 
of these clever Johnnies who can tell you why your mind works in certtain 
ways under certain stimuli. But the good Madam knows how a girl's mind works 
under the treatment she prescribes. A girl's never going to be quite the 
same after she's spent a few months in that house. In your case you 
discovered two things. A need you never knew you possessed. 

And Arlette. Left in the bosom of your family you'd have discovered neither. 
Now you and I are linked by Arlette. I'm going to marry her some day when 
she's ready. I can wait. Pragmatic lot, these French. Perfect mate for me. 
No illusions. In the meantime I want you. I intend to have you." 

"You expect me to lead you to my bedroom now?" 

"No! That's the thing, dear girl: I want you just the way you were before." 

"Don't be absurd." 

Freddy shrugged. "Look at it my way. I suddenly found myself introduced into 
a situation, not of my making, that offered me far far more than anything I 
had ever known. After that the ordinary falls a bit flat. Being, as we have 
both agreed, an absolute cad-an utter rotter and all that I ask myself: why 
shouldn't Old Freddy have a bit more of the same!" 

"And I must be the victim?" Monica asked sarcastically 

"I must admit, Poppet, that you are always so rude to me that it does add a 
bit of spice to the action. And another thing you mustn't forget is that you 
are a very beautiful creature-especially with your clothes removed. There's 
nothing silly about you. You've been aching to pull that cord and have me 
tossed into the street. But you haven't done it. I'd make an odds on guess 
that if it wasn't for your time with Madam Dubois you wouldn't be listening 
to what poor Old Freddy is saying and trying to make up your mind as to just 
how much contempt you ought to pour on." 

Freddy was so outrageous that Monica found herself curious. She examined him 
without anger now. She knew him correct in his summation that her present 
reaction was vastly more liberal and clinical than if she had never entered 
the portals of Madam's House. Had her parents been alive she would not have 
listened as she now did. Their horror would have stifled curiosity. But she 
was free with a new freedom she found exhilarating. Under this condition 
Freddy's crudities and stark statements were something she could deal with. 
But not with cordiality. 

"You wish me to provide the room and the bench and the tethers?" There was 
some bitterness in her voice. She had not forgotten the awfulness of that 
moment when she had seen him surveying her through the V of her pinioned 
legs. 

"Well, not really, Old Girl. That would be a bit much, wouldn't it. I mean 
to say: chivalry and all that. Man has to do the decent thing and provide 
facilities-what." 

Monica suddenly glimpsed that, for The Honorable Freddy this charade was all 
very real. There was a mixture of incredulity and humor in her voice: 
"You're not going to tell me-surely...?" 

"Of course, Dear Lady. You see: just as I said. You are sympathetically 
perceptive. You are not the only one with a town house. I have set aside a 
delightful room, well lit and secluded. I have had a carpenter and a painter 
Johnny busy, and a tack shop looked after .the leather goods with some 
imagination...." 

"A sort of sacrificial room with me as the virgin?" 

"I say now, poppet!" Freddy had the grace to look just slightly 
discomforted. "But yes. That about hits the nail on the head." 

"You don't seriously think I'm going to enter that room, do you?" 

The Honorable Freddy grinned confidingly, as though about to pass on the 
findings of much deliberation. "Well, actually, yes, Dear Girl-" He raised 
an admonitary finger to stem Monica's obvious wrath, "Now, don't go off the 
deep end, Poppet....Obviously I wouldn't have prepared the facilities unless 
I thought they'd be used. But good Old Freddy isn't simple enough to suppose 
his lovely victim is going to walk home with him this afternoon. The evil 
machinations of the villian will take a little time and a lot of groundwork 
before his panting prey lies bound upon the Altar-I say! Rather good that, 
don't you think...!" 

"You intend to court my goodwill?" 

"Dine with me at the Savoy this evening?" 

"Not this or any other evening!" 

'My plan contempated the sentiment you have so warmly expressed." 

"Your plan! Do you intend to kidnap me?" 

"I'd considered that." Freddy agreed equably. "A spot of kidnapping is a 
good simple approach to a female like you-especially considering the 
circumstances of our first introduction-bad hurdle for a chap, that one. 
But, no. No kidnapping! The mind of Freddy the complete Bounder is following 
a more devious course." 

"Am I to be honored with your confidence?" 

"Well, actually no, Dear Girl. Not at this juncture. Mustn't shoot all my 
ammunition at once, y'know." 

"You hope to get at me in some way through Arlette?" 

"No ... no. Thought of it, of course. But doubt if my French maiden would be 
too keen." 

"You realize I'm bound to tell her all this nonsense?" 

"I suppose so. Twin souls and all that rot. Doesn't change much though." 

"Don't you think you are wasting your time?" 

"No." Said The Honorable Freddy firmly. "I had to see you. I wanted to 
confirm something." He eyed her levelly. "Why not be friends?" 

In truth Monica found it hard to hate him. He was a strange mixture. 
Certainly a depth in him beyond her first assessment. He was not dull. He 
would probably be amusing company. She could understand now why Arlette had 
not tossed him aside. But her vivid memory of her condition at their first 
meeting erected a barrier between them that she had neither the wish or 
intention to surmount. Her voice lost some of its chill. 

"No, Freddy. I can almost say I'm sorry; but no." 

He shrugged resignedly as though accepting an expected rebuff. "You won't 
forget, will you Poppet. Freddy the Cad is quite unscrupulous when it comes 
to the pursuit of the haughty maiden." His voice hardened. "Honestly, I mean 
it." 

"I'll carry a hatpin." 

He rose negligently. "Thanks for the Tea, m'dear. Believe it or not, I've 
enjoyed our little talk. Now good Old Freddy will toddle on to his next 
dastardly piece of work." 

He held her hand for longer than he need. She did not withdraw it. Nor did 
she call the maid. But herself went with him to the door. At the top of the 
steps he turned and asked, quite without humor. "Do you know the other thing 
you learned in that house where I found you?" 

She did not answer. She could not. She knew. 

"You loved every moment of it." 

The Honorable Freddy doffed his hat and decended to the pavement. 

She closed the door: more furious with herself than with him. 

* * * 

It was a period that left Monica with a number of vivid impressions: her own 
reactions among them. Freedom demands decision, the examination of 
possibilities, the setting of a course. Arlette was always in the forefront 
of her mind. The French girl was now spending all her free time with her 
love. They did much together. They were happy. Monica found herself without 
curiosity as to any relationship Arlette might have with The Honorable 
Freddy Arbuthnot. She could understand him being an amusing diversion. She 
asked no questions. The two girls debated the wisdom of Arlette giving up 
her work and moving in to Monica's home so that they would be always 
together. But here French practicality dictated continuance of the status 
quo. Arlette loved her work. She had a real attachment and sense of loyalty 
to Madam Dubois. She believed, with a Gallic cynicism, that one loved more 
if one loved less. For the moment both were content. 

The personality and nature of Madam Dubois had etched itself deeply in the 
memory of her erstwhile prisoner. It was a memory of a charming sympathy and 
kindness, beginning at the moment when she had explained the simple facts of 
her parent's demise to the bewildered naked girl who had stood before her 
desk with sex and belly streaked and striated from the whip. Madam had made 
no reference to her condition, but had efficiently and smoothly made her 
comfortable and accompanied her into the strange new world with which she 
must now deal. With remarkable tact she contrived to merge her charge back 
into the stream of her family life. Then, herself, quietly withdrew. 

Madam was almost the main topic of animated chatter on that day when Monica 
was host to her three fellow captives. The six month sentence for all had 
expired. They had returned to their homes presumably, as Marjorie quaintly 
put it, well trained. With Madam's help it had been easy to gather them 
together. On the day itself Monica had given her staff a holiday so that she 
and Arlette had done the honors. Gleefully she had insisted they all strip 
naked. A suggestion greeted with enthusiasm. Each girl admitted to an 
unexpected discomfort when clothed. They happily compared the remaining 
marks on their wounded bottoms and there were gasps, almost of envy, at the 
circular stripe around Monica's waist that remained her legacy from the 
single stroke of the most awful whip. Monica never disguised from herself 
her pride and joy in this adornment. She had no wish for it to fade. She 
wanted to wear it all her life. 

But an outcome from this social reunion with its inevitable discussions of 
life in the House of Madam Dubois was to fix in Monica's determination a 
wish and compulsion never quite absent from her consciousness. 

She invited Madam Dubois to Tea. 

