F.E. Campbell - Barbara - HOM 103

Barbara by F.E. Campbell Other novels published by H.O.M. Inc. MONICA I THE GIRL BEHIND THE WALL II MELYNDA I CHAINS OF JEHDRA THE SIBLINGS I MOIRA IN JEOPARDY I THE PRISONER OF ISMAUL I WANDA & THE WHIP I MONICA II STRANGE CAPTIVITY MELYNDA II JEWEL THE SIBLINGS II SUKIE THE PRISONER OF ISMAUL II WANDA & THE WHIP II MIRANDA I SLAVE GIRL AND THE LASH DORINDA I MOIRA IN JEOPARDY II CAPTIVE OF THE PRIORY SUSAN THE GIRL BEHIND THE WALL I CATHY MIRANDA II BARBE BOUND DORINDA II JULIE THE DUNGEONS OF HAGADAR DRUSILLA THE SEIGNEURY I THE GIRL IN CHAINS THE SEIGNEURY II SHARON BARBARA BELOVED BONDS illustrated by The Bishop

An HOM Book Published hy HOM Inc. Copyright 1982 by HOM Inc. P.O. Box 7302, Van Nuys, California 91409 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any other information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written persmission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may wish to quote brief passages in connection with review for a newspaper, magazine, radio, or television. First printing: 1982 Printed in the United States of America Note: All the characters and events are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons is intended or should be inferred. Cover art by The Bishop

BARBARA The girl stood before the wide French windows and gazed across the slope of lawn and trees without seeing them. Her pose was a contrasting blend of defiance and defeat. The lean patrician features of the old woman seated beside the tea trolley surveyed the uncompromising back with sardonic amusement. "Come and drink your tea, Barbara," she chided gently. "Tea cures everything." "But I'm too old!" The exclamation was passionate as the girl swung round to face her aged companion. "It's . . . it's just too absurd!" "No one is ever too old for tea, dear." Lady Corydon's voice held the faintest hint of mischief. "Oh, Grandma! It's not tea, you know it isn't! It's this other . . . thing. My mind's full of it." The distressed young voice was vehement. "Me . . . your granddaughter . . . whipped . . . ?" "And why not, pray?" The clink of Spode and silver approved. "But I'm twenty years old!" Barbara's breath had quickened. Her lips were rebellious. "Were you whipped at my age?" "Yes." The girl writhed inwardly. The single word breached all defense. The old woman with the wise eyes had character. Barbara could well imagine where some of it had come. "But this is eighteen sixty-four . . . it's not the dark ages." she offered inadequately. "Sins and their punishments have no dates, child." Barbara absently accepted the proffered cup and stirred absently. The scald of the acerbic fluid prompted another try: "Am I that impossible! I've promised . . . ?" "You have been persistently impossible, dear," Lady Corydon said complacently. "As for the promise . . . ! We will help you keep it." "But the Amory woman! I'll be a laughing stock. She and her . . . her . . . whatever she chooses to call it, she's notorious!"

"You will not refer to Perdita Amory in that fashion, my dear. Neither she nor her establishment is notorious in the sense you infer. Few will know you have been there. Those who do are above the stain of innuendo. Miss Amory is far closer to your generation than I. Surely that should comfort you?" There was a hint of sarcasm in the words as Lady Corydon refilled a cup. "That makes it worse. She's bound to laugh . . . and I'll feel foolish." Barbara rejected consolation. "Mrs. Merridew is downstairs, dear. She's been waiting." The girl tensed. "You mean . . . she's . . . she's come for me?" "She's having tea in the kitchen, dear. I thought it best. She will come when I ring." "And drag me off in chains?" The young voice was bitter. "Your chagrin will pass, child. It is understandable. Nothing is forever." "But you won't tell me . . . how long?" "There is no need for you to know. It is best you don't." "Why can't I just get on a train and go to Silverways as anyone else would do? Don't you trust me?" "There must be beginnings. This is as good as any." The frail hand reached for the bell tope. "It will save you heart-searchings." The girl placed her cup and saucer on the trolley with a studied and unnecessary caution. Slowly she turned so that her troubled eyes sought the door. The hands that rested in her lap were tightly clenched.

