Melynda And Mister Wilberforce
by F.E. Campbell


CHAPTER ONE 

"Why, Mr. Wilberforce! What you want to do is tie me up, isn't it?" 
Melynda's voice was like a breath of Spring. 

The whole twenty-nine years of Horace Wilber-force's rectitude rose toward 
indignant rebuttal. But, just in time, he managed to rescue some small scrap 
of courage hidden in the recesses of his most urgent need and, in a faint 
but urgent voice, say breathlessly: "Well, actually, yes." 

Melynda cooed with delight. "But, dear Mr. Wilberforce, why didn't you say 
so?" Producing a newspaper clipping, she read: Wanted : Intelligent and 
personable young woman of original and adventurous temperament. Good figure 
essential. Unique assignment. "The "Good figure" had also drawn heavily on 
Mr. Wilberforce's small store of courage. He blushed. 

"You are really lucky to get me." Melynda said unaffectedly. "Most girls 
would never have known." 

"How did... er, how did--?" 

"You are trying to ask how I know?" Melynda's amusement trilled through the 
room. "Just a bit of Sherlock Holmes. Your ad' hints. You are terribly 
embarrassed. Before you slipped it under that magazine I saw a picture of a 
naked girl tied to a tree. Then, of course, there was Freddy." 

"Freddy?" Mr. Wilberforce was well out of his depth. 

"My boy friend. The one that was, I mean. I don't have one now. He liked to 
tie me up. It was sort of fun until Mrs. Wilkins walked in." 

"Mrs. Wilkins?" 

"His landlady. Freddy had tied me real tight spreadeagled on the bed while 
he went to get us a Pizza. He forgot to lock the door, and old nosy Wilkins 
walked in on me. She took one look and dashed off and phoned the police. 
They arrested Freddy, Pizza and all. It took me simply hours of talking to 
get them to let him go. I'm sure they didn't believe a word I said. You 
see," Melynda looked at Mr. Wilberforce earnestly, "I didn't have any 
clothes on. Mrs. Wilkins threw his things out on the street. Afterwards we 
never really got together again." 

"A trying experience." 

Melynda giggled. "Tying comes closer. I had to laugh when the two cops sort 
of rescued me. They made it last as long as they could. One put his hat over 
my thingummy. The other took his hat off too. But he couldn't put it over 
both so he put it back on again." 

"Both?" Melynda had left Mr. Wilberforce far behind. 

"My tits, silly. You know, boobs." 

"Frightfully sorry. Stupid of me!" He had begun to perspire. 

"Want me to undress? You know, that bit about 'Good figure essential'." 

Mr. Wilberforce looked agonized. 

"I'm really quite nice." 

"Without doubt. But really " Melynda stripped. To Mr. Wilberforce she seemed 
to manage it in three swift motions. 

"You'll notice my breasts are conical with the tits tip tilted. I prefer 
that kind. They photograph well. Never could stand floppers. My waist's just 
fourteen and my tummy's concave. The mons veneris has the proper curve and 
the lips meet neatly. I've got quite a bushy triangle. But we can shave it 
off if you prefer. My bottom's very well rounded. I've had offers from 
Artists--" 

"Offers?" Mr. Wilberforce was aghast. 

"To pose, silly!" She looked at him keenly. "Why, Mr. Wilberforce, I bet 
you've never seen a naked girl before. You're blushing." 

"Well actually... Perhaps we are rushing things a bit." 

"You mean I'm not hired?" Melynda looked to-totally bereft. 

"I didn't say that!" Most passionately Mr. Wilberforce did not wish to lose 
the precious ground Melynda had granted him. "You are quite marvelous. It's 
me. I find this most difficult." 

"What are you finding difficult?" Melynda asked cheerfully. "My tits and my 
thingummy or just me?" 

"Well, the whole situation." 

"It was your ad'." Melynda was puzzled. 

"Perhaps I should explain...." He found it difficult to look at Melynda's 
face without seeing the rest. 

"You want I should dress?" Melynda looked hurt. 

"Perhaps it would be best." 

"You don't really want me to. You just think it's the right thing to say." 

Her three swift motions in reverse enabled his blush to recede. Selecting a 
chair she brought her full attention to bear on her prospective employer. 
"Look," she said with an amused earnestness, "Before you stutter around the 
bush, let me guess the scenario: You were born with a 'Thing.' It's called 
either a fantasy or a fetish. All your life you have wanted to tie up or 
chain up a girl." She giggled, "Probably a naked girl, and now, for some 
reason or other, you have decided to do something about it. So you put in 
the ad'. I expect you had a very nice upbringing and think what you are 
doing is quite naughty. Right?" 

"How did you know?" 

"I told you. After the Freddy affair I hunted up some books. There's quite a 
lot on the subject. You aren't the only one who'd like to tie me to a tree." 

"You don't mind?" 

"Why should I? Better than tapping a typewriter. I don't have a real 'Thing' 
about it. But it's fun. Maybe it's habit forming. I sort of missed it after 
Freddie." 

"I'd thought of some pictures...." 

"You want pictures! Why, Mr. Wilberforce--" He held up his hand horrified. 
"Oh please, don't misunderstand." 

"But pictures! Icky." 

"It's not like that at all. I know what you think." Fear of losing this 
delightful creature made him articulate. "You're quite right about my 
'Thing' as you call it. But with me it goes a step further. You know the old 
'Damsel in distress' theme in fiction and on the stage. Well, my girl, the 
girl I've always thought about is always in need of being rescued: from 
dragons, from Genghis Khan, from the red Injuns. There's no end of themes. 
What I want to do is capture these situations on film. We don't need the 
dragon, of course. What I want is the girl tied or chained appropriately and 
with the proper expression on her face. Think you can manage that?" 

"Where do we do it?" The dragon had made Melynda dubious. 

"I thought it would be nice if we travelled a bit and set up the camera 
wherever we found the right atmosphere." 

Melynda brightened. "That's a lot better. In fact it's a keen idea." 
Shamelessly she appraised him. "But, Mr. Wilberforce, it sounds expensive. 
You don't really look like a moneymaker. Have you got any?" 

"My Uncle George just died...." 

"Good old uncle George!" Said Melynda. "I can hardly wait." 

"Er, what about your family?" 

"Oh that!" Melynda airily dismissed all families with a wave of her hand. "I 
don't have any. I'm an orphan. Honest! I was brought up in a home. One of 
those nice Socialist experiments." 

She giggled. "I even ran into it there. One of the Matrons used to tie my 
hands behind my back and put me in a dark cupboard whenever I displeased 
her. Of course she did it to the other girls too. But I always thought I got 
it more than they did. 

Maybe that's how these things get started. I didn't like it at first. But 
after I got used to it I sort of liked it, just the way I did with Freddie." 

"I am most gratified. Miss...?" 

"Don't be so stuffy, Mr. Wilberforce. I think I'll call you Willie and you 
call me Melynda. My other name, the orphanage gave it to me, is Chayne. 
Melynda Chayne." She chuckled. "If there was a 'd' on the end it would be 
just right, wouldn't it! Do you want me to sleep with you?" 

In all his life with Melynda Mr. Wilberforce sustained a series of shocks. 
She produced them as others might propound a pun or a humorous anecdote. The 
broadside she had just delivered held, for him, an ambiguity. 

"You were thinking of...?" 

"Well, do I get into bed with you. Or do you want me to sleep in a separate 
room?" 

"You mean contemplate living... in?" 

"Of course! Where else would I live? I'm surprised you don't have a nice 
cage or a cozy dungeon to put me in. Are you sure you haven't?" 

"I'm afraid I never thought of such a thing." 

"Of course you thought of such a thing, silly! You just didn't have the 
nerve. I expect you'll get around to it. But anyway, what about my 
question?" 

"There is a charming guest room." 

"Really Willie, you are silly. I shall have to take you in hand. But, O.K. 
I'll settle for the charming guest room. Are there any particular times or 
ways that you'll want to cane me?" 

"Cane you?" Mr. Wilberforce sounded genuinely shocked. 

"Yes. On the bottom?" 

"But why would I cane you anywhere?" Mr. Wilberforce began to perspire 
again. 

Melynda examined him with pure joy. "Y'know I don't believe you ever slept 
with a girl. And I don't believe you ever caned a single bottom?" 

Mr. Wilberforce was all too well aware of quite positive stirrings within 
his being. Melynda was a happening. But, for him, too much too rapidly. He 
fought for time. 

"Caned?" 

"Caning is the English Thing." Melynda explained brightly. "In other parts 
of the world they would probably say 'whip.' But, for us, the word 'Cane' 
sounds so much more respectable. And, of course, we do actually prefer it." 
She gave him an arch look. "You remember Mr. Profumo?" 

Mr. Wilberforce remembered Mr. Profumo very well. 

"There's a theory that the English are the way they are because they all get 
caned regularly in school, even the girls. There are still some schools that 
are quite vicious about it. That bony Miss Clagett at the Orphanage used to 
really lay it on... ! The theory has it that it becomes habit forming. But I 
don't believe that. I think most men would love to whip a girl if they had 
the chance. A lot of them do. Of course they have to make the chance." 
Melynda looked at Mr. Wilberforce expectantly. 

He looked at her with about the same amazement as if he was observing a 
unicorn walking down Oxford Street. "You make it sound like an amusing 
diversion." 

"Well, isn't it?" 

Mr. Wilberforce was not a hypocrite. He had read. He had observed. He had 
yearned. Here was his wildest fantasies made real in as pretty and desirable 
a package as he had ever imagined. "You mean you like it?" He asked dazedly. 

"I got used to it with Freddy. Not that he ever went too big on it. But 
there were times when he had me tied up in certain ways that it just seemed 
the most natural thing to do." 

"But the pain must be awful!" 

"It is the first time. But you get used to it." She giggled again. "Just the 
way it was at the orphanage." 

"And what about salary?" 

Melynda looked at him intently. "You changed the subject." She accused. "You 
are difficult. Poor lamb, you must have come from a very proper home. Don't 
worry about salary. Just give me what you can afford. I'm sure it will be 
generous." 

"And if you are, er, living in, you will have some possessions?" 

"Not many. I'm in a bed sitter. It will all go into a couple of suitcases. 
You might say I have already moved. I'm here." 

She was indeed! Horace Wilberforce watched fascinated as she went from room 
to room, moving a picture here, a chair there. It was a largish house. 
"Someone come in to clean?" She asked. 

"A Mrs. Terence does for me." 

"Will she be terribly shocked if she finds me chained to the wall 
somewhere?" 

"I'm afraid she would." Shocking visions flashed through his mind. 

"You'll absolutely have to get a Bluebeard's Room." Melynda chuckled 
happily. "Now take me down the cellar." 

The basement was large. It contained a facility that Horace Wilberforce had 
expected to produce with a flourish at some later date. But with this 
delicious creature delay was pointless. When he unlocked and threw open the 
door Melynda was in rapture. 

"Why Willie, there is more to you than meets the eye! It's a dungeon. A real 
wicked gloomy stone dungeon! And you saved it to last!" She eyed him with a 
respect previously lacking. "And it's warm. I won't catch pneumonia." 

"When I had this walled in I had a duct installed from the main boiler. 
There is a thermostat too." He said proudly. 

Melynda made a tour of inspection. She had the air of a connoisseur at an 
Art Gallery. From time to time she threw approving looks over her shoulder 
at her new employer. 

"It's wonderful! You've thought of everything. Look at all those rings set 
in the stone. And I'll look simply gorgeous tied to this post that goes from 
floor to ceiling." She turned and studied him, "Are you sure you never have 
experimented with a girl?" 

"Never." He assured her. "I couldn't afford to until Uncle George... This 
dungeon is only just finished--" 

"What on Earth did the workmen say?" 

Mr. Wilberforce blushed at the memory. "It was most awkward. I told them it 
was a permanent movie set. I don't think they believed me." 

"This bench, and that heavy table! I can think of all sorts of things. I bet 
that great big box is full of chains and ropes and stuff." She waltzed over 
and opened the lid. "There, what did I tell you. There's just everything... 
Come along, I'm going to make Tea!" 

Melynda took possession of his kitchen as she had taken possession of him. 
"I'm just dying for a cuppa'." She told him as she busied herself. "You can 
make me love, lovely cocktails later on. But for now, it's a cuppa and lots 
of talk. Isn't this fun!" 

It was fun. A kind of fun such as Horace Wilberforce had never expected or 
dreamed possible. In placing his ad' he had hoped. But without much faith 
that his hope could become real. Yet here was this nymph named Melynda. He 
knew a great happiness. 

"I bet you have already thought of the first place?" Melynda twinkled large 
eyes at him over the teacup. 

"Place? You mean...?" 

"Of course, silly! When we start travelling I bet you have a place you have 
been thinking about for years. An old Abbey; a ruined Castle. We'll have to 
stay away from the places that do a five bob Tea, of course, but there's 
lots of others. We might even do a bit of trespassing in the larger 
Parks--you know, the Stately Homes bit. But I've been wondering: you want 
this real, don't you? I mean, we don't just simulate, do we? It has to be 
that when I'm chained I'm really truly chained and can't possibly get free. 
Right?" 

Mr. Wilberforce glowed. "Exactly! Melynda, you are most perceptive. Validity 
is the thing we must really strive for. I don't think it would be much good 
for either of us if we knew you could just walk away." 

"That means some mechanics, then." Melynda said practically. "Have you 
thought of that? I mean, these places won't come equipped with shackles 
hanging from the walls...." 

"I had thought of using lag screws, they are big screws you turn into wood 
or mortar with a wrench. And I thought of pitons, like in 
mountaineering...." Melynda grinned approvingly at his enthusiasm. Then, 
musingly and hesitatingly, continued. "Now let's get this straight. You set 
the stage. You chain or bind poor little helpless Melynda. You take the 
photos. What do we do then ? Gather everything up and run like blazes?" 

Mr. Wilberforce recognized a point. "You are thinking, aren't you, that a 
sense of urgency could defeat us?" 

"That's right." Melynda approved. She frowned. "I don't know how gifted I 
may be as your model. But the effect you want; the poor damsel in distress 
who languishes--isn't that a lovely word! Helpless and forlorn in her bonds 
might be a bit hard for me to manage if we have both been busy with hammers 
and wrenches and things and the locks go click, click and all of a sudden I 
have to look like Joan of Arc." 

"I can see you have a thought." Said Mr. Wilberforce in a voice that plainly 
intimated his complete confidence in Melynda's ingenuity. 

"Yes I have. But I don't know how practical it is. I think that for the 
camera to really pick up that forlorn bit I'm going to have to feel 
forlorn... sort of tired and dispirited y'know. From fooling around with 
Freddy I discovered I can actually feel that way if I'm fastened up and left 
alone. It's a sort of lovely awful feeling. A bit scary, But it takes time. 
Will we have any?" 

Mr. Wilberforce was pleased by so shrewd an analysis. He was well aware of 
the uncompromising perception of the camera lens. 

"You are thinking I should render you securely captive and then go and have 
a pint at the Local while you sort of soak up the atmosphere?" 

"You do put it neatly. Think we can risk it?" 

Visions of a chained and naked Melynda confronted by the local Vicar, some 
farm laborer, a party of bird watchers... flitted through Mr. Wilberforce's 
mind. He could never subject this delightful creature to such an ordeal. He 
said so. 

But the delightful creature's mind was busy with possibilities. "It does 
seem like an awful chance to take." She admitted slowly. "But is it! Most 
people would go away if I asked them to. I can easily think up a story: 
we're taking pictures and you've gone for more film... I'll think of 
something." Melynda giggled. "It could be a really delicious sensation. 
You'll think I'm awful. But can't you just picture poor helpless me being 
examined by some tweedy character out for a nice long walk." 

"I don't think I'd like that." Mr. Wilberforce said with certainty. "Suppose 
they don't believe whatever story you tell them and go dashing off for the 
Police?" 

"I sort of thought of that, too." Melynda admitted. "But how's this for a 
sort of last resort.' if I see they just have to do something in the way of 
rescue I could tell them the key to my chains is hanging on yonder tree, or 
somewhere that you and I have already decided on nicely out of my reach. 
They can then satisfy their noble principles and set me free. I dress. 
There's not much else they can do about it if I refuse to complain." 

"You are quite remarkable." Said Mr. Wilberforce. "May I have another cup of 
Tea?" He mused happily. "I do indeed know the Place. The old Ruin in 
Stanstead Park." 

"Fine!" Said Melynda, busy with the teapot. "But first of all I think we 
ought to lap up a bit of this atmosphere lark right here before we sally 
forth. You may have wanted this all your life," She looked at him shrewdly, 
"but you'll probably find a bit of a let down, you'll be embarrassed. Freddy 
wasn't. But I think you will be. I could tell when I took my clothes off. 
When you start looping rope around my tummy you'll feel awkward. Bet I can 
wiggle out of it the first time you tie me." 

What a Treasure she was! Horace Wilberforce knew she spoke truth. He had 
been bothered by knowledge of his own ineptitudes. "You are very wise." He 
said it almost with reverence. 

"And, of course, there's me." Melynda continued on blithely. "I expect you 
see me as an uninhibited sexpot. But actually I do have a small wee little 
inhibition tucked away here and there." She grinned confidingly. "If you 
hadn't been so nice I don't suppose I'd have been such a forward hussy. I 
know this is for real. But I feel as though I'm teasing you." 

"Please keep teasing me." It took all of Mr. Wilberforce's courage to say 
it. 

Melynda bestowed upon her employer a smile that contrived to be both knowing 
and innocent. "Oh, I will. I can't help it. But, seriously, I would like to 
practice a bit. With Freddy it was just for laughs. But this means something 
to you. I want it to mean something to me." She giggled again and her smile 
became even more innocent. "I just have to admit I can't wait to try out 
that lovely dungeon downstairs. Freddy never had anything like that. I feel 
all shivery already." 

"You aren't afraid at all, are you?" He asked wonderingly. 

"Just a teensy bit. But that's like salt in the stewpot. Not much good 
without it. "Will you please keep me chained in your dungeon the longest 
time?" She sounded like a child coaxing for candy. 

"Of course. It's what I want too." 

"Naked... and lots of chains?" 

He blushed absurdly. "I promise." 

Again she studied him appraisingly. "There's another thing you probably 
haven't thought about. But I have. I had to sometimes with Freddy. You 
see...." For the first time she found expression hindered by emotion, "you 
see, sometimes when I was tied up for a very long time I got to wondering... 
suppose he wouldn't let me loose! Suppose he had heart failure and I just 
lay there. Suppose he left me tied to the bed and then took another girl to 
the dance." Melynda smiled shyly. "It's silly. I even knew it was silly at 
the time. But when a girl is very, very helpless these notions pop up. 
Several times they made me just implore him to set me free. It was blind 
panic. When he untied me I was furious with myself. I was even furious with 
him. Poor Freddy! He was just being kind and considerate. But I knew he'd 
robbed me of something very necessary to the game we played. If I could talk 
myself free just by putting panic in my voice then the cords and rope didn't 
mean anything any more." She looked at him pleadingly. "Don't ever set me 
free because I coax or plead. You do understand, don't you...?" 

She was incredible! Mr. Wilberforce wanted to say so.' But couldn't find the 
right words. "Are you quite sure?" He asked doubtfully. "I can think of 
circumstances. I'm not sure you couldn't persuade me if I thought it was 
genuine...." Melynda stamped her foot so that her cup rattled. She even 
pointed an admonitory finger at her employer. "Mr. Wilberforce, don't you 
ever do it! If you let me wheedle you into setting me free, I'll pack my bag 
and leave." 

"You're wonderful." Said Mr. Wilberforce. 

 CHAPTER TWO - Melynda 

He's such a dear! Mr. Wilberforce, I mean. I'm still calling him Mr. 
Wilberforce half the time. I expect that means something. He's so terribly 
nervous. Of me, and about his Thing. I expect it's inhibitions or something. 
I felt so sorry for him as he stuttered away that first time trying to tell 
me. Remember your first Teddy Bear, how you just had to cuddle it! That's 
the way he affected me. He seemed so lonely. 

It's quite a solemn thought, really. I mean about Mr. Wilberforce and 
everybody like him. If Willie hadn't inherited some money he'd have been 
like all the rest, wandering through life with a lovely very private dream 
that would never come true. He'd have got married to some 'nice' girl and 
she'd have had babies and it wouldn't have been much fun in bed because both 
of them would have been scared to talk about 'It.' They would have thought 
It wasn't nice. Eventually he'd be like the other old men you often see. You 
know, tired and a bit wondering as though they had got on the wrong train 
that had taken them to somewhere they did not want to go. 

Of course there is always the Freddies. There's always the Freddies. They 
never get on the wrong train. But you can't change a Mr. Wilberforce into a 
Freddy. There's no way. I'm sort of glad, really, because I wouldn't want 
to. 

Men are an awful problem. I mean, a girl has to do all their work. With 
Freddy I was sort of always panting to keep pace. With Willie I'm going to 
be tugging and pulling to get him to where he wants to go. I suppose that's 
what being a girl really means: you want to go along too, so you have to get 
them started. I expect it all began with the bed Thing. Unless the girl gets 
in first nothing much is going to happen... unless you are just 
experimenting, of course. 

At school they tried to teach us about electricity. I remember something 
about polarization. Some sort of impulse that either pulls or pushes. Well, 
we're like that y'know. Freddy was a puller. He had an attraction for me. 
With Willie and his inhibitions it was me who would have to do the pulling. 

I knew that in spite of all I had told him about how he would feel and I 
would feel when it came to the actual moment he was bound to fumble. I could 
just picture him perspiring and looking everywhere except at me. You know, 
like those stories about the bashful groom on the wedding night. Poor 
Willie! It must be awful to want something terribly, terribly all your life 
and all of a sudden find it staring you in the face. I'm not sure I wanted 
to say it in just that way, but you know what I mean. 

That's just the way it was. After we'd had our Tea I knew it would be fatal 
if we sat wondering what to do with our hands and feet and what to say next. 
So I made a big thing of doing the dishes and got him to laugh a little 
while he dried them for me. Then, without giving him time to start chuffing, 
I bounced off downstairs to that lovely dungeon. He had to follow. 

I've always liked being naked. I just do! It wasn't too hard as a kid back 
there in The Home. It was a girl's Dorm' and a girl's washroom, and of 
course we'd experiment with each other. I got punished often enough for 
overdoing it. Once I bet another girl a chocolate bar that I'd run naked 
round the playground after lights out. I did it too. But got caught climbing 
back through the window. There was an awful to-do and I really got it in the 
neck. But all through the bread and water and the cane and all the rest I 
could still feel that lovely air on my skin as I leaped round the garden 
with just enough moonlight to see my way and to know, with a gorgeous tingly 
feeling, that someone might see me. The punishments and the sermons didn't 
cure me at all. I just listened and felt sorry for poor old Matron who had 
never run anywhere naked in all her life. Always afterwards when I was on my 
own I shed my clothes whenever it was handy. 

So, you see, it helped a lot that only poor Willie, Mr. Wilberforce, that 
is, had a hurdle to cross about me being naked. I had to be. He knew it. I 
knew it. It was a terribly important part of his "Thing." But if I'd been 
like most females who feel they have to put on a tremendous show of 
hesitation over something they do every night with their boy friend we would 
never have got as far as looping the first length of cord. 

It was simply delicious doing it. I'd known it would be. I could hardly 
wait. But I was careful to stay inside the atmosphere of Willie's fantasy. I 
didn't toss feminine bits and pieces here and there with gay abandon. I 
avoided the bump and grind effect of the strip tease. I simply stood dead 
center in the dungeon and pulled them off slowly as though not wanting what 
was about to happen to me. When there was nothing left I stood on tip-toe 
and stretched my arms high and stood taut. A girl looks her very best like 
that. Poor Mr. Wilberforce was in a bit of a bind. He wanted to look. He was 
afraid to look. But he would feel terribly rude if he didn't. So he looked. 
There was a mixture of reverence and 'can this really be happening to me' 
expression on his face. He kept putting his hands nervously in and out of 
his pockets as though he wasn't sure they should be seeing what he was 
seeing. 

I stood like that for maybe ten seconds, then relaxed and let my hands fall 
to my sides. I knew I'd have to be careful with this bit, so I kept my eyes 
on his so that he couldn't break the spell, and with my tits sticking out as 
far as I could thrust them, demurely and very slowly walked toward him and 
sank to my knees in as perfect a bow of submission as I could contrive. I 
had to let his eyes escape from mine because I had to incline my head and 
look at the floor. But I hoped the new pose would keep him from thinking. To 
help him along I lifted my arms, crossed my wrists as though offering them 
to be bound, and raised them to him in supplication. I made my voice low but 
clear and put in a little trembly quaver. I told him I was his slave. That 
he possessed me. That I would obey him, and would he please chain me to the 
wall until he was ready to punish me. 

I was annoyed that I could not see his face. I was quite sure that I was 
doing a wonderful job and I would have loved to see the impact. But anyway I 
thought it was all in a good cause and poor Willie probably needed a moment 
to put his face back after having it hang out so far. I could see his feet, 
and he shuffled these a bit, so I figured this about the same as a round of 
applause. 

I stayed like that long enough to give him a chance to take the initiative 
if he wanted to. He didn't! His feet told me he was suffering. So I knew 
that step had lasted long enough. Maybe there was some sort of telepathy 
between us right then, I'm sure there was. After a moment of indecision I 
found myself knowing very clearly just what I had to do, which I suppose is 
another way of saying that I knew what it was he wanted me to do. I went to 
one wall, stood with my back against the stone, raised my hands out and up 
to shoulder level on each side and looked at him expectantly as though I had 
no doubt whatever as to what was about to happen. 

I mustn't paint a picture of Mr. Wilberforce as being altogether 
ineffectual. Poor Willie! He isn't really. He can be quite purposeful about 
some things as you will see. But those first motions were, for him, a blend 
of joy and agony. He needed help, and that look I managed to send his way 
must have touched the spot because he went straight to the big chest and 
began pulling metal out of it in a way that actually did send a shiver or 
two up and down my spine. Neither of us spoke a word. I don't think we 
wanted to. Certainly we did not need to. Within a very few minutes I was 
chained to that wall more securely than I bet most inmates of dungeons in 
olden times ever were. 

He did not say a word. Neither did I. He was doing something very 
competently and very definitely. I had a feeling that if I babbled it would 
throw him off. So I just stood there meekly and looked over some distant 
horizon while Mr. Wilberforce chained my ankles to a ring in the wall low 
down close to the floor. The chains were quite beautiful, like polished 
bronze. They were heavy and snapped shut round each ankle so that you just 
knew they would never, never come off without the proper key. The metal band 
was as snug on me as though a tailor had measured me for it. The other end 
of the chain was fastened to the ring with a bolt affair that he tightened 
with a wrench. I knew that would not come off either. Then he did the same 
for my wrists. The fit there was just as perfect. I was held against the 
wall, my arms straight out at either side. Nothing was pulling at me. But I 
wouldn't be able to move much. 

When Mr. Wilberforce had got me just the way he wanted he stood back and 
admired the job and me. He couldn't look at one without the other. I let my 
eyes find his now and gave him a small half smile as befitted a chained 
slave girl to her Master. You know, sort of hopeful and waiting. I think the 
word "Rapt" best describes the look on Willie's face right then. We both 
still kept silent. Then suddenly, as though the ecstasy was too great to 
bear, he turned and almost ran out and slammed the big ugly door shut. I 
heard the thud of the great big bolts I had seen on the other side. Then 
silence. I was alone in my dungeon. 