To English eyes there seems an incongruity in the formal French title. Madam 
Dubois came much closer to being a mademoiselle. She had managed to combine 
youth and poise in a manner that made her somewhat unusual profession 
understandable. She had a presence. She would never be at a loss. Looking 
across the Tea things at her visitor Monica saw a woman younger than she had 
at first supposed. It was as though in leaving her House she had also shed 
some years. She would be in her early thirties. Her former captive wondered 
what twists of Fate might have brought this beautiful creature to her 
present way of life. The civilities behind them, she produced a suggestion 
undreamed of. 

"My dear, I want you to stop calling me Madam. It is a courtesy due my 
authority within my house. It has no place here. There is, after all, no 
great span of years between us. I have a christian name: call me Solange." 

Monica blushed. She knew not why. A wave of tenderness engulfed her. She had 
never understood her feeling for her former Mistress, any more than she 
understood her love for Arlette. But she felt a great and natural pleasure 
in this new intimacy. She wondered if it would conflict with what she had to 
say. But did not care. 

"Solange?" She savored the name. How beautiful it was. "Solange....There is 
something I must ask you." 

"I know, Cherie. I have seen it waiting to be said. I even know what it is. 
But, in your own way, you will ask." 

"You know!" Exclaimed Monica, feeling foolish. "Mais oui! Solange has known 
this moment would arrive." 

Monica wondered if her guest truly could know. She gathered her courage and 
plunged. 

"I am bothered," She confessed. "By something that is half a duty and half a 
wish. Either one leaves me feeling guilty." Almost hesitantly she took a 
quick look at the full red lips and their amused half smile. Yes, she could 
indeed believe now that Solange was aware. "You see, when my parents died I 
had been with you for five months. My sentence...." She paused and looked at 
her guest appealingly. 

Solange laughed unaffectedly. "Ma pauvre petit! Your fine British honesty 
tells you that you were sentenced to six months and thus now owe someone 
somewhere one whole month of captivity, n'est ce pas?" 

Monica nodded, embarrassed. 

"My dear child! You have not supposed that I have been waiting-or that I 
would insist...?" 

Monica shook her head vigorously. "No. no. Oh no! I know you wouldn't. I 
suppose it's a sort of feeling that I owe it to Mummy and Daddy. They sent 
me to you. It had been their wish." 

"And that is all, Cherie?" 

Monica could not meet her eyes. 

"Would you not be a so foolish girl to accept the chains and the whip when 
there is no need?" 

"Yes...." 

Solange looked at her youthful hostess with tender amusement. "It is, of 
course, Cherie, that you find it hard to say that which is truly in your 
heart-this thing that makes the guilt: Solange knows....You wish, once more, 
to be stripped, to bear the chains and feel the whip and have Arlette bind 
you with straps and cords as well as love, n'est ce pas?" 

Monica's eyes implored. 

"Come, ma petit! You suffer all too much with this so great guilt. You are 
seeing things that are not there." Solange laughed reassuringly. "This thing 
with the guilt. It is only there if you make it so. You absurd Anglais...." 
Swiftly she took the three paces between them and kissed the younger girl 
warmly: the distressed lips, then the eyes in which there were a hint of 
tears-tears of a great relief. "And now, you silly child, you will sit while 
I tell you many things...." 

Solange made herself comfortable and demanded another cup of tea. 

"There comes, I think, a time of discovery for us women." She said 
reflectively as she sipped. "It comes about in many ways. You found it in my 
house. I found it in my own way long ago. Some never find it at all. You 
see--for most there must be the spark before there is the fire. No 
spark-then, pouf! they never find what lies hidden. Then there are the 
others, the greatest number, of course. For them there is no spark and no 
fire and because they have never felt the warmth they do not feel the cold." 

Solange put down her empty cup and stretched with a sensuous enjoyment. "You 
feel much guilt because you have made this discovery that you have a need 
deep within you to wear the slave chains and to suffer the slave whip and to 
be the love slave of she who wields it. Well, I can tell you, Cherie, you 
are not the first naked girl to so discover herself. 

"I will not tell you now of the path that led me to this knowledge. It is a 
story that does not really matter. It happened. I was young. Like you, I 
could not bear to relinquish what I had found. It became my life. 
Circumstances made it possible for me to buy my House here in London where 
there is so much money and so many busy Mamas so anxious that their little 
girls be taken off their hands for a little while to learn obedience. Pouf! 
One may call it Fate. It became so easy. All fell into place. I found 
Arlette. I found Hester. In doing what I most wanted I created a profession. 
I am a woman of consequence. I am offered much respect. It is truly most 
droll. 

"Since first I opened my School of Deportment there have been so very many 
tearful maidens pass through my hands that I might forget most of them if I 
did not keep a record. It is of interest what happens with them, and this I 
try and follow-these little birds suddenly let out of their cage. It is 
amusing. 

"But, for most of them it does not really matter. I have chained them and 
whipped them and kept them locked up, and have found much joy in doing these 
things to them. This is bad, no! I will not say so. I love to whip these 
lovely creatures who squirm and plead and shed their tears. It is, for me, a 
great happiness. Their Mamas, too, are much pleased for when they return 
home, even though they did not find what you have found, these little girls 
are much different. They have grown up. 

"Now Cherie, the thing that you must know and underhand is. that here and 
there at rare intervals there will emerge a girl like you. There are not 
many. Perhaps none exactly as'you are. The others are of a type. For me I 
could tell them on the street. They are douce. Nature has designed them for 
their role. You are not like that. You are like me-or will become like me. 
No one seeing you now would know you for a slave. But you know and I know. 
That is what matters. It is of the most importance that you know and must 
find no strangeness in the knowing. 

"And so you see there emerges from my house a sort of Club, an elite. Those 
lucky ones who have found something they will never relinquish...." 

"You mean that-that other girls have wanted what I want?" Monica still found 
difficulty with her heart's desire. 

"Of course, My dear. And I have given it to them." 

"You mean-they have come back to your House as prisoners?" 

Solange shrugged amusedly. "Well, call it what you will. They have come 
back. But they are not as free as you. So we have been obliged to practice 
small deceits on Mama. They visit somewhere for a daytwo days-sometimes a 
week. Sometimes only an afternoon. But they spend the time with me." 

"Arlette and Hester look after them?" 

Solange smiled quietly. "Oh no, My dear. These little pigeons are mine. I 
alone give them their heart's ease. They do not fall back into the routine 
of a class. Some have expected to and have been much surprised at what 
awaited them. These are not novices. They are female creatures whose 
novitiate is past. Returning now they begin to learn a richer and more 
satisfying role. Even you, ma petit, have not glimpsed the end of the path 
on which you have just set foot." 

"You mean, you will....You'll take me...?" Monica was breathless. 

"Mais oui, Cherie. To refuse you would be to deny my whole existence." 

"And-and ... Solange, what is at the end of the path?" 

Solange laughed gleefully. "Come, come! You do not expect me to tell you 
that. You must make your own discovery. Solange will lead you. Step by step 
and stripe by stripe. The whip shall guide you with its own delicious 
agony." 

Having got thus far Monica plunged deeper under a compulsion she knew would 
allow her no rest until she voiced it. "Solange, you make it so easy, yet I 
find this hard to say...." 

"You wish, perhaps, Solange to ask her little pigeon's question for her?" 
The Frenchwoman asked dryly. 

Monica flushed. What she was about to ask would probably make her guest 
laugh. "I was thinking," She said as firmly as she could. "That since I 
cannot just disappear it might be most practical if I served the rest of my 
sentence one week at a time. But what you have just said about the ... the 
whip...." She managed a small nervous laugh. Then, finding re-assurance in 
her companion's evident amusement, struggled on: "Well, what I want to ask 
is....Oh, you know how it was before. I had to be whipped once a week. 
Now-if I come to you for seven days will you please whip me when I arrive 
and again before I leave. I wish it so." 

Monica sat back, part of her tension had gone with those words she had found 
so difficult to voice. The French woman's reaction told her that, with them, 
she had crossed a Rubicon. 

"Come here, Cherie." 

Monica obeyed. 

"Kneel. Here, between my knees where I can touch you." 

Knowing a great happiness Monica did as she was bid. Edging as close as she 
was able she sat back on her heels and looked up into the lovely eyes so 
close to her own. The French girl gently took the young and eager face into 
her hands and, raising it, fastened her lips hungrily on those ready to 
receive them." 

"My dear, I knew you must ask that. Solange was cruel. I should not have 
made you. Of course I will whip you in those ways. It is the old, old prison 
rule that they called 'The Welcome' and the 'Farewell'. But before you make 
this so great a step there is something I will tell you now. Perhaps when 
you have heard it you will not wish to become the slave or the captive of 
someone like me." 