• "It's always a bit of a shock, like, to the young ladies," said Mrs. Merridew cheerfully to no one in particular. "I tries 'ard to make things easy. You wasn't thinking of being silly, was you, Miss?" "My granddaughter will not be silly." Lady Corydon's voice was tart. She eyed the rebellious features sternly. "Mrs. Merridew will escort you, dear. There are restraints . . . ." " 'Obbles, we calls 'em, Miss. Nice and comfy, but you can't do nothing. I got 'em in me bag 'ere." "Leave them there. I don't need them." Barbara's voice was controlled anger. "All the young ladies says that, Miss. But them as we've trusted ain't always been able to live up to their promise like, there's been incidents . . . some of 'em awkward." "I'll make no incidents."

"Barbara will wear your restraints, Mrs. Merridew." Lady Corydon disposed of the matter tersely. Barbara was trembling. Never in her life had she been so torn. Her whole being was in revolt at what was to be done to her. She was entering a semblance of martyrdom for motives of which she was unsure. She had a deep and unselfish love for the grandparent who governed her life. To this she added a Protestant conscience and a sense of guilt. But even the guilt was uncertain in her mind. A flash of perception told her that most probably all Mrs. Merridew's charges approached their fate in the same turmoil of emotions. It was therefore understandable that some might obey a primitive instinct of flight. Perhaps the indignity about to be inflicted on her person was actually a sensible concomitant of her condition. Without enthusiasm, her eyes sought Mrs. Merridew's busy hands and the open bag. " 'Ad 'em made special, Miss Amory did." Admiringly, Mrs. Merridew held up a jumble of polished leather, at sight of which Barbara could not restrain a wince. "I'm glad you're wearing just simple things, Miss. If you'll just turn 'round now . . . won't take a minute." It had to be a dream, a nightmare, an hallucination! Dazedly and with averted eyes Barbara obeyed the motherly injunction. "They're simple and effective, M'lady." Mrs. Merridew was anxious to assure. "Don't 'urt the little dears at all, but keeps 'em snug and tight. And with the cape . . . there ain't a soul wot can ever know." Her practiced hands were deft and strong. The enforced penitent stood. The urge to strike, to scream, to run was strong. But, passively, Barbara allowed her waist to be circled by a broad and shiny leather band. With laces at the back Mrs. Merridew was ensuring that it became punitively tight. The captive of the leather understood now the earlier admonition that she wear no corset. She flushed as a sturdy knee at her bottom was employed to counter the tugging of stout hands. Inconsequently she considered that someone had spent a tidy sum upon the harness. It looked expensive. It had contracted her middle to a dimension both flattering and frightening. "Good thing I brought the small one. Lovely waist you got, Miss." Mrs. Merridew was panting. "Now if you'll just let me 'ave yer 'and . . . ." Once more the inconceivable. It was not until the soft strap was snug about her wrists, buckled and its end deftly inserted into its waiting loop that Barbara fully comprehended the actuality of her restraint. A laced belt holding on each side a wristlet by which a hand was made captive sufficiently at the rear so that its reaching fingers could touch nothing other than the costly leather to which it was irretrievably anchored. Never, never could a hand touch its twin or reach the laces knotted behind the waist. "Miss Amory calls it an 'ensemble,' " said Mrs. Merridew eyeing her work complacently. "Lovely bit O' work it is for sure. Try and get your 'ands free, dear. Show 'er Ladyship wot I mean." Barbara's own curiosity prompted compliance. She was aware of the flushing of her cheeks as she tugged and twisted to no avail. She was utterly and completely helpless. But there was no pain, no true discomfort. She had been neatly converted into a package for disposal. She looked from one to the other of her audience in mute dismay. "Always seems to me the young ladies look prettier like, when they're fastened some way," Mrs. Merridew mused aloud. "Maybe it's because I don't worry