I panicked. I might as well admit it and get it over with. One moment I had 
been basking in a lovely sensuous glow knowing I looked very beautiful and 
that Mr. Wilberforce thought I looked very beautiful, knowing, too, that 
chained as I was I held a greater power than most women ever wield over a 
man. The next moment I was quite sure something would go wrong, that I would 
never get free, that I would stand there in my chains until I died. It was 
awful! 

I knew it was silly. I knew I absolutely must take hold of myself. But I had 
the darndest time choking back the howls for help that just seemed to be 
there waiting. I wanted to call Willie back and plead with him to set me 
free. I think it was speculation as to whether he really would set me free 
if he was here in spite of the warning I had given him about this very 
situation that calmed me down. It was a rather delicious thought, even 
though I could not make it happen. Picturing the mischievous delight I would 
find in posing the dilemma for him made the panic seep away and got me back 
to where I wanted to be: enjoying a predicament that most young ladies would 
never, never get into. 

Taking stock of my plight, if that's the right word, it was easy to 
understand being scared. That damn dungeon was for real! Little Melynda was 
chained naked in a cruel stone dungeon that it would take a bulldozer to 
break in or out of. I wasn't at all sure a bulldozer could make a dint in 
that solid rock. The floor was concrete and the walls and ceiling were of 
massive stone blocks set in mortar. Everything was authentic including the 
three small windows high and deeply recessed in one wall. They were heavily 
barred, of course, and I could feel pretty sure they were on a side of the 
house that stray members of the public would not be passing by. They let in 
just enough light to make a frightening atmosphere. I hated to think about 
night time and if I'd still be standing there. 

So after I'd disposed of the panic I settled down to that lovely sensuous 
relish I get when a man has made me helpless while he goes away and does 
what he likes. It's quite a feeling to know you have to stay the way you are 
until he chooses to set you free. There's a sort of ritual you follow. You 
know it's foolish but you do it anyway. You try and get loose. You tug and 
pull and squirm. It's as though you actually have to seek reassurance that 
you really are helpless and can't get away. I know this sounds silly, but I 
do believe that if right then you discovered you could wriggle or break your 
way to freedom you'd be terribly let down. I would be. If that's crazy, then 
it's crazy. 

I did my tugging and pulling. I really tried. If Willie had seen my efforts 
I'm sure he'd have broken down and used his key thinking I'd gone round the 
bend. But I soon stopped. I don't think dynamite would have got me out of 
those chains. They were magnificent, cruel, immensely strong and quite 
wonderful. Take your pick. The next thing you do is see just how much 
movement your bonds allow. With cords and straps a girl can be fixed so she 
can't move at all except for her head, and even that can be fastened. But 
chains usually give a little bit of make believe freedom. So that's what I 
explored next. I could kick my hands and feet around with a leeway of about 
six inches. If I used every bit of advantage I could contrive I might get 
about a foot away from the stone. That was all. I was really a prisoner! 

The thing I do then is relax. In fiction they call it hanging in your 
chains, or drooping in your chains. The message being that you've given up 
hope and are resigned to whatever fate the bad man has in store for you. It 
must have been quite a moment for those girls in ancient times waiting for 
the dragon and St. George and wondering which of them would come into view 
first. Actually it's delicious! 

I admired all of myself I could see. I knew I looked super. I felt a bit 
piqued that Willie wasn't there admiring me too. But there again, using 
ancient times as a guide, I don't suppose the wicked Baron, or whoever was 
playing the heavy, actually did sit down in the dungeon for the afternoon 
and ogle his chained and cringing captive. Though, after all, I don't know 
why not. I think if I'd have been the Baron I'd have wanted to get my 
money's worth. I wonder what they'd have talked about. 

The best thing to do is get all dreamy and let the lovely sensations run up 
and down your spine wondering what he's going to do to you when he lets you 
loose. I always knew what Freddy was going to do, of course. Very keen on 
his crumpet Freddy was. But Mr. Wilberforce was something else again. Always 
the possibility he might surprise me. I allowed that tantalizing thought to 
sort of hover while the rest of my mind roved. 

A girl thinks a lot when she's captive. You have to. Not much else you can 
do. You can think ahead or back. Because I guessed I'd have to make 
conversation with Willie I wanted things to tell him. So I went back and 
realized that whilst I'd thought my first involvement with being tied up was 
with Freddie there had actually been quite a few incidents that I hadn't 
attached any importance to when I was a kid. I don't suppose there was any 
significance to them. But you never know. 

Life at the Home wasn't all that bad. But it was all girls, dozens of us. A 
great big family of girls and no boys. We were always very knowing about 
boys. We talked about them a lot. I suppose really we were mostly curious. 
I've laughed since over some of the legends that went around about the male 
thing they had hanging down between their legs and what they could do with 
it: what they could do to us with it! There were amazing thrills in our 
speculations. There were also the usual cliques, crushes and animosities. 
One day four giggling moppets lured me to a remote corner of the grounds, 
stripped me and chained me to a tree. They assured me with much zest that 
the gardener's boy would find me and that I would certainly have a baby. 
When the bell rang they ran back to school shrieking with laughter, leaving 
me only slightly irritated and quite sure I'd be joining them in a few 
minutes. 

But I didn't! They had found an old bit of rusty chain and a padlock in the 
tool shed. They had pulled the chain very tight round my middle and round 
the tree and fastened it with the padlock. They had had to use a big stone 
as a hammer to make the lock snap shut. But they managed it. I had 
confidently felt sure that when they were gone all I had to do was push the 
chain down, a bit at a time, and step out of it. It was a really awful 
feeling when I discovered I could not push it either up or down. It would 
not budge. It was digging into my tummy so hard that I couldn't do a thing 
with it. I was fixed. 

Well, after I'd gone through all the motions I've told you about I had to 
consider what to do next. The obvious thing was to shout for help. But I 
realized that if anyone heard me it would be a man. Everyone else was safely 
in school or the kitchen or somewhere. I most painfully did not want a man 
to see me like that. I was a bit hazy on detail. But their gibes about 
having a baby suddenly seemed a likely hazard. 

When you think of it the spot I was in right then was the very quintessence 
of The Damsel In Distress. A quite classic predicament. Maybe it started in 
my subconscious whatever it is that had made me enjoy Freddy and now Mr. 
Wilberforce. You can ask me what got them started way back in the beginning 
somewhere. Well, I don't know! But I can tell you that chained to that tree 
with my clothes in a little pile on the ground I felt, along with the fear, 
a gorgeous excitement creep all over me. I wanted to get free, and yet I 
didn't... 

My quandary was settled for me by the appearance of the gardener's boy. A 
youth of about sixteen. He looked at me in about the same way Mr. 
Wilberforce does. Somehow I couldn't see a baby in that look. When he called 
for Mr. Bailey the head gardener I knew the stork and the cabbage patch were 
not for little Melynda that day. I felt a bit cheated. I'd expected him to 
at least un-zip his fly. 

They fetched Matron. She clucked like an old hen while she pulled my pants 
back on and held my dress up in front so the boy couldn't see my tits which 
I was beginning to be quite proud of. I could see it was quite a blow to him 
too. They then discovered there was no key to the lock. The tree -and I 
seemed likely to be together a long time. But they sent the boy for a 
hacksaw, and after about an hour of puffing and clucking I was led back to 
school, properly clothed, to be shockingly punished because I refused to 
split on the four culprits. There even grew up a pretty strong conviction 
that I had chained myself to the tree for a lark. It would have been quite 
possible. I could see that myself. I just kept quiet and took my punishments 
like a good little girl. It was most unfair. But I have discovered, since, 
that anytime a girl loses her clothes she'll always get the blame for 
whatever happens. 

I think every kid has adventures like this. I suppose there is a sexual 
undertone somewhere. But you don't know about it at the time. The only point 
of the story is that in all my experiences along this line I can plainly see 
a pattern. Always a girl will get a big charge out of her plight. She'll 
feel all goosey and quivery and lovely. It may last only a few moments or 
perhaps the whole time. But it will be there. She can't help it. It's part 
of a girl's libido or something. We all want to be raped. But in a nice 
way... Silly? O.K. then, it's silly! But it's true. 

I set the dreaming aside and examined the place I was in. I mean I looked 
about me with interest. A girl can't truly examine much when she is chained 
hand and foot to the wall. I was curious about the big chest. He had a lot 
of stuff in there. I had to wonder about the heavy bench. When a girl was 
fastened to that it was because she was to be whipped. Mr. Wilberforce had 
seemed quite shocked when I had told him about the cane. But maybe he knew 
or wanted more than he liked to admit right off. On the other hand maybe he 
had just had it copied from an illustration in some old book. Just the same 
I got quivers thinking of myself strapped down on it. The solid low table 
belonged. They strapped you down on it, spread-eagle. I could sort of see 
that happening to me. Mr. Wilberforce probably wouldn't realize what he'd 
done until it was too late and he found himself face to face... well you 
know what with! It's quite flattering to a girl too... except from the one 
angle. The column and the rings set in it could be very versatile. There was 
no shortage of rings. They were in the floor and in all the walls. I looked 
up at the ceiling and there, sure enough, was the pulley... I really had to 
fight to keep from being frightened. I was so very helpless. Suddenly I felt 
naked and vulnerable. Mr. Wilberforce could do anything he wanted with me. 

Finally, of course, there comes the waiting and the fatigue. No matter how 
pretty I looked the post was tiring, and I couldn't change it. I could go 
from leg to leg and I could take a bit of weight on the wrist shackles. But 
nothing changed the fact I just had to stand there. When it began to get 
dusk and shadowy I couldn't keep the tears back. I always try and be sort of 
perky. But I'm like any other girl. I can get scared and hurt, and when I do 
I cry. 

That was the moment Mr. Wilberforce chose to walk back in and have a look at 
his new possession. It would be! Here I was with tears trickling down my 
cheeks! I made frantic instinctive efforts with my hands wanting to brush 
them away. But my hands were chained about as far off as they could get. I 
did manage a bit of good with my shoulder, but not much. If I could have 
kicked myself I would. But when your ankles are chained you can't even do 
that. So I just smiled brightly at him and sniffed. 

Poor Willie! His face was a picture. Remorse. Horror. How could I have done 
this to her! It was all there. I had an awful thought that he would not dare 
unlock me for fear I'd go stalking off and never come back. He stood there 
with his mouth open and all his emotions flitting across his features. He 
looked and looked, and I did my best to look happy and smile as though the 
tears didn't really mean anything at all. Then, in a choked sort of voice, 
he managed to say: "Melynda, you are so very beautiful...." 

 CHAPTER THREE - Horace Wilberforce 

Melynda was an explosion, a sort of force let loose in my life. I suppose 
the thing this story is about does put me a bit outside the norm, but apart 
from that I'm a rather sober type. If it hadn't been for Uncle George I 
really don't know how what I'd have done about girls. I wanted them alright. 
But I was scared of them. There's a lot like me in the society I grew up in. 
It's terrible to think that without his money I would never have met her. 
It's something to think about, not just on my account but because of all the 
other million bods that have a dream about her. You see, Melynda isn't just 
Melynda: she is all the women who ever were. Every man carries his own 
Melynda in his mind. I'd found mine. 

She thinks I'm scared and a bit of a prude. She says I'm a typical middle 
class hypocrite. I expect she's right. I almost curled up that first day 
when she talked so cheerfully about being tied up. It was what I wanted 
alright. I wanted it more than any other thing. But I'm not sure if I could 
have blurted it out if she hadn't helped. Then when she asked in that 
business-like way about me caning her bottom I went all hot and damp and 
wished I could sink through the floor. Silly, isn't it! But that's the way 
my kind are. The suburban English call it being 'nice'. That means that 
whatever you want to do you don't. And, what's more, you don't talk about it 
either. 

I bet Uncle George didn't dream of what he was getting me into when he made 
that Will. I'm terribly grateful to him. Without it I suppose I'd just have 
dreamed, something like those chaps who carry a picture in their wallet and 
look at it once or twice a day. In my teens I'd been surprised about those 
pictures and the books. They had been a revelation. I wasn't alone! I 
acquired quite a box full of stuff. But most of it I burned because it 
offended my suburban sense of what was 'nice'. Whatever I kept held at least 
some small awareness of beauty. Here and there an artist or an author really 
managed to open a magic door. It was in there somewhere that my wish to 
create my own kind of beauty was born. There was one book, it was a best 
seller for awhile, about a chap who had come into money and used it to 
kidnap a girl he admired and to keep her prisoner in an isolated house in 
the country. It was a tragic story because after he had her safe and sound 
he didn't know what to do with her. He was defeated because he was 'nice' 
and because she was 'nice' too. I sure envied that silly ass. I knew I'd 
have done better. Sure, the 'nice' bit would have been a hurdle to cross. 
But I had something he didn't. I had my dream, my beautiful girl in 
chains... 

I will admit to some embarrassment about the cane. In my teens it shocked 
me. Not so much because of what the drawings or photos depicted but because 
of their effect on me, a sort of electric shock of desire. I have tried to 
analyze it. I have read all sorts of theories about why men long to whip a 
girl even when they love her, and why some girls long to have them do it. 
You can arrive at conclusions, but you can't prove any of them. It's a bit 
like the chap who could only fall in love with a girl with red hair. I don't 
think it matters much. I think we are silly to analyze too many things too 
deeply. Even after you have done it you can't be sure. Melynda doesn't 
analyze. She just enjoys. 

I had discovered Stanstead Park quite by accident. It's not all that far 
from London. But it's a backwater. I'd been lost and had taken a wrong turn. 
That's about the only way anyone would go there. It is not spectacular and 
does not seem to have got in the history books, so tourists don't bother. It 
must belong to some big Estate, so to go to the old ruin is probably 
trespassing. But I'd done it often enough. I found it fascinating, grassland 
and woods, and the old crumbling grey stone walls of what must once have 
been a small castle or fortified house. From the beginning I had pictured my 
maidens in distress chained here and there in the nooks and crannies that 
still stood erect and firm as though waiting for me to show up. 

Melynda was entranced. After we had left the road and were following the 
gravelly track up the slope to the ruin she kept exclaiming about this tree 
and that. She wanted to be tied to all of them, and I'll have to admit that 
her judgement was dead right. She had the photographer's eye and a nice 
sense of composition. I almost stopped once or twice. But it was the Ruin we 
were after. When we got there she was so enthused with its possibilities 
that I had to actually stop her from taking off her clothes right away. 

A ramble proved we were in sole possession, as usual, and disclosed the 
perfect setting for what we planned. I let Melynda choose it, a stretch of 
wall inside what had probably been the big Hall. The roof was gone, and 
grass had pretty well taken over the floor. There were a couple of heavily 
grated windows in the Gothic style, their metal badly . rusted but with 
proper focusing giving just the prison effect we sought. I got the tools and 
we went to work. 

That piton idea of mine worked. It took only a few blows of the hammer to 
drive the spike into the mortar between the stone blocks. Once in there it 
would take all my strength on the claw bar I had brought for the purpose to 
get them out again. Poor Melynda hadn't a hope. 

I have to admit that the next part of our operation is a bit of a blur. A 
naked girl was something I just didn't have any experience with at all. I'd 
looked at pictures, and dreamed, and gone to movies, and stared at statues, 
and the girls in bikinis on the Beach. But none of them are like the real 
thing, certainly not like Melynda! When I first saw her naked I understood 
how something could be so beautiful it hurts. 

She manages to get in and out of her clothes with what seems to be a wriggle 
and a tug. One moment she's dressed--not that she wears all that much--the 
next she was laughing at me because I was blushing at seeing her naked. I 
couldn't help it. That's the way it has been for me. I must have seemed an 
absolute clod trying to look and not to look at the same time. She finally 
told me not to be so damn silly, but to have a real good look at everything 
so I'd know what a girl had to offer and be done with it. I won't dwell on 
that bit too much. I still get a bit dazed when I think of it. You see, she 
lifted her arms and slowly turned round and round pointing out the places I 
ought to look at twice. I expect that time was the most wonderful and 
incredible in my life up to then. 

I like the word naked. Nude strikes me as an affectation. It's a bit of that 
English 'nice' thing and smacks of the boudoir and Soho or that Arty lot we 
have to put up with. Melynda never spoke of herself as being nude. I liked 
that. But she did sometimes use the term stripped. She did it on purpose to 
make me blush. She knew I associated the word with sleazy night clubs and 
second hand blondes with drooping busts. She likes to make me blush. 
Actually I like it too. I think I need it. You see, Melynda is so far ahead 
of me in all we do that I have to try and catch up with her, and this is one 
of the ways. 

Seeing her posing against that stone wall I knew we were on the right track. 
It was perfect. The surroundings robbed the poses she laughingly thrust at 
me of any suggestion of the coarse or lewd. She was pure beauty. I suppose 
some sort of reverence must have shown on my face. I was in something of a 
trance. Because she had to tell me to get busy with the hammer and the spike 
and all the rest. But I sensed she had, for those few moments, shared a 
discovery with me. I am sure there are people who would consider the thing 
she and I were engaged as being a bit nuts. But Melynda and I didn't think 
so. 

Since this was our first real pose from which I would take pictures I made 
it relatively simple. I chained her ankles one to the other and did the same 
for her wrists using a fairly long chain in each case. This left her a good 
deal of freedom. I did not attach them to the wall. I should tell you here 
that these chains were real. They had massive locks that nothing but the 
right key would open. They had cost me a lot of money. But I had felt that 
only the real thing would be any good. The camera cruelly detects fraud. If 
the shackles had been only simulated so that they could have been snapped on 
and off at will I feel sure it would have shown on the model's face. To get 
the subtlety of expression I was aiming for denied the employment of 
anything spurious. I completed Melynda's captivity by driving a ringed piton 
into the wall at the level of her head and chaining her to it by a collar 
locked round her neck. The chain was only about eighteen inches long. She 
couldn't sit down or move much either way. After all, she was supposed to be 
a "Maiden in Distress", so there had to be a bit of distress in there 
somewhere. 

She loved it. She tested all the chains. She tried to tug the piton loose. 
Then she showed me a variety of poses she found possible, even chained as 
she was. I was surprised at how many she managed and how incredibly graceful 
she made all of them. Melynda was a "Natural". The next thing on the agenda 
was something I felt damned awkward about. 

But, of course, with Melynda I need not have worried. She told me quite 
definitely that we must do as we had planned. She must be left alone chained 
to the wall naked and helpless. She wanted the feel of it, to savor the 
experience, even to know fear if that was what a girl in that predicament 
had to endure. She was determined that her role should never be just an act. 
It had to be true. She said there was a thrill in being left like that and I 
must not rob her of it. 

I didn't like it. I just did not want to go away from anything so lovely. 
The thought of her defenselessness made going off to the pub seem a rotten 
thing to do. Suppose... ! But what was there to suppose! It was about as 
peaceful and deserted a scene as you could find. So I tried not to show any 
nervousness. I wanted an effect. This was the way to get it. Right at that 
moment Melynda was quite bubbly with enthusiasm. She shone. But the pictures 
called for at least a little droop, some faint dejection. We would try. But 
I sort of doubted that my pint at The Local would have too much effect on 
her courage. A few hours might. But I was not going to subject her to 
anything like that. In my heart I knew I did not want anyone else but me to 
see my captive maiden. 

The next thing was the key. But we had agreed about that. It was the 
sensible thing to do. I put it under a moss covered stone close by. Melynda 
could never reach it. But she would know where it was, just in case. Just in 
case of what! I didn't know! I refused to think about it. 

She did some more poses, all heartbreakingly appealing. Then I raised one of 
her chained hands to my lips and kissed it gently. I expected her to make 
fun of the gesture. But she didn't. She just stood and studied me with a 
sort of Mona Lisa smile that I couldn't fathom. Then I got back in the car 
and drove away down the gravel path. It was not until I was half way to the 
village that I realized I still had the keys to the chains locking Melynda's 
wrists and ankles. I had not left them with the one that released her neck 
tether. I shrugged it off. It didn't really matter. 

Village pubs are not always all that busy. But there was a chap in there I 
got talking to who seemed to know a bit about the place, so I asked him 
about ruins and old estates and Parks and such. He told me of places in the 
general area. I did not tell him of Melynda, of course or about my real 
interest, but he did a bit in the picture line and shared my feeling for 
these places. He was one of the first I have been able to talk to who was 
able to sense some other world mystery in these great stretches of grass and 
woodland and lake planned and created by some chap who'd died five hundred 
years ago. He said it was like walking into the dream of someone centuries 
back. The dreamer, usually some robber Baron type, had long passed into 
oblivion. But the place of his dream was more real today than it had ever 
been. 

So it was easy for me to mention the spot where I had left Melynda. He knew 
it. But hadn't bothered with it much. In fact I gathered nobody bothered 
with it. He said he wasn't even sure who owned it now. There had been 
litigation and some talk of it being on the market. There was a big house... 

I found him interesting. More than an hour had passed before I guiltily 
remembered my chained maiden. I consoled myself with the thought that if 
thirty minutes had been good an hour would be better. But I packed it up and 
got away in a hurry wondering whether Melynda would now be angry and 
un-cooperative or if she would display just that hint of fatigue that had 
been our motive for the exercise, I stepped on the throttle and lost no time 
leaping out of the car at the end of the path. But the wall of the ruin was 
quite bare. Melynda was gone. 

I won't bore you with my emotions. You can imagine! After the dashing this 
way and that I examined the wall. The ringed pi ton to which Melynda had 
been chained was still there. That meant the key had been used. Sure enough, 
when I lifted the stone it was gone. At the end of five minutes I had failed 
to find a thing by which I, or anyone else, could have said that Melynda had 
ever been there. Just the spike driven in the stone and some trampled grass. 
When I walked back to the car I knew what it was to be utterly desolate. 

* * * 

Melynda watched the disappearance of the car with amusement and a distinct 
thrill of an emotion she found hard to define. She had enjoyed her 
employer's embarrassments and hesitations. She was wisely content not to 
thrust her female libido upon him to a degree that might inhibit the easy 
comradeship they had achieved. She made a mischievous reservation that there 
was lots of time. 

By the time the sound of the motor had passed into silence she became 
acutely aware of her condition. She was chained naked for anyone to see or 
to find. That there seemed no sight or sound of human presence in no way 
diminished her knowledge that a City of ten million inhabitants was not so 
terribly distant and that a country village was no more than a good long 
walk. She shivered, but not with cold. Even the shiver had a quality of the 
delicious. 

She wanted very much to model the desired pose to perfection. But she 
wondered if indeed the span of thirty minutes could impose upon her limbs 
the dejection of a fatigue she did not feel. She had never felt more 
vibrantly alive. The sun and the soft air upon her skin was a benediction. 
Her blood raced in an awareness of danger, of a vulnerability such as she 
had never previously experienced. She savored these sensations and loved 
them. Amusedly she entered into what she recognized as 'The Drill', the 
explorations of her captivity and the trifling latitudes of her freedom. 
They were small. 

The usual motions brought their usual response. A wrist or an ankle would be 
snubbed short, the tether at her neck jerked her back if she essayed an 
extra step. She could not sit down. She could not bend far enough to touch 
the ground. Satisfied with this small ritual, which she suspected was an 
instinctive reaction of any prisoner anywhere but which for her held a 
potent charm, she turned her attention to an admiration of the fetters that 
joined her wrists and her ankles. They were beautiful. She wondered where 
Horace Wilberforce had found a craftsman capable of blending such exquisite 
design with the implacability of metal from which there could be no escape. 
It was while she was happily engaged in this enjoyment that she heard the 
sound. 

The woman sat astride the horse with a careless ease. She wore none of the 
conventional trappings of the British horsewoman, simply jodhpurs and an 
open neck shirt, no hat. She graced what she did wear with distinction. She 
was almost classically beautiful. Upon her lips there was a half smile. Her 
features betrayed no more than an amused curiosity at what she saw. 

They studied each other in silence. Melynda's mind chaotic between dismay, 
and thankfulness that the interloper was female. Finally, feeling that she 
must not betray a sense of disadvantage, she smiled brightly and managed a 
rather weak "Good afternoon." 

The woman inclined her head. "You are enjoying that, aren't you?" It was 
more a statement of fact than a question. 

Melynda decided to ignore it. But knew she had to say something. "I say, be 
a good sport and just ride on. I'm alright. Would you mind...." She hoped 
she sounded more casual than she felt. 

The response was direct and to the point. "Where is the man who fixed you 
like that?" The voice was suddenly intent, "Or was it a girl?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"Yes, of course! Why are you here alone? I'm quite sure you are not a victim 
of banditry." 

Melynda unhappily realized that some sort of explanation was due. "Look," 
She said appealingly, "It's just a stunt we are doing for reasons of our 
own. I'm quite happy. Couldn't you go away and leave me. Mr. Wilberforce 
will be back before long." 

"Who is Mr. Wilberforce?" 

"My employer." 

"You do this for a living?" 

"Sort of--" Forcefully the intruder spurred her horse. Melynda, acutely 
aware of chains and helplessness, watched and then listened as horse and 
rider circled the old stone pile at a gallop. The reconnaissance completed 
the woman slid from the saddle and approached. She grasped Melynda's wrist 
chains and examined them. "You have keys for these?" 

"No." Melynda began to feel a real unease. This woman was altogether too 
purposeful. 

"Don't be absurd. Of course there are keys!" 

"Mr. Wilberforce has them." The intruder considered. The beautiful face 
still held the half humorous twist of its lips. With firm hands, as though 
the captive's wishes need not be consulted, she explored the locks and the 
metal bands. She tugged at the spike bedded in the stone. Taking a small 
rock she pounded it without result. Satisfied that hands could not release 
the naked girl she stepped back and examined Melynda appraisingly. 

"There must be some way of setting you free?" The voice held a quiet 
authority. 

Melynda stamped her foot eliciting a metallic response from her chain. She 
was now both angry and alarmed. 

"Please go away and leave me alone!" She demanded. "We aren't bothering 
anyone. If I don't mind being chained like this why should you concern 
yourself!" 

The horsewoman laughed with obvious enjoyment of the temper she had invoked. 
"Well, for one thing, little Miss Muffet, you are trespassing." She pointed 
out reasonably, "And for another you are trespassing on my property. I only 
bought it recently. I did not expect to get you tossed in as a bonus." 

"I'm not tossed in, and I'm not a bonus! Go away!" Melynda began to feel 
more than ever naked. 

Without answering, the newcomer returned to her horse. When she again 
approached the watching girl she held in one hand a length of leather rein 
and in the other a black riding crop, two feet of slender menace on which 
Melynda's eyes riveted with an apprehension she failed to mask. The woman 
intercepted the glance and smiled in open amusement: "Exquisite, isn't it." 
She invited conversationally. She made a couple of cuts through the air so 
that the whine of the whippy instrument gave testimony of its quality. Her 
voice remained pleasant: "Now let's stop being silly. I'm going to whip you 
until you tell me where there's a key or some tools to get you away from 
that wall." 

It was quite unreal! Whatever hazard Melynda may have envisioned or Mr. 
Wilberforce feared it was certainly nothing like this. Melynda's agile mind 
was still in the process of composing a sufficiently withering retort when 
the first stroke curled around her hip and bedded itself across one cheek of 
her bottom. She let out a yelp of shock and pain, but before her muscles 
could respond a second wicked slash wrapped itself around the opposite side 
of her person. The pain was excruciating. Madly she fought her bonds, 
surging into such frantic motion as they would allow. It was useless! 
Stopping in disgust at her demonstration of panic she looked down in 
fascinated horror at the two red and purple striations across her white 
skin. 

"Delightful, don't you think!" Her companion asked cheerfully. "Do you wish 
me to start in earnest now?" 

