Margo was taking all my words very seriously and constantly stepping from foot to foot. She also looked up often at her strapped wrists as though she needed reassurance of her helplessness. There was a tinge of embarrassment as she inquired. “Can you stand still, Diane, I mean, are we expected to be stoic and stand still while we get whipped, or do you dance around? You know what I mean.”
“I usually manage to stand still for the first one or two, but after that I just loose control and behave disgracefully. I’ve never pretended to like being beaten. Don’t worry about behaving, just do what comes naturally and don’t be ashamed of anything, even pleading for mercy.”
“Gosh, you sound as though you know it all, Diane. I envy the way you’re handling it. Is Hugo really this mean a man?”
“No. He’s a nice guy. And the way he got started on this slavegirl kick is a long story. I suspect most men would like to do what he’s doing to us now. It’s easy to analyze their feelings if you want to bother. But everything will hurt just as bad after you’ve figured it out, so what’s the point?”
Hugo gave us an hour in which to shiver and struggle at our bonds. Even though I knew all about it, it was just as potent as back that first time, and I knew it always would be. When out master returned he spread on the floor between us an array of whips and riding crops and some wicked looking straps.
“Nothing like a bit of variety to keep you girls on your toes,” he remarked as he picked up a supple length of leather which I think used to be called a flagellum in ancient Rome, and let me have it with the full strength of his arm across both cheeks of my bottom. I wasn’t the least bit prepared and squeaked and danced and kicked at a new and awful pain as the impact spread itself across my previous punishment. As I panted and contorted I was well aware of Margo’s interested eyes and of Hugo’s enjoyment of his work.
“That’s not fair!” I protested when I caught my breath. “That’s not like the last time. It’s terrible.”
“I thought it might be,” Hugo said casually. “If you don’t like it where you sit, would you care to suggest some other portion of your person?”
“No, I wouldn’t! I don’t want to be whipped at all, and I don’t see why I have to be whipped.”
“You wouldn’t want to cheat Margo of an interesting introduction to punishment ... Would you?”
“Yes, I would! She’ll learn all about it the same way I did.” I turned my attention to the instruments of punishment which were tastefully arranged for inspection. They all looked deadly, so I asked pathetically like a little child anxious to please, “Perhaps if you whipped my back with something that’s not too unkind...?”
Hugo chose another strap, a lighter one, and I tensed for new and different pain. Beneath its shock I lifted myself from the floor and kicked wildly. I guess the second strap was kinder than the first but applied resoundingly upon my back and curling beneath my breast it felt no less terrible than the one he had used across my seat. During the following five snapping and cracking strokes, I managed to scream only twice before standing limply while my master decided what to use on me next. I made no suggestions.
For the life of me I could not fail to watch each selection chosen to impact my skin. If they were wickedly severe, I expect Hugo held his arm. For the rest, he let me have it full force. It was a different instrument for each of the next five strokes, which he delivered slowly to give me time to do my dance and kick savagely at the air as though it was the source of pain. I screamed each time he struck me, half in agony and half in anger that I should thus so needlessly suffer. As blow followed blow, I knew for sure that even if I had to move mountains, I would do something positive to further Hugo’s claim. Here and there, as crop or cane or whip bit at me, I managed a small smile towards the girl who’s turn was coming. As though to live up to my own prophesy, I heard my own voice weakly plead, “Oh, Hugo, please stop! Don’t hurt me any: more. Hugo, I’m asking you, please stop!”
“I don’t see why I should stop, Diane. And do you usually address a Master in such terms?” Hugo was in his element.
“Please stop whipping me, Master. Please stop.”
With a double-thongs quirt, Hugo started to whip me once again, I got what seemed a regulation twenty, I did not count them but was told afterwards of the count. By the time Hugo was through with me, I glistened with sweat and smelt outrageously of musk. My wrists were still as tightly strapped as before the first blow. Slowly I panted my way back to where I dared meet Margo’s horrified regard.
I’m sure it was a vivid tableau, myself, the sweating punished girl, Hugo standing midway and smiling at us both as he chose the instrument he would use on Margo’s virgin skin. And Margo, who had no doubts about helplessness and vulnerability, gave voice to conviction, “I don’t want to be whipped, Master. I know I could never stand it the way Diane did. Please don’t whip me. I’ll promise to do anything and everything you ask. I’ll be the humblest of slaves. But please don’t mark my skin with those horrible things.”
She paused, visibly trembling, while her master paid no heed and made his choice. Without preamble he dealt with his new slavegirl in the same manner as he had dealt with me. That awful leather was lapping from hip to hip across the lovely contours she could not hide. I watched unwillingly but utterly fascinated.
It was really something to see and left me gasping in disbelief. After the frightful crack as leather bit at flesh, Margo neither moved or spoke but turned to gaze back over a bare, raised arm to the man readying himself for another stroke of the limber leather. “Is that the best you can do, Mr. Markham,” she inquired carelessly before turning away to stare into some horizon of her own, I was appalled!
It was a beautiful, courageous assertion of feminine pride, something Margo had to do. Hugo stood admiring the single wound. No doubt he understood Margo’s defiance but gave it no sympathy. His second blow was every bit as wicked as the first. It stung Margo into a silence from which she emerged in a pealing scream of agony and outrage, while her naked loveliness proclaimed an outrage of its own in a series of jerks and a little dance upon air. While she was thus frantically engaged, Hugo struck again and then again until his leather had planted itself five times upon female contours no strap should ever touch. He then ceased to inquire pleasantly, “Was that what you expected, Miss Hammil?”
“Oh, damn you to hell!” Margo got the words out with difficulty between gasps and moans. “You don’t have to hit me so hard, you don’t have to do this at all. Please don’t whip me any more. Please stop ... Master?”
“You only just remembered that ‘master’ bit at the end, didn’t you?” Hugo inquired. “I must find a reminder.” The captive eyes followed ever move. Breasts heaved and she panted. When the strapped girl beheld Hugo’s choice, her cry was piteous. “Not that! Oh, Master, not that! I saw what that did to Diane, and I know I can’t bare it. Please, please, please!”
Hugo sliced the virgin back five times with the chosen but fearful instrument. I know he was not applying it as hard as he might have done, but Margo evidently could not tell for her performance equaled my own in its intensity of feminine surrender.
I had to hand it to Hugo that he whipped us only from behind, leaving our breasts still virgin. It’s bad enough for a girl to be whipped on her back and where she sits down but there are other far more intimate places into which or across which a leather thong might impart its venom. Actually, I suppose both Margo and I were that day treated with male mercy we did not realize while it was taking place. Suddenly two naked maidens were alone and panting in our bonds while drops of sweat trickled from our bodies. After a while, my companion ventured timidly. “Is it really over?”