'bout 'em as much then. But it's funny . . . ." The newly hobbled girl was suddenly stricken by the obvious. "But I haven't packed a thing . . . ? Someone will have to . . . ." "Ain't no need for clothes, Miss," said Mrs. Merridew comfortably. "No need for nothing at Silverways. Everything laid on, like, for the young ladies." She ventured a quiet chuckle. "Bit of a shock for 'em at first, it is." Barbara envisioned a chasm, but closed her eyes to it. There would be bridges enough to cross. She swallowed her startled query and fretfully desisted from striving to twist her wrists within the tight compulsion of their straps. "You are a very beautiful girl, my dear," said Lady Corydon irrelevantly. "Mrs. Merridew is right, you do look very nice indeed. It's really a pity you must wear a cloak." To Barbara the words sounded like an epitaph. "We'll be getting along now, M'lady." The guardian was busy with her bag. The girl beneath the cloak walked, stoney faced, through the familiar house. Mrs. Merridew's hand was only tentatively upon her arm. The servants were discreetly below and out of sight. It was not until the strange and ill-assorted pair had descended the long and gradual flight of steps to the waiting brougham that the sentenced girl turned for a last look at the stately home from which she was now exiled. Hastily she entered the carriage. It was there the tears came. Because she had no hands with which to stanch them, their salt was doubly bitter. They were competently dealt with by white cambric in the hands of the fussing woman who found them unremarkable. "All our young ladies cry about this time, ducky," Mrs. Merridew said reassuringly. "It's sort of natural like, ain't it. Don't worry about them 'ands. You got mine . . . ." Barbara remembered the hands. On the journey to Silverways she, contrarily, came to loathe and to love them. Their touch demeaned or consoled as the occasion required. They opened doors and gave support. They fastened firmly on an arm when pauses lengthened or steps faltered. Most importantly they fastened the cloak authoritatively around the slender neck. The cloak that hid a fancied nakedness more shaming than the bareness of flesh. Cloaks were common enough. But it was summer! The hobbled girl had no need of the shielding folds of cloth. She was warm enough in her shrinking certainty that all who passed must somehow know her plight. She felt sure the envelopment could not hide the strictured posture of her arms which her prisoned wrists held immovably at each side so that her elbows encroached backward beyond the norm. She sat with flushed face in the first class compartment of the train, knowing herself perspiring beneath the airlessness of the cloth and because of the presence of a country vicar, a major in the Grenadiers and a bucolic male of weighty proportions who was probably a farmer. The eyes of each had paid their tribute to a pretty girl, then lingered a moment longer than propriety condoned. The cloak puzzled them. Beneath it Barbara's hands clenched bitterly against their straps. She wondered sardonically at their reactions if they knew.

Mrs. Merridew was a bulwark. But her smug complacency could not overcome the stiff awkwardness of her charge's posture. The anonymity of newspapers and books was denied, whispers were suspect, an audible conversation both impractical and forbidden by the inhibitions of a first class carriage. She did bring forth a book from her holdall bag. But, realizing the emphasis placed on the pinioned girl's anomalous inaction, put it back again and shared the disability of sitting stiffly and gazing out of the window. For the escorted girl the immobility was shatteringly rent when her companion noticed the heat-induced perspiration on the lovely face and matter-offactly applied the cambric as she had done for the tears. Barbara sat in frozen horror at this public demonstration of her helplessness. Surely, surely one of the men would be driven to comment or enquiry! But her secret was kept inviolate by Victorian rectitude. An eyebrow was raised, a paper shuffled, the vicar coughed gently. But that was all. Barbara hysterically longed to scream. It was a pleasant room. A room designed for femininity within the confines of a male society. It was a study, a lounge, an office, depending on its immediate use. It framed a tableau now that Barbara would remember all her life. Shame and embarrassment would etch it on her mind forever. "It is unlikely to resemble your preconceptions." Perdita Amory looked up across the desk at the lovely bewilderment that stood so resentfully and ill at ease for her inspection. "Must I . . . must I wear these . . . these straps?" The young voice was demanding and accusing. Barbara twisted her shoulders to demonstrate her helplessness. She saw no more than a beautiful woman, surprisingly young, and resented the glint of amusement in the assessing eyes. Mrs. Merridew and the cloak had gone, leaving her exposed as though she were merchandise offered for approval. She stood, tensing against her hateful harness. "Your age may present us both with a problem." Miss Amory appeared to not have heard her novice's question. "You are much older than I usually accept. If it were not for Lady Corydon . . . ." She left the sentence hanging. "So much of our guidance and discipline comes from within our own ranks . . . . Our oldest girl is three years younger than you. I will appoint her your prefect . . . ." "Could I please be released from this harness, Miss Amory?" Barbara's tone was peremptory. She felt little concern for what was being said. She was certain she would hate it all. Barbara's interjection only momentarily interrupted the smooth flow. The calm hazel eyes noted the the pink cheeks and the clenched hands. "Thisbe is an intelligent girl, and mature. Perhaps too mature for her age." The full lips imparted an emphasis to the amendment. "I see no reason why your personalities should not be sympathetic." "May I be released?"