Melynda fought for time. "But why do you want to unlock me?" She wailed. 

Her answer was a third stroke, even more cutting than the first two. 

"It's under that stone over there." She admitted miserably. 

The lovely features retained their calm assurance as their owner fitted the 
key in the padlock which attached Melynda's collar chain to the ringed 
piton. Next she knotted the long rein to the end link so that she was able 
to lead her captive away from the wall. Melynda followed meekly. Chained as 
she was a struggle could only lead to further humiliation. 

Her captor paused and considered ways and means. "I'm willing to believe you 
do not have keys for these other decorations." She conceded. "So you'll have 
to wear them. Just as well perhaps. You can't fight much with them on. I'll 
keep the horse down to a slow walk. You should be able to shuffle along 
behind. Let's try." Quickly she mounted. Looping the rein round one wrist 
she tugged so that Melynda's collar chain sprung taut and Melynda took a 
short snubbed step forward. 

"Am I being kidnapped?" She demanded. 

The woman holding the tether smiled benignly as she urged the horse into 
gentle motion. She did not answer the angry question, but watched intently 
as her naked prisoner made small jerky steps with her shackled feet in a 
desperate effort to keep pace, an effort doomed to failure. Shackles are not 
for walking. Their wearer soon tripped and fell. Instantly the tether was 
loosened. 

"Get up on the horse." 

Fearfully Melynda obeyed. Strong hands helped her. Moments later the horse, 
bearing a double burden, was loping easily across the sward to a destination 
about which Melynda found herself speculating without optimism. Her wounds, 
chafed by the motion, hurt. It was not a good augury. 

Melynda, examining her dungeon, wondered if that was the proper name for it. 
Bare stone and barred windows. But it was light and, in that sense, 
cheerful. It was a tower room which might have offered a view had she been 
able to approach a window. But this was forbidden by the chain attached to 
her previous tether by a riveted link and locked to a heavy iron ring set in 
the wall above the stone bench with its hard mattress that was the 
compartment's only furnishing. She could advance to within four feet of the 
windows before her collar felt the snub of a taut chain. Thus she was denied 
a vision of what lay beneath. She could see only space and the tops of 
trees. From somewhere heat found its way into the room. She was still naked 
and still wore the chains that Horace Wilberforce had placed upon her. 

It had happened so swiftly, and her transference from one captivity to 
another had been carried out with such purpose and aplomb that a dent had 
been made in Melynda's normal perky resilience. Mr. Wilberforce was one 
thing; this woman, in whose cell she now stood chained and naked, was 
altogether another kettle of fish. 

There had been few words. The strong competent hands had steadied her on the 
horse. The house had come unexpectedly into view beyond a belt of trees. A 
manservant had taken the horse and had also provided the tools and the extra 
chain by which she was now secured. He had evinced no surprise, taking his 
orders with a quiet deference and carrying them out with the same deft 
competence that characterized his Mistress. There had been a brief 
discussion about the fetters on wrist and ankle. It was decided not to try 
and remove them. It was needful that she be kept in restraint. They served 
their purpose well. 

Melynda studied these shackles now as she seated herself on the thin 
mattress. The metal bands fitted snugly. They were wide, the links that 
joined them heavy. There would be no getting rid of them without the key. 
Her chained hands explored the chased metal band circling her neck. It was 
the same story there. The chain tethering her to the wall hung a heavy 
reminder of her loss of freedom. She wished, for the first time, that Mr. 
Wilberforce had not been so medievally authentic with his creations. Wryly 
she reflected that, without the key, she might wear these confining 
ornaments a long time. 

From fingering her chains, her hands next slipped to the livid weals left 
from her captor's decisive use of the riding crop. They were ridged and 
tender. Her fingers followed their path across her flesh. More than any 
other thing these marks convinced her that whatever had befallen her was not 
to be taken lightly. Longingly she thought of Mr. Wilberforce. Poor Willie! 
What would he do! No evidence or trace had been left. Even the horse had 
left no discernible marks on the dry grass. Would he go to the police! 
Another thread of fear made its appearance: could he go to the police! How 
would he tell a country constable of the disappearance of a naked young lady 
who he had left alone chained to a ruined wall.. Melynda suddenly knew 
herself sundered from her world of yesterday. 

It was perhaps an hour before the door opened and the woman appeared, still 
informally clad, still dangling from one hand the lithe black switch, still 
serenely beautiful. Her eyes appraised her captive. She nodded as though 
pleased. "What name are you called?" She asked. 

Grudgingly Melynda told her. 

"I like it. It suits you. We will use it." Her tone was crisp. She smiled 
with what seemed a quite genuine warmth. "You will have to call me 
something. Since we are fantasizing let's do it right. For you I will be the 
Lady Marcia Stanhope. You will address me simply as Lady Marcia or, 
preferably, as 'Mistress'. That is what I am to you. Is that clear?" 

"It's nuts, if you ask me." Said Melynda without thinking. 

"That was insolence. Bend over and touch your toes please." 

"Oh come off it! Don't play games!" Melynda felt she had to make a stand 
somewhere. But she was quivering inwardly. 

The Lady Marcia made no reaction to Melynda's exclamation. Her quiet knowing 
smile remained. Thoughtfully she cut the air with two leisurely slashes of 
the slender wand. Her eyes sought those of her victim's with invitation and 
command. 

The two girls stood, measuring each other. Melynda had never felt more 
naked, nor had her chains previously weighed so much. There was about her 
captor a calm assurance hard to cope with. Flippancy would be a poor 
protection from the whip. 

"Please," She offered placatingly, "Don't you understand, I don't know what 
you want of me." She held up her chained hands appealingly and gazed around 
her prison. "I think I have been kidnapped. But unless you tell me I can't 
be sure even of that. It's not fair to threaten me with a whip when I don't 
know what sort of behavior I'm supposed to conform to." 

"Of course you have been kidnapped, darling! And I'm quite sure you know 
why." Lady Marcia's voice was soft. 

Melynda harbored a shrewd suspicion that she did indeed deduce her captor's 
motives. It would be cruelly and ironically coincidental that all Mr. 
Wilberforce's plans and work should accrue to the profit of this beautiful 
creature in whose power she was now held. She had a sudden nostalgic 
yearning for her employer, for anything comfortingly male. She knew well 
enough that female instincts might offer her little mercy. Despite 
determination she could not keep her gaze from flickering back to the whip. 

"Can't we talk, please? This bend over thing has me scared." 

"You are really quite delectable. Perfect nipples, and the curves of that 
pert bottom were made in Heaven!" Lady Marcia surveyed her new possession 
approvingly. "Of course we will talk, darling! But first, bend over and 
touch your toes. You get three cuts for insolence. Then we talk." Sensing 
rebellion, she added cheerfully: "Three cuts if you behave. If you insist on 
making a fuss it will be six." 

"If you think I'm going to bend over like some damn school kid! --" Melynda 
got no further. The first slash wrapped round her flank eliciting a yelp of 
surprised agony. The second and third caught her squarely across her bottom 
as she turned away in a vain effort at escape. Because of her anguished 
gyrations the fourth bit into her concave stomach. The fifth and sixth found 
a perfect target across her back as she huddled crouched across the bench in 
a futile effort to shield her nudity. 

Gasping, the whipped girl absorbed the bitter pain. When it began to seep 
away she relaxed her foetal haven and raised hurt and accusing eyes to she 
who held the whip. But the Lady Marcia was still smiling. She displayed 
neither anger or sympathy. Her tone was simply as one girl to another: "I 
hope that hurt enough to make you sensible. I expect it did. Now, what did 
you want to know?" 

Melynda cautiously unwound, her fingertips instinctively seeking the new 
vivid wounds she had acquired. Sitting up, she asked dubiously: "Am I some 
kind of prisoner?" 

"Of course! You belong to me. Isn't that evident?" Lady Marcia motioned with 
her whip, "Get off that mattress while I'm talking to you. Sit on the 
floor." 

Hating herself for obedience, Melynda did as bid. Disposing her chains as 
comfortably as possible she watched her new Mistress take the seat from 
which she had been evicted. It was a humiliating moment. It was intended to 
be. From her abasement she tried again: "What are you going to do with me?" 

"The same as Mr. Wilberforce: with variations...." 

"But what do you know about Mr. Wilberforce?" Melynda felt the ground 
slipping away from beneath her confidence. 

"You told me his name, silly. I can guess the rest. A naked girl chained to 
a wall in a quite delightful pose. She pleads not to be set free. Asks to be 
left alone. The key that holds her to the wall is conveniently concealed 
where she is well aware of it. You were having fun, weren't you?" 

"But that does not entitle you to kidnap me?" Melynda was cautious with her 
inflection, no insolence! 

"But see it my way." The soft voice was laughing, pleased. "You are a dream 
come true. I want a slave girl. There you were! A delightful package, or 
should I say baggage, all tied up waiting for delivery. I don't think I have 
to worry about the law. You and your Mr. Wilberforce must have figured that 
one out. What worked for him will work for me. You have just changed 
owners." 

"I don't want to change owners." 

"I couldn't care less, darling. I'm going to do the most interesting things 
to you. You may even enjoy some of them." 

"Such as...?" 

"I shall whip you in the most aesthetic ways...." Lady Marcia's laugh pealed 
out in genuine happiness. "I'll cain you and tie you and strap you in more 
ways than you have ever dreamed of. You'll enjoy that, won't you?" 

"Not with a female!" Melynda was quite decided on that point. 

"But darling, have you ever tried it with a girl?" 

"No." Said Melynda firmly. "I'm strictly for Mr. Wilberforce." She deemed it 
best not to mention Freddy. 

"How wonderful! I shall have to convert you! What a gorgeous excuse to whip 
that lovely bottom and hang you up by the thumbs." 

"You do like to have an excuse?" Melynda clutched at a straw. 

"It sort of adds a little something, don't you think? But, of course, I 
shall whip you purely for my own perverted enjoyment as well as as often as 
the mood takes me. Isn't it exciting!" 

"I suppose it is for you." Melynda conceded grudgingly. She held up her 
chained hands and rattled the links. "But aren't you a bit unsporting? I've 
never had a chance, have I?" 

"Fortunes of war, and all that sort of thing, darling." Suddenly there was 
sympathy and warmth in the lovely voice. "It won't be all bad, sweetheart. 
I'll be terribly cruel most of the time, but there will be happiness...." 

"You mean you are a lesbian and want me to be?" Melynda had no illusions 
about such matters. 

"I don't just want you to be. I'll make you be! Try and visualize it, 
darling, yourself spread wide and strapped down so you can't even twitch. 
I'll blindfold you and start you out with a feather. You'll adore it. I know 
you will." 

Melynda bleakly examined her prospects. With this beautiful creature whose 
property she now seemed to be they were clearly defined. She explored her 
last faint hope: "How long are you going to keep me prisoner?" 

"For always and always, darling. Why not! I'd be crazy to part with such an 
adorable body." 

"These chains: only Mr. Wilberforce has the keys. Must I wear them for 
always and always...?" 

"I'd thought of that, sweetheart. I'll admit it's a poser. But I'll think of 
something. In the meantime they look very well on you and prevent you from 
being difficult." 

"Alright! So you have me. I don't suppose I have the faintest hope of 
escape. But poor Willie --Mr. Wilberforce, I mean--he's never done you any 
harm, he's going to be worrying himself silly. Can't you please get some 
sort of message to him so he will know I'm not dead or met with a fate worse 
than death: though I suppose that's just about what I have met with. But, 
you know, anything to ease his mind a bit...." The Lady Marcia considered. 
"I see what you mean." She admitted kindly. "Poor Willie! I love that! But 
it's not easy. Leave it with me. I'll see what can be done. I feel a bit 
sorry for poor Willie myself. I would not want to lose you either." 

Melynda feared that anything else she wished to say would probably lead to 
more painful marks upon her person. She contented herself with looking up 
appealingly at her Mistress. She felt sure she made a very pretty picture. 
She wished Mr. Wilberforce was present in any capacity. Thoughts of him 
caused her to blink away a tear. Was it really possible that she would never 
see him again! Had she truly become a slave to this woman only a few years 
older than herself! How plausible this incredible abduction had been made to 
sound! 

"You look good enough to eat." Lady Marcia said happily. "You have a gift. 
You're a natural! You pose even when you don't try." 

The two girls assessed each other. Melynda tried not to look too doleful. 
Pride was strong in her. But she was dubious of her courage if confronted by 
the whip. The savage cuts she had received had made an impression deeper 
than on her skin alone. They had hurt more than anything in previous 
experience. 

"Now let's talk about the whip." Lady Marcia must have read her thoughts. 
"The whip is important, darling, because it will govern most of your 
behavior. I've got quite a number of different kinds. You'll feel them all 
sometime. But the important thing, for you, is to make up your mind how you 
intend to react when I tell you to position yourself. Mostly you will be 
given the choice of getting double if you resist. So obedience will pay off 
for you. Of course, when I am just whipping you for fun, my fun that is, you 
won't always have this choice. And then, too, there will be times when you 
are tied tight and just have to put up with it." 

Absurdly Melynda had a mental picture of herself telling this story to a 
group of friends at a party in some improbable future: 'Just think of it! 
There I was sitting on that stone floor chained and helpless, and this make 
believe Lady wants to know if I'll stand still to be whipped and promise not 
to wriggle. I ask you... !' Instead, she said as humbly as she could manage: 
"I'll try and do whatever you want. I have to, don't I! But I'm not all that 
brave about pain... I mean, I'll try alright. But I'm not sure I have that 
much control." 

"Let's make a little test then." Lady Marcia suggested cheerfully. "Bend 
over nicely, now. Same terms as before." 

It was simple arithmetic: three or six! Melynda grasped that the decision 
was pride. Three with humility or six in a struggle to maintain identity. 
She had tried the latter! Composing her features she rose to her feet. She 
was quivering in apprehension at what she must do. Touching her toes she was 
able to look back and watch Lady Marcia flex the wicked black withe, her 
eyes brilliant with anticipation. 

"Knees straight, darling. Hold them firm. Get your hands all the way down, 
arch your back and stick that lovely little bottom out as far as you can. 
You really are gorgeous! I can hardly wait to get at you!" Lady Marcia 
tapped the bent and exposed cheeks experimentally. Her victim quailed but 
kept silent. "That's wonderful! You have empathy, darling. Directly I saw 
you I knew I'd found a treasure. Your bottom must feel tight, it's so taut 
and stretched. It hurts so much more that way--but I expect you know! 
Understand now: No howling and don't break the pose. You may wriggle your 
bottom a bit after each stroke if you find it helps. But that's all. I say, 
is this the first time for you?" 

"Yes." Melynda deemed previous experiences scarcely comparable. 

"You'll find it vividly memorable, darling." 

Motion and agony merged. Melynda saw the swirl of the supple arm. Then knew 
herself branded for life by a pain that immersed her whole being with waves 
of shock and nausea. The whip had wrapped itself neatly round her twin 
cheeks and bedded its length deep in the firm flesh. 

She was defenceless, a slim nude sacrifice. She had steeled herself, half 
knowing what to expect. But she had not imagined anything as demoralizing as 
this reality. Under it courage crumbled. Pride fled. Melynda never knew what 
force or power enabled her to keep still or remain silent. Perhaps it was 
the very enormity of the infliction that momentarily numbed the mind. Or 
perhaps it was indeed simply fear: fear of more strokes like this that would 
be totally beyond any capacity to endure. She knew that her bent and 
outthrust behind swayed from side to side. But, with an unsuspected will, 
she quenched even this small demonstration of misery. The sacrifice 
remained, posed, still, quiet, waiting... 

It cannot be known if it was Lady Marcia's intent that the second slash 
should fall upon the first. But that is what it did. Neatly and with 
precision it added its own venom to the scalding striation of that other 
infliction still imparting its probes of agony in feminine flesh. For 
Melynda the world exploded in one great flash of pain that drew from her a 
cry of shock and terror and dissolved her courage and control. Involuntarily 
she fell groaning to the floor, her chained hands futilely seeking to clutch 
and soothe her double wound. 

She did not know how long she lay sobbing, her skin cringing awaiting the 
rain of strokes that must inevitably fall. It could not be said that she no 
longer cared. She did! But she could do no more. She could not offer herself 
again. She could not flee. She waited, possessed by pain. But the next 
stroke did not come. Her nerves still quivered, but her sobbing and the 
gasping breaths subsided. Almost blindly she pushed herself to her knees, 
her face buried in her hands striving to erase the passage of her tears. 
After a little while she peeped tentatively through her fingers at The 
Mistress before whom she now knelt in seeming supplication. She expected no 
mercy. 

"Bad?" The voice was calm. The face enigmatic. 

Melynda nodded. She did not trust her voice. "Come closer." 

Listlessly the naked girl shuffled forward on her knees. Her raised eyes 
sought a message. 

It was swift in coming. Strong fingers cupped her face, lifted it, warm lips 
implanted a lingering kiss on her forehead, sought her eyes, kissing away 
the last semblance of salt. The Mistress's voice was soft as ever it had 
been: "No more, darling." 

Melynda feared to believe,. Her eyes betrayed her doubt. Again the tinkle of 
satisfied laughter. "I'm not a complete bitch, darling. I know something 
good when I see it. You're good! You're damned good!! I'll let you off the 
other one. It's the least I can do. I expected you to fall with the first 
one. It was intended to break you. It failed. That means you are something 
very special." 

For moments the whipped girl knelt there almost dazed with relief. Slowly 
radiance lit and softened her strained features. Almost as though impelled 
by another will her shackled hands rose to those that gently soothed her 
cheeks. Taking them, one by one, she kissed them again and again. 

 CHAPTER FOUR - Horace Wilberforce 

I'll have to admit Mrs. Prentice was a life-saver. She came on the scene 
just about the time I was ready to go to the police and blurt out the whole 
silly story. I could have fallen on my knees in gratitude when she let me 
buy her that first drink. I know it was just the little boy wanting his 
mother sort of thing. But I needed help. I can't tell you why, but I was 
sure she could give it to me. Bit strange that. The name Mrs. Prentice 
conjures up a picture of something middle aged and matronly. But she wasn't 
like that. She was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, and not 
that old either. Probably about my own age, almost a girl but very much a 
woman when it came to talk and understanding. There was something about 
her... 

When I had discovered Melynda vanished without a trace I did the instinctive 
British thing and headed for the Police Station. But before I reached it I 
realized I couldn't do that. It was probably a one man affair in the 
Village. What would I tell him! He would laugh at the truth, or lock me up 
as a self confessed kidnapper. So I ditched that notion and, instead, made a 
tour of the neighborhood, starting out as close as I could get to our old 
ruin and going in increasing circles wherever any narrow road would take me. 
There were a lot of country houses and a few farms. No Melynda and not even 
a sight of anyone I could ask questions with. When night came I had no 
choice but to stay over at the pub in the Village. Next morning I had the 
awful thought that perhaps, by some sort of magical accident, Melynda might 
have wandered back to London. Silly, I know! But at such times you clutch at 
straws. So I dashed back there, explored and searched and then made an 
equally desperate dash back to the village. When I went in the Saloon Bar at 
the pub, there was Mrs. Prentice. 

She was the first thing I saw. She was too good for that place. She didn't 
belong. The evening crowd hadn't showed up yet so she was sitting alone. I 
smiled, she smiled, and that was that! There was a quality about her like 
coming home. We had dinner together. Afterwards I blurted out the whole damn 
story. I had to tell someone. I guess if I hadn't been so upset I'd never 
have had the nerve to give her that first smile. I'd have rated Mrs. 
Prentice as far above my station. 

She sat across the table sipping her scotch and soda while I babbled. There 
was something strong about her. I felt she would never really be too 
surprised or shocked by anything. A sort of eternal woman who had heard 
everything. She showed no surprise about any of it. But watched me intently 
with a half a smile fluttering round her lips. When I was done she asked, 
quite simply: "Do you love this girl?" 

Sounds silly, I suppose, but it was something I had not thought of. I expect 
I'd loved Melynda ever since she walked into my life. But the other thing 
had so taken possession of us that we sort of took our feelings for each 
other for granted. Before I had managed to struggle with a reply Mrs. 
Prentice came out with another: "This bondage thing: you are half ashamed of 
it, aren't you?" 

I blushed and mumbled something. 

"Would you like to tie me to a tree?" 

Her question hit me like a broadside amidships. She laughed in genuine 
enjoyment of my discomfort. "You would, wouldn't you! Would you like me 
naked or with clothes?" 

It was a bit like being asked by the Queen if I'd run out and get her some 
fish and chips. Incongruous! But cool and delightful. I had to say 
something, so I just said yes. Then waited for her to slap my face. She 
didn't. She nodded and made a little moue of acceptance. 

"It might be fun! I can see that it would be. Are you good with cameras?" 

Actually I am. First thing I knew I was showing her all my equipment. She 
turned out to be quite knowledgeable. Then, mischievously, demanded to see 
"The other things". 

I knew what she meant. I had a box in the boot of the car. I let her rummage 
through it. I have never seen anyone more amused. She exclaimed over 
everything. She even lifted a shackle on her wrist and tried a collar round 
her neck. They fitted her as perfectly as they did Melynda. I noticed she 
made very certain that she held the key in her hand before she snapped the 
lock. She was no fool. 

When we had settled down to a couple of fresh drinks again I found her 
looking at me with a heightened interest as though what I had shown her had 
added a bit to my stature. If I hadn't been so wrought up over Melynda I'd 
have been leaping with joy at the idea of finding someone who understood. As 
usual, her approach was direct: "What are you going to do about finding this 
girl?" 

Her use of the term "This girl" sort of put Melynda apart from the two of 
us, a small but bothersome matter to dispose of. But I did not let it bother 
me. I needed help. "What would you do?" I asked. 

She considered. Then reached across and put her hand on mine. I understood 
what they mean about the power of being touched, it was terrific. "Leave it 
with me." She said quietly. "We will meet here tomorrow morning. Trust me?" 

Of course I trusted her. She was marvellous! 

We had a delightful evening. It was not until long after she had gone that a 
disquiet hit me. I went out to the car and checked. Sure enough a small 
pouch in which I kept unused film had disappeared. 

It did not make any sense! Had she taken it! Why! It was not until I woke up 
in the night that I remembered I had slipped the keys to Melynda's chains 
into that pouch to keep them safe. 

The next morning I didn't dither. It took a bit of time to find out about 
Mrs. Prentice. She had recently bought a house in the district. She was 
still new enough to be a bit of a mystery. I couldn't believe that pouch 
business was just coincidence. So at nine A.M. I was knocking at the door of 
a pretty substantial country house set in some very fine gardens. The name 
carved above the door said "Green Elms". I had no plan. I'd just have to 
play it by ear. 

Beauty clung to Mrs. Prentice. The maid who opened the door was a lovely in 
her own right. She did not quibble. Just ushered me into a drawing room and 
said Mrs. Prentice would be with me in a few minutes. I began to feel a 
fool. But there, dead center, on a small table was my pouch! When I emptied 
it the film was all there, but no keys. I was still poking with it when the 
Lady of the house arrived. 

I think that no matter the time or place Mrs. Prentice would always be 
exquisite. I felt an oaf, caught stealing. 

She ignored what I was doing. Gaily she swept away my pent up outburst. 

"Dear Mr. Wilberforce! Isn't it a bit early to tie me to that tree! Come 
now, I'm about to have breakfast. You can join me." 

Of course, that's just what I did. I was no match for her. During the meal I 
kept bringing up the matter of the keys. She just laughed at me and changed 
the subject. She did not exactly come up with the oldie about "What keys?" 
But she might as well have done. The morning was well along by the time she 
suddenly became direct. 

"If I do something for you will you do something for me?" 

"Yes". 

"I want you to take photos." Seeing me start, she laughed and added: "Yes, 
it's your favorite subject." 

That clinched it! "You've got Melynda here!" I accused. 

Mrs. Prentice gently laid my keys on the table in front of me. "There," she 
said, "That's my part of the bargain. I was sure they would bring you here. 
Now, let's go to work." 

"But Melynda...?" 

Her eyes glowed. She grinned at me. "All in good time. First, I want to see 
you work with the camera. I mean, really good work, light and shadow and all 
the subtleties. Of course, if you prefer, you can pack up and go. I wouldn't 
dream...." Leaving there was the last thought in my mind right then. I said 
so. About thirty minutes later I found myself, laden with gear, standing 
with Mrs. Prentice in front of a bookcase in the library. She manipulated 
something so that the bookcase slid to one side so that we were able to walk 
through to a part of the house that was different from the rest, very 
different indeed! Bare stone and grim doorways, one of which Mrs. Prentice 
unlocked, slid back some huge bolts and ushered me into the surprise of my 
life. 

I suppose we could call it a dungeon. But it wasn't all that grim. Quite a 
lot of light and space and the air was warm: it needed to be because the 
girl who stood dead center was stark naked. 

I knew that Mrs. Prentice was eyeing me with that pleased expectation of 
approval that any host has when exhibiting some personal treasure. But my 
whole attention was taken by the girl. She stood in chains, in a pose 
breathtakingly lovely. Her arms were raised and stretched wide by shackles 
about her wrists. Her ankles were joined loosely by shining links. One 
sensed she had been standing thus for a long time. Her nudity spoke 
eloquently of fatigue. These facts I noted at a glance. The thing that 
caused my gasp of astonishment was a beautifully fashioned hood of soft 
leather that encased her whole head and was locked in place by a collar 
round the neck and a small padlock at the back. So competently had the 
creation been tailored that the girl's features were faintly outlined in the 
snug leather. There were small orifices for breathing. That was all. 

"She is gagged." Mrs. Prentice explained pleasantly. She cannot speak, she 
cannot see, she cannot hear. It is a quite remarkable experience for a girl. 
Breathtakingly photogenic, don't you think?" 

I have told you before about me and nudity. I'd had one really good look at 
Melynda's body. But she had made me and I'd been in too much of a dither to 
register any other impression than a mixed awareness of beauty and desire. 
Melynda was the only naked girl I had ever seen. Now I had to recognize her, 
not by her face, but by all those other things that she possessed below the 
neck. 

I'd heard funny and vulgar stories about men who recognized their wife not 
by her face but by her you know what! These stories came back to me now 
because, for the life of me, I could not truly recognize any of the gorgeous 
things on display. I could easily have said: "That's Melynda!" I nearly did. 
But I could not say it with conviction. I'm afraid I have to admit that my 
whole being was in the grip of an excitement demanding that I go to work and 
capture on film a pose and posture ineffably beautiful. 

"Can I help?" Mrs. Prentice asked sweetly. 

There were even electric plug-ins. Imagine, in a dungeon! We went to work 
and rigged all the equipment I had. I think the girl either sensed or heard 
us. She kept lifting her head as though trying to catch a sound. It must 
have been awful to stand the way she had to, not knowing. But she always 
drooped again and let her head fall sideways against her raised arm. 

Should I have been more masculine and decisive! Should I have demanded the 
keys and set Melynda free! I don't know. It wasn't all that easy. I could 
have demanded the keys. But Mrs. Prentice did not have to give them to me. 
Without the keys I certainly was not going to get that girl out of her 
chains. Besides, Mrs. Prentice was placing quite a trust in me. It seemed 
best that I trust her a little longer. I took a picture, then another, and 
another. I was terribly happy. 

The girl had been whipped or caned. There were marks. I sensed that Mrs. 
Prentice was watching me for reactions. So I tried not to show any. I think 
I managed to be nonchalant until she produced the cane. 