Monica smiled up into the lovely face. Held like this she cared not for what 
she might now hear. It would not change her resolve. 

"I will be cruel to you, Cherie." 

Monica nodded happily. 

"My dear, I will be very cruel. I will make you scream. You see, I am not 
just as you are-though sometimes it pleases me to become so. I find a so 
great happiness in a naked girl. A girl who I own by virtue of the chains 
which prevent her escape from those things I will do to that graceful body 
which is hers. The whip is one of these which you understand. But I will 
whip you harder than you have ever been whipped before. And that will have 
to be very hard indeed. And I will whip you often-there will be reasons 
which you will come to know. These are the only terms by which I will allow 
you to enter your cell again. Can you accept them? I do not urge you to...." 

To Monica at that moment it seemed a very small price to pay for so great a 
need. She said so. 

Solange nodded understandingly. There was compassion in her eyes. "Mais oui. 
It is something you must do. I do you no kindness to refuse. You will 
scream, you will plead and you will regret. But we will love each other. 
This is one of the great mysteries that we just accept. Something that only 
women know." 

Her fingers lingered caressingly across the neck, the hair and the features 
raised so trustingly and so at peace. Slowly she leaned forward and, once 
more, they kissed for a very long time. When it was over Monica asked 
breathlessly: 

"When may I come?" 

And so it was arranged. 

* * * 

In saying that Mrs Spicer-Bassett was a tweedy Englishwoman one covers her 
description as adequately as did the rough weave itself. Her presence in the 
drawing room of Madam Dubois had about it much the air of the Bull and the 
China Shop. An awkwardness that Mrs Spicer Bassett coped with in much the 
same manner as she rode to hounds or dealt with unsatisfied factory tenants. 

"You're most highly recommended." She made it sound like an accusation. 

Madam Dubois acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of the head. 
"We accept only young ladies above a certain class. There are no regrettable 
associations formed here." She explained. 

"Damn sound idea! Do it with horses. No different with gels." Mrs 
Spicer-Bassett surveyed her hostess with faint approval. Not as Frenchy as 
she had expected. Too young, of course. And too damn well got up. But still, 
she had a way with her. 

"Damn nuisance, this gel of mine-not mine really. My sister's actually. But 
I'm her only living relative. Want to keep her on course. Made a fool of 
herself, young Poppy has." 

"Poppy?" Madam Dubois sounded dubious. 

"Not her name, of course. Name's Messalina-pure nonsense! Can't call a gel' 
that. Can't call her Messy. So I call her Poppy. Serves the purpose." 

"You would wish Poppy to spend some time with me here?" Madam Dubois's 
equanimity managed to prevail. 

"Got to spend a bit of time somewhere." Mrs SpicerBassett contrived to make 
this observation sound like banishment to one of the penal colonies. "Too 
young to come out, of course-another year or two. But not too young for what 
she's been up to-young hussy." 

It was evident that Mrs Spicer-Bassett considered a London drawing room no 
place for detailed descriptions of her ward's exploits. She was, no doubt, 
inhibited by a proper British reticence. Couldn't be too careful with 
foreigners. Whole business a bit rum when you considered it....Finding words 
inadequate, she swivelled upon Madam Dubois a massive broadside of 
penetrating scrutiny. 

"Have to get the form first, what! Can't be too careful." 

"You are thinking of the methods we employ?" 

"Yes, actually. Heard a bit about it from the Norton-Goulds. You did that 
little bitch of their's a bit of good, I must say." 

"Ah, yes. I remember Ursula Norton-Gould well." 

"So do a lot of people." Said Mrs Spicer-Bassett darkly. 

Madam Dubois produced her most charming smile. "I do understand your 
concern. It does you credit. In accepting a young woman here I insist on 
complete authority. My methods are my own. They would never find general 
acceptance. But it is the result that counts. In that my disciplines have 
proved effective." 

"You whip 'em, don't you?" 

"Among other things." 

"Could do that myself-often felt like it. Damn sure it's good for 'em! Never 
seemed quite cricket though-not with Emily's girl. Sooner you did the job." 
Mrs Spicer-Bassett paused for reflection. "Silly question this, I suppose. 
But these fillies of yourshow do they make the running?" 

Madam Dubois casually pulled a bell cord. Smiling benignly at the earnest 
features of Poppy's Aunt she said thoughtfully: 

"My dear Mrs Spicer-Bassett. I can see that you take your responsibility as 
guardian most seriously. I think that by far the best and kindest way in 
which I can answer your last question is to allow you a more intimate 
glimpse of one of my pupils than I generally sanction. But I will ask of you 
a small forbearance: you may be startled, you may be shocked, I am sure you 
will be surprised. But let us play our little charade. When it is done I 
will value your comments." 

While the tweed clad guardian was gathering her thoughts, any response she 
might have made died unsaid, for at that moment the door opened and there 
came into her field of vision something that she described afterwards as: 
'Damned astoundin'!' 

The girl who entered was perhaps nineteen. She was completely nude. She 
walked with controlled steps because her ankles were chained together by 
silver shackles that were obviously a costly and quite beautiful product of 
a jeweler's skill. Her wrists were similarly joined. Both connecting linkes 
were sufficiently long to give her a considerable latitude of movement. But 
the manner in which she wore them made it very evident that they held her 
captive. The girl herself was lovely. She walked with a grace and assurance 
that seemed almost enhanced by her chains as they swirled and provided their 
own metallic accompaniment. She walked with head slightly bent, her eyes 
seeing only the carpet, looking to neither right or left. Reaching the 
seated figure of Madam Dubois, she knelt with fluid ease, in spite of the 
confining links, a hand on each of her hips, her head bowed. 

"You will bring us Tea, Cherie." 

"Yes Madam." 

Mrs Spicer-Bassett followed the lithe movements with fascinated gaze. When 
they were alone again she looked at Madam Dubois and said with a hearty 
conviction: "Well, I'll be damned ... '.!" 

Her Hostess laughed. "The child, she is enchanting, no?" 

"I'd say she was enchanting-Yes!" Said the guest with fervour. "How the 
Devil d'you do it?" 

"It is a strange mixture." Madam admitted. "A thing of the flesh and a thing 
of the spirit. They can be made one. It is not always easy-for you must 
remember how it is to be sixteen-to be very young." 

"Hr-r-ump. Forgotten long ago." Mrs Spicer-Bassett sounded as though she was 
well content to relegate her youth into limbo. "Can't understand! How in 
Hades d'you get 'em to come to heel? Never seen anything like it." 

The advent of the Tea trolley enabled Madam Dubois to leave the rhetorical 
question unanswered. She watched her guest with quiet amusement. 

Mrs Spicer-Bassett sat enthralled. She was envisioning 'Young Poppy' 
enacting the role of this quite incredible girl. A chastened, demure, 
obedient Poppy. Her intent to quibble about high tuition fees died. 

With a practiced dexterity the youthful chained hands sped about their task. 
The watching woman guessed shrewdly that the slender wrists must have worn 
those chains often and long to acquire so complete an unawareness of them. 
The prisoned fingers were deft and sure. They poured the Tea, they proffered 
the cup, they arranged the trolley so that a selection might be made from 
the sandwiches and cakes. The young serene face was intent, the eyes 
averted, the lips mute. Having completed her initial task of serving, the 
naked girl sped to a position beside and slightly to the front of the 
Hostess's chair where she sank to her knees and with lowered head, her 
chained hands resting lightly above her knees she rested back upon her heels 
motionless in total submission. 

It was a rare moment. Mrs Spicer-Bassett had nothing to say. She sipped her 
Tea and nibbled her sandwich without tasting either. Her eyes remained glued 
upon an incredible tableau. The bowed loveliness of the naked girl and her 
equally beautiful Mistress. As speculation slowly returned to her dazed mind 
her normal dubiety returned with it. Surely this could not be as it seemed. 
Some sort of trick? A French trick, of course. The girl must be under some 
sort of influence. She would find out. She drained her cup and set it down. 

Instantly and effortlessly the girl was upon her feet and once more in 
charge of the trolley, performing her task of replenishment with poise and 
grace, but in total silence and with elusive gaze. She was in motion an 
appreciable time as she filled the needs of both Madam and her guest; the 
supple fluidity of her movements a joy to behold. It was then that Mrs 
Spicer-Bassett saw quite clearly something that she was surprised at having 
failed to notice previously. The girl's ivory skin was striated from knee to 
shoulder by the red and purple stripes of a whip. Her bottom, when she bent 
forward to serve, showed itself ridged with the purple welts from what was 
most probably a cane. Here then was the answer! Faced with punishment like 
that no girl would dare say boo to a goose. She fired a tentative round: 

"Gel's had quite a drubbing, what?" 