"You must expect to feel humiliation at the start. Regard it as one of your penalties. I will expect you to overcome initial resentment." "I'm too old for this . . . this . . . that you're talking about." Barbara twisted futilely against the restraining leather. "I can't be expected to take orders from children. It's too absurd." Miss Amory's shrug was unconcerned. "In the end you are answerable to me." She paused, considering. "I think I should tell you that I most sincerely enjoy thrashing a girl. The older she is the better." The standing girl visibly flinched. The calm statement was like a blow. "I suppose you understand I cannot possibly accept what you have just said. I find it hard to even . . . even repeat?" "That you will be whipped? See, I say it for you." "It's . . . medieval." "It is a language you will come to understand." "I came here to please someone I love. I may have been foolish." The shoulders fluttered. "Is there no way of getting this beastly gear off me? Please, it can't be serving any useful purpose now?" "I can assure you its purpose is one you will eventually come to believe in. As for the rest I will give you a choice. I think you need it. If you ask me now to free you and send you home I will do so. I will write Lady Corydon my apologies and regrets." Perdita Amory's voice had become crisp but without acerbity. Again it was like a blow. This one the worst of all. Before Barbara's horrified mental vision there loomed a decision she did not want to face. She longed to accept . . . . "I am being deliberately unkind," said Miss Amory casually. Barbara clutched at a straw. "Would you ask me this question in a week?" She twisted in frustration. "But now . . . ! How can I?" "You will make the choice that means the most to you. But it is now. Not in a week or a month." "But to be whipped . . . !" "That seems to bother you. The whip is an ancient institution." "And to attend a . . . a sort of school. And be subject . . . ." "You have been privileged. A period without that eminence must inevitably broaden your horizon." Miss Amory was visibly patient. "I am not sure Grandmother understands, or that I understand. I came because I . . . I don't really know why I came. I feel absurd."

"You will adjust, my dear. You never expected this to be easy." "But . . . is this a school? I mean, am I supposed to learn something? Or am I here only to be punished like a bad girl sent to the Head to be caned?" "We blend the two." Miss Amory smiled. "I am sure our girls often think them synonymous." The smile broadened. "I will make nothing easy for you, Barbara. You will be whipped, sometimes cruelly. You will be made naked . . . you will be caged. There will be much loss of liberty, as with you at this moment. Cords, chains, straps, we have them all. Silverways is an old, old pile. We have our share of dark, dark chambers down flights of steps." "You are trying to frighten me. If I elect to stay I will have no valid protest." "You are perceptive. I do not envy you your choice. But I'm curious as to what it will be." "You already know." "I suppose I do. I know Lady Corydon." "Very well. I can't go back. I suppose I'm frightened and a bit angry at myself . . . ." Barbara grinned ruefully. She tugged at the straps upon her wrists, looking down at them deprecatingly. "I think some of it's because of these. They're a bit of a shock, y'know." "I'll give you another. Thisbe is waiting. She'll be excited." Miss Amory reached for the bell rope. By Victorian standards the costume worn by the pupils of Miss Amory's "Finishing School for Daughters of the Nobility" was exceedingly scanty. An informed feminine eye could easily guess at an absence of underthings beneath. Thisbe's nipples were faintly visible. Her breasts amply filled available space. "Yes, Miss Amory?" Thisbe said brightly while her eyes sparkled at the hobbled young woman waiting. "Thisbe . . . Barbara." The introduction was brief. "You know what to do, Thisbe?" "Yes, Miss Amory." "I see you have given trouble, Thisbe?" The younger girl started, then held up her wrist, almost with pride. Barbara could see, locked upon it, a broad metal band. "It was Miss Tareyton, Miss Amory." Thisbe disclaimed responsibility. "She felt I was impertinent." "Something else, too, surely, to wear the band?" "Yes, Miss Amory." Thisbe seemed vaguely pleased by the depths of her iniquity. "I cheeked her and broke a teapot." "I will be present at your whipping on Saturday, dear." "Oh, thank you, Miss Amory. You're terribly sweet. Do you want me to whip

Barbara first thing?" "The cane to start, I think. It's all very new to the poor dear." Thisbe's eyes sparkled at the newcomer who was her senior only in years. "Would you like to come along, Barbara?" It was a nice mix of invitation and command. "Thisbe will look after everything, Barbara. Run along, the two of you." Miss Amory seemed on the verge of returning to more important matters. She embraced them both in a parting smile. Uncertain of everything, including herself, Barbara allowed a small eager hand to lead her by the arm.