"Just a few strokes on her bottom." She suggested. "It will tauten her up 
and get us a new effect." She proffered me the long slender thing, "Here, 
you do it. You'll find the sensation delightful." 

I refused. She shrugged my protests away. "Scared? You'll get over it. Get 
set for this rear take and catch her just at the moment she responds." 

Later, after developing, the picture was a gem, a real masterpiece. But the 
moment I'd snapped the shutter I was ashamed. Mrs. Prentice had used the 
cane as though used to it. The cut was quite cruel and left a beautiful red 
line on the skin. It caused the girl to surge against her chains and throw 
back her head in anguish. The lovely body became alive, discarding its 
fatigue. I had a terrible vision of Melynda's face contorted with pain 
within the mask. What cruel suspense she would be enduring wondering when 
another blow might fall. She could not even cry out. If she shed tears no 
one would see them. "That's enough!" I said. Even to myself I sounded as 
though I meant it. 

Mrs. Prentice yielded gracefully. I am sure her shrewd glances always read 
my mind. She put away the cane. "Well, it's a good start," She conceded. "I 
think you know what you are doing with a camera. You did enjoy didn't you?" 

"Yes." I made the admission hating myself for being so beastly to poor 
little Melynda in the dark. But I had enjoyed it. I knew I had. "I'm going 
to leave you for a moment or two." Mrs. Prentice said casually. "Amuse 
yourself any way you like. Feel free to take liberties with our subject 
there. She can't complain." At the door she turned and tossed me a key and 
laughingly said: "Here, I'm sure you would like to have this." The door 
closed behind her. I was alone with Melynda. I looked at the key and knew a 
tremendous swelling of thankfulness. 

I did not hurry. Sure I was ashamed! But she was too lovely. One does not 
easily turn away from or change a thing of great beauty. True, the hood 
imparted an outer flavor to her femaleness. But it added as much as it 
subtracted. A small demon inside me said get the cane and whip her to your 
heart's content, she'll never know who did it. But I shoved him back where 
he came from, not without wondering if it had been some other girl than 
Melynda would I have listened to his blandishments. This Damsel in Distress 
thing has an incredibly powerful appeal. I suppose you'll be thinking: the 
more distressed the better! But that's not so... 

I walked round and round the naked loveliness standing there in its chains, 
probably vividly aware within her small dark world. But not aware of me. For 
once I could look and look without blushing. Perhaps Mrs. Prentice had 
considerately given me this opportunity, guessing that a bit of anatomical 
study would get me over a hurdle I needed to cross. But I wanted Melynda 
very much. I needed her. So I used the key. 

After the padlock there were lacings that drew the hood tight. I yanked them 
loose. The tired figure now stood rigid and expectant. I drew the soft 
leather over the head and face and had to be careful with the gag, which was 
a part of it. Using both hands I drew away the collar and the hood in one 
final gesture. 

The girl who stood blinking at me in the unaccustomed light was not Melynda. 
I had never seen her before. 

I won't rehash my feelings. You can guess. I stepped back. Suddenly bereft 
of the words I had intended to use I'm sure I looked as surprised as she 
did. But she was vocal, "Who the Devil are you?" She asked without any trace 
of gratitude. 

"My name is Wilberforce. I'm...." 

"Go away!" 

"I beg your pardon...." 

"Go away! I don't want a man staring at me like this." 

"I'm not staring. I mean...!" 

"Of course you are staring. What man wouldn't! If you haven't anything 
better to do than stand and gawk you can put that hood back on me and leave 
me alone." 

"Don't you want me to... to...?" 

"You mean rescue me?" She sounded derisive. 

"Well, yes." 

"Have you got the key to these chains?" 

"Well, no." 

"See, Silly. You can't." She sounded relieved. But I wasn't! 

Getting a good look at her I could now see that she was a damned attractive 
piece of work. I felt cheated of my heroics. 

"Don't you want to get free? You look tired. 

"There is only one person who can set me free. If she comes in and catches 
me talking to you I'll probably get demerits. Go away. But first put the 
hood back on. I'm supposed to wear it. Where did you get the key?" 

"Mrs. Prentice gave it to me." 

"Who! Oh yes. Well, it's alright then. If she let you in I suppose you can 
stand and look all you want. I'll have to put up with it. But don't you 
touch! I'll scream if you do." 

Suddenly the idea of touching this contrary feminine creature seemed 
enchanting. I hadn't thought of it before. But now I did. Her inexplicable 
hostility dampened the knight errant bit. I almost considered using the 
cane. But the thought remained that only. 

"Delightful, isn't she?" Mrs. Prentice was back again. 

"Please, Marcia, don't let him look at me." The chained girl pleaded. 

"It's good for you, darling. Here, I'll put your hood back on. Then you 
won't know whether he is looking at you or not. It will give you something 
to wonder about in that lovely dark little world...." I watched almost in 
disbelief. First the gag. It was a pad of rubber, larger than one would 
suppose. The girl opened her mouth wide to receive it, co-operatively as 
though for her dentist. When it was inside her mouth she bit down and the 
hood was drawn over and back. She could never eject it. She was indeed mute. 
The lacings were drawn very tight, the collar snapped round the slender neck 
and the padlock snapped. Except for the striation across her bottom she was 
just as I had first seen her. 

"Gloria is a most enjoyable subject." Mrs. Prentice said as though speaking 
of the dinner menu. "Let us sit in the garden and have a drink." She ignored 
my disappointment as though unaware of it. 

It was pleasant in the garden and Mrs. Prentice was a marvellous companion. 
I suppose that was the reason I did not blow up. The drink helped me do what 
she wanted, which was to play along and let her tease me and do things her 
own way. I thought she was teasing... 

"Nudity suits Gloria." She mused. "I think it's an essential part of 
bondage. Did you keep Melynda naked?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll be naked for you when you tie me. You'd like that?" 

"Yes." I didn't even blush. I was thinking about Melynda. 

"Would you like to tie me indoors or out?" 

"It does not matter. But if it ever happens, which I doubt, you can be sure 
I'll tie you damn good and tight." 

"You are angry, aren't you?" 

"You made a fool of me," 

"I did not! I never said that girl was Melynda." 

"I suppose not! But you have Melynda here somewhere!" 

"If you like to point out a tree we can discuss how you will tie me to it. 
Will I get whipped." 

She was a different creature from the composed woman I had first met the day 
before. She was baffling. She had become a mischievous provoking girl. 

"You knew about bondage all the time." I accused bitterly. 

She nodded brightly. "Oh yes! Bit of a coincidence I'll admit: us finding 
each other the way we have. But I think there are more of us than you know. 
It's just money--or the lack of it that keeps the ropes and the chains and 
the whips out of sight. What intrigues you most, a woman's breasts or the 
hairy thing down below?" 

She was impossible! I could imagine Melynda going on like that. But not Mrs. 
Prentice. I said so. 

"You've got her on your mind, haven't you!" Mrs. Prentice sighed as though 
much put upon. "Very well then. Come and take her picture." 

"How many naked girls have you got around the premises?" I sneered. 

She did not answer. 

It was a different room and a different girl. I made quite sure about that 
by doing something that sounds silly. I looked at her whip marks. She had 
some alright. But she did not have the one I had seen inflicted on Gloria. 
Mrs. Prentice watched my examination with evident amusement. She was a 
female with an infinite capacity for enjoyment. 

It hadn't been all that easy to look at this girl's bottom. She was sitting 
on it. You see, her ankles were held snugly in some old fashioned stocks. 
She was sitting on a bench. Her hands were chained very close together 
behind her back. Once again her hair and head were prisoned within a hood 
with its usual collar and padlock. The stocks were made so that her legs 
were stretched wider than they need have been. She was totally naked and 
made a most appealing and erotic composition. The feminine thing at the top 
of her thighs was shamefully exposed. But I did not care. A bit more of this 
sort of thing and I might become quite an authority on these delightful 
objects. I don't like the word men use for them. I won't use it if I can 
help. 

So I took the pictures. Lots of them. Mrs. Prentice got her jollies by 
pointing out and fingering the most intimate items of the victim's anatomy 
and asking my opinion as to their quality and utility and whether they 
warranted a real close-up. She was both infuriating and entrancing. If it 
had not been for Melynda she could have done anything she liked with me. I 
suppose she did anyway. 

It was quite a moment when she went and left me standing looking down at the 
loveliness held so implacably by that heavy wooden frame so solidly bolted 
to the stone, and whose jaws encased the slender ankles in a helplessness 
emphasized by a quite huge padlock on one of the upright posts. Curiously I 
used the small key left with me. I know how to get the hood off this 
time--those wads of rubber were wicked! When I pulled the whole thing away 
Melynda blinked up at me and said in a small but very happy voice: "Oh 
Willie! I wondered if you'd ever find me." 

Then she burst into tears. I held her as best I could and used my 
handkerchief and muttered all sorts of what I hoped were comforting things. 
I even kissed her wet eyes and warm bruised mouth. I was surprised to 
discover that I was crying too... 

* * * 

Engaging a chap as he may be, there seems little doubt that Fate had cast 
Horace Wilberforce in the role of a non-hero. But perhaps one expects too 
much! Horace Wilberforce himself felt a degree of irritation with the 
circumstances in which he now sought to free his captive maiden. He was 
stymied. 

"It will take dynamite to get my tootisies out of this contraption." Melynda 
giggled. Her spirits had returned to their normal effervescence. Her 
employer might fall somewhat short by the common standards of knight 
errantry, but his presence was a comfort and restored her faith in the 
Tightness of things. "And I'll bet the door is locked too." she added. 

It was! Mr. Wilberforce returned from it and examined the huge padlock that 
held his love in thrall. It was daunting, as were the stocks themselves, 
made of massive hardwood metal bound, solid and reinforced. They would have 
held a giant. Turning his attention to the prisoner's hands he found them 
closely fettered with heavy metal as intimidating as the rest of her 
confinement. It was infuriating! He looked down at the lovely naked girl who 
had trusted him. He felt a great tenderness. "I'll get you out of this 
somehow." He vowed. 

"I expect you will, Willie. But not to worry! 

It's so damn good to have you here! I've been scared. She's not too cruel. 
But enough! Kiss me again. Sorry I can't hug you back. I would if I 
could...." It was inevitable that, in the course of comparing notes, Mr. 
Wilberforce's normal instincts should re-assert themselves. Suddenly he was 
smitten with awareness. Melynda's most intimate treasure, sundered by the 
separation of her legs, was almost winking at him. Hastily he doffed his 
sweater and draped it across the exposure. It promptly fell to the floor. 

Melynda laughed gaily. "Oh Willie, don't be absurd! I've been looking at 
that thing for the last couple of hours. It's quite the most prominent 
object in the room. It won't hurt you to have a peek." 

Mr. Wilberforce sheepishly retrieved his garment and hastily withdrew from 
the danger zone. His eyes involuntarily focused on other delights that might 
be hidden beneath a layer of wool. Melinda intercepted his glance. 

"Now don't be silly." She chided. "I have two lovely tits up above and dear 
little Fanny down below. You've seen 'em before and you'll see 'em again. So 
stop trying to look over my shoulder all the time." Her voice became 
mischievous, "In fact, Willie, I think you ought to put your hand on them, 
one at a time, so you'd know they are quite real and useful. Go ahead. You 
have my permission." She produced a ravishing coyness, "In any case, kind 
sir, you have me at your mercy." 

Mr. Wilberforce's blush was almost a conditioned reflex. He produced one of 
his finer efforts. To have followed his employee's suggestion called for a 
degree of courage he did not yet possess. He would have liked to hold and 
kiss her again. But previous endeavours had proven that ardor, dignity and 
grace were all sadly inhibited by the strained posture in which his love was 
held. But nothing ventured nothing gained! Tossing reticence to the winds he 
seated himself on the bench beside his love, but facing opposite. Thus he 
was, in some measure, face to face. Rapturously Melynda leaned forward for 
the kiss. Mr. Wilberforce slipped back an inch too far and slid awkwardly to 
the floor, his back against the stocks, his feet draped over the bench. 
Momentarily he, too, was a prisoner, red faced and inept. Melynda produced 
one of her unrestrained giggles... 

It was at that moment Mrs. Prentice chose to rejoin her guests. 

The garden was delightful. Its furniture was within a hedged and treed 
enclosure giving total privacy. The sun was warm. Mr. Wilberforce, still red 
faced, and Mrs. Prentice sat enjoyably sipping their drinks. Horace 
Wilberforce felt inadequate "We should not have left Melynda up there in 
those stocks." He complained. 

Mrs. Prentice twinkled at him. "But darling, don't be absurd! Isn't that the 
very thing you employed her for?" 

"In a way. But there's a difference. I bet Melynda didn't stick her feet in 
those stocks willingly." 

"Well, actually, she did." Mrs. Prentice smiled reminiscently. "But I was 
holding a whip... I suppose that's the difference." 

"What do you want of us?" 

"I want to enjoy you. Using a shocking American colloquialism, I have cut 
myself in for a piece of the action. You should not have left your girl 
chained up out in the open for any passer by to pick up." 

"Is your... your enjoyment of, of--" 

"Bondage?" Mrs. Prentice supplied the difficult word. 

"All right! Bondage. Is it real with you?" 

"But darling, of course! How could you doubt it! You don't think Gloria just 
happened, do you? Or would I have gone to all this trouble over your 
precious Melynda if I hadn't wanted to put her in irons, delightful nautical 
term, isn't it! Or whip her nice round bottom." 

"Why do you have to whip her?" Mr. Wilberforce knew why. But felt he had to 
salve his conscience. 

"For the same reason you want to, silly boy!" Mrs. Prentice almost jeered. 
"It's delightful to feel that cane swishing against tender female flesh. I 
don't bother to analyze it. It's just so. You have not indulged yet. But you 
long to. You will." 

"Alright then. Where do we go from here?" 

"Nowhere darling. Right here is the place to be. I'll whip their pretty 
little bottoms and you take oceans of lovely, lovely pictures." 

"I'm a damn good mind to go to the police." 

"Don't be tiresome, darling! If you did they would not find a thing. I 
didn't show you all my bag of tricks. You'd look silly. Besides, why throw 
away a good thing. You have Melynda, you have Gloria. We'll chain 'em and 
tie 'em in every way you can think of. Why darling, you even have me!" 

Mr. Wilberforce looked at his Hostess with dubiety. "Wouldn't you just love 
to see me naked in the stocks the way Melynda is now?" she teased. 

"I'd like that very much." He said with an unusual vehemence. 

"See! You are beginning to glimpse all the fringe benefits." Her tone was 
still bantering. But he was not certain of her. She was quicksilver. 

"If you are really angry with me you could hang me up by my thumbs. It hurts 
awfully." She made it sound like something she did often. 

"Or you could tie me very tightly, you know, so the cords dig in and bite, 
to a tree and leave me there the longest time--quite naked, of course, so I 
could get bitten by insects and be scared to death someone would find me. 
Would that please you, darling?" 

She was quite impossible! He would never know if she was teasing or deadly 
serious. He was still thinking of a suitable retort when an unusual vision 
came into view. 

It was the trim maid. She was walking quite slowly, one hand holding a tray 
with glasses and a bottle, the other gently guiding the figure of a naked 
girl, a girl whose wrists and ankles were joined by shining chains that Mr. 
Wilberforce had no difficulty in recognizing. "Isn't this wonderful!" 
Trilled Melynda. "I'm out on a ticket of leave. Just let me get at that 
drink!" 

"You see," Said Mrs. Prentice. "She would not leave if you asked her to." 

"On the other hand," Melynda chimed in, "If I wanted to I couldn't." She 
raised her chained hands, "See! I'm back to square one." 

"I'm sure it's most difficult for you, darling." Mrs. Prentice's voice was 
silky with understanding. "Poor man! You are the only one faced with awful 
decision. I know what I want and what I am going to do. Melynda is captive 
and must do what she's told. But you could go to the police, or you could 
stay and have a marvellous time with us girls, or you could simply go...." 
Mr. Wilberforce found the direct gaze disconcerting. "What's to stop me 
picking Melynda up right now and carrying her to the road?" He asked 
belligerently. 

"Only that it's a long way. You'd get frightfully tired, darling. So when a 
couple of my staff relieved you of your lovely burden before you reached the 
gate you'd have to walk on into the sunset alone." 

"You mean she is a hostage?" 

"Precisely." The cool eyes assessed him shrewdly. "As long as you play nice 
games and take nice photos dear Melynda won't suffer much more than she 
would have done with you anyway. But if you don't play I'm afraid she will 
be terribly uncomfortable." 

"Don't I have anything to say about it?" Melynda asked. She did not sound 
too concerned. 

"Nothing, darling. And just so you don't have to worry about escaping I'll 
always have you chained some way or other." 

Both girls looked at Mr. Wilberforce. He squirmed. 

"Look," Said Melynda firmly. "This isn't fair to Willie. Whatever he does is 
partly wrong. So I'm going to decide. O.K. You have me!" She made a musical 
jingling with her wrist fetters. "If you promise not to whip me too much, 
I'll play games." 

"Don't you like being whipped, darling?" 

"Not as hard as you do it." 

"So if I just whip you a little and tie you up tight you'll be a good little 
girl." 

"I'm not sure Mother would have called that being a good little girl, but 
yes! The rules of your game call for a willing victim, don't they?" She 
turned to Mr. Wilberforce. "It's not quite what we planned, Willie. But it 
could be wonderful! The only real difference is that I'll be a prisoner all 
the time instead of just part of the time...." She twinkled at him, "I don't 
really mind, y'know." 

Mr. Wilberforce felt himself drifting on currents of eroticism beyond his 
control. He began to glimpse silver linings... 

He still felt compelled to some sort of protest on Melynda's behalf. But 
before he could put it into words there was an interruption. The chic maid 
re-appeared. With a small curtsey she proffered a slip of paper to her 
Mistress. 

Mrs. Prentice scanned the missive and laughed delightedly. "Darlings, this 
is too priceless! 

Amabel has committed an indiscretion. She has come to be punished. You have, 
haven't you, my dear?" 

"Yes Madam!" Mr. Wilberforce could have sworn the girl sounded pleased. 

"Explain your situation to our guests." Mrs. Prentice suggested. 

Quite unabashed, but still deferential, Amabel turned her attention to 
Melynda and Mr. Wilberforce. "You see, Sir and Madam, things are a bit 
different at "Green Elms". It's sort of a little world we have all our own. 
When we do something bad we don't get shouted at or discharged, we get 
punished. If we don't do anything bad we get punished anyway... Of course, 
if we have dropped the teapot or spilt some ink or something it makes it a 
bit more exciting." She smiled at them brightly. "I have never been so 
happy." Involuntarily one of her hands sought her bottom, "At least, most of 
the time." She added cheerfully. 

"Explain your punishments, my dear." Mrs. Prentice ordered. 

Amabel dropped another delightful curtsey. "First of all I have to take off 
all my clothes." This time the relish in her voice was unmistakable. "I 
don't mind this. I think I look very nice when I'm naked. Then maybe I will 
be tied very tightly so it hurts... There's all sorts of ways. Or fastened 
in the stocks," She looked at Melynda knowingly, "Or maybe chained and 
locked in a dungeon or a cell--we have both. Then again, I may be tied or 
strapped upright or bending over so that my bottom may be caned. I don't 
actually like that too much...." Her last sentence sounded apologetic, as 
though failing to achieve a desired standard. 

"And now, dear Amabel, would you like to escape the wrath to come by taking 
your salary and leaving?" Mrs. Prentice's voice held no threat. 

"Oh no, Madam!" Amabel sounded genuinely shocked. 

Smiling, her eyes full of promise, the hostess suggested to her guests: 
"Perhaps we should adjourn to some more suitable premises." Then, to 
Melynda, "Come darling, I'll release your feet." She unlocked the leg irons 
and handed them to Amabel. "Come. I think we are all going to be very 
happy." She led the way back to the house. 

Poor Horace Wilberforce! It was not easy. He had long known the potency of 
Melynda's personality. Now, in addition, he had to cope with Mrs. Prentice: 
possibly even with Amabel! He had entered an exotic feminine world that left 
him quivering. These gorgeous creatures held surprising depths. He felt no 
more than an extension of his cameras. He followed. 

"Isn't this fun!" Melynda enthused. "I can use my feet, simply for the first 
time in ages. Think of it, Willie, we may even get to whip Amabel. Isn't she 
gorgeous!" 

Mr. Wilberforce had to admit that Amabel certainly was gorgeous. Her vibrant 
bottom was undulating before him in the most provocative manner. He was 
absurdly ashamed of his burning desire to cane it. He pictured the red welts 
springing up, one by one, under his ministrations. 

He wondered if she would thank him nicely for such efforts, or she would 
simply yelp. 

It was another of the rooms. There seemed to be a lot of them. Melynda, 
almost a free woman with only her wrists chained, leaned nonchalantly 
against one wall, Mrs. Prentice against another. Mr. Wilberforce just stood. 
But there was nothing negligent about Amabel. She obviously knew what was 
required of her, no doubt from previous experience. After the first furtive 
efforts to look yet not to look, Mr. Wilberforce surrendered and frankly 
enjoyed the spectacle of the pert maid stripping herself naked. She die', it 
with some finesse, her eyes often drifting towards the sole male in her 
audience. When she had cast aside the last bit of fabric she stood 
resplendent only in her beauty. Mr. Wilberforce was entranced! Perhaps it 
was the drink. But at that moment Amabel seemed eminently caneable. Her 
bottom was a blushing invitation. 

Mrs. Prentice was the perfect hostess. "I would like you to tie her." She 
invited Mr. Wilberforce. 

By now Horace Wilberforce had decided to cast aside the more obvious 
pretences. "How would you like me to do it?" He asked. 

Two naked girls and another fully clothed smiled at his dilemma. "Perhaps 
you might decide between two suitable ways, Sir." Amabel said helpfully. "I 
think I may merit the whip today, so you could tie me with my hands 
stretched up high--there's a pulley all ready, or you could tie me down to 
that bench. It's specially designed to stick my bottom up." 

"Perhaps the bench." Said Mr. Wilberforce deciding to be brave. 

"Of course, Sir." Amabel sounded as though he had requested a cup of tea. 
Without further ado she draped her naked loveliness over the wooden 
structure designed for its discomfort. She was still smiling helpfully. 
"I'll try and put the proper bits of me where they belong." She said 
cheerfully. "If you'll strap them down very tight I won't be able to even 
twitch. I'll help you, Sir, if you are not quite sure." 

It was surprisingly easy. Amabel placed wrists and ankles within the loops 
of the straps provided. Mr. Wilberforce buckled them very tight indeed. She 
turned and smiled up at him from time to time. It was encouraging to feel 
her gratitude. Her arms were down, bands at bent elbows and also at wrists. 
The bench was too low for her arms to descend their full length. It did not 
matter. The bench was also narrow, so that her ankles were just the right 
distance apart as he strapped them to each lower corner. Other straps just 
above the knees held her legs immovable. But the band that most totally 
rendered her helpless was the one that circled her waist. Under Amabel's 
encouragement Mr. Wilberforce tugged and cinched it tighter than he would 
normally have done. It was a very small waist. He felt a brute for so using 
it. But the effect was superb! The bench had been constructed so as to lift 
its victim's bottoms above the general level of their torsos. The waist band 
accentuated this protuberance. When the last buckle had been made snug Mr. 
Wilberforce stepped back and saw that Amabel was held immovably, her back 
arched down, her bottom arched up. The effect was delightful, even for 
purely aesthetic purposes, quite apart from its obvious utility as an aid to 
the proper caning of a girl's posterior. 

"Oh, thank you, sir." Amabel's voice clearly indicated that he had bestowed 
some immeasurable boon. 

"What would you like to do to her now?" Mrs. Prentice asked kindly. 

Mr. Wilberforce knew what he would like to do. But he was not going to make 
so awful an admission. "Perhaps we should just leave her like this." He 
suggested optimistically. "I'm sure it will become most uncomfortable after 
awhile. The elevation of the bottom...." Melynda's laugh was as unaffected 
as was Mrs. Prentice's. "I bet the last thing you want to do is go away and 
leave that lovely bottom up in the air." She accused. "What about a photo! 
You know, "Posing the posterior for a photograph! It deserves at least one 
exposure." 

"It's quite exposed now, Miss." Amabel ventured. 

"I think it should be caned." Mrs. Prentice said with finality. 

"Ooh Madam! Couldn't I be let off this time? I'll be ever so good, I will. I 
promise." Amabel offered. 

"She's practically asking you to cane her bum." Melynda told Mr. Wilberforce 
sagely. "She does not want to be let off at all. I can tell." 

Mrs. Prentice went to a shelf and took down a long black slither of 
wickedness that momentarily dampened Melynda's increasing vivacity. 

Amabel took one look over her shoulder at it and ejaculated: "Oh blimey! Not 
that one Missus!" Her speech had slipped a social notch. 

"And why not indeed!" Mrs. Prentice demanded. 

Amabel sniffed. "It hurts." Feeling this statement of the obvious 
inadequate, she added: "It hurts something awful!" 

"But I haven't whipped you with this for at least three weeks." 

"No Madam. But I still got some marks." 

Mr. Wilberforce found himself able to confirm the statement. There were 
certainly the traces of weals across the delectable morsel positioned for 
his pleasure. Amabel looked up at him with one moist eye, obviously hopeful. 

"Perhaps a somewhat milder infliction?" He asked, but without much hope. 

"Nonsense! You and your perhapses!" Mrs. Prentice laughed at him. "The 
little minx is just testing you out. Really, I despair of males. Any girl 
who sheds a tear can twist you any way she wants. Here, take this work of 
art and paint some pictures with it on that cute bottom." She handed him the 
cane. 

Mr. Wilberforce accepted it with about the same enthusiasm he would have 
displayed had he been offered a rattlesnake. Despite himself he examined it, 
flexed it in his hands, felt its balance. Never was a man so torn! He eyed 
Mrs. Prentice imploringly, sought reassurance from Melynda, who seemed to be 
enjoying the situation hugely, then turned his attention to the delightfully 
naked sacrifice upon the bench. Amabel was looking up at him with much the 
same expression that Ann Boleyn had viewed the Headsman. "Really, you know, 
I'd much rather not." He lied. No one answered. 

After an awkward silence Melynda giggled. Amabel looked at him 
reproachfully. 

"Awfully sorry!" Mr. Wilberforce exclaimed to no one in particular. "Have to 
use the bathroom...." He fled. 

But even a bathroom is a limited haven. There are the rights of others as 
well as an exhaustion of one's capacity to further claim its sanctuary. Mr. 
Wilberforce was dolefully recognizing these factors when a feminine voice 
that he recognized instantly as Melynda's, came to him through the door. 

"I say, Willie, you'd better come out of there. Mrs. Prentice says that if 
you don't come down and give Amabel six of the best she is going to give me 
twelve." 

Never had a maiden's plea invoked so instant a flush. Mr. Wilberforce felt 
gratitude that Mrs. Prentice had made his decision for him. Yet, with 
Melynda on their return to the place of execution he could not reject the 
suggestion: "Let's run for it. Your feet are free! What's to stop us...." 

"No Willie! No!" Melynda placed her chained hand on his arm. "Don't be 
silly! Don't you see, this place is a gold mine for you. Everything laid 
on... Even me!" She giggled happily. "Besides I'm not sure we could get 
away. There are servants...." 

"But that awful mark on your behind?" 

"Oh, I can bear it! Her other girls may have a bad time. But actually I like 
her. She's not bad. I think she will go easy with me because she wants you. 
So not to worry...." Mrs. Prentice was tightening the straps that prevented 
Amabel making any movement other than with her head, fingers and toes. The 
girl herself was obviously resigned to her fate. There were hot tears or 
pleas. She even managed a demure smile for the man who was about to cane her 
bottom. 