"Yes." 

Dammit, was that all! Just a casual, yes. The woman would have to do better 
than that! 

"Bit much, wouldn't you say." 

"It depends on the need and the purpose to be achieved." 

What did that mean! Couldn't half kill a gel-even in a good cause. She tried 
again: 

"Are you sure the filly isn't too damn frightened to speak?" 

"She only speaks when given permission." 

Mrs Spicer-Bassett's retort was stopped in mid air. Madam Dubois raised her 
hand and smiled understanding. 

"Your doubts are so very natural. Forgive me. I put a strain upon you that 
perhaps I should not have done. Having taxed you thus far it is but fair to 
allow you a complete freedom so that your mind may be at rest. I will leave 
the room. You will be free to ask as many questions as you wish. Even if the 
answers are hard to credit I must ask you to believe them for there are no 
others." 

Madam Dubois turned her attention to the kneeling girl. "You are free to 
speak, Cherie. Please be attentive to our guest while I am gone." With a 
cheerful nod and a smile she swept from the room. Lithely and gracefully the 
nude girl came and knelt before the puzzled guest. 

The older woman was at a loss. She felt foolish. Here was something she did 
not understand. She much desired that young Poppy should become as this girl 
who now knelt submissively at her feet. On the other hand she had an 
uncomfortable suspicion that she was being played with. Damned awkward 
position to be placed in-confound the woman! Kindness, no doubt, the safest 
wicket. She bent and raised the lovely face and was further disconcerted by 
an unmistakable glint of humor in the calm eyes that met her own quite 
without embarrassment. 

"Don't be afraid m'dear. You must tell me: Are you being ill treated?" 

"Oh no, Madam!" The voice was as clear as the eyes. 

"How d'you get all those marks on you then?" 

The girl smiled and shrugged as though dismissing a thing of small import: 
"I have been whipped, Madam." 

"Of course you have, you silly girl. Looks to me as though you need help?" 

"Oh no, please!" The young voice sounded genuinely shocked. "Perhaps you do 
not understand...." 

"I understand enough that we should find you a coat so that I can take you 
out of this house." 

"You mustn't! Oh, you mustn't! I will not go!" She shook her head free and 
looked up imploringly. "I am here because I wish. Because it is considered 
best that I be here. All the girls are here because of this." 

"Are they all chained, and naked, and marked?" 

"Of course. That is why we are here." 

"You like it?" Mrs Spicer-Bassett felt out of her depth. 

The girl made an emphatic motion with her chained hands: 

"It is not that we like or do not like. This is something that is. It 
happens. It has been made absolute by our own will and the will of others. 
It is like the sunrise-we do not question it. Truly I could walk from this 
house with you now-" She grinned with an amusement obviously genuine. "But 
my steps would be somewhat less than yours for I do not have the key to my 
chains. But even if we do this it will prove or accomplish nothing. I belong 
here." 

"But that whipping....How can you bear it?" 

This time the girl laughed lightly. "These marks are not from a single 
punishment. I have received them over a number of days. As for bearing them; 
there is no choice. We are always securely fastened. It is better so. We 
ourselves prefer it rather than the shame of being unable to stand still or 
control ourselves in the positions we must hold. Your Poppy, should she 
agree to come here, would feel as we do." 

"What do you mean: agree?" 

Again the glint of amusement in the level eyes: "Madam Dubois will accept 
only those who agree with their family that they should enter this house. It 
is true that there are times when we wish we had not so agreed. When I am 
being whipped I wish only that it would stop. When it does stop we do not 
frantically strive to escape-it would be useless. We are always chained. For 
us to leave before the appointed time would render pointless the pain we 
have already endured. We wish so very much to prove ourselves. Nor do we 
wish to be rescued...." She added shyly. 

"You mean you don't want to walk out of this house with me, a free girl?" 

"No. I do not wish that at all." The respectful voice was emphatic. 

Mrs Spicer-Bassett wished that she had left well enough alone. This quiet 
self possessed girl, for all her nakedness and her chains, made her feel 
like a prying meddler. Couldn't very well pick the damn gel up and carry her 
into the street. Bad form that! Once again an enticing vision of a reformed 
and subdued Poppy flitted across her mind's eye. She pursued another tactic: 

"Very well then-take your word for it. Won't meddle. But, tell me: what-what 
the Devil have they used on you?" 

The chained girl laughed: "You mean these marks? Well, I should tell you 
that mostly it is our bottoms that are punished." She gave a wryly humorous 
grin. "Nature seems to have designed them for the purpose. When it is there 
that we must receive an infliction a long, thin, flexible cane is used. It 
hurts very much, especially if we are bent over so that the skin is taut. 
When it is on another part of us that we must receive the pain a leather 
whip is considered best as it will not bruise where there is bone structure 
beneath the skin. It is a single leather thong that is not tapered at the 
tip. Madam has found that such a whip-and most are made in this way-will cut 
the flesh so that it takes long to heal or does not ever leave without some 
trace." 

"Never used a riding crop on you, eh?" 

"No Madam. But it is kind of you to take an interest. I will mention your 
suggestion to my Mistress." The young voice was demure-or was there a hint 
of sarcasm. 

Damn the little hussy. Made a fool of her. No help needed there! Mrs 
Spicer-Bassett found herself possessed of an outrageous wish to use a fine 
black crop she kept for her ponies on these rounded impudent cheeks for 
which she had so recently felt compassion. Damn gels'-never knew where you 
were with 'em! But further explorations into this new world were halted by 
the return of Madam Dubois. She smiled at her guest and nodded at the 
kneeling girl who immediately rose to her feet, took charge of the trolley 
and demurely left the room, her ankle chains swirling their metallic message 
of a strange captivity. 

"The dear child was able to reassure you?" 

Mrs Spicer-Bassett was quite unable to withstand the assured charm. "Damned 
impressive." She admitted. "Never have believed it. Think you can do that to 
young Poppy?" 

"I am quite sure we can." 

Mrs Spicer-Bassett decided to take the hurdle at a full gallop: "Give you 
the reins, eh. See what you can do with the little filly. Spare the rod and 
spoil the child, what! Got my cheque book here somewhere if I can find 
it...." 

And so it was decided. 

* * * 

It was quite different from what Monica had expected. She should have 
realized, she knew, that Solange would make it so. She had entered the House 
quivering. A tremendous glow of happiness enveloped her. Now, an hour later, 
these feelings were as strong as ever but, added to them, was a thrill of 
fear. 

She was naked. It had felt so good to shed her clothes. Paradoxical that in 
chained nudity she should find freedom. She was strapped tightly upon a 
raised bench, her legs hanging over its edge, her bottom raised high and 
supported by a firm bolster beneath her hips, its prominence painfully 
emphasized by the strap encircling her waist and cinching it down with such 
severity that she could not move her lower cheeks at all. Her ankles were 
tightly fastened somewhere below, as were her wrists: the bands so tight 
that she did not even try to flex them. She lay face down waiting. 

This would be her "Welcome". They had both laughed about it as she had been 
made ready. This was to be the first of the two whippings she had asked for. 
Even as she tightened the straps Solange had warned her again that she would 
be sorry. The whippings she would now receive from her new Mistress would 
take her into realms of pain as yet unexplored. Monica knew that her rounded 
bottom was offering itself in an exposure never before thrust upon it. She 
could not move or even flex it. She felt her skin there cruelly taut. She 
was offering a target for the cane in a way she had never done. She shivered 
in anticipation. She would try hard. But she knew from the look in Solange's 
eyes that she had little hope of enduring the twenty strokes in stoic 
silence. The first few perhaps, as the pain built up. But beyond that she 
did not know. 

Solange was making her wait on purpose. She had told her so, quite 
matter-of-factly. It would do her good to be naked and feel the air where 
soon she would feel the cane. It would be beneficial that she should 
struggle and find she could not move. The cane had been placed where Monica 
could see it clearly. She was not compelled to look at it. She could turn 
her head-it was the only movement permitted her. But, even though she was 
annoyed with herself for doing it, she always turned back so that she could 
examine the slender cruelty of this thing that would weal her. Except for 
the whip lash around her waist all her other wounds had healed. She was 
offering a quite virgin sacrifice for the imprint of fresh ridges of agony 
on that portion of herself now thrust and raised in blatant invitation. 
Solange was right. She would be more cruel than Arlette. For one awful 
moment the bound girl felt terribly alone. 