• "I'm sure you'll love it, Barb. I'm so excited." Thisbe bubbled over. "I'm sure I won't!" Barbara said emphatically. "Please don't call me Barb." "Hoity-toity! Don't be stuck up, darling, just 'cause you're a bit older. I think it's delicious. Ever been caned, since school, I mean?" "Of course not. The idea appalls me. Do you have to hold on like that!" "S'pose not. Don't be uppity. I think I like you. Besides, you have to do what I tell you, y'know." "Do I!" Barbara supposed she did, but found the transition little to her taste. Thisbe was pure delight. But armed with a cane . . . . ! "How long must I be strapped in this harness?" she demanded noncommittally. "I'll have it off in a jiffy. We share a room. That's where we're going. There's a uniform." There was indeed. Barbara's eyes returned to it again and again as she disrobed. It mocked her from the bed and taunted derisively. Twenty, twenty, twenty! It would have seemed more appropriate for a thirteen-year-old. "I'll keep my underclothes," she announced firmly. "No you won't, darling. Off with everything." Thisbe was equally firm. "But why?" "Look pretty silly, wouldn't you, with bloomers and knickers and a corset under that!" The argument was irrefutable. Barbara stripped and blushed before Thisbe's entranced attention. When she reached for the sparse modesty of the uniform she was stopped midway. "Just carry it, darling. No use putting it on yet." "Why?" Barbara had to ask, even though she guessed the answer.

" 'Cos I'm going to cane you, silly! We're not allowed to wear the least thing when we're being punished." "Can't I flip that little bit of skirt up?" Even as she made the damaging admission of compliance, Barbara's cheeks took on a deeper tinge. Shame and humiliation mantled her as totally as had Mrs. Merridew's cloak. "Of course not, darling," Thisbe reproved patronizingly. "You'll be tied tight." "Tied!" All the outrage of twenty inviolate years was in the one word. Barbara looked at her teenage prefect askance. "Well, you don't suppose you can stand still or bend over and touch your toes and all that rot?" Thisbe suggested scornfully. "I don't see why not." "Well, you jolly well can't. We've all tried." "You mean the pain's that awful?" Barbara glimpsed chasms. "Of course! I say, Barb, come on. We have to go downstairs." "You mean . . . the servants?" The naked girl was adrift. "No, silly! Not this time. But the punishment rooms are down there. They've got all the things." "I can't walk down there naked." "Yes you can. The girls are in class, and I'll make sure the servants don't get a peek first time. But you may as well get used to being naked. We're all naked about half the time. Our punishments . . . ." "I absolutely won't!" Thisbe giggled. Looking at her angrily, Barbara beheld a quite lovely young woman Whose piquant features seemed designed for the mischievous grin they now bore. "Don't take on so, darling. Look, if this will make you feel better . . . ." With a few practiced motions Thisbe shed her uniform and shoes and stood as nude as the protesting girl herself. Barbara stared in rapt fascination at the curved slenderness. She was coping with an exclamation she scarcely dared make: "But . . . but . . . you're all . . . ! You've got marks all over!" Thisbe looked down at her own nakedness as though startled at a malignant discovery. But her laugh was suddenly gay. "Oh those! I wondered what you meant. On my bottom it's the cane, the rest are with the whip. Aren't they lovely!" She considered her fleshly ornamentations proudly, then added: "I'm getting whipped again on Saturday." She held up her wrist with its metal band. "I have to wear this. It tells everyone I've been sentenced." "But it's cruel!"