"She may manage a twitch or two, but that's all." Mrs. Prentice said 
conversationally. "You should be able to get some very fine lines across the 
bottom. Amabel has something to ask you." 

"Please Mr. Wilberforce, will you give me six very hard strokes with the 
cane across my bare bottom. I will be most grateful if you will make them 
very hard indeed so that they leave lovely red stripes on my skin." Amabel 
also offered a pale smile as she delivered what was obviously a rehearsed 
ritual. 

The enormity of that moment should undoubtedly, for Horace Wilberforce, rank 
high with the great decisions of history. Edward the seventh's abdication 
speech: Nelson's message at Trafalgar, and the marriage of the first Beatle 
to a female must have placed upon each a great burden of stress. But 
certainly no greater anguish than now faced this somewhat less than heroic 
figure holding the cane, painfully aware of the focus of three pairs of 
feminine eyes. Painfully desirous of whipping the delectable bottom so 
enticingly offered, yet also painfully conscious of that nice suburban 
background in which a female bottom was strictly for sitting. Tentatively he 
raised the cane. He could almost hear three sets of feminine lungs stop 
breathing, especially Amabel's! 

Had he been playing cricket or baseball the stroke he delivered would 
certainly have failed to score. He had seen Amabel tense against the straps 
that held her and seen her eyes widen as his arm fell. But the stripe he 
placed on her pink bottom faded almost as soon as it formed. 

"You'll have to do better than that, Willie." Said Melynda. 

"That's a jolly poor show." Mrs. Prentice admonished. 

"Oh sir! I'm afraid that one won't count. You have to hit me really hard: 
real swishers, sir." Even Amabel was against him. 

Mrs. Prentice came to his rescue. She turned to Melynda. "Show him how, 
darling. I'm sure you know!" 

Melynda rattled her wrist chains. "I'd love to. But I can't do it justice 
wearing these." 

Without comment, Mrs. Prentice chained Melynda's ankles together and 
released her hands. With small measured steps the younger girl advanced to 
the bench. Bashfully her employer surrendered the cane. Once again he knew 
amazement at the versatility of this quite incredible girl. 

"You have to do it so it really goes splat." Melynda informed him 
cheerfully. "Isn't that right, Amabel?" 

"Oh yes, Miss!" Amabel seemed anxious to please. 

"Have you used the cane often?" Mrs. Prentice was interested. 

"Well, not all that much." Melynda conceded. "Mostly someone used it on me." 

"Delightful! Would you like to be caned when we have attended to Amabel?" 

Mr. Wilberforce relinquished any grasp he may ever have had on the 
situation. He began to see the female psyche as a vast uncharted ocean 
littered with reefs. 

Melynda considered Mrs. Prentice's thoughtful offer. Then asked, brightly, 
of her employer: "Would you like to take some pictures of me being caned? 
It's really a super opportunity. I'll probably howl. I'm going to make 
Amabel howl." 

"Amabel is not permitted to howl." Mrs. Prentice interposed. 

"Perhaps some pictures of you just strapped to the bench." Mr. Wilberforce 
ventured. His eyes sought Melynda's imploringly. "I could never possibly 
cane you." His emphasis on the last word was firm. Some other female bottom 
perhaps! But not Melynda's! 

"Really, we are going to have to take you in hand." Mrs. Prentice said 
gaily. Then, with mischief: "Would you like to cane my bottom?" 

He squirmed visibly. An emphatic negative had sprung to his lips, but he had 
bitten it off in time realizing its unflattering lack of chivalry. How can 
one decently reject a lady's bottom! A mental picture of Mrs. Prentice 
strapped down where Amabel now was suddenly seemed a most desirable 
objective. "You are joking, of course." 

He said stiffly. 

"That's really an affirmative." Mrs. Prentice informed him knowingly. "You'd 
cane me, but you wouldn't cane Melynda. I'll remember that. I'm not sure 
whether to be flattered or hurt." She turned to Melynda, "What's your guess, 
darling?" 

"Oh, flattered, of course." Melynda gurgled. "Mr. Wilberforce is just dying 
to cane Amabel --and to cane you would be something quite tremendous for 
him! I can tell. But he's had a very nice upbringing, so we have to treat 
him kindly." She turned to her employer. "There never were any girls with 
naked bottoms in your past, were there, Willie?" 

"No." said Mr. Wilberforce, feeling almost totally uneducated. 

"Well, we can't neglect poor Amabel like this, can we!" Melynda said 
happily. "Now, watch carefully, Willie." 

A bulldozer could not have drawn Mr. Wilberforce's gaze away from the, to 
him, incredible tableau. It is doubtful that Amabel herself held her breath 
in greater suspense. He watched, fascinated as his employee took her stance, 
seeming to find no impediment in her shackled feet, then flexed the cane 
several times before she used it to tap firmly on the round cheeks waiting 
its attention. Having measured distance and aim to her satisfaction she 
swung. 

It was as though an electric current sent the naked victim surging against 
the straps that fastened her. Her body and limbs could not move, but the 
impetus was clear to see. She flung her head from side to side, eyes 
clenched in blind agony. But only a tremendous gasp escaped her lips. Dead 
center across both cheeks of her bottom a raised welt of scarlet skin grew 
darker and darker. 

Mrs. Prentice clapped gently. "Bravo!" 

Mr. Wilberforce stood mesmerized, battling an admission that he had never 
seen anything so beautiful. 

"Now, that's the straight across stroke." Melynda explained, eyes twinkling. 
You heard it splat nicely because there is a lot of good firm girl there for 
it to bed itself into. The next two I'll do one on each cheek. They hurt 
more, especially if you lap over a bit on the hip. That's right, isn't it 
Amabel?" 

Amabel had opened her eyes and was surveying her audience dolefully without 
hope. "Yes Miss. It hurts more than I can bear. I'm afraid I'll make a 
noise, and I'm not supposed to." She hesitated, then implored: "Could I just 
get them straight across please? Perhaps Mr. Wilberforce won't mind taking 
lessons some other time...." 

"You mean on some other bottom--probably mine!" Melynda pointed out. "Sorry! 
He'll never have a better chance to learn than now... Or a better bottom." 
She added kindly. 

Mr. Wilberforce actually winced. The second stroke curled cruelly over the 
rotundity of Amabel's left bottomcheek, its tip biting savagely toward her 
hip where it left a dark purple kiss. The naked victim's gasping contortions 
left him half way between shocked protests and an internal admission of 
bliss. 

Amabel absorbed her third cut without breaking silence. Mr. Wilberforce 
supposed her penalty, should she have cried out, must indeed be horrendous 
to so invoke such superb control. 

"Now we will go straight across again." Melynda said. "But I'm going to aim 
lower where the flesh folds into the thighs." She looked round at her 
employer innocently. She might have been demonstrating the use of a tennis 
racquet. "I want to show you all the places where it hurts the most. Anyone 
can just go straight across the rump." 

The blow having sunk itself into the soft flesh with a solid thwack, Mr. 
Wilberforce noted that the cheeks clenched and there were nervous twitchings 
in the thighs. He supposed them involuntary. He felt excited. 

"Could I have a rest, please?" Amabel's voice was strained and thin. 

"No." Mrs. Prentice said it with finality. 

Melynda brought the final two cuts down in wide swishing arcs. They 
completed a pattern of wounds across the helpless girl's bottom that were a 
work of art. Amabel managed not to howl. Mr. Wilberforce knew guilt in his 
wish that the punishment might go on and on. 

"What shall we do with her now?" Mrs. Prentice's voice was warm and 
interested. 

Mr. Wilberforce nobly repressed his base desire. "May I tie her up?" Melynda 
enthused. 

"Of course, darling. It will nicely round the day off for her." To Mr. 
Wilberforce Mrs. Prentice's approval sounded much as though the punished 
girl was to be treated to the cinema. 

Melynda beamed at him. "You'd like that, wouldn't you Willie? I'll tie her 
ever so cunningly so she'll make the loveliest picture." 

"Would you mind very much if we did that, Amabel?" Horace Wilberforce asked 
without thinking. 

"I don't have anything to say about it, sir. Amabel told him in a lack 
lustre voice. "I'm quite sure, sir, the young lady will tie me up very 
nicely. She seems very experienced." She added with feeling. 

For Mr. Wilberforce sensation followed sensation. Released from the bench, 
Amabel ran her fingertips wincingly up and down across her welted bottom. He 
longed to aid. But contented himself with taking pictures. Her bottom 
massaged, the girl knelt before her Mistress: "Thank you, Madam, for a 
wonderful caning." She managed to sound as though she truly was grateful. 
"May I go to the bathroom before I am tied?" 

"Surely she won't come back!" Mr. Wilberforce was amazed. 

His hostess laughed. "Of course she'll be back, silly!" She added, to 
Melynda: "Come and select the cords. How do you plan to tie her?" 

Amabel rejoined them, refreshed and seemingly unconcerned by her nudity and 
scarlet behind. Obediently she positioned herself, back against one of the 
posts that were a feature of the room, and without demur allowed Melynda to 
loop the cords that were her new punishment. She even offered her wrists and 
ankles as required in order to facilitate her fresh captivity. She did not 
complain. But asked smilingly how she should place her limbs to Melynda's 
advantage and satisfaction. 

It was pure art. Mr. Wilberforce stood rapt in admiration. Melynda was swift 
and deft with assurance. The cords were tight so that they would become 
increasingly irksome with time. Some would be painful. Three strands cinched 
Amabel's small waist tight against the post. Even had no other strand been 
employed it was questionable if she could have freed herself. A single cord 
around the post and crossed behind her neck then looped down each shoulder 
and under the armpits was once more crossed behind her back and cinched to 
the post. Amabel was strained back against the wood, her shoulders wracked, 
her breasts beautifully outthrust. Helpfully the prisoner reached back her 
arms each side of the upright. The wrists were crossed and bound. One ankle 
was tied each side so that she was open and exposed. That was all. Deadly in 
its simplicity, it held her helpless, almost immovably. She looked at the 
girl who had bound her. It was piteous. But she made no complaint. Mr. 
Wilberforce could see that the cords deeply imbedded in her shoulders were a 
punishment in themselves. Amabel would not struggle. It would hurt too much. 

Mrs. Prentice examined the work. Then looked at Melynda appraisingly. 
"You're clever." She conceded. "You created something secure and beautiful 
with very little cord. That's as it should be. Now we'll tie you." 

Mr. Wilberforce both saw and sensed his employee's recoil. "Must you?" She 
asked in a disappointed voice. It was evident she had hoped her contribution 
with whip and cord had earned immunity. 

"Of course, darling. Isn't that why you are here?" 

Melynda shrugged resignedly. "I suppose so." She looked at her employer's 
stricken face and visibly steeled herself to be cheerful. "Cheer up, Willie! 
After all, that's what I'm for. It's better than being whipped y'know." 

She turned to Mrs. Prentice. "How do you want me?" 

"The cross." Their hostess indicated a grim wooden frame, the height of a 
girl. Horizontal arms, legs splayed out on either side. Without a word of 
complaint Melynda draped her nakedness upon it. Not in defeat. But tense 
awaiting the caress of the cords. 

Mrs. Prentice bound her there. Arms stretched wide, cords looped and drawn 
tight around wrists, elbows and shoulders. The concave waist pinched and 
tugged back by two constrictions. The feet widely parted and tied snugly at 
ankles and knees. She could move only her head. She stood captive, wickedly 
exposed. She grinned at her employer: "Sorry Willie. Mrs. Prentice likes a 
girl to display her whatsit. You must be getting quite used to seeing mine. 
I'd close my legs if I could. But you see how it is...." Horace Wilberforce 
did indeed see how it was. This girl he had come to yearn for could hide 
nothing. Her bondage might not be as painful as Amabel's. But he longed to 
ease it for her. "How long must they stay like this?" he asked. 

"Certainly for the rest of the day. I'll consider night-time later. Take 
your pictures. Then come and have a drink." 

The bound girls at their posts faced each other about twelve feet apart. Mr. 
Wilberforce was thankful they had not been gagged. At least they could talk. 
Taking one last look before the door closed he smiled and waved at Melynda. 
She grinned back and stuck out her tongue at him. 

He yearned to rescue her and hold her in his arms. 

"It's a delicious feeling." Mrs. Prentice said sipping her screwdriver and 
surveying Mr. Wilberforce as they made themselves comfortable, once more, in 
the garden. "I'm sure you must be enjoying it too. Think of the little 
dears: naked, bound and helpless. Not knowing their fate. To be left there 
through the dark hours of the night. Or perhaps to be whipped. Perhaps even 
to be set free. What power we possess, you and I!" 

'Horace Wilberforce was ashamed of himself. He said so. His companion's 
response was unaffected enjoyment. "You long to whip a girl. You long to 
bind and chain her. You see the beauty, just as I do. Yet you are ashamed." 

He liked Mrs. Prentice. It was hard not to. She had a charm and beauty all 
her own. "I suppose it's the coercion." He admitted, accepting his drink. 
"This isn't the way we planned it, Melynda and me." 

"Alright!" She looked at him speculatively. "So I give you the key to their 
room and offer you the freedom of my house. Right now! What would you do?" 

She had a gift for breaching his defences. Would he untie Melynda and walk 
out of this house with her, never to return! A vision of the two girls so 
tightly and attractively bound to their posts suddenly seemed the most 
delightful thing in his world. He could not walk away from them. It was too 
beautiful! Must he, then, admit to hypocrisy. He temporized. "Must we be 
cruel to Melynda?" 

"Amabel's pain does not bother you?" 

"Not as much." He admitted. 

"Come now! You enjoyed watching her whipped. And remember, it was precious 
little Melynda who whipped her." She eyed him perceptively. "Remarkable bit 
of work, too, wasn't it! Wouldn't you like to see Melynda whipped the same 
way?" She twinkled at him over her glass, "Or me...?" 

She had stung him. "I'd like to see you whipped." He retorted, greatly 
daring. 

"You see," She gibed, "It's a matter of degree. Your main problem is an 
inhibition or two. I'm a good mind to strip naked right now and enjoy your 
struggles with your conscience. I have lovely breasts. Wouldn't you like to 
see them?" 

Predictably he blushed. "What are you going to do with those two girls." A 
discussion about Mrs. Prentice's breasts was beyond his capacity. 

"We have lots of delightful choices." She said cheerfully. "I hope you note 
my use of the plural? Shall we leave them there all night?" 

He found himself considering the idea. By morning each would manifest those 
qualities of fatigue and hopelessness so impossible to simulate. His camera 
would feast upon them. Could Art be served only by suffering! The paid model 
suffered: standing for hours in some demanding pose. He knew he was 
rationalizing. But he found comfort in so doing. At least they could sleep 
in their tight bondage. 

Mrs. Prentice prodded further. "Or you could go down every hour and tease 
them: pretend to untie them and then draw the knots even tighter. Or, 
remember how their breasts and tits stick out: I have some cute little 
devices you can clip on their nipples. They hurt, but not enough to damage. 
Girls hate them though. They violate some intimate feminine privacy. You'd 
enjoy that." 

Again he avoided the issue. "You'd trust me to go to them alone? I'd set 
them free." 

"Of course! Then Amabel would report to me and Melynda would read you a 
lecture on lost possibilities." 

"Really! It's all most difficult." Said Mr. Wilberforce. 

 CHAPTER FIVE - Melynda 

When Mr. Wilberforce and Mrs. Prentice closed the door behind them I found I 
was worrying. Oh sure! Any girl naked and tied up so she can only blink has 
worries. But I wasn't happy about Mrs. Prentice having Willie. Maybe she did 
not have him tied the way she did me. But Mrs. Prentice was stiff 
competition for any girl, and I'd seen her watching him with that wise 
smile. 

My other worry was Amabel. We were tied a little distance apart, but we were 
more or less face to face. I mean, we hadn't much to look at except each 
other. It came to me all of a sudden that in a show off sort of way in front 
of Mr. Wilberforce and that phoney Lady Marcia I'd been quite cruel. That 
cane must have hurt like blazes and I had only to look to see that the cords 
I'd cinched across her shoulders were cutting in to her in a way I wouldn't 
have wanted. But she managed a cheerful smile and said: "Fancy us being in 
the same boat, Miss." 

"I'm ashamed of myself." I told her. "I hurt you. I'm a show-off." 

"Not to worry, Miss. If it hadn't been you it would have been someone else. 
It's just another day at Green Elms. I must like it or I wouldn't stay 
here." 

"You like to be tied up and whipped?" 

"Don't you, miss?" 

The way she said it I knew that if only I could stand the pace Mr. 
Wilberforce had struck gold. The Madam was the only fly in the ointment. 
"What about Gloria?" I asked. 

"It was her who introduced me. Mrs. Prentice wanted two girls. She manages 
things very neatly. Mostly one of us is getting punished while the other is 
filling the maid's job. Then there's Sykes and a gardener. Sykes does a bit 
of everything. He'll even help with us girls if we ever got difficult. He's 
strong." 

"What's going to happen to me? I'm not a volunteer. Actually I've been 
kidnapped." 

"I'm sure you don't mind too much, miss. It's the gentleman I feel sorry 
for. He worries about you. I say, miss! Are you hurting? I am. These cords 
round my shoulders dig in like billy'o." 

I was hurting! Mrs. Prentice had done as neat a job on me as I'd done on 
Amabel. Looking sideways down the length of my arm I could see the cords 
snugly bedded in my flesh. She did not tie just to keep you still, you had 
to hurt too. I tugged and heaved. None of me moved. The bands round my waist 
were worse than any corset. They were pulled so far into my tummy I could 
not even see them. They burned. "How long will she leave us like this?" I 
asked. I knew that in an hour I'd really be wanting to be let loose. 

"That's the trouble, miss." Amabel admitted. "I never know. There have been 
a couple of times I've stayed like this all night." 

"Hurting like this!" Honest, I was aghast. 

"She doesn't let that affect the time." Amabel managed to look apologetic. 
"I suppose you'll think she's a bit of a sadist. But she isn't really, at 
least Gloria and me don't think so." 

"But all night! I'm not sure I can take it." 

"Well miss, you almost have to, don't you. I know I can't get loose, and I 
bet you can't either. I won't even try. It hurts too much." She gave me a 
pretty fair smile of encouragement. "But she may come in and let us free 
anytime. You never know." 

I suppose it was about an hour before she did come. It seemed ages with 
those cords biting at me all over. Mr. Wilberforce was with her, looking 
distressed. She was frightfully sweet, but when she held a drink to my lips 
I knew I was for it. I drank it wondering if it would do any good to plead. 
But I nearly did blurt something out when she produced a couple of broad 
leather straps and proceeded to buckle them round our necks to the post. 
They raised our chins and stopped us moving our heads. It was just something 
else to put up with. I could have done without it! I could see poor Willie 
was about to protest, but I managed to get a message to him by blinking my 
eyes. I wasn't happy, but I figured I was in this deep I might as well try 
and find out what Green Elms might have to offer my employer. Then, let's be 
honest about it! I don't exactly dislike being tied up." 

We were a sad pair after they had gone. Even talking was awkward now. When 
it began to get dark I was thankful for Amabel. If I'd have been alone I'd 
have been crying. It was past midnight when Gloria showed up. She wasted no 
time removing the strap from under Amabel's chin. "Want me to let you loose 
for an hour?" She asked. "Everyone's safe asleep." 

Amabel sadly shook her head. "I'm scared. It's bad, but I'd better stick it 
out. She'll be extra generous for this one." 

"Don't be silly, Love. I'm going to let you both loose. Young Miss here can 
tie you again, she'll be able to get it the same as first time so Madam 
won't know." She busied herself with the knots behind the post. When they 
fell away Amabel gasped with pain. I made a good resolution not to make them 
so tight if it was me who would tie her when the coffee break, or whatever 
it was, came to an end. 

While Amabel massaged her wounds, Gloria came and surveyed the fix I was in. 
She was very businesslike: "Amabel and me ain't escaping, Miss. We got a 
good thing here. But you really want to, don't you?" 

Right at that moment I wanted to be free of those cords that were biting at 
me more than I wanted anything. I said so. 

Gloria nodded, but said: "We want you to get away. It ain't right for the 
Missus to hold you prisoner, like. But we don't want no trouble to fall on 
us 'cause of lettin' you go. See what I mean?" 

I did see. My bindings started to hurt twice as bad. 

"I thought of a way, though." Gloria offered hesitantly, "It's sort of 
crazy, like what you see on Telly. I brung the Missus's gun down." 

"Gun!" I knew I sounded shocked. 

She snickered and placed a revolver on the floor. "Wot you do is just leave 
it there, Miss. But what we tell her Ladyship is that you got loose, found 
the gun, tied me up in your place, and then ran. Would you be taking the 
gentleman with you, do you think?" She sounded as though she considered Mr. 
Wilberforce an asset. 

I suppose it sounds a bit crazy and improbable. But that's the way it 
happened. She untied me and I went through the same contortions as Amabel. 
When those cords were sort of peeled out of my flesh I could have howled. 
But it felt damn good to be free! Gloria had brought a thermos of coffee 
down as well as the gun, so the three of us made ourselves comfortable and 
sipped away. I loved Gloria so much I could have kissed her: so I did! 
Imagine! A picnic in a dungeon. 

The bad bit came when it was time for me to tie Amabel once more. I had no 
choice but to loop the cords in the same red grooves in her flesh where 
they'd been before. I was quite sure I would not have wanted it to happen to 
me. But she was a good sport and did not fuss much even though it must have 
hurt like blazes. I made it a bit easier for her. But the cords could not be 
too loose if Lady Marcia was to be deceived. Tying Gloria was a breeze. She 
had no recent wounds and even helped where she could. 

So there was little Melynda with two lovely naked girls bound and helpless 
in her power and the free run of the house. They told me where Mr. 
Wilberforce's room was. Right close to her Ladyship's. They seemed as 
excited as I was. 

But life's odd. I expect you've noticed. Or maybe it's us who are 
ridiculous. There I was! I had it made. In the bag. Suddenly I didn't want. 
The idea of leaving Gloria and Amabel and that house had lost its appeal. 
Nuts? Oh sure, it was nuts alright. I did not even want to leave her absurd 
Ladyship. Some sort of conviction fell on me that here was a treasure house 
of everything Mr. Wilberforce had wanted all his life and we were going to 
pack it up just because I'd got a few stripes across my bottom with a cane. 

What a dither! If I stayed I'd have to ask Gloria to tie me back the way she 
was herself. It seemed the rankest ingratitude. But thinking of those cords 
tightening themselves into little me spurred a quite different train of 
thought. Outrageous! But was it! 

"Who exactly is sleeping in this house tonight?" I asked the girls. 

"Just us and Madam and Mr. Wilberforce. Sykes and the gardener have rooms of 
their own in the Lodge." Amabel explained, puzzled. 

Have you glimpsed what I saw very clearly right then ? Apart from me there 
were four. Two of them were bound and helpless in front of me. Mr. 
Wilberforce was on his own and didn't count anyway. That just left Milady, 
and she was fast asleep... 

I picked up the gun. 

As it turned out I did not need it, which was just as well since I could 
never have used the damn thing. The Lady Marcia Stanhope slept naked, she 
was quite a dish, the night was warm and she had tossed aside the covers. It 
was a breathless moment, but I managed to get the handcuffs on her wrists 
behind her back before she really came awake and caught on to the fact that 
she was in a bit of a bind. I felt about the same as if I'd won the Irish. 

She really was a cool one. No noise, no flinging herself around the way I'm 
sure I'd have done. She just sat up and looked at me a bit puzzled while she 
wriggled her hands to see how tight the cuffs were. I'd made them tight, so 
she didn't waste much time on that. It was easy to tell that her mind was 
busy figuring the odds. She must have arrived at the same bit of arithmetic 
I had: "Gloria?" Her one word was a question. 

I told her the story and showed her the gun. She listened quietly. She even 
smiled. I couldn't tell if she'd bought it or not. 

"I suppose it's my own fault." She said composedly, as though that ended the 
matter. Then, as cool as a cucumber: "What are you going to do with me?" 

"Whip you." I told her cheerfully. I felt excited. 

She nodded, quite unconcerned. "Haven't you forgotten Sykes and the 
gardener?" 

"You'll phone them in the morning and give them a couple of days off." 

"You'll compel me?" It was more a statement than a question. 

"Yes." I assured her. "It will be a pleasure." 

A flicker of emotion told me she had got the message. She pondered quietly 
for a little while. Then: "It's damn neat." She admitted. "I can't pick a 
flaw." She looked at me discerningly, "You must be tired?" I was. I said so. 
"Well then," She continued, let's sleep the rest of the night. We can share 
the bed." 

She sure had nerve and control. Suddenly the thing she suggested seemed a 
damn good idea. But I was suspicious. 

"And have you get up and set yourself free the moment I'm asleep?" 

She shrugged resignedly and motioned with her head, "In that drawer over 
there: you'll find what you want." 

I did. Chains, cuffs, cord and a lovely whip. So I loosely chained one of 
her ankles to the bed rail, then pulled the covers over both of us and went 
to sleep. 

It was Milady who woke me in the morning by kicking me with her one free 
ankle. I bounced up, alarmed. But she was rested and unconcerned. She wore 
the handcuffs as though she always held her hands behind her back. I had to 
admire her. 

"Look," she said reasonably, but with a light in her eyes I wasn't quite 
sure about. "Maybe I'm in for an uncomfortable time. But you haven't got it 
easy: the house, the servants, and dear Willie. What are you going to do? 
Feed us on sandwiches?" 

I could see her point. But right there I had her phone Sykes and close that 
hazard. I dialed, then held the receiver so we could both listen. 

With the other hand I held the whip. But I did not need it. She dealt with 
the matter in her usual Mistressy manner. Sykes sounded pleased. So that was 
that. 

"I have been thinking." Milady continued. "It's a shame to keep those two 
girls prisoner. Let them loose and tell them to perform their usual duties. 
That way we will all eat decently and the beds will get made." 

"And have them jump me!" I sounded scornful. 

"They won't. If you take me to them I'll instruct them before you turn them 
loose. They will obey me." She examined my doubtful expression, then said 
impatiently: "But do what you like. There's no reason why I should make 
things easy for you." 

I was hungry, so sweet reason triumphed. There was a lovely collar and chain 
in the drawer. I fastened it round her neck and led her like a puppy dog 
down to the girls. I, ostentatiously, dangled the whip from one hand. But I 
did not have to use it. She sauntered along as though she was the Queen and 
I some sort of second housemaid. I didn't really mind her nonchalance 
because I kept having delicious thoughts about what I was going to do to 
that lovely pride of hers. 

It was typical of Green Elms that neither Gloria or Amabel seemed too 
shocked when we walked in. But I think they were hurting so much and wanted 
to be set free so badly that nothing else mattered right then. I felt a 
brute, even though I had tried to make their cords a bit slack. 

I was enjoying myself. I fastened the end of her Ladyship's chain to a ring 
in the wall. While I was untying the girls she briefed them on what she 
required. I don't suppose it sounded too much different from what she did 
every day. 

"You'll notice a small change in status." She said in a pleasant 
conversational sort of voice. "Until further notice just carry on in the 
usual way. Melynda will give you orders. Obey her implicitly. If she wishes 
to place you in bondage, submit. Should a need arise she will punish you. 
That's all for now, except We'd like you to make breakfast. We are all 
famished." 