Yet, when her Mistress returned, it seemed natural and so easy to laugh and 
to joke and to speak of her predicament as though it was someone else who 
was secured there. Thus they came pleasantly to the moment when Solange 
picked up the cane and, pressing it firmly across the helpless curve in a 
measuring slice, said: "And now, you adorable little pigeon, I am going to 
hurt you very much." 

Was it worse than she had imagined! She surged against her restraining 
straps as though driven by the impulse of an electric current. Even under 
compulsion of an agony beyond her most fearful anticipation she moved no 
part of herself. She was helpless. Proudly silent she could feel the bruised 
flesh ridge itself into her first welt. But she had no belief that she could 
bear the remaining nineteen, or that any infliction so truly awful would 
actually happen to her. Surely Solange.... 

The second stroke caught her unaware. She could hear the grinding of her 
teeth as she clenched them. Mentally she heaved and writhed making gasping 
exhalations through her dilated nostrils. Why, oh why, must Solange strike 
so hard! With the flesh of her bottom stretched tight in its thrust to 
accept the cane the resultant agony was double anything she had ever known. 

With the next she threw her head from side to side in the only physical 
expression she could make. In spite of clenched teeth a small moan escaped. 
It seemed quite impossible that her flesh could endure seventeen more such 
lashes. Her bottom would be cut to shreds. Yet her suffering was forgotten 
as she felt Solange's lips seek her own. They kissed passionately. 

"Such delicious pain, n'est ce pas me pauvre petit." 

"Oh darling, darling, don't whip me any more. Please!" 

"C'est dommage. It is as I told you it would be, Cherie." 

"But I can't stand it! I didn't know how awful it would be." 

"Poor little pigeon! Solange knew how awful it would be. That is why you are 
strapped so very tight, ma petit." 

"You ... you-aren't going to give me seventeen more like that, are you?" 

"Mais oui! You know I am, Cherie. Not one less and not one less hard. You 
see, my dear one, you are not going to be a prisoner: you are going to be a 
slave. My slave. I must break you as a slave is broken, so that with each 
stroke you become more a part of me and do as I would have you do, and think 
as I would have you think, and feel as I would have you feel." 

"But, Solange, I will be your slave. I will be anything you wish. You do not 
have to whip me." 

Solange bestowed a lingering kiss on a tear stained cheek. "It is so easy to 
believe what you have just said, my dear. Solange knows that her little 
pigeon believes it. Yes. You are my slave now if I was satisfied with such a 
slave as you would be. But I am not. As you now are it is hard for you to 
understand or to believe-you do not want to believe-that when I have given 
you your twenty strokes you will be ten ... no, a hundred times more my 
slave than you could ever be if I stopped whipping you now." 

"Then please ... please-not so hard. Please darling...." 

Solange bent and playfully bit her captive's ear. "Was it not this same 
little girl who asked that she be whipped very hard indeed-not once, but 
twice. I seem to recall...." 

"All right then: so I was a silly girl. But I don't deserve this!" Declared 
the captive petulantly. 

"It is not for you to say what you do and do not deserve." Solange assured 
her. "Such decisions are for me only. Because of impertinence we will start 
your whipping all over again. The total will now be twenty-three." 

"Oh no! You wouldn't!!" Monica was aghast. 

"Oh, but I will. You know I will, don't you?" 

Monica did know. There was that in her Mistress's voice that told her beyond 
doubt that her naked bottom would still receive twenty more of the wicked 
strokes that she could not bear to contemplate. How could you love someone 
and hurt them so much! Yet it was possible. What was about to happen to her 
would cement their love even more firmly. She did not know why-perhaps no 
one did. But it would be so. She longed with her whole being to evade what 
must happen. But it would happen. 

"Darling...." She sobbed in a small strangled voice. "I don't think I'm 
going to behave very well....I'm sorry." 

Suddenly they were both laughing. Monica's small struggling laugh, it is 
true. Yet nonetheless laughter. It was a sharing between them. Almost 
reverently Solange bent and kissed the raised welts on the curved flesh. 
Then, once more, she kissed the warm lips, lingeringly with deep feeling. 

"You will behave very well indeed, my precious little girl. All you have to 
do is scream. I will whip you steadily until it is over. And you must 
scream. You must scream as loud as you can." 

Monica screamed. 

Its woman scent rising erotically in the still air. The screaming continued 
for a little while, then died into sobbing moans. Monica was panting. Her 
mind uncomprehending to any stimulous but pain. But slowly the silence and 
the cessation of the strokes upon her feet awoke her awareness to other 
things. Once more Solange sat beside her, drying her tears and smoothing the 
damp hair. When her sobbing had subsided so that she could speak the 
punished girl asked huskily: 

"It is over?" 

"No, Cherie." 

Solange saw the naked body tense. The breathing stop. Monica looked up at 
her in horror. 

"I know, my dear you will not forget these lessons we have shared. You think 
that is enough. It is not. You have received half your punishment. You will 
lay as you are all afternoon waiting. Knowing that I will return and that 
those pretty feet will once again feel the cane. It is in this time alone 
with your pain and with your fear that you will truly learn and will truly 
become a slave. The whipping that will come then upon those poor defenseless 
soles will be the key that will cement and lock you forever as my slave. You 
will never forget. You will not forget, will you, Cherie?" 

This time Monica had pleaded. She wept. Yet both girls were conscious that 
she used care in what she said and the form in which she spoke. She made no 
mistakes. Frightened as she was, she forgot no admonition. Solange let her 
quietly exhaust her hope and plead herself into silence. Then left her alone 
with her tears. 

Monica lay naked, sweating, exhausted and terribly afraid. 

It was as Solange had said. She lay there upon her rug. Her feet sundered 
from her yet still able to transmit their suffering. Bleakly she relived 
every moment of the bastinado. Every question asked and answered was etched 
forever in her mind. It was true. She was not the same girl who had walked 
so blithely into that room so short a time before. She would never be quite 
that girl again. She did not want to be. For that other girl was fallible 
and thus a constant invitation to the whip. If this new girl was to be 
whipped in the future-and she little doubted that she would be-it would not 
be because of a careless word, look or motion. 

She never knew how many hours she lay alone. There was no moment of the time 
that she thought of anything other than the whip upon her feet. The whip she 
had known and the whip that would return to her naked feet still upturned in 
agonizing invitation. An invitation she would gladly have withdrawn, but 
could not. Struggle as she would she could not prevail against the straps or 
the chains. Often she looked over her shoulder towards her bruised and 
welted feet against their post as though wondering why they did not free 
themselves and her too. But suddenly and tearfully she thought of Solange, 
and was glad that they could not. 

She learned much in those hours she was made to wait. She believed herself 
broken. Without will. She wished to know that she was broken. But how could 
she tell. She could not just say it and make it so. Perhaps fear; this fear 
that possessed her was the sign. Could you become a slave only by fear and 
because of fear. It was fear that set you apart. She loved deeply. But it 
had not made her slave. Slowly and increduously she found herself grateful 
that her feet would be caned again. It did not stop the fear. Oh no! Her 
fear fed upon itself. But when it was over-then she would be sure. She would 
know that she had crossed into the world where only Solange ruled. 

As always with Solange it was worse than had seemed possible. When it was 
over she could not move, but lay exhausted with pain. Feeling numbly the 
unbuckling of the straps and the locking of the familiar chains upon her 
ankles. Her breathing and the thumping of her heart took long to return to 
normal. They were replaced by a great lassitude. A welling of relief. The 
Mistress made no move and said no word, but waited patiently for her to 
recover. Finally Monica herself pushed stiffly up on to her knees and looked 
up at the lovely face filled with concern and with promise. 

"No more, Cherie. It is done." 

She nodded, a lump still in her throat. Cautiously she essayed to rise, but 
fell back with a small articulation of pain. Turning, she reached and 
examined her foot. What she saw caused her to look up at Solange in piteous 
appeal. 

The older girl knelt and taking her broken victim in her arms kissed her 
with passion and with love. "Solange understands, my dear. They are very 
bad: those poor little feet. Such innocent little feet! And now you must 
walk upon them and they will hurt you very much. Come, put your arm across 
my shoulder; you can do it even with the chain. And I will help you. Very 
slowly...." 

It was very slowly indeed. Almost with every step a protest or a plea strove 
for utterance. Her feet were wounded. Her whole being revolted against 
putting them on the ground. Each step was torture. She thought of refusal, 
but sensed that, for Solange, this walk was part of her punishment too. To 
protest might mean that she would be fastened again and the bitter strokes 
resumed. She no longer possessed yesterday's temerity. Except for the 
involuntary gasps of anguish she kept silent. There was now so much to 
remember. 

She had known no greater joy than when she saw the Ring. Gratefully she sank 
upon the carpet and bowed her head so that her collar might be locked in 
place. Without permission and without volition she fell asleep. 

Later, in the darkness, Solange awakened her. They made love with fierceness 
and abandon such as Monica had never known. 

* * * 

Aunt Millie was a surprise. Not only by sipping Tea and nibbling cake in 
Monica's drawing room. But in herself. She was one of those small fumbling 
ineffectual women who seemed forever lost in a perplexing world. She coped. 
But in a sort of rearguard action, cutting her losses. Her husband was much 
the same in an even more absent minded way. The world saw little of him. He 
collected stamps. Aunt Millie did what must be done. She was much loved and 
was the butt of much family humor. Somehow they had contrived to produce a 
child, a girl. The family wag advanced the view that this phenomenon 
resulted from a search by Aunt Millie's spouse for a triangular Cape which 
he had inadvertantly mislaid. 

Monica suspected from the start that Aunt Millie had a problem. It took two 
cups of tea and three pieces of Maderia cake to reach it. 

"My dear, I don't know what the World is coming to." 

Aunt Millie had never known what the world was coming to. Monica simply 
agreed and waited. 

"They do the strangest things, you know." 

She omitted to say who or what did the strangest things. Monica made a 
shrewd guess. 

"Couldn't have happened when I was that age." 

Aunt Millie took another piece of cake in a manher that suggested she was 
building up her strength. 

"Young Melissa, you know. You remember Melissa?" 

Monica remembered. A bony child with bright eyes. They had met at family 
gatherings. Separated by an age gap of four years that placed them between 
them an unbridgable chasm. 

"Of all things...!" Aunt Millie produced a handkerchief. "The boy who 
delivers the groceries from the village. Dashed bad form." 

Monica made appropriate sounds. She wanted to laugh. 

Aunt Millie eyed her over the handkerchief: "Don't be offended, dear girl. 
Your mother told me....That place you went to? Thought I'd ask...." 

"Of course, Auntie. I don't mind talking about it. Really, I don't." 

"Bit impressed with that woman. Saw her at the funeral. What's her name?" 

"Madam Dubois." 

"Right! Seems to have done wonders for you. Different girl y'know." 

"I've grown up." 

"Yes. But....anyway we all thought so. Think it would do for Melissa?" 

Monica was in a quandary. She had not seen the child for some time. She 
would be fifteen now. She almost blushed at the thought of what Aunt Millie 
might say if she knew of her own tuition in the House of Madam Dubois. 

"It's quite severe." She offered tentatively. 

Aunt Millie nodded and used the handkerchief. "Supposed to be, isn't it! I 
mean, that's the general idea." She eyed her youthful hostess with obvious 
approval. "Seems to work miracles." Then: "Thought I'd ask you first." 

The idea was instant. Monica knew she could never resist it. "Would you like 
her to come and stay with me?" She asked unblushingly. 

It seemed probable that the idea had ocurred to Aunt Millie also. She perked 
up. "My dear, would you...." 

"Of course! It might be good for both of us." 

"Shocking little hoyden y'know." 

"I'm afraid most of us are." 

"Can't remember." Ventured Aunt Millie dubiously. "But actually she's a 
sweet child. I say....!" She started as though remembering. "I told her to 
go and play in the garden. Perhaps we might call her in." 

This time Monica did laugh. The whole thing was too precious. She felt 
immensely happy. Nor did this happiness diminish when Aunt Millie returned 
with the child. Melissa was a little beauty. She was not a child at all. 
When their eyes met each recognized the other. Each knew. They embraced. 
Monica found herself wanting to go on holding this vibrant youngster. 

"Can I have cakes and Tea?" Asked Melissa. 

She ate and drank, eyes bright with excitement seldom leaving the figure of 
her older cousin. Aunt Millie continued to be practical. 

"My dear," She said to Monica. "Should Melissa prove ungrateful you must 
write immediately and I will come up to town. I want you to have complete 
authority. If, for any reason, you deem it wise that the dear child should 
enter-you know ... that place, please do what must be done." She eyed her 
daughter severely, a look that in no way diminished the younger girl's 
relish in her tea. "You are in complete charge. Melissa understands that. 
Don't you Melissa?" 

"Jolly good cake, this." Said Melissa. 

"I asked you a question, Melissa." 

"Sorry, Mumsy. You are sweet. Of course I'll do everything cousin Monica 
tells me-just everything. You know I will, don't you Monica?" she asked 
demurely. 

Monica blushed, but said nothing. 

Aunt Millie kissed and said good-bye. 

Melissa was pure joy. How such parents had produced her was a mystery Monica 
did not concern herself with. It seemed probable that she might be the 
product of more than one grocery boy with a possible second gardener thrown 
in for good measure. She possessed an exuberant zest that was infectious. 
She appeared to have no inhibitions at all. She did not appear to find 
strangeness or embarrassment in her situation. One felt that no matter what 
her situation Melissa would enjoy it. With affectionate abandon she threw 
her arms round Monica's neck and kissed her vigorously. 

"Oh, thank you-thank you! I just know I'll be so happy with you. We're going 
to have such fun. It'll be so jolly-just us. I'll do everything you tell me. 
Honest, I will!" 

She broke away and danced around the room humming some small tune. Suddenly 
she stopped and looked direct at Monica. 

"You're supposed to whip me, aren't you?" 

Seeing the consternation on her cousin's face she laughed gaily. 

"You mustn't feel badly about it. I'll let you, you know." 

"Where on earth did you get that idea?" Monica demanded, her pulse rising. 

"Oh, come now...." Melissa danced up, bestowed another kiss, and swirled 
away again. "Mother was so angry she told me things about that....what she 
calls: "That House", and then I knew a girl who knew someone, she told me 
things. They do whip you there, don't they. It all sounds so jolly 
exciting." She eyed her cousin mischievously: "Did they whip you, Monica?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh, I say! Tell me about it." 

"It hurts." 

"Well, I daresay it does. But, I mean....how do they go about it?" She 
looked mischievous again. "Is it-is it on the bare....you know?" 

"They keep you naked all the time." Monica began to feel a need to keep her 
end up. This child was preposterous-and delightful. 

Melissa was impressed. "Coo. Oh! Doesn't it feel funny? I mean-everyone 
looking...." 

"There's only girls there." 

Melissa considered. "Well, anyway, I look pretty good. I'm not afraid." She 
seemed determinedly ready to shed her clothes. "But the rest of it....Do 
they tie you on a triangle like in the books? Or to a post. Or do you just 
bend over, or what?" She giggled. I bent over a good deal in school." 

"They fasten you in various ways." Monica assured her. "But one thing is 
certain: you won't get loose." 

"What do they whip you with?" 

"A cane on your bottom and a whip over the rest of you." 

"You mean-all over...?" 

Monica nodded. "Yes. You wouldn't like it. I didn't." Then, as an 
afterthought: "Where on Earth have you picked up this thing about whips?" 

Melissa was unabashed. She grinned cheerfully. "Well, I got caned a lot at 
school. They made us bare our behinds. It hurt, but I got it so much I sort 
of got used to it. The girls always talked about it a lot. Who got so many 
of the best and who cried and who didn't. For a moment she turned serious. 
"I discovered that most people like to talk about it. They pretend they 
don't. But they do. I believe a lot of people like to whip us 
girls....Y'know, there's books about it. Then, when Mumsy talked about 'That 
House' I could just see dear little Melissa being strung up to a mast or 
something and being flogged with a Cat, just like in the navy. It made me 
all shivery. But a nice sort of shivery....I say, Melissa?" 

"Yes?" 

"Is it like this with you? Finally when I got caned or whenever that sort of 
thing got talked about I found that I get a funny sort of excitement as 
though I really loved it instead of hating the pain." She paused a moment 
and then plunged: "When this happens the points on the end of my breasts get 
hard and stick out and feel terribly nice when you touch them. Do your's do 
that?" 

"Melissa! You're impossible!" 

"Well, do they?" 

"Yes." Monica admitted. 

"See! I knew we were alike. When you whip me both our nipples will get hard 
and stick out. Won't it be fun!" 

"They won't, you know." Monica assured her. "If you get whipped from now on 
it will hurt so much they'll probably disappear altogether." 

"Do yours?" 

"Shush! Where do you get this idea I'm going to whip you?" 