Just like that! All of a sudden I was Mistress of Green Elms. I was bursting 
with excitement. I wanted to embrace the girls, do a little dance and give 
three cheers. But her Ladyship sort of put a stopper on such notions. I 
mean, I couldn't do less than match her aplomb, or is it poise! Anyway she 
was wearing her handcuffs and the collar as though they were the crown 
jewels. I had to somehow convey the idea that I was the boss, not her. It 
wasn't easy. She really had something! 

But I had something too. It was really a super idea! So I winked at Gloria 
and Amabel who were rubbing the places that hurt and putting on their 
clothes. Then I took the tether and led the Lady Marcia upstairs. She 
followed meekly. Either she was afraid of the whip or was contrarily 
determined not to give me the pleasure of an excuse to use it. Actually we 
both had a surprise coming about that whip... 

It was quite early. I prayed that Mr. Wilberforce was still asleep. He was. 
I chained the Lady Marcia Stanhope to the foot of his bed and sat down to 
one side to enjoy the show. 

I may as well admit right now that Milady was about as beautiful as they 
come. Naked, she was quite breathtaking, even from a feminine point of view. 
Flawless but sensual. You just knew she would be a tigress in bed. I 
resolved to give her no chances. Even handcuffed, she'd be more than a match 
for poor Willie. At that moment she stole the initiative from me by saying 
in a loud clear voice: "Mr. Wilberforce. I think Melynda would like you to 
wake up now. I am on display." 

A female with her hands cuffed behind her back is indeed on display. She 
can't hide anything. But it didn't seem to bother her at all. She didn't 
cross her legs or any of that nonsense, but stood easily. I was quite sure 
she was posing to the best advantage. 

Her voice, on top of whatever other noise we had made, brought the desired 
effect. Mr. Wilberforce blinked, stretched and sat up in bed. I watched, 
breathless. 

So did he! It took quite a while to register. Probably he thought it the 
carryover of a dream. But then his eyes widened and he did the cutest thing. 
I expect it's some sort of clue to his psyche or something, he grabbed the 
sheet and tucked it up around his neck as though it was him who was naked 
and not the Lady Marcia. Then he caught sight of me. The expression on his 
face reminded me that I was naked too. I'd got so used to it that I'd quite 
forgotten. Any clothes I might still own were probably still in his car. It 
was easy to guess that if poor Mr. Wilberforce had had an other sheet he 
would have tucked that round his neck too. 

"I think you ladies are in the wrong room." He offered, as though the idea 
was a real discovery. 

"We're not, y'know." Lady Marcia assured him pleasantly. The way she said it 
told me she was getting as big a charge out of Mr. Wilberforce as I was. 

It took him a little while to digest this. By way of helping, and I'm quite 
sure to draw attention to herself, Milady turned this way and that so he 
could have no illusions about the fix she was in. "You're chained!" He said. 
It was one more discovery. 

"Yes." She agreed helpfully. "Melynda's going to whip me. I expect you'd 
like to watch." 

Poor Willie! He got pink and then scarlet. As though realizing their 
absurdity, he lowered the sheets. I knew his quandary. Whichever way he 
looked there was a naked girl. He settled for me and sort of stuttered: "How 
on Earth...?" 

"I took lessons from Houdini. Once I was loose the rest was easy." 

Mr. Wilberforce may have found this more plausible than, I suspect, Milady 
did. 

"But Mrs. Prentice... chained up?" He was still gathering the loose ends. I 
could tell he found them exciting. 

"She is a prisoner of war." I explained. "She and I have a small account to 
settle." 

He did not ask what the account was. He knew. With his usual gift for 
sidestepping the unmentionable he suggested: "Perhaps if you ladies left me 
alone I might dress." 

It was really a shame! We were quite merciless. Milady contrived to flutter 
her shoulders in a feminine gesture of utter helplessness. "But darling," 
She cooed, "I'd love to. But I can't possibly move away from this spot." 
Then added, coyly: "Of course I could close my eyes." I added an extra five 
strokes to her sentence. But I wasn't much better. 

"You can bring Mrs. Prentice down to breakfast." I told Mr. Wilberforce. "I 
have the keys to her handcuffs and the collar, so don't waste time trying to 
be chivalrous. And don't let her sweet talk you into anything." I added 
ominously. Then I trotted out of there. I would have loved to watch poor 
Willie cope with a naked Mrs. Prentice while pulling on his trousers... 

Gloria and Amabel were treasures. They had everything under way like 
clockwork. They had even brought my clothes in from the car. I put 'em on. 
They put me one up on Milady, and I didn't want Mr. Wilberforce to think me 
completely wanton. The two girls looked enticing in their maid's uniforms. 
If they'd been any scantier they'd have had to put 'em on with scotch tape. 

"I expect you'll be having a bit of amusement with the Madam, Miss?" Amabel 
ventured. 

"Just for a day or two." I assured her. "What I have in mind will do her no 
end of good." 

"I bet you whip that hoity-toity bottom of hers." Gloria contributed with 
certainty. "I wouldn't mind having a go at that myself--not half I 
wouldn't!" 

A pleasant picture of Milady's bottom well exposed and a line forming to the 
left flitted through my mind. But I suppose the lower orders mustn't be 
given ideas above their station. I actually had no wish to permanently 
affect the status quo at Green Elms. So I contented myself with saying: 
"Jolly good idea!" Then we all turned to watch the Grand Entry. 

I could tell that, in spite of his scarlet face, Mr. Wilberforce was in his 
seventh Heaven carrying that chain with a naked girl on the end of it. The 
perspiration that dewed his brow was probably attributable to his awareness 
of four pairs of amused feminine eyes. Poor Willie really had the spotlight. 

Mrs. Prentice followed along like a good little girl. You could almost 
believe she enjoyed every moment of being naked on the end of a chain. She 
was so damn cool about it all I couldn't help wondering if she had some 
secret weapon up her sleeve--not that it could have been up her sleeve, even 
if she'd had one! 

I'd thought ahead a bit so I had a short chain for her ankles. While I was 
locking it on she drawled: "You think of everything, darling. I was 
wondering what precautions you'd take while you change my hands from back to 
front. I can't run now, so I can't fight." 

She had it figured. I unlocked her handcuffs. She even held her hands 
together in front while I locked them on again. She was going to hold on to 
that dignity of hers if it killed her. I had my own ideas about Milady's 
dignity and what I'd do to it. But that was for later. Right now Mr. 
Wilberforce politely held a chair for her as she walked daintily with 
hobbled feet to the head of the table. I let her sit there. After all, she 
was paying for our breakfast! 

The meal was pure joy. I expect I was happiest. But Mr. Wilberforce was 
happy too. He could hardly take his eyes away from those handcuffs on 
Milady's hands--even though it did mean he had to admire her frontal 
equipment also. Gloria and Amabel were so intrigued they could scarcely keep 
from grinning out loud. I'm sure the only reason they didn't burst out 
laughing was the fear their bottoms might pay for it at some later date. 
Milady chatted away with us about this and that and wore her handcuffs as 
though they were just pretty bracelets. She was amazingly deft. But did 
graciously allow Mr. Wilberforce to cut up her bacon. She did an appealingly 
female motion with her chained hands so that the silly ass would know what a 
truly virile male he was wielding the knife and fork. That woman was 
dynamite! 

We had all day. So after breakfast I didn't rush things. I unlocked her 
ankles, and we two girls went up to her room and did a bit of repair work. I 
even helped her ladyship with those items of her toilette impractical with 
chained hands. But I kept her naked. When I finally asked the sixty-four 
dollar question she replied quite casually and without a tremor in her 
voice: "Of course we have a whipping post, darling! You favor the post for 
me, do you? I'd thought you might prefer suspending me by my wrists on tip 
toe. A girl's awfully exposed like that." 

"But don't you think the post is a bit more shame-making?" I suggested, 
equally casual. "You know, the criminal associations and all that?" 

"Perhaps you are right." She conceded, as though we had just decided on 
which dress to wear. "I take it you wish to whip me first--before you do 
anything else...?" 

She was still scoring! I hadn't even thought of anything else! What else was 
there! But from the way she had said it there were, quite obviously, other 
things. I didn't let on. 

"I'd sort of thought of spreading your whipping over the whole day." I 
explained, as though offering her a real treat. "I wasn't just thinking of 
six of the best." 

I really believed that one got to her. I could have sworn she caught her 
breath. Certainly she was silent. I kept right on brushing her hair. Finally 
she asked, in a warmly interested voice that I'm sure was quite sincere: 
"What kind of whip do you favor?" 

I did not have to ponder that one. "The lovely black thing we used on 
Amabel." I said with relish. 

She nodded. "It makes beautiful marks. I thought that was the one you would 
choose. Will Mr. Wilberforce join in the fun?" 

I was not a bit sure about Mr. Wilberforce. If I had just intended to tie 
her in some uncomfortable but polite sort of way I'm sure that wild horses 
could not have kept him from going to work with his camera. But I intended 
to hurt her. I still remembered her whip cutting into my own bottom: I had 
to get even! But I suppose really it was female bitchiness that was 
prompting me to somehow get underneath that exquisite poise and charm. I 
wanted to make her human like me and Amabel and Gloria. Alright! Call it 
sour grapes if you want! But that's what I wanted. I was hoping that if Mr. 
Wilberforce's chivalry got the better of him he might just excuse himself 
and go to the bathroom. 

"He will be taking pictures." I explained offhandedly. 

"Won't he whip me too?" She sounded disappointed. 

"Do you want him to?" She had made me curious--the bitch! 

"I've never been whipped by a man." She sounded quite dreamy. "It's bound to 
be a bit erotic, don't you think! If I have got to be hurt it might be nice 
to get a bit of a thrill." 

I was suddenly flamingly jealous! I was annoyed with myself. But, even in 
her present plight, she contrived to be a threat reaching out and touching 
Mr. Wilberforce. He was mine!! 

"I wasn't thinking of giving you a thrill." I told her curtly. 

"I know." She said quietly. "I expect you will succeed in what you have in 
mind. I wish you would not do it. But I can't blame you." Suddenly she 
looked sideways and up at me with one of those 'us girls together' looks. I 
could swear there was mischief in her voice: "Please, somewhere in the 
proceedings, hand Willie the whip. You'll be as amused as I will to see what 
he does with it." 

One more score for Milady! I knew it something I could not resist. "I'd 
laugh if he really made you squeal." I offered optimistically: not that I 
could really picture him doing it, but it was an entrancing thought. "Which 
of the rooms do we go to?" I asked in a businesslike manner. 

"Just tell me when you are ready. I'll lead the way." Her voice had become 
casual again. "No need to involve the servants, is there?" 

"I'd love to give Gloria and Amabel a chance at your bottom." I told her 
frankly. "They deserve it, and so do you! But it would not really be 
sporting, so I won't." 

"Thank you, darling." She said it with sincerity. 

"And no more 'darlings!" I told her sharply. "As of this moment you call me 
'Mistress'. Each time you slip you'll hurt. Now, where's this lovely 
whipping post?" 

It was almost frightening. There it stood in the middle of the well lighted 
room. So terribly simple! I think stark would be the word. There wasn't 
anything else to distract attention. Well up at about eye level there was a 
leather cuff on each side. With a wrist buckled in each a girl would just 
have to stand. She wouldn't be going anywhere. 

"Just to save indignity I'd offer to put my wrists where they have to go 
after you have taken off the handcuffs." Lady Marcia said musingly. "But 
after you have taken them off I'd be quite free, and right now I honestly 
believe I'd run for it. That damn post scares me all of a sudden. So you'd 
better fasten my feet so I won't be tempted." She was almost apologetic. 

I did what had to be done. The Lady Marcia Stanhope stood passive or 
disposed herself as I directed. It was all frightfully genteel. At the end 
of it she stood, very erect, with one wrist held straight in front and 
slightly raised. She could not get close to rest herself against the wood or 
to use it for protection, nor could she back further away from it. She just 
had to stand, at arm's length as it were. She looked quite irritatingly 
beautiful! 

Having got her fastened to it I could see how ingenious that post and the 
cuffs were. They held the victim with the very minimum of restraint. Except 
for her arms she was free to kick and wriggle and squirm. I found myself 
happily excited at the idea. I suspected that Milady had never done much 
squirming. She looked at me dolefully over one raised arm: "If it helps you 
to know," She said thoughtfully, "I'm scared. I didn't think I would be. But 
I am." 

In her place I'd have been scared too! 

I left her standing there to enjoy being scared, and went in search of Mr. 
Wilberforce. I found him busy loading film. He seemed cheerful, no trace of 
a blush. 

"We are ready. You'll get some really super pictures!" I said it briskly and 
kept the quavers out of my voice. 

He took the shock really well! Or was it a shock! A naked Lady Marcia surely 
could not be too hard for a man to take! Even poor Willie. The crafty vixen 
had disposed herself to the best possible advantage in her bonds. She made a 
gorgeous picture of feminine helplessness. I was scared he'd dash right over 
and let her loose. But I was doing him an injustice. He had a mission. After 
the first gasp and some stumbling words telling her she looked very lovely 
he got busy with the lighting and the plug-ins. First thing I knew he was 
taking pictures like mad. Milady must have had some training as a model. She 
thrust out her most interesting parts this way and that--no matter what that 
woman did it ended up good. Mr. Wilberforce even forgot to blush. 

There was a small hook in the post. I'd hung the lovely black whip on it so 
Milady could admire it as one of the preliminaries. It had hung there right 
in front of her eyes. Now I went and took it down. It was sort of a signal. 
Mr. Wilberforce pretended not to notice, and started fiddling with his gear. 
Milady went taut, her eyes riveted on the whip. I don't think she wanted to 
look at it, snapping back and forth in my hand, but she could not help it. 

I gave her the full suspense. You know, finding position, measuring 
distance, tapping her bottom with the whip, then sliding it back and forth 
across her back, even giving her thighs a bit of attention as though I meant 
to whip them too. She stood quite still watching me over her prisoned arm. 
When she thought I was through with the little games and ready to get down 
to business she turned and stared straight ahead at the post, waiting. 

I may as well admit the moment went a bit flat for me. She had been such a 
good sport about the whole thing, and I couldn't help wondering if I could 
have stood there without a quiver in her place. She also looked so 
absolutely gorgeous that even a girl had to be touched by whatever quality 
she had. Little Melynda really had to assert herself. I wasn't going to let 
myself be deflected by the female wile of a pretty pose and perfect poise. 
She was using these things as weapons against me and the whip. 

So it was more or less with the feeling that: 'Well we have to start 
sometime'... that I lifted that wicked black thing I had been holding, swung 
it well back with plenty of sound, then slashed it squarely across Mrs. 
Prentice's beautifully round bottom. 

Even with her skin she had quality. The ridged red wheal that sprang into 
being seemed to me to possess an aesthetic perfection that Amabel, Gloria or 
I could not have matched. It was really a work of art. It had a color all 
its own. One had the feeling her flesh was more tender than that of common 
girls. It was immensely responsive. I like that word for it: responsive! 

But, of course, it was Milady herself who stole the show. She would! What do 
you expect a girl to do after she has had a frightful stroke with a whip 
where she sits down! Gasp. Kick. Struggle?. Needless to say, she did none of 
these things. She did not even flinch. Languidly she turned to me and 
smiled. 

"You do that very well...." There was a provocative pause. Then she added 
the missing word: "Mistress." 

Not to be outdone in nonchalance I gave a small bow of acknowledgment. 

The Lady Marcia Stanhope made some small sensuous motions designed to enable 
her to see the damage. She was supple enough to get just half a look. When 
she desisted and relapsed into her perfect pose she said: "It looks 
perfectly scrumptious, Mistress. I do hope you will give me another just 
like it." 

I ask you! What can you do with a female like that! Her eyes met mine in the 
most innocent way as though she was asking for an ice cream instead of a 
pain more awful than most people ever know. But, oddly enough, her impassive 
control piqued my resolve to get under her skin--no pun intended. So I tried 
even harder with the second blow. 

If I do say so myself it was beautiful! A couple of inches above the first. 
All the proportions were so 'just right' I was almost tempted to leave well 
enough alone... But not quite! 

Mrs. Prentice was superb! She did the same small erotic motions, which I now 
recognized as a message to Mr. Wilberforce, that she had done before. She 
did not get to see much more than she had done the first time. But she kept 
a bright and interested smile through it all and, seemingly without guile, 
sent a barb my way: "You do it so well, Mistress. It's a pleasure to be 
whipped by you." She'd have sent those Spanish Inquisition chaps to a 
psychiatrist. I felt like dancing up and down on the whip. Anyway I made 
number three a real zinger. 

Still no gasp, no cringe. Milady ignored me this time and turned both 
barrels of her charm on Mr. Wilberforce: "Melynda does this so well, doesn't 
she, darling. Are there any special parts of me you would like her to whip?" 

It was more cruel to him than I was to her. At the word 'parts' he flamed 
crimson. It was then I realized that, while I was busy with the whip, he had 
been staring at Mrs. Prentice's 'parts' as though mesmerized. It is possible 
she had overplayed her role. If she had wriggled and screamed she might have 
had him. But her total poise deceived. He had never been whipped, so could 
not know how it hurt. To rob me of victory she had sacrificed his concern. 
It suddenly struck me that if Mr. Wilberforce was unaware of how awful the 
pain was then this was the time to hand him the whip. I did so. "Be sure and 
pick out those special places." I admonished playfully. 

It was what she had asked for. In spite of caution a glance of complicity 
flashed between the naked woman, bound to the post, and myself. Then, all 
eyes turned on poor Mr. Wilberforce and his whip. 

To tell the truth he did not look as distraught as I had expected. Fact was 
that Mrs. Prentice's marvellous acting had relieved him of the guilt he 
would normally have felt. If that whip didn't hurt any more than she was 
letting on, then he was quite prepared to use it. Especially with that warm 
invitation she was extending his way with her eyes. I actually felt a bit 
sorry for poor Mrs. Prentice. She had sort of worked her way into a point of 
no return. 

I sort of retired to the wings and left my employer in full charge. It was a 
bit of a panic to watch. He advanced to center stage with some assurance. 
But that got him very close indeed to all those lovely parts and their 
owner. It also got him a close view of those lovely marks I'd left on her. I 
think it must have occurred to him that you don't produce such vivid effects 
without at least a twinge of discomfort. But anyway he sort of squared up to 
the task in hand. He reminded me of one of those Surveyer types getting 
ready to measure up a property line. I wouldn't have been surprised if he 
had produced a tape and compass. 

The first thing he did was clear his throat as though about to make a 
speech. He then executed a sort of arthritic backward swing. I thought 
things were now under way. I saw Lady Marcia tense a bit, so she must have 
thought so too. But, having reached the limit of his backhand, Mr. 
Wilberforce let his arm sag. It appeared he had forgotten something! This 
time he gently, almost respectfully, patted the Lady Marcia Stanhope's 
bottom with the whip in the same way he had me do. I got the impression that 
he was not so much gauging the coming stroke as he was conforming to some 
sort of protocol he deemed proper. Willie could always be relied on to do 
the right thing. If ancient custom dictated that Lady Marcia's sit-me-down 
be duly patted, he would not deny the privilege. But I could see she was 
wishing he'd get on with the job. The suspense was killing her. 

He did better the next time. His backward swing was pretty good and he 
started off with a very swishy forward which suddenly died in mid air. He 
stood there holding the whip and looking damp. "I say," He said to no one in 
particular, "I forgot to ask. Is it alright for me to use the same...." He 
floundered. "I mean, should I aim for the same general area...?" 

"Yes." I said flatly. 

"There's actually quite a lot of me that hasn't been used yet." 

I thought I detected a trace of acerbity in Mrs. Prentice's voice. 

Mr. Wilberforce must have noticed it too. It did nothing to bolster his 
confidence. He made his stroke, but it was woefully short. Only the tip 
connecting with the Lady Marcia's near cheek and leaving only a most 
undistinguished mark. 

"Having trouble with your follow through?" Mrs. Prentice inquired 
pleasantly. 

"I say, it isn't really like golf, is it." Mr. Wilberforce resumed his 
patting preliminaries on Mrs. Prentice's bottom. 

"Don't be afraid of me, darling." His victim bestowed on him her most 
bewitching smile. "Whipping me is a bit of a privilege, y'know. Just think! 
I'm available all the way from my heels to my neck. You pick the bit that 
appeals. Put some nice marks there." She paused and twinkled at him. "Of 
course, if you'd prefer it, I'm sure Melynda would turn me round on the post 
so you could whip my front. I think myself the front is actually more 
interesting...." Poor Mr. Wilberforce! I could well see why Milady had 
wanted him to do the whipping. I'd have chosen him myself if I'd been tied 
to that post. Her idea of being turned round almost appealed to me. It would 
serve her right, the calculating cat! But it utterly demoralized poor 
Willie. When a girl's front is mentioned anyone instinctively thinks of the 
whip curling across those two curved round appendages with their pink 
nipples. Mr. Wilberforce ran true to form. His eyes focused on Mrs. 
Prentice's salient points. They betrayed a deep hunger and shocked guilt. 

"That's frightfully kind of you." He stuttered. "But, really, I think the 
present position the most suitable." He looked at her earnestly, "I say, are 
you sure you are enjoying this?" 

Mrs. Prentice would have loved to kick him. I'd have loved to laugh out 
loud. 

"Of course I'm enjoying it, darling!" She breathed the words out as though 
scarcely able to wait for her next stroke. "It isn't every day a girl gets 
to be whipped by someone like you." 

"Well really! But... I mean, do you do this sort of thing often?" Mr. 
Wilberforce sounded genuinely curious. 

She was not giving anything away. "Don't you think you should carry on with 
whipping me, darling. I have to be whipped, y'know. Melynda insists on it." 

"Quite so." Said Willie. He shuffled his feet. "But are you quite sure? 
Doesn't it hurt a bit?" 

I could almost hear her giving an exasperated sigh somewhere deep inside. 
But she ran true to form. "Not when you do it, darling. With you it's quite 
thrilling! Now do be a good boy, pick a nice place on me and then whip me 
there just as hard as you can." She looked at him soulfully over her 
shoulder and almost purred: "Please darling...?" She was looking at Mr. 
Wilberforce, but I knew that what she said was meant for me. 

I have learned that I must not underrate Willie. He is capable of surprises. 
They probably mostly come from the state of mind he was in right then. A 
real dog's breakfast of embarrassment, desire, longing, guilt and all the 
rest of it that his nice upbringing had stuffed him with. So I suspect that 
what he did next was simply an act of desperation. A compelling need to do 
something and not just stand there. He made a wide singing sweep with the 
whip and brought it slashing down across that wonderful white back, the 
unmarked virgin purity of which did offer itself in a sort of open 
invitation. It was so very much there, if you know what I mean! 

The results were dramatic. A really incredible line of bruised flesh rose up 
and began turning purple across the full width of the smooth skin. From 
where I stood I was pretty sure the tip had even curled round under one arm. 
The pain must have been atrocious! But it had a wicked beauty. Mr. 
Wilberforce stood looking at his handiwork as though not believing what he 
saw and what he had done. 

But it was Milady I was really looking at. She put up a damn good show. 
There was one quite audible gasp of indrawn breath, then an instinctive 
backward toss of her head which she managed to control before she pressed 
her face into the softness of her bound arm and kept it there so that no one 
could see whatever contortions of pain her features might betray. 

It was impossible not to know that the Lady Marcia Stanhope was in agony. 
Stoic though she was, the bowed head and the clenched fists tugging at their 
bonds were eloquent. Mr. Wilberforce read their message. Uncertainly he took 
a step toward the naked captive, paused and turned back, looked bemusedly at 
the whip in his hand before letting it fall to the floor. Turning a stricken 
face to me he muttered: "Oh Melynda! I didn't know...!" A moment later he 
was gone. I did not try to stop him. 

I won't pretend I wasn't glad. Poor Willie had no business in there with us 
two girls in the first place. The thing between Milady and me was something 
female a bit outside his sympathy. I found a stool and sat down to watch 
Milady's recovery. I felt a bit sorry for her, so didn't push. I'm no expert 
about whips, even if I sound like one. But Freddy had given me enough 
instruction on the receiving end to know that a stroke hurts beyond 
imagining when it cuts into you. But it does tail off quicker than you 
suppose. Most of your gasps and contortions and tugging at the straps come 
from shock and an awful, awful fear of the next blow. A lot of it's mental. 
The effort to hide your face and curl up as much as your bonds will allow is 
that old thing about the security of the womb. You have to try. It's 
instinctive. 

Sure enough, it was not too long before Milady raised one eye and 
apprehensively surveyed the field. I had a feeling that she was relieved at 
not seeing my employer. 

"Care to say something flippant?" I asked. 

Milady did not answer. Slowly she re-arranged herself into that lovely pose 
that came so naturally. Then she surprised me. She started to cry. 

The bitch in me said it was a try-on. I expect it partly was. She had 
herself quite a time sobbing away and trying to dry her cheeks on her raised 
arm. I waited until she had got it down to the odd sniff before I took a 
handkerchief and finished the job for her. I also smoothed her hair and put 
it in place. There's not much more you can do for a naked girl. She smiled 
wanly and said thank you as though she meant it. 

I placed my stool where she would be able to see me without straining over 
her shoulder. Settling myself comfortably I said in a very level sort of 
voice that she could interpret anyway she chose: "Just us two girls now." 

Looking back I realize I was saying that with Mr. Wilberforce gone her 
immediate future looked bleak. 

The tears seemed to have settled something for her. She looked me right in 
the eye and said: "Alright, Mistress, I'll stop playing games. The pain is 
too damn awful. I thought I could stand it, but I can't. If I accept 
whatever humiliation will satisfy and please you will you stop whipping 
me... ? Please!" 

"No!" I felt mean. But I was not going to let her dictate terms. 

She nodded as though understanding why I had refused. I expect she did. "I 
hadn't much hope." She admitted. "We girls don't have much mercy on each 
other. I know why you are doing this. I can't even be a brave little girl. 
I've had enough! When you start whipping me again I'll howl and struggle so 
that I'll be ashamed. That's what you want, isn't it?" 

She had an unerring aim for my weak spots. I felt a bitch. I was annoyed! I 
picked up the whip and said: "Well, let's have a demonstration then." and 
added another livid stripe to match the others on her bottom. 

Her response was the same as Amabel or I would have shown. One huge gasp and 
a choked cry, a frantic and useless tugging at the straps, all sorts of 
frustrated motions and sounds until she relapsed in quivering suspense 
awaiting the next lash. 

I gave her another. She responded beautifully. This time when she had 
finished the gasps and the motions she looked at me and said fearfully: "You 
told me all day: it won't go on like this, will it?" 

I hadn't had a plan. As I said, I'm no whip expert. But it had occurred to 
me too that I could not very well go on whipping Milady like this all day 
long. 

"Not to worry." I reassured her. "One more now. After that I'll visit you 
every hour and give you five." 

She did a bit of arithmetic. "I'll be striped like a Zebra." She said 
doubtfully. 

"You will, won't you!" I enthused. Then gave her a really good one right 
across the others. This time she squealed and really put on a show with the 
tugging and kicking. It wasn't feigned either. She hurt and wanted to get 
loose. She looked after me reproachfully when I left the room. 

The day went on schedule. Mr. Wilberforce busied himself with taking 
pictures around the grounds and a few of the two girls who, giggling like 
crazy, allowed themselves to be tied to trees and any other way he chose. It 
was really a very good day for Willie. He made no reference to Mrs. 
Prentice. I think he figured it was my day with her and that he would not 
interfere. In between being tied up Gloria and Amabel produced some 
wonderful meals. But I saw to it Milady just got bread and water. Looking 
back I feel ashamed of myself. But she really had rubbed me the wrong way. 
In between I managed to ask Gloria and Amabel some questions. 

I allowed Milady to share her own bed with me again. I got a kick out of 
having her there beside me with her wrists handcuffed behind her back and 
the tether on her ankle. She seemed grateful. I think she'd been half scared 
of being left tied to the post all night. I wouldn't exactly say she had 
become abject. But she was not putting on any airs and graces. I was 
actually surprised by the effect the whip had brought about. I made a mental 
resolve not to stress the point with Mr. Wilberforce, just in case he might 
decide to improve my behavior by using it on me. 

Milady was really something to see. I had her stripped from her bottom to 
her shoulders. Honest, she was beautiful! I just couldn't take my eyes off 
my day's work. She was as proud of her wounds as I was. She spent whole 
minutes turning this way and that in front of the big mirror. She even 
exclaimed about this mark or that where the whip had curled round and bit at 
her tummy or her loins or under her arms. She even asked me to trace my 
fingers across these weals, then shivered and gasped when I obliged her. She 
was strange and unpredictable. But there was a warmth between us now that 
had not been there before I had whipped her. Make what you can of that! 

"I ought to hate you, Mistress. I'm not sure why I don't." She was sitting 
on the edge of the bed. Her ankle chain dangling. "Have you ever been 
whipped that severely?" 

"No." I admitted. "But enough to know how it hurts." 

She sat quiet for some moments while I brushed my hair. Then, in a bright 
and conversational voice that I suspected masked apprehension, asked: "What 
about tomorrow, Mistress?" 

"How about another of the same?" 

She must have thought I meant it. There was real feeling in her voice. "Oh, 
please no! Don't do that to me again!" 

"What would you suggest?" 

Oh sure! I know! It was cat & mouse. But I couldn't resist. 

She wriggled a bit and tugged at her locked wrists. "Couldn't I just be tied 
up, or something?" 

"You don't really expect to get off that easy, do you?" 

More wriggles. But her voice was quite clear. "No, Mistress." 

"I made a few enquiries." I let the remark hang there before adding. "Gloria 
and Amabel mentioned that room where you have the horizontal bar... Some 
sort of quaint name they use for it, I believe?" 

Milady went taut. Then shrugged and relaxed. "Must you?" Once more the 
feeling in her voice was very real. 

I turned and faced her, smiling. "Yes. I must. It's something I very much 
want to do. It's sort of piqued my curiosity." 

She nodded understandingly. "I know about these feelings of yours. I have 
'em too." She pondered, "Is there no way I can talk myself out of this, 
Mistress? I'd do a lot or give a lot if you'd set me free?" 

"Would you set me free?" 

"Alright, Mistress. I won't be a bore." She made an effort and changed her 
mood. Her voice betrayed some amusement. "They call that thing 'The Horse'. 
I only used it once. On Amabel. When I set her free she went straight to her 
room and started to pack. I had to bribe her shamefully to persuade her to 
stay. I also had to promise both of them not to ever make them ride The 
Horse again." She giggled. "I have been tempted to get Sykes to help me put 
one of them up there again, just for fun. But they are good girls and I 
don't want to lose 'em. They do absorb a good deal of discomfort quite 
cheerfully. So I had to believe The Horse must be extra awful." 

I actually kissed her goodnight. 

Breakfast was a delight. Milady took my announcement that she would join the 
family with mixed feelings. I could tell she was not too happy about having 
the girls and Mr. Wilberforce see those lovely stripes all over her. Some of 
them were now dark purple. She did tentatively mention the subject of 
clothes. But I soon scotched that. Accepting that she did not have much to 
say about anything, she even helped me cuff her hands in front and get her 
ready. She even made a sort of grand entry with a bright and cheerful: "Good 
morning everybody." 

Poor Mr. Wilberforce! If I had actually walked in with a real striped zebra 
he couldn't have been more shocked. The girls took one good look, glanced at 
each other, then hurriedly left the room. 

"Nice to see you in the pink." Said Mr. Wilberforce, ineptly. 

A small silence prompted him to try again. 

"Never seen you look better!" He enthused. 

The Lady Marcia took pity on him, and graciously indicated that he might 
hold her chair. This gave him a close-up of the damage, including that 
magnificent effort of his own. It stood out among the rest. I thought he was 
going to go into one of his trances. So I broke it up by mentioning the 
photogenic quality of what he was admiring. 

Amabel and Gloria were in a seventh Heaven of their own. Whilst serving they 
looked as much as they decently could and lost no opportunity to pass by the 
back of Milady's chair, then waltzed off to the kitchen to compare notes 
and, no doubt, do a bit of a giggle. Being more or less permanently marked 
themselves it must have felt good to welcome their Mistress to the Club. 

"And now for some pictures!" Mr. Wilberforce said, after breakfast. 

"I think my Mistress has plans for me." Milady demurred. 

I could see from the look he gave me that Mr. 

Wilberforce was quite uncertain about me and her Ladyship. "We can spare you 
an hour." I told him cheerfully. I was not sure whether Milady was pleased 
or sorry. 

But she was a good sport. Since she had to, she did it well. Or maybe she 
just wanted to please a man. She posed her chained hands and all her other 
attributes in the most submissive and provocative postures she could devise. 
Willie did not have to give a single directive. I'm sure those pictures 
would have fetched a fortune if you could have sold 'em. When it was done we 
left Mr. W with his gear. Giving me a reproachful but resigned look Milady 
led the way. 

That house had a lot of rooms. This was another with a single exhibit dead 
center. It looked harmless enough, a sort of low elongated goal post. The 
horizontal pole being about four or five inches in diameter and four or five 
feet off the floor. Milady and I stood and looked at it and then at each 
other. 

"I'd really like to pass this one, if you'd let me." She said sincerely. 
"Are you sure you would not sooner whip me again?" 

So I knew it had to be bad! 

But it looked so damn innocent. Even the straps fastened to the floor didn't 
seem much of a threat. 

Her hands were already cuffed behind her back. But I suddenly realized I 
could not place her up where she had to go without help. 

"Are you going to be a good little girl and climb up there. Or would you 
prefer that I compel you with the whip?" I offered her the alternatives 
because I sensed her distaste for what lay ahead. 

She shrugged and made a little grimace. Then looked at me with a 'just 
between us girl's' look. "Oh alright." She conceded. "I don't want to be 
whipped as well as having to sit on that damn bar. I'll help all I can. I 
don't know how far I can go with this obedient slave business. But if I can 
manage it up to a point you ought to be able to ensure the rest." 

I did not want to seem too naive. But this was something new. Neither Freddy 
or Mr. Wilberforce had caught sight of anything like The Horse. I just had 
what Amabel had told me as a guide. I looked around, and there, sure enough, 
was the box affair Amabel had described. I placed it beneath the bar between 
the two straps. The Lady Marcia gave another shrug of resignation and 
stepped up on it. "I may howl and carry on terribly." She warned me. "I just 
don't know. Judging by Amabel, I'm sure I won't behave very well." 

She really was a good sport. I have to hand it to her. She stood there for a 
moment and looked down as though hoping I would change my mind. Then threw 
one leg over the bar and stood astride. But she had to stand on her toes to 
do so. I began to glimpse that it might not be a pleasant day for her. 

"The cuffs for my ankle's are hanging on the wall." She told me in a voice 
that was far from happy. 

I buckled them on tight. Then attached the straps from the floor. I was 
careful to get the tension even on each foot. She looked down at my work 
without comment. Even when the tug of the straps pulled her feet apart she 
did no more than draw in a sudden breath through her nostrils. It was not 
until I had pulled the buckles as far as they could be cinched at that time 
and stood back to get a good look at her and at my work that she said: 
"Please Mistress. Don't do this to me. I'm scared. Hurt me in some other 
way. Amabel said this is more awful than a girl can imagine." 

I did not answer. I was quite wrapped up in the project. I was not concerned 
with what Amabel may have said. After all you could not expect her to be 
enthused. It was the effect on Milady that I wanted to witness. I pulled 
away the box. 

The Lady Marcia Stanhope gasped. She continued to gasp while I tightened up 
the buckles until her legs were held out taut at each side, quite widely 
spread, and anchored to the floor. She was thus prevented from falling to 
either side. But Amabel had told me of a further refinement. 

A hook was suspended by a cord from a pulley well behind the naked figure of 
our Hostess. I engaged it with the center link of her handcuffs and pulled 
on the other end. Her arms came up and up behind her back, forcing her to 
lean forward instead of back. If her gasps meant anything this position must 
have hurt more. When she was nicely upright and in balance I snubbed the 
cord so that she would have to stay in exactly that way. Her Ladyship was 
now riding The Horse in what Amabel had described as the truly approved 
fashion. She had added that it was also the most painful. I walked away and 
turned to get a full view. 

Milady looked beautiful. I realized there was nothing you could do to her 
that would cause her to look anything else. She was terribly strained. 
Between the traction on her wrists and her ankles she could not move. She 
just had to sit on that bar. I began to glimpse the nature of this 
punishment. All her weight rested on that one delicate part of a girl's 
anatomy: sort of in the center of everything. The bar was not that wide. It 
would dig in. From the expression on Milady's face I could tell it had 
already started to dig. 

Pulling her chained wrists up behind her like that caused her to be looking 
down at the bar. She would naturally seek this easiest relief. But she 
raised her face to me now. It was lined and drawn and hurt. Her voice was 
controlled, but urgent. 

"Please take me down. I can't stand it! No one could stand it! Please... 
please... please!" 

"I'll admit I was in a bit of a bind. She sounded so terribly pained. I'm 
not entirely a bitch. On the other hand I knew she could act. And after all, 
others had put up with The Horse so why couldn't she! She had survived the 
whip yesterday: even though I'm sure there were times when she was sure she 
wouldn't. I explained this to her in a nice reasonable voice. 

I'm not sure she even heard me. She just kept breathing heavily through 
flared nostrils and fluttering her wracked shoulders: "Mistress, whip me! 
Please whip me. Not this...!" She drew the words out between gasps. There 
was no doubt of their sincerity. 

O.K. I'm not a nice girl! I should have let her down. Her distress should 
have touched my heart. Well, believe it or not, it did. But I still did not 
want to set her free. She looked delectable up there on that bar. I wanted 
her to stay there. I wanted to find out what she would say or how she would 
act. I suppose I was still smarting and wanted to see Lady Marcia Stanhope 
eat large helpings of humble pie. There was also something beautifully 
erotic about her situation and the knowledge of where she was hurting most. 
I told you there is a bit of the bitch in us girls. If she'd had me up there 
I don't think she would have let me down. 

"I don't want to whip you." I told her kindly. "I just want you to sit there 
and tell me how it feels." 

"You know how it is." She gasped. "Oh please, Mistress...!" She began to 
make small inarticulate cries that relapsed into moans. She abandoned motion 
of any kind. I expect it hurt too much. 

"I'll drop in every hour or so to see how you are getting on." I told her 
brightly, and made for the door. 

"No!" She ejected the exclamation like a bullet. Don't leave me alone. 
Please don't! It's too awful. What if I faint?" 

"You can't fall." I pointed out cheerfully. 

"I'll crawl... Mistress." From the way she said it I knew she was offering 
everything she had. 

"Good!" I exclaimed brightly. "We'll do that later." 

I went out and left Milady with her thingummy pressed heavily against that 
bar. 

I waited an hour. Then brought Mr. Wilberforce with his cameras. Milady 
acknowledged her awareness by saying: "I'll do anything! Anything at 
all...." She did not raise her head. She made the perfect picture of fatigue 
and subjection that Mr. Wilberforce and I had spoken of. She was so perfect 
that he did not bring up the question of releasing her until after he had 
snapped the shutter from every angle. Shrewdly she began to plead at just 
the moment his conscience began to bother him. So I bustled us both out of 
there. 

"It's much kinder to leave her alone." I told him. 

Poor Willie believed me. 

When I went back the next time she did not move or look up. She had given up 
hope. She just sat silent with her pain. I felt more compassion for her than 
I had ever done. In her dejection her striated body seemed more beautiful 
than ever. She had that quality. 

I knew what I wanted to do. I positioned the big box and stood up on it. She 
must have been filled with hope. But she made no sign. Taking her bowed head 
in my hands I lifted it and kissed her long and warmly on the lips. After a 
few moments she kissed me back, avidly. I got down, put the box away, and 
left her alone. 

She had not uttered a word. 

I pushed it all very quickly after that. Mr. Wilberforce seemed content with 
whatever I wanted. Green Elms had left him very much at sea. So we packed 
our stuff in the car. Neither of us mentioned the naked woman up there on 
the bar. Then we went to say good-bye to the two girls. 

They were quite tearful. I suppose we had all suffered together. It had 
formed a bond. Besides, they had adored everything I had done to Her 
Ladyship. They couldn't do it themselves--not and hold their jobs. But they 
had loved those stripes, and the thought of her sitting up there on The 
Horse sent them into ecstasies of giggles. Their merriment reassured me a 
bit about what I'd done to her. 

Mr. Wilberforce gave them a couple of pounds apiece. We even went as far as 
a hug and a kiss. We simply liked each other. Then I told them just where 
and how I had left their Mistress. I made it quite plain that she was now 
their responsibility. I probably did stress, a bit more than strictly 
necessary, the fact that she would never know the time we had left: so they 
could set her free as soon or as late as might please them. I explained that 
Sykes would be back tomorrow. 

As we drove away and waved back I couldn't help wondering if they would 
leave Milady on the bar all night. 

* * * 

Mrs. Terence was an estimable lady of uncertain age. She supported herself 
by 'doing' for a number of what she always described as "Her Gentlemen". 
Notably short on aspirates, she was long on probity. Thus she was the 
custodian of keys to those dwellings in which her gentlemen resided, 
enabling her to do for them at any hour of the day or night. One of her most 
valued clients was Horace Wilberforce. 

Letting herself in through his front door Mrs. Terence noted evidence of 
habitation. Evidently her gentleman had returned. Getting no response to her 
cry of "Anyone home?", she went about her doing unconcerned. It was not 
until an errand took her to the basement that she became aware of something 
untoward. The heavy door to what Mr. Wilberforce had always vaguely referred 
to as 'another dark room' stood slightly ajar. 

Mrs. Terence held her gentleman's photography in some awe. His dark room was 
a holy place. She would never have opened its door herself. But, finding it 
open, she had little doubt it should be closed. Approaching she was 
surprised to note a far greater volume of light than might reasonably be 
associated with the term "Dark". Good honest daylight at that. Curiosity 
overcame scruple. She pulled the door wide and entered. What she beheld left 
her in some doubt as to the wisdom of her pause for refreshment at the 
King's Head just down the street. 

The girl was quite beautiful. She was quite naked. She was quite helpless. 
She stood against the central post, held there by a chain tight about her 
waist. Another very short chain joined her hands. She had been in a reverie. 
The opening of the door had brought her tense, her eyes wide and scared, her 
mute nudity a question mark. 

Mrs. Terence examined the situation. She came direct to what was, for her, 
the very essence. 

"You ain't got no clothes on." She said accusingly. 

Melynda looked down as though making a similar discovery. "No, I haven't, 
have I." She agreed brightly. 

"Wot yer doin' against that there post?" 

"I'm chained here. I can't get away." 

"R" said Mrs. Terence. She contrived to endow the single letter with a 
greater eloquence than a thousand words. 

"Mr. Wilberforce is out on some business. He'll unlock me when he comes 
back." Melynda offered hopefully. 

"R...!" Said Mrs. Terence with an even greater emphasis of dubiety. 

"I work for him, you know." Melynda searched frantically for something 
plausible. "I help with his photography." 

"R!" Mrs. Terence said with heavy sarcasm. "I'll just bet you do! Then what, 
may I ask, are yer doin' chained ter that there post?" 

"Just experimenting with a pose." 

Mrs. Terence perked up. "You one of them there models?" She inquired with 
interest. Her faithful perusal of the News of the World had intimately 
acquainted her with the 'goings on' of models. 

"Well, not exactly." Melynda said unhappily. "I say, would you mind just 
leaving me here and going on about your work." 

"Well, I like that!" Mrs. Terence was indignant. "Go about me work! Proper 
'ussy you are, standing there without a stitch and a'tellin' honest women 
what ter do. It's calling the police is what I'll be about!" She snorted, 
"Model indeed...!" 

Melynda was distraught. Police! She could envisage the headlines. If only 
her employer had not forgotten to close the door! She was exasperated with 
him and with herself. Her plight was too absurd. If only she could cast 
aside the chains that held her. Free, she could cope with the situation. But 
not chained to a post. She fought down the instinct to struggle. Mr. 
Wilberforce had the keys. Until his return she was a prisoner. 

"Couldn't you wait until Mr. Wilberforce comes back?" She asked placatingly. 
"After all, I can't escape, can I." 

Mention of Mr. Wilberforce seemed the right note. Mrs. Terence advanced 
purposefully and tugged at the chain round Melynda's middle. Her victim 
winced. "Oh, please! That hurts! It won't come off. Honest it won't! I don't 
mind standing like this until Mr. Wilberforce comes back." 

"I mind!" Mrs. Terence said virtuously. "Can't you cover them things up?" 
She indicated the twin conical loveliness of the captive's breasts. 

Melynda raised her chained hands. "Not very well. But I can put my hands 
over one of them if you like." She smiled apologetically, "Of course that 
still leaves...." 

"I can see what it leaves!" Mrs. Terence affirmed. "Staring me in the face 
it is! Proper 'ussy yer are." She returned to a point of interest, "You sure 
yer ain't a model?" 

"I suppose I am." Admitted Melynda, clutching at a straw. "That's why I have 
to stand like this. Mr. Wilberforce wants a picture of a maiden in distress. 
We believe that if I stand chained like this long enough I'll look properly 
forlorn... It's a state of mind." 

"It ain't yer mind he's taking photos of." Mrs. Terence affirmed darkly. "As 
for the maiden bit, I got me doubts about that too!" Her eyes roved up and 
down those feminine attributes which had earned her censure. Suddenly they 
focused. She pointed like a bird dog, "What's them marks on yer bottom?" 

Melynda sighed and longed for Mr. Wilberforce. "I backed into the hot 
stove." She tried to keep alarm out of her voice. 

"R...." Mrs. Terence bent closer. "Them ain't burns." 

"Very well, then! I was a bad girl and got whipped." Melynda said irritably. 

"You ain't goin' ter school...." 

"You don't have to go to school to be whipped." 

"You mean 'im... Mr. Wilberforce? 'E dun it?" 

"Good Heavens, no! It was a girl, a titled lady, as a matter of fact." 

Mrs. Terence's faith in The News of The World rode high. "One o' them sex 
fiends, was it?" 

"Oh, really!" Melynda wailed, "Can't I have a few marks on my bottom without 
all this fuss." 

"I bet yer enjoyed it. I read about them things...." Mrs. Terence was 
enjoying herself. 

"I did not! It hurt like blazes." Melynda hotly affirmed. She took the 
offensive. "I can just imagine you'd like to whip my bottom. You are showing 
a lot of interest. If I was not chained to this post I'd bend over so you 
could really have a good look." 

Mrs. Terence hastily straightened up, her face flushed. " 'aughty little 
'ussy, I must say! A bit of a cane on that there bottom 'ud do no 'arm--" 
Her observations were cut short by a male voice from the doorway. "Good 
afternoon. I say, I'm most frightfully sorry." 

"You should be." Melynda said. 

"R." Mrs. Terence was wise enough to say no more. 

"It's all your fault for not closing the door." Melynda accused. 

They were alone. The custodian of British virtue had accepted Mr. 
Wilberforce's pound in much the same manner as one envisions Queen Victoria 
accepting title to the Kowloon peninsula. She was now, presumably, doing 
upstairs. 

"You didn't notice it either." Pointed out Mr. Wilberforce cheerfully. He 
was not as disturbed as Melynda. He had not been threatened by the police. 

"You'll have to be more careful how you leave me lying around." Melynda was 
more than thankful for the return of her employer, but was still a bit 
shaken. "You can let me loose now." 

"I'm not going to let you loose. You can jolly well stand there until you 
learn proper respect." Horace Wilberforce was becoming accustomed to his 
assistant's temperament and no longer stood in total awe of her. 

"Oh Willie!" Melynda sounded more exasperated than concerned. "Let me loose. 
Please...." 

"No." 

She tugged uselessly at the chain that bound her to the post and constricted 
her already concave tummy. She stamped one bare foot with equal futility. 
"Oh Willie, don't be a tease. If you let me loose I'll be a very good girl 
and make Tea." 

"No." 

She stuck her tongue out at him and stamped her other foot. 

"That will cost you another couple of hours like that." 

Melynda gave him her most winsome smile. "Dear Mr. Wilberforce. I'm sorry. 
Please set me free. I have to go to the bathroom." 

"I don't believe you are sorry, and I don't believe you have to go to the 
bathroom." Her employer assured her cheerfully. 

"I'll do it on the floor." Melynda threatened. 

"If you do, I'll turn you round on that post and whip your bottom properly." 

"I want some Tea!" 

"If you have to go to the bathroom there's no use your drinking tea." Mr. 
Wilberforce started for the door. "I'll make the tea myself. Maybe I'll 
bring you a cup." 

"Willie!" Melynda's voice stopped him at the door. "And a piece of cake 
too?" 

"Yes." Relented Mr. Wilberforce. "And a piece of cake too." This time he 
closed the door. 

Melynda was pleased by her employer's show of independence and authority. 
She felt that he was 'Coming along nicely'. In the work they would do 
together she wanted him to initiate. 

She was sure of her ability to 'get around him' as her caprice might 
dictate. But she would save this as a weapon only for emergencies. She was 
by no means unhappy in the knowledge that she would stand chained as she was 
now for an indefinite period of hours. Perhaps her impudence had earned her 
extra time at the post. She did not mind. She had little doubt that her 
mischievous temperament would create many such occasions. She smiled knowing 
that for her to provoke and to bear these mild punishments would bolster Mr. 
Wilberforce's masculine authority. Would he ever have the courage to whip 
her! She doubted it. But shivered deliciously. 

* * * 

It was an unconventional little Courtroom. Obviously rural. The three 
magistrates sat behind the large table. Colonel Leverett in the center, 
flanked on one side by a massive tweedy female figure and on the other by a 
frail and ancient man, a Lord something or other. Melynda had already 
labelled them in her mind as Colonel Liverish, Mrs. Tweedy, and The 
Centenarian. 

Melynda herself sat at a small table. A similar piece of furniture was 
provided for the Constable on the opposite side of the room. This uniformed 
rustic was about to give evidence. In order to hear his ponderous delivery 
the Centenarian was cupping an ear with one hand and fiddling with a hearing 
aid with the other. The tweedy woman glared at Melynda. Colonel Leverett 
glared at the constable. Off in a corner a wooden box served as a stand for 
a hot plate on which a kettle gently steamed in readiness for Tea. 

"Dammit man, get on with it!" Said the Colonel. 

"Can't hear a word he's saying." Complained the Centenarian. This was not 
surprising since Constable Bowers had not yet uttered a word. 

"Impudent little bitch!" Said the tweedy woman. "Scandalous!!" 

The Constable rose to his feet and referred to a notebook: "On the 
seventeenth instant, being of even date, I was travelling in a Southerly 
direction on the A. 134 when I had occasion to observe...." 

"Blast the A134 and what you observed, man!" The Colonel broke in testily. 
"Get to the nub of the matter. It's nearly Tea time." 

"She was tied to a tree, sir." The Constable cleared his throat awkwardly 
groping for a word. "Uncovered, you might say." 

"You mean she was naked?" demanded Mrs. Tweedy. 

"If you prefer it, Madam." 

"Was she naked or wasn't she?" Colonel Leverett snapped. 

"She was naked, Sir." The constable abandoned delicacy. 

"Naked!" The Centenarian quavered with interest. "Who was?" 

The colonel leaned sideways and bellowed: "The Defendant." 

"Jolly good show!" Said the Centenarian. He beamed at Melynda approvingly. 
"Keep up the good work, my girl." He leaned back and appeared to go to 
sleep. 

The Constable cleared his throat and resumed. "Observing her condition, I 
said, 'What's going on 'ere?' In reply the Defendant uttered the words, 
'Buzz Off ". 

"I know her type." Said the tweedy woman, darkly. 

"What did she say?" Demanded the Centenarian, coming awake. 

"Buzz off". Roared the Colonel in his ear. 

"Don't you tell me to buzz off, Leverett." Complained the Centenarian 
testily. "I'll have you know...." The Colonel broke in and tried again. "It 
was her that said it, not me." 

"Ah, well," The Centenarian seemed mollified. "I've never been there, so 
I'll reserve judgement." He went back to sleep. 

"I said to the Defendant: That's no way to address an officer of the law." 
The constable continued. "Whereupon the Defendant said: "Oh, for Heaven's 
sake officer, go away and leave me alone!" 

Colonel Leverett fixed Melynda with a fearsome eye. "Is that what you said, 
young woman?" 

"Yes it was!" Melynda retorted angrily. "And if the silly twit had done what 
I asked it would have saved us all a lot of trouble." 

"What then?" The Colonel demanded of Bowers. 

"I then untied the defendant, proper job it was, too! When I put the cuffs 
on her she said something right strange: She said--"Ruddy busman's 
holiday...." 

"Perhaps I can explain." Mr. Wilberforce's voice rose nobly from somewhere 
at the rear. 

"Sit down and keep quiet or I'll have you thrown out." The Colonel bellowed. 

Mr. Wilberforce sat down. 

The Colonel and the Tweedy woman whispered together. The Centenarian gently 
snored. 

"Indecent exposure and contempt of Court." The Colonel announced. "Ten days 
on each count. No option." He turned to the constable: "I say, Bowers. Be a 
good chap, will you, and make the Tea." 

"This whole thing is a mockery!" Melynda was on her feet, flaming with 
anger. 

A uniformed hand clasped her arm. "Best not rile them, Miss, or it could be 
another twenty for you." The voice was kind. "Come along, this is the way to 
the cells, through this door here." 

Melynda and Mr. Wilberforce exchanged anguished glances as she was led away. 

"Oh Willie, it's such a tiny little cage. I don't want to stay in it for 
twenty days." Melynda wailed. 

It was indeed a small cell. Sitting on the only stool, Mr. Wilberforce was 
but a scant two feet from his convicted employee on her folding cot. Since 
the door was not barred, but of solid oak, the effect was wickedly 
claustrophobic. 

"This whole place is medieval." Mr. Wilberforce himself almost wailed his 
plaint. "Those three caricatures who sentenced you own everything and run 
everything. I went to the only solicitor in the town, but he won't touch us. 
Said you'd best serve the twenty days and say nothing. This Leverett chap is 
the Chief Constable of the County, have to go to Westminister to get at him. 
Even if you got them interested it would take longer than your sentence for 
them to act." 

Melynda gazed at him, stricken. "You mean I have to sit in this horrid 
little box for three weeks! Oh Willie! I've been tied up and chained and 
locked in this place and that. But I've never felt so... so--confined as 
this! There's something silly about the whole thing. What good does it do 
for me to sit in here for twenty days and nights." She looked at her 
employer woefully. "It's really solitary confinement. I thought they only 
did that to convicts who have bopped a guard or something." 

"I'm off to London now. I'll explore all the channels. I'll get back here as 
soon as I can." Mr. Wilberforce's misery showed clearly on his concerned 
features. 