"From Mumsy, of course. She and Daddy could never do it. But I know she 
thinks it would be good for me. I expect she was too embarrassed to ask you. 
Mumsy's like that. But she sent you a message." 

"A message?" 

"Yes. May I go and get it?" 

"Of course." 

When Melissa returned she carried a most beautiful slender cane. Handing it 
to Monica she explained: We had it wrapped in a coat. It's too long to get 
in a suitcase." She giggled. "Mumsy thought it wouldn't be quite nice for us 
just to carry it. But she thought it most important that we bring it. She 
didn't expect you to have one." She winked slyly, "Not having any bad little 
girls around." 

Monica flexed the weapon and slashed it in the air. It was magnificent. She 
felt her own flesh begin to tingle, and was annoyed when she sensed her own 
nipples sprouting into life. 

"Has this been used on you?" 

"No. Mumsy bought it just 'specially for you." Then, miscievously: "And me." 

The irrepressible child did another pirouette. "Oh, Monica! I'm so happy. 
It's all going to be wonderful, I know it is." Gradually she slowed. 
Obviously in the grip of some thought: 

"I say, Monica. If they whipped you like that I bet some of the marks are 
still on you. Are they?" 

"Yes they are." Monica admitted without caution. 

"Let me see them. Oh-please...." 

Monica considered. This child was a delight. She obviously knew nearly as 
much of sensuality as Monica herslef. She felt a compelling desire to strip 
naked and shock the little minx. It would be fun to watch her face when she 
beheld Solange's work. But the last of the strokes was barely a week old. 
Every part of her was striped and empurpled to an incredible degree. In only 
one of the seven days had she not been whipped: that day they had enjoyed 
their little pleasantry with Mrs. Spicer-Bassett. For the rest Solange had 
continued the infliction on her sex that Hester had not had time to finish 
that fatal day. Another day she had been bound with breasts outthrust so 
that a silken whip could be used upon them. Her back and waist had received 
some further attention and her "Farewell" had left her almost as exhausted 
as her day with the bastinado. Several times a day now she stripped and 
admired herself in the mirror. Solange had insisted that she not return to 
The House until the wounds had faded. Monica felt such pride in these marks 
she bore that she longed to show them and to share them with this eager 
companion who she liked more every minute. She temporized: 

"I'd have to strip naked." 

"Do you mind-? From what you have just told me you must have been going 
around all naked for simply months and months." 

"What I should do is use this on you." Said Monica smiling as she laid the 
cane upon a table. Then she stripped. It took little time. She had long 
since dis carded most of the cumbersome stuff that swathed most girls of 
that period. 

"There, is that what you wanted?" 

Deliberately she stood half upon her toes, her hands clasped behind her 
neck, her breasts arrogantly outthrust, her belly concave. Very slowly she 
turned herself so that every inch and crevice came into view. Nothing was 
hidden except the soles of her feet. She would not show those. They were 
something special. They still hurt her. They were something private between 
herself and Solange. 

Melissa gasped. Her eyes glowed. For a long time even she had no words. When 
she did speak it was an exhalation of awe. 

"Oh darling! It's beautiful. You're beautiful. More beautiful than anything 
I've ever dreamed of." 

No words were spoken as Monica put on her clothes. Melissa sat dazed. 
Obviously seeing in her mind still the spectacle her older cousin had 
provided. 

But it was not long before the elfin grin returned and the active mind 
seized upon the fact that Monica had wondered if the child would discern. 
She voiced the obvious puzzlement. 

"But Monica, you haven't been in that-that House for simply ages and ages. 
You couldn't have got all those marks from that long ago. Most of them are 
quite recent. I can tell-anyone could...." 

"So?" 

"So somebody whips you." Melissa danced up and down in ecstasy. "Who is it? 
Oh please tell me." 

"Somebody I love." Monica watched her charge curiously. 

"It's a girl, isn't it?" 

"Yes." 

"I knew it would be. Oh, you're so lucky! I do envy you. And I think it's so 
wonderful that you can be the way you are-talking to Mumsy and everything. 
So very correct and dignified and all the time your body is covered with 
those beautiful terrible lovely marks. Do you want to tell me?" 

Monica began to feel that it might be better if she and this precocious 
darling child walked before they ran. Her personal affairs should be 
disclosed a bit at a time. She would change the direction the conversation 
had taken. The most obviously easy way of doing so appealed to her very 
much. 

"You may bend over and bare your bottom." She told Melissa smiling. 

If she had bestowed a diamond necklace it could have scarcely have produced 
a more brilliant sparkle in the bright eyes. But, for Melissa, it became 
evident there was no half way. Her clothes flew here and there. Furiously 
she tore them from her until she stood as Monica had stood. Proud, straight, 
unblemished, more than beautiful. The heady aura of youth emanated like a 
tangible presence around her. 

"How do you want me, darling?" Melissa bent and touched her toes. The result 
was almost too inviting to bear. "Like this?" 

"Or I think this might be very good, don't you?" She crouched on all fours 
then leaned down so that her forearms, her head and her chest rested on the 
carpet. Her bottom rose up delightfully alone and exposed. 

"Or some do it like this. There was a girl at school who always got caned 
like this at home." She bent over the back of a chair so that her feet were 
almost raised from the floor. It was a most suitable pose for the business 
in hand. 

"You will stand the way you were in the first place. Straight up, head back, 
stick your chest out, hands behind your neck." Monica ordered. "I want to 
talk to you." 

Smiling hugely the nymphet obeyed. Obviously immensely pleased with herself. 
Monica sat and negligently toyed with the cane. Let the little minx wait. It 
would be good for her. She recalled some of the waiting she had done 
herself. 

"I don't have a nice triangle to tie you to, or a post or anything like 
that. I'm sorry." She explained. "So we are really going to see how much you 
enjoy this beautiful thing." She held up the cane and admired it. "At school 
they give you so many "Of the best" don't they: and you have to stand still. 
Well, it's the same here. Except that you are going to get five in each of 
those delightful positions you so sweetly demonstrated. Think you can stand 
that?" 

The excited face turned and grinned confidently. "Of course I can. Oh, 
darling. Don't keep me waiting. I've waited so long-before I came here, I 
mean. Please start." 

"We may as well do this properly." Monica was enjoying herself hugely. When 
I give the word you will ask me properly and at length to cane you. You can 
go into all the detail you feel pertinent. Then, after each stroke, you will 
say thank you, and you'll say it nicely. Now, here's the thing you can start 
worrying about. It should take that silly grin off your face. I'm going to 
whip you hard. I don't think you can stand it. But you must. You may 
wriggle, or kick, or toss your head. But you must not leave position and you 
must not scream. If you do, then that particular group of five will be 
doubled. If you disgrace yourself I'll find something to tie you with and 
then it will be thirty instead of fifteen. Is that clear?" 

Once again it was as though she had bestowed a priceless gift. Melissa's 
eyes sparkled. She was gasping with pleasure. The silly grin, instead of 
coming off, was now wider than ever. 

"Oh yes....yes! You're wonderful. I knew you would be! May I bend over now?" 

"Not until you've said your little piece. You may commence." 

It was a glorious game. They both knew it. They made their own rules. 

Melissa turned gracefully until she faced the seated girl with the whip. 
Provocatively she held herself taut thrusting out her breasts so that their 
temptation was well nigh irresistible. Deliberately she separated her feet 
enough that her thickly haired sex seemed, to Monica, to fill her whole 
vision. Melissa was gorgeous. Pertly she began her speech: 

Her attitude was impudent. Each word was impudence. Melissa was intent on 
mischief. 

"Darling Monica. I have been a bad girl. Oh terribly bad. Poor Mumsy was in 
tears. So I must be whipped." Her eyes twinkled direct. "I expect it will do 
me no end of good, and I'll be a much better girl afterwards. All the 
whippings I've had up to now haven't done me any good at all. In fact I've 
rather . enjoyed them. But poor Miss Edwards our Gym teacher only used a 
funny little cane and never hit very hard. I am sure, darling Monica, that 
you will be much, much stronger and will hit much, much harder and be much, 
much cleverer at hurting me than she was. So may I bend over and touch my 
toes and keep my legs straight so that my bottom sticks out beautifully, and 
will you please give me five terribly hard strokes across my bare bottom 
with the cane you are holding. When that is done please give me five more 
while I am in the floor position. And then please give me five more while I 
am bent over a chair. Please hit me very hard indeed. I promise I won't move 
or cry out. I may wriggle and gasp a little. But if I move please give me a 
double dose. Thank you, Monica for being so sweet to me. May I bend over now 
please." 