Melynda leaned forward and kissed him gently. "Not to worry. I don't suppose 
I'll die. The chap who feeds me seems a decent sort. He told me the same 
things as your solicitor chappie. Even the breakfast wasn't all that bad. 
Maybe they'll give me something to read...." She watched an unhappy Mr. 
Wilberforce ushered from her cell by the friendly constable. The door closed 
quietly, but the thudding home of the bolts caused her to wince. She had 
never felt so much a prisoner or known less hope of escape. An insensate 
machine had reached out and claimed her for its own. 

It was not long after her visitor's departure that the door opened again. 
This time the constable guided her to the front office. His grip on her arm, 
whilst not painful, clearly said 'no nonsense". She hated it. She longed to 
kick and break away. But what was the use! Meekly she went where she was 
led. A chair was provided for her across the desk from Officer Bowers. She 
instantly voiced her concern. 

"Are you going to keep me in that little rat trap all the time? Shouldn't I 
be taken to a proper prison, or something?" 

"Quite so, Miss." Bowers was placating. "That's the very purpose of our 
little chat." He eyed her in a manner that left Melynda with an odd mixture 
of apprehension and reassurance. "The matter of your disposal," He continued 
pompously, "lies within the discretion of Colonel Leverett, our Chief 
Constable. He has not yet advised me of his wishes...." 

"If you had just listened and left me alone yesterday we would none of us be 
in all this fuss and bother." Melynda said bitterly. 

Constable Bowers ignored the interruption. "Your sentence being relatively 
short...." Once more Melynda could not contain her anger: "Short!" She 
exclaimed scornfully. "You call sitting in a beastly little cage for twenty 
days short! Seems like forever to me." 

Bowers raised an admonishing hand. "That's enough, Miss. If you don't want 
to listen quietly you can go straight back." 

The captive relapsed, contenting herself with looking at the policeman 
reproachfully. 

"Our facilities here are not entirely designed for the incarceration of 
young ladies." Bowers was obviously pleased with his use of the long word. 
"You can certainly serve your sentence here, you will be well cared for. But 
there are alternatives." He paused for effect. 

Melynda kept quiet. Absurd pictures of workhouses and chain gangs flitted 
across her mind. 

"To commit you to a penal institution calls for a good deal of paper work 
and establishes you as a criminal. You would find yourself among criminals, 
some of them unsavory." 

"Haven't you turned me into a criminal already?" Melynda asked unhappily. 

Bowers pursed his lips and struck a pose. "No irrevocable action has yet 
been taken." 

"But my twenty days?" Melynda asked, puzzled. 

Bowers pontificated. "Your behavior, Miss, has been: shall we say, odd. 
Certainly ill advised. But those in authority may see fit to make your 
punishment less dreary than to be locked up alone twenty-four hours a day." 
He cleared his throat portentously. "I am prepared to recommend, and I am 
sure it would receive official sanction, that you serve your sentence at an 
approved School." 

"One of those places for pregnant delinquents?" Melynda's question conveyed 
infinite distaste. 

"Nothing of the sort!" The constable said sharply. "I would suggest, young 
lady, that you be less critical. The Establishment available is designed to 
teach skills or to complete basic education for young women like yourself. 
It is a converted country Mansion in which you will be confined and expected 
to conform to acceptable standards of deportment. The average stay there is 
considerably longer than yours would be. But you can attend classes from 
which you may possibly glean some benefit. At least you will be among others 
of your own age and sex. The disciplinarians are female. You can describe 
them as teachers or wardresses if you wish. The other term seems to me 
preferable. They have complete authority." 

Melynda was lost. She looked at Constable Bowers appealingly. "Suppose I'm 
sent to the real prison? What would they do with me there." She knew it 
sounded naive, so added. "You see, I've never been to prison... I don't 
know." 

"There are stricter rules. Less fraternization. The work is rough. You would 
spend more time in a cell." 

Melynda felt close to tears. It all sounded cruelly unfair. "There really 
does not sound much choice." She conceded. "May I go to the school?" 

Things moved rapidly. A brief return to the hated cell. Then a constable, a 
nice one. Awkwardly he produced handcuffs. 

"Must I?" Instinctively Melynda's hands flew behind her back. 

" 'Fraid so, Miss. You'll be a prisoner in transit." He smiled 
encouragingly. "Don't take on so. Much the best really. Driver doesn't have 
to watch you. No temptation for you to cut and run. You won't be marched 
down the main street with 'em on." 

"Oh well... It's not the first time." Melynda said, resignedly offering him 
her hands. She watched, with inward amusement, as he locked the metal on her 
wrists. If only he knew! A spark of mischief prompted her to suggest: "You'd 
better tighten them two more notches. Nice of you to go easy. But I could 
probably slip out of them." 

He flushed. But actually followed her advice. The bands were now tight. She 
did not mind. What could it profit her to slip out of them! He led her to 
the car. Once more a firm grip was on her arm. She found it more demeaning 
than any chain. 

Her escort was Bowers, sober and efficient. He drove carefully. Melynda sat 
demurely beside him, her linked hands in her lap where passers by could not 
see. From time to time the policeman turned and looked down at them as 
though to assure himself of her security. 

"Don't worry." Melynda told him, acidly. She lifted her cuffed hands. "With 
these things on I'm 'not going to play the fool." 

He nodded in approval. "Very sensible, Miss. You can see why it's best for 
you to wear 'em." He drove in silence for a minute. Then, adopting a 
fatherly tone, said: "I'd like to suggest, Miss, that you follow that same 
attitude where you are going. You'll seem to have a bit of freedom there 
--just like you might feel in this car. You might try a cut and run. Some 
often do. It's a pity. Just earns 'em punishment. Take a tip from me: if 
they tell you to do something, do it. And don't be forever looking for an 
open door. If you found one, you'd just end up back there for twice as 
long." 

Melynda supposed he meant well. But, once again, she felt the tears in her 
eyes. It sounded so grim and sterile. She was not cute little Melynda any 
more. She had become an object. 

Her awareness of being a non-person was implemented when Bowers presented a 
form in quadruplicate to the woman who answered his ring at the massive 
door. "One live body." He said jocularly. "Sign here please." Having 
obtained a signature he saluted his erstwhile captive and her new custodian. 
It seemed to Melynda, as she watched him hurry to his car, that he was 
relieved to be rid of her. She did not like him. But his going left a 
vacuum. Standing on this strange doorstep she felt cruelly alone. She 
wondered if, in his hurry to be gone, Constable Bowers had forgotten his 
handcuffs. They were still locked firmly on her wrists. 

The woman was unremarkable. She could well be a wardress. She looked the 
type. She was unhurriedly reading her copy of Bower's printed form. From 
time to time she scanned the new arrival appraisingly as though checking the 
descriptive accuracy of the document. Melynda felt less and less human. As 
she stood like a suppliant ignored she understood Bowers advice about the 
handcuffs and temptations to cut and run. Suppose at this moment she turned 
and fled! Even handcuffed she could probably outrun this solid female. Once 
on a main road there might be all sorts of possibilities! Miserably she 
thrust temptation from her mind. The handcuffs would defeat her. Who would 
help a girl on whom was locked such a badge of ignominy. 

Melynda was on the verge of asking a sarcastic "May I come in" when the 
woman, having satisfied her curiosity, beckoned for her to follow. The road 
was short. It led to an office. There was no chair before the big desk. 
Prisoners stood. They did not sit before authority. Her guide told Melynda 
curtly to "Stand at attention.", then left, firmly closing the door. The 
captive girl found herself staring in shocked surprise at a solid female 
presence sitting at ease beyond the polished oak. It was Mrs. Tweedy. 

"Stand straight. Chest out. Head up! Never slouch in front of me." There was 
no charity in the short bitten off sentences. "I'm Lady Amelia Crowther. You 
will address me always as 'Madam'. I do not manage this house. I own it. I 
am the Directress of the school. It has been placed within my judicial 
jurisdiction." 

It was a bitter moment. Melynda could not recall ever having stood stiffly 
at attention in front of anyone. She discovered that wearing handcuffs made 
the pose exceedingly awkward. But she did her best. Mrs. Tweedy was 
daunting. 

"Mostly local types we get. Silly bitches." The Directress eyed her new 
charge shrewdly. "You're from London. Good lookin' gel'. Alive. Decided I 
wanted you. Don't take 'em all." For a moment she paused, then barked: 
"What's this naked business?" 

Melynda felt a thousand miles from Mr. Wilberforce and their creation of a 
normalcy beyond the norm. How could she paint their fantasy in colors 
understandable to this arrogant lump of muscle! She hesitated, ashamed of 
her inability to cope. But she was spared the improvisation of an 
implausible fiction by the tweedy creature herself. Lady Amelia Crowther 
opened a drawer, extracted a worn paper booklet, and plunked it on the desk 
before the shocked eyes of her prisoner. "That's it, eh?" She demanded. 

It was indeed! It might have come direct from the collection Freddy had kept 
under his bed. It bore the title of "Caroline's Captive Capers", and 
depicted by some artistry and a crude text the erotic tribulations of a 
damsel whose predilection for distress was matched only by her beauty and 
her absence of covering. The cartoons showed her bound, chained, whipped, 
tortured, locked in dungeons and generally ill-used. She bore these 
misfortunes cheerfully and always came back for more. Melynda envied such 
resilience. She felt deflated. Fearful that a prolonged silence might be 
taken as insolence, she said listlessly: "That thing's absurd, of course. 
But yes, that's more or less it." 

"The chap who wanted to speak for you in Court? Him too?" 

"He's my employer, a photographer. We are doing a series: The Damsel in 
Distress." 

"You have pictures? Sell 'em?" 

"No. Every time we get nicely started we run into trouble." 

"Enjoy wearing those handcuffs?" 

"No!" Melynda flushed. The implication was clear. 

"Damned interestin'. Saves explanations." Mrs. Tweedy put away the book and 
looked at Melynda with satisfaction. "Get you started, eh." 

She pressed a button. "Bowers give you the warning about escaping? Good! 
Remember it. We give you chances. They're traps. Beware of 'em!" 

"You will call me Matron. You will do exactly as I order." It was the same 
woman. Again Melynda suffered the grip on her arm and went where she was 
led. Their journey ended in a bath-house, a concrete compartment with shower 
nozzles along one wall. The rest was bare except for taps and a coiled hose. 
The Matron wasted no time. She unlocked Melynda's handcuffs and curtly said 
with one word, "Strip". 

The captive wondered if this was one of the temptations. There were no 
restraints upon her. She could fight or run. How alluring the thought of 
freedom! She was almost angry with herself as she abjectly removed her 
clothes. There was something shameful and demeaning about the whole 
performance. No doubt it was intentional. 

"Over in the corner." The captive allowed herself to be pushed. "Stick out 
your foot." 

By the time Melynda noticed the shackle with its short chain her right ankle 
was firmly attached to the floor. She could not move away from the concrete 
corner against which she had been placed. 

"Why do you have to chain me?" 

"You'll soon see. And address me as Matron. I won't tell you again." 

The naked girl did indeed soon understand the shackle. The jet of icy water 
that struck her from the hose in the Matron's hands robbed her of breath and 
stung like a hundred needles. Instinctively she sought to evade it. But the 
metal band held her. No matter how she bent and twisted, the hose followed 
her. Soon the jet narrowed and intensified seeking those areas of her being 
where it hurt most. Her hands flew here and there protectively, but the 
arctic jet was always ahead of them. She huddled inward seeking the refuge 
of the corner itself. But was forbiddingly ordered to turn round. She dared 
not disobey. She had never felt so naked and vulnerable. She could not tell 
whether what she was suffering was the Institution's idea of a cleansing 
bath or an indoctrinating punishment. She found herself pleading above the 
rush of the water: "Not any more! Oh, please stop. I can't stand it." 

It did stop, as suddenly as it had started. She was given a bar of soap. 
Lathering herself she realized miserably that it would have to be washed 
off. The matron left her to her task. Alone, Melynda kicked savagely at the 
chain on her ankle. It held her! They thought of everything. It was 
infuriating to have to stand there and endure. When the Matron returned she 
carried a towel, a comb and a small bundle of fabric. 

"I'll wash you off." The Matron told her, as though bestowing a favor. "You 
can stop that silly dancing around. A little cold water never hurt anyone. 
All the girls get it the first day. This time I'll order you to hold certain 
positions. You'll do it! I don't want any wriggling and I don't want any 
complaints. Understand?" 

"Yes Matron." Melynda felt ashamed of her humility. 

"Face me. Feet wide apart. Reach your hands high above your head." 

It was a cruel exposure for a naked girl. Melynda obediently assumed the 
pose. Her soaped and lathered person was utterly defenseless. She was 
doubtful, in the face of the tormenting water, if she would be able to hold 
it. 

She did her best. The water bit at her. All traces of soap were soon washed 
away. But the jet had been made more vicious. As it roamed up and down her 
nakedness she could not keep from flinching. 

"The more you do that, the longer you'll have to stand there." She was told 
grimly. Melynda steeled herself. Surely it must end sometime! Obedient to an 
order, she turned round and exposed her back. No part of her was spared. 

The bit of fabric turned out to be a dress. When a numbed and subdued 
Melynda had dried, combed her hair and been released from the chain, it was 
handed to her without comment. 

She was puzzled. "Where's the bits and pieces?" She asked. Her query arose 
not from an excess of modesty, but from a natural supposition that an 
Approved School would require bits and pieces beneath the dress its pupils 
wore. 

"That's the lot! Put it on." 

In its brief way it was becoming. A form fitting sheath ending at her hips. 
It barely managed to hide her pubic hair. Presumably in this female 
atmosphere an occasional glimpse of the forbidden did not matter. 

There actually was a schoolroom. Melynda's childhood was not that distant: 
it all looked familiar. There were seven or eight girls of about her own age 
at the desks. Each wore a scanty bit of cloth similar to her own. Evidently 
it was the school uniform. The girls eyed her with curiosity. But the 
glances were cautious. The Class Mistress, who had been reading from a book, 
bespoke a single word in Melynda's mind: Sex! In her thirties, dark, good 
features, sensual lips, a good figure trim in casual attire. There was a 
strength about her. She accepted her new pupil without comment, stated that 
she must be addressed as Miss Rigby, and allocated a desk. When Melynda sat 
down at it she realized how very short indeed the school uniform was. 

It actually was a school. It actually was a Class engaged in the study of a 
serious subject that held interest. Miss Rigby was an educated woman. 
Melynda was reassured. The interview with Lady Crowther and the ordeal under 
the hose had raised doubts. But, except for the subdued and furtive 
attitudes of her companions, this room was normal. She began to follow the 
lecture and make notes on the paper provided. An hour passed before a fresh 
doubt was planted in her mind. 

Miss Rigby followed the practice of suddenly selecting a specific girl and 
asking a specific question. It said much for both teacher and pupils that 
these questions were answered promptly and accurately. But finally a girl, 
obviously unprepared, floundered dismally. Melynda sensed a sudden tension 
in the room. 

No word was spoken. Miss Rigby made a brief gesture, then took from a hook 
on the wall a supple length of cane which she flexed back and forth. Melynda 
cringed at the sight. It bore a fearful resemblance to Lady Marcia's 
favorite weapon. 

The delinquent girl, frightened and hesitant, made a reluctant journey to 
stand before the class. Reaching her teacher she made a quaint gesture by 
holding out both her hands for inspection. The Mistress gave them a quick 
glance and nodded, whereupon the victim stretched out her right arm and 
offered a taut open palm. 

The measuring taps were competent and brief. But the blow that cut the air 
and bedded itself into the small hand was brutal beyond anything Melynda had 
seen or heard of in a school. The recipient uttered a small wail of agony 
and bent double, hugging the hurt hand under her arm in a response familiar 
to schoolrooms throughout the centuries. 

Miss Rigby calmly watched the contortions generated by her use of the cane. 
She suffered them briefly, then tapped the culprit commandingly on the arm. 
Instantly the girl stood erect and offered her left hand for its infliction. 
Another pitiless cut, another cry. Once more the girlish figure bent and 
twisted. This time her anxious glance was answered by a nod of dismissal 
from the Mistress. Hugging her hands beneath her armpits the punished girl 
returned to her desk where she leaned forward and wept silently. Miss Rigby 
picked up the lesson where she had left off. 

It was new. It was a shock. It had some quality of the bizarre. Melynda 
tried to rationalize what she had seen. True, the pupil had been slack and 
failed. Presumably in a place like this, which after all was a kind of 
prison, penalties were to be expected. Probably they were necessary to 
maintain order. But an adult young woman had received a brutal caning on the 
palms of her hands, a degree of pain that seemed disproportionate to her 
offence. A punishment wickedly humiliating to a girl past childhood. An 
inference was clear. Whatever the word 'Approved' might imply, this school 
was not a place of tolerance. The vista of her twenty days stretched out 
dismally. 

With so much on her mind it was not surprising that Melynda fell into the 
trap. Suddenly her name was crisply in the ah. Miss Rigby's finger pointed. 
"Repeat my last sentence." 

She could not! Her mind had been elsewhere. The words had not touched her. 
The butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings in fear. Shamed, she 
confessed her crime. 

"In front of the class, please." Miss Rigby's voice was impersonal. 

Traversing the short distance, Melynda's mind quickened and probed. She knew 
with certainty that she did not wish to stand humbly before these girls and 
offer herself to be whipped. There had to be something wrong with this 
situation somewhere. Probably none of these frightened young women had ever 
possessed the courage to challenge a condition that, surely, no true 
authority would condone! 

"Let me see your hands, please." 

Melynda obeyed. She guessed that this inspection was less to discover grubby 
fingers than to ascertain damaged members insufficiently healed to bear a 
new infliction. 

"Stand in this position here, please, and hold out your right hand." 

Melynda took a deep breath and plunged. "I'm sorry, but I can't possibly 
submit to this cruelty. I don't believe this school, or any school, is 
authorized to inflict it." She made her voice as even and polite as her 
inward tremors permitted. 

Again she sensed the tension of the pupils at their desks. The atmosphere 
was electric with shock. Miss Rigby smiled and casually struck the rebel a 
slap across her cheek that sent her sprawling. The blow had been effortless, 
but evidenced strength unsuspected in so feminine a woman. 

For moments the tableau remained frozen. The mesmerized class, the Mistress 
amusedly surveying the fallen girl. Melynda herself, crouched resting on one 
arm, her other hand held in outrage against her smarting cheek. She was 
shocked, furious and afraid. 

"Get up. Stand properly and hold out your right hand." There was a 
demoralizing conviction of authority in the order so simply repeated. 

"You have no right to injure us with that beastly thing." She exclaimed, 
hotly. "I demand to see Lady Crowther." 

This time Miss Rigby's motion was quick as a flash of lightning. The cane 
curled round Melynda's thighs with a scalding agony so that she emitted a 
startled cry in which was voiced all the misery and desolation of the past 
twenty-four hours. Instinctively she leaped out of range of a second stroke. 
Then turned and glared defiance. "Hit me with that damn thing again and I'll 
fight." She warned with greater courage than she felt. 

Miss Rigby shrugged. She walked back and sat behind her desk. "Come and 
stand here." She motioned. Her voice was almost weary. "I suppose they told 
you little or nothing?" 

It was a question Melynda could not answer. But she stood as directed. If 
there were facts to learn, it would be best to listen. 

"This silly defiance would normally earn you a flogging and a day in 
restraint." Miss Rigby said in the same casual manner in which she dealt 
with everything. "You seem an intelligent girl, so I will give you a chance 
to use that intelligence. Consider these bits of knowledge:" She paused and 
gave her new pupil the full benefit of her attention and continued with 
greater emphasis: "You cannot escape. You may think you can, but you cannot. 
You have no rights. You may think you have, but you do not. You are 
cherishing thoughts of the trouble you will cause us after your release. 
Forget these thoughts. Others have had them to no avail. You think you 
cannot bear the pain of punishment. You can! Witness your companions in this 
room. They are punished constantly. None are ill or disabled. But they are 
totally obedient. You will be. We accept no less." 

Miss Rigby swivelled to face the class. "Which of you girls will be sharing 
with Melynda?" 

A hand raised. "I am, Miss Rigby." 

"Very well, Prudence. You may take Melynda to your room and get her settled 
down. Explain the facts of our life here. Give her an opportunity to ask 
questions and adjust. I know you'll color what you say with your opinions 
which will not always be complementary to the school. But she will form her 
own." 

Once more Miss Rigby gave Melynda her full attention. "I am being kind. You 
may not think so. It does not matter. You will go with Prudence and return 
here in thirty minutes. At that time you will stand properly before the 
Class and ask me, in a pleasant and civilized tone of voice, to give you two 
strokes with the cane on each hand. You will then conduct yourself 
accordingly and exercise a reasonable control while receiving your 
punishment. You may go." 

"The place is a ruddy torture chamber!" Prudence seemed bursting with a need 
to unburden pent up feeling. She was a pleasant dark haired girl. Melynda 
was pleased with her, just as she was pleased with the room they would 
share. It was not too austere. There was light, but the window was barred 
and the door heavier than normal. 

"See this!" Prudence turned and flipped up her dress. Her bottom was heavily 
laced with purple stripes. "We are all of us like this all the time. There's 
other bits of us they work on too. It's not just the Classes: it's those 
other do's...." 

"What other do's?" 

"Old Crowther and Leverett: hadn't you guessed! About once a week they have 
a nice social evening with us girls. They pick a couple of us to wait on 
them and then whip us every time we blink an eye. Some evenings they don't 
even bother with the pretense that we are serving girls." 

"But after release! Don't any of them complain?" 

"Of course they did. But not now. It only gets you into fresh trouble. 
Sometimes you even land back in here: and then Heaven help you! The whole 
set-up hides behind poor old Lord Dewley --you know, the old buffer on the 
bench who can't hear a word. He is immensely respected and carries a lot of 
weight. Leverett and Crowther butter him up. He hasn't the faintest idea 
what goes on." 

"Is it really impossible to escape?" 

"Yes." Prudence made a gesture of hopelessness. "Look at us now. Quite free! 
So we decide to run. Every door or window is barred or locked. While we 
search someone sees us. Then we get whipped and tossed in the dungeon. If 
you get out in the grounds there are dogs and a man who is a combination 
gardener and warden. Try it if you want. I won't!" 

"This sounds silly coming from me. But suppose we do everything just right, 
couldn't we avoid the damn whip?" 

"In Class perhaps. Rigby only whips us when we flunk. But that does not 
absolve us from the social evenings--or afternoons, you never know." 

Melynda longed yearningly for Mr. Wilberforce. He seemed a million miles 
away. Even Mrs. Prentice took on a warm and affectionate memory when 
compared to the 'Approved School'. She looked at Prudence imploringly: 
"What's the best thing for me to do?" 

Her companion laughed bitterly. "You've inked your blotter right at the 
start. Your only choice is between punishment and more punishment. You 
probably think I'm working for the management, but the only thing I can 
possibly tell you is to go back down to dear Rigby and ask her, very 
politely, to cane your hands. And, what's more, you had better be very 
polite when you ask, and don't make too much of a fuss with noise and 
dancing around after each stroke. If you carry on too much she adds a couple 
more." 

"But it's not an ordinary caning." Melynda wailed. "The way she does it is 
too awful even to watch." 

Suddenly she was in Prudence's arms, her back being gently and comfortingly 
patted, her tears absorbed in her companion's hair. "Have a good cry, 
sweetheart. You must be all wound up. I'm not going to kid you about the 
caning. What you said about describes it. But we have all had it many times. 
While it's happening you know, for sure, you are going to die or lose the 
use of your hand. But you don't. I wish I could tell you something 
different. But that's the way it is." 

The two prisoners rested thus for minutes until the tears ceased. Then 
Prudence found a handkerchief. "Dry your eyes, dearie. Comb your hair. Then 
let's go down and get it over with." 

For Melynda it was both her longest and her shortest journey. She felt a 
terrible shame at what she was about to do, a shame that, for the moment, 
masked her quivering fear. She had become a child that had transgressed 
against irrevocable adult laws only dimly glimpsed as omnipotent authority 
to be appeased. 

Her entry into the classroom, once more, created the stir of awareness 
quickly contained. She did not look at those behind their desks. She walked 
erect looking squarely at the Mistress. Prudence's hand gave a final squeeze 
as its owner returned to her seat. In a room full of people Melynda was 
totally alone. She came to attention in front of the waiting woman. Their 
eyes locked. She said the words she loathed yet believed she must. 

"Miss Rigby, I behaved foolishly. I was bad mannered and insolent. I failed 
to accept your authority. I now wish to be punished. Please give me two hard 
strokes with the cane on each of my hands." 

Miss Rigby gazed intently at the submissive girl as each word was uttered. 
She could not doubt that Melynda had faced the inevitable and accepted it. 
She was pleased. 

"You said that well." She acknowledged. "For you, I don't suppose it was 
easy. I like you. That does not mean the pain will be less. Hold out your 
hand, please." 

.Their eyes searched. Not in contest. But each probing the quality and 
intent of the other. Resolutely Melynda stretched out her right arm and 
tautly exposed the palm of her hand. She tried to achieve a state of trance, 
driving her mind far away, while the measuring and guiding motions of the 
cane sent every nerve cringing. She was deathly fearful of being unable to 
hold the pose, of withdrawing her hand at the crucial moment. 

She felt sure that to do so would earn her some truly shocking retribution. 
She dared not look at the cane, but kept her glance on the intent features 
of The Mistress. 

It was worse than any imagining. Pain always is. It has no limits. To the 
recipient there is added the awful knowledge that it will be repeated again 
and again so that a limitless vista of agony stretches beyond her horizon. 
Pain dissolves hope and fortitude and pride. It creates its own special 
nakedness. 

Melynda bore hers well. She had steeled herself. There was no flourish, no 
bravado, no nonchalance. But she bit back the cry and made only a shocked 
gasp as the cane bit into her flesh. She had determined to eschew the 
instinctive motions that had seemed so shaming in others. She had no plan, 
but coped as best her flaming nerves and scalding flesh would allow. On the 
completion of the blow her injured hand had sought refuge. She denied it, 
letting her arm fall limp at her side instead. But the agony was too great. 
Her whole body was beginning to bend under the flowing waves. In her need of 
motion she raised her whipped hand limply and examined the bruise, shook it 
lightly, held it in this way and that. But found no relief. It longed for 
refuge beneath her arm. She refused. Instead, she stood erect, her arms 
falling slack at her sides. She knew that no matter what contortions she 
indulged in the pain would be no less. With eyes half closed she waited. 

"Very good, my dear. And now the other hand." 

Again she did her best. And her best was good. 

But now she had two hands whose throbbing agony absorbed her totally. There 
came then the quiet request that she most dreaded. 

"Your right hand again, please, my dear." 

This time Melynda was truly shamed. As the cane cut into her hand a cry of 
pure shock and desolation found its way from lips parted in a grimace of 
agony. No longer caring, she found herself bent double, an injured hand 
under each armpit. She swayed and moaned in a world of her own. A world 
filled with pain. 

She was granted a little time before the next command. "And now that nice 
left hand once more, Melynda, please." 

She supposed it was fear that made it possible to stand erect and hold out 
the arm and flatten the hand. Every nerve denied the act. Yet she did it. 
She would never know if Miss Rigby contrived some wider sweep than in the 
other three strokes, but the slash that cut into her already wounded palm 
was the worst of all. It converted her into a twisting, moaning jumble of 
pain upon the floor, writhing this way and that in search of a surcease that 
was not there. In the end she made a shamed stumbling return to her desk, 
her wounded hands striving to hide the tears upon her cheeks, unable to 
contain the gasping sobs that wracked her being. 

"Welcome to the Class." Said Miss Rigby approvingly. 


THE END