"You are an impudent little minx." Monica laughed. "This is going to hurt 
you much more than you think it is. You may not be as mischievous when I am 
through with you. But if I was really trying to turn you into a good little 
girl I shudder to think what I might have to do. Yes. You may bend over." 

It was almost too beautiful to bear. There was a tightness in Monica's 
throat and a stirring in her loins as she took her position to one side of 
the enticing rotundity that thrust itself in the air for her attention. She 
suddenly realized the significance of this moment. She herself had been 
whipped many times. But she had never whipped a girl. She had never wielded 
the cane. She had never tightened the strap, the shackle or the rope. Now, 
waiting impatiently in front of her, was this ultimate perfection in 
femaleness. She shook herself, as though from sleep. She must not look so 
dreamy or so dazed. Her impertinent victim was watching her cheerfully from 
one eye. 

She struck as hard as she could. The result was surprising. Melissa did not 
flinch. The watching eye remained bright and curious. The girlish voice said 
'Thank you' with a clear modulation. But the biggest surprise was within 
herself. As she had felt the cane bed itself in the tender flesh and had 
seen the weal leap into existence she had felt a surge of wild fierce joy 
and a wish to strike and strike again marking the virgin canvas of Melissa's 
youth. Perhaps this was how Solange felt with her. She struck once more. 

The result was the same. Melissa's control was incredible. Monica sensed a 
challenge. Perhaps she should give more thought to what she was doing. 

She took a fresh stance, measured carefully by tapping the waiting bottom, 
and took a wider and swifter arc to bring the cane slashing down just below 
the curve. This was better. The watching eye was gone. One of Melissa's legs 
was raised and bent but was immediately returned to place. There was a faint 
breathlessness about the thank you. 

But the naked girl took her five strokes with no more than that. A shifting 
of her legs and a tremor in her voice. When she was allowed to stand up she 
turned a radiant face to her cousin and grinned ruefully as she rubbed her 
bottom. 

"Oh darling!! They were stingers. Real swishers! 

I didn't know anything could hurt that much. You are wonderful." 

"You are wonderful too." Monica kissed the warm lips-were they trembling 
slightly...."I don't think I could stand like that. Ready for the next 
five?" 

"I say, darling. Do you think we could wait a little while so I can rub my 
bottom and sort of get used to the idea?" 

"No." 

"I knew you'd say that. You always say the right thing. Never let little 
Melissa take advantage of you. She will if you let her, y'know. You're sweet 
and I adore you even if you do hit awful hard. How do you want me this 
time?" 

"Head on the ground. Bottom in the air." 

They took their time with the pose. Only the suppleness of extreme youth 
made it possible. Melissa crouched so that her thighs and her stomach 
pressed together. She lay with one cheek turned on the carpet. Her breasts 
touched the carpet. Her back was amazingly bowed and curved. She wriggled 
and squeezed so as to place her bottom to its ultimate disadvantage. It was 
unbelievably thrust upwards. Never had a culprit offered such help to her 
executioner. 

"I'm stretched tight as a drum." Melissa giggled. "That cane is going to 
hurt like billy-O. I'll try and be a good girl. But I'm all trembly." 

It was an amazing target. Monica marvelled that she had not seen it before 
or that it had not been used on her. The exposure was almost frightening. 
How could Melissa be so cheerful! She would try to break the younger girl's 
resolve with the first two strokes: one high and one low. 

Melissa took the high stroke with no more than a quiver in her voice. The 
low one sent her tumbling on the rug grimacing with pain and rubbing her 
wounds with both hands. Monica felt a brute. 

"You're a hero." she said soothingly, and knelt by the writhing girl. 
Bending down she kissed the hot cheek. "Don't worry. I won't double it this 
time. I know how hard this must be for you." 

A moment later two soft arms were around her and eager lips found hers. 
Melissa had kept the tears at bay. The grimace had gone. There was still a 
sparkle in the eyes. 

"You are sweet! I knew you were! I'm so ashamed." 

"Don't be, Sweetheart. I know how it hurts. I think you did well." 

"Well, I don't. I was going to be so proud this first time. I'm angry." 

"Only three to go. And you can rest." 

"No!" Melissa was emphatic. "I'm angry with myself. Punish me. I want the 
whole extra five. I deserve them. And make me keep still. Make me!" 

She looked up into Monica's concerned eyes. "Promise me something, Monica. 
Really promise. Don't ever let me get away with anything. No matter how I 
cry or howl or anything. If I know I can twist you I will. You called me a 
minx. I am. I can't help it. I'm being a really good girl with you now 
because I love you and because I'm so happy that I'm going to live with you. 
And I'm being terribly honest about all thistelling you....But I want this 
whipping. I know I ought to have it. Now I'm going to get back into 
position, and that makes eight more strokes I have to have like this." 

Monica was apalled. In the brief time they had been together she had come to 
love this glowing child. She discovered now that she had not the least wish 
to break her spirit or her indubitable courage. She felt cruel for the 
severity of the strokes she had given. She could so easily have guided 
Melissa more gently into the. realm of pain: a realm it was evident she was 
determined to explore. She recoiled from the prospect of inflicting eight 
more such strokes to the round bottom once more being wriggled into 
defenselessness. 

To have refused to go on would be to betray Melissa. It was needful to the 
child to receive this punishment and to accept it heroically. There was but 
one thing to do. She hoped that because the small bottom was already well 
whipped the lighter strokes she would now inflict might not be recognized as 
such. 

Melissa flinched now when the strokes found their mark upon her. But she 
managed an articulate count each time. Her strained and arched figure swayed 
several times. But always she managed to hold the abject pose. Monica longed 
to take her in her arms and comfort her. Why, oh why had she said fifteen. 
Five or ten would have done as well this first time. 

It was a subdued Melissa who rose to her feet this time. Without excuse or 
explanation she wrapped her arms about her cousin and quietly rested her 
head against her cheek. Monica could feel the thumping of her heart. For a 
little while her breathing was heavy. Neither felt a need to speak. After a 
goodly time the younger girl braced herself and dropped her arms. She smiled 
tenderly and raised her lips to be kissed as a small child might have done. 
Monica's heart overflowed as she watched Melissa walk to the big arm chair 
and drape over its back allowing herself almost to hang there so that the 
maximum curve and stretch might be imparted to that portion still to be 
punished. 

As Monica whipped Melissa's bottom the hanging legs jerked and bent more 
than before. But the pose was never broken. When the fifth stroke fell she 
was thankful that the child had not detected her clemency. She was angry 
with herself at her own mixed feelings about the whipping. To have started 
it with a savage lust and to have finished it with a tender compassion. How 
strange we are, she reflected. How little we know ourselves. 

The naked girl slipped off her perch. Automatically her hands flew to her 
bottom where she explored her welts with careful fingers. Monica was 
astounded to watch a smile of satisfaction slowly replace the tautness of 
pain. The elfin grin came back. Quite unselfconsciously Melissa thoughtfully 
transferred her fingers from her bottom to her breasts. With evident 
enjoyment she touched and stroked her nipples. They were hard and erect. 
"See." She said excitedly. "I told you so. They always do it." 

Monica felt almost middle aged in the face of this youthful resilience. Even 
though she had been merciful Melissa had sustained a painful punishment. Her 
first whipping of such severity. Yet she appeared to have forgotten it 
already. But this was not the case. Having satisfied her curiosity about her 
bottom and her breasts she turned her full radiance on her cousin. There 
were more hugs and kisses and exclamations. Then she stood back and looked 
Monica squarely in the eyes. 

"You cheated." It was a flat accusation. Monica said nothing. 

"You felt sorry for poor little Melissa. So you whipped me lightly after I 
fell over. I know." 

She came and kissed again. But then her voice was surprisingly firm. "You 
cheated. I suppose I cheated too, in a way. So there's only one thing to do, 
isn't there." Quickly she placed a finger on Monica's lips. "No. Don't say 
anything. You must do this-you must! You must double this last lot. Please! 
That's five more I must have. And, darling-" She looked deeply into Monica's 
eyes. "You must make them very hard. The hardest of all. Don't cheat again. 
You see, I'll know if you do...." Her smile was a mixture of the elfin and 
pathetic. "I suppose really it's me who is in the best possible position to 
judge. See-I'm already impudent. I'll go to the chair now. I may as well 
admit that I expect I'll kick and I'll howl. Don't pay any attention." 

And that's the way it was. 

* * * 

The advent of Melissa was one more milestone. In less than a year Monica's 
life had been totally changed. She herself had been changed. Nor would there 
be any retracing of the steps she had followed. That could not be done even 
had she wished. She did not wish. 


THE END