Thisbe looked hurt. "You shouldn't say things like that. It's not nice. We'd better hurry. Classes will be out." Barbara was dazed. Her confusion aided her in the demeaning journey. Her mind was too much of a turmoil for any single distress to register. Oddly, her paramount shrinking was at the tiny tunic she carried over one arm. She followed her exuberant mentor as though unaware of what lay in wait. It was not until she stood in the big room with its forbidding accoutrements that the most obvious question of all escaped her lips: "But why must I be caned? I haven't done a thing. Why?" Thisbe giggled as though at a risqué remark. "You must have done something, darling. You're here!" It fell into place. She was not here because of things to come, but primarily because of actions past. There was, after all, a shocking parallel to the little girl sent to the Head's study for her infliction for irrevocable sin. "Does this happen to every girl who comes here?" she asked curiously. "Of course! A sort of welcome. Puts us in our place." "You seem awfully pleased about it all," Barbara accused. "Why not! I can't possibly escape, and some of it's fun. You'll see. I make the best of it. So will you." "Fun! How on earth . . . !" "Of course! There's all us girls. We're not locked up all the time. And there's the three teachers, they're a real scream." Barbara was groping. Everything was inconsistent. Thisbe's exuberant gaiety did not match the nature of the chamber in which they stood. That the faculty of Silverways might be described as "a scream" by one of their teenage pupils seemed out of keeping with the project on which she herself was presently embarked. It was while still enmeshed in a maze of speculation that she found herself kneeling on a bench. "You lie forward on the top half, darling," Thisbe explained brightly. Everything was incredible, this no more than any of the other. Barbara did as she was bid. The enormity of the whole enterprise dulled her first resentment against taking orders from a junior. She suspected it would be hard ever to take offense at Thisbe. The girl was pure effervescent youth. She radiated joy. Barbara clung to the knowledge of her own rejection of escape. Twice she had made her choice. She suspected this second one of being final. There would be no others. She allowed her arm to be drawn down. That a strap should find and circle the passive wrist was no more than to be expected. Thisbe's giggle robbed the enormity of what was taking place of menace. Barbara's other arm fell into place beside the narrow bench, another strap was buckled on another wrist. "I always think this is the really awful moment," Thisbe confided. "I mean, up to now a girl could maybe walk away. Now she can't." She giggled delightedly. "You can't, darling. Have a try."

Barbara "had a try." Thisbe was right. It was too late to change her mind. Her hands and arms were solidly affixed on each side and drawn well down. Her breasts were crushed against the wood. Her bottom reared above her legs bent at the knee on a lower level. The purpose of the machine on which she lay became abundantly evident. "Do you have to!" Barbara's cry was involuntary. The busy feminine fingers that now tightened a strap across the narrow waist and others at knee and ankle seemed to the prostrate nudity to be excessively concerned with bonds. "I couldn't have moved enough to stop . . . prevent you . . . doing what you have to." "You don't like to say the word, do you!" Thisbe's voice was filled with female mischief. "You'd better get used to it. Say it over and over to yourself: cane, cane, cane . . . I'm going to be caned! See! It gets you used to the idea." "Very well, then," the helpless victim agreed huffily. "You're going to cane my . . . my . . . ." "That, too!" Thisbe was enraptured. "You don't like to talk about your bottom either. You'd better do a few on that. You do have a bottom, y'know. It's a really lovely bottom. When I've got it all ready it's going to be beautiful for the cane." "What on earth is there to do now!" Barbara, despite herself, felt involvement. "I can hardly move. I'm indecently exposed. What more do you want?" "Just this, darling." Thisbe tightened the waist strap until the owner of the waist emitted a yelp of protest. She then bent and turned a crank. Barbara gave a startled gasp as a small segment of the bench beneath her loins began to rise with a slow but remorseless upward thrust that imparted to her naked bottom a protuberance that brought to her cheeks another in a long series of blushes. The strapped girl could not fail to know that her most secret place was being violated and exposed in such ways as she herself, in all her adolescent curiosities, had never contrived. "Stop it! Stop it!" The girl to be punished was genuinely alarmed that the cheerful moppet might indulge in an injurious excess. She tugged at the prisoning straps to no avail. With the new increased tensioning she could barely twitch a muscle. Barbara knew herself exquisitely held for what she had been sentenced to. "You look gorgeous, darling!" Thisbe enthused. "I won't put you up anymore, seeing it's your first time. Your bottom's nicely stretched. The cane will hurt beautifully." "How can anything 'hurt beautifully!' It probably hurts horribly." Thisbe chuckled knowingly. "Oh, come now, don't tell me that nice push up I've just given you isn't making you feel good! How about your dear little . . . ." She leaned and whispered a word in her captive's ear. Barbara froze in horror. She had heard the word. It was one of those that prodded in the back of a girl's mind but was never, never used. Whispered from the ripe lips of this innocent seeming child it took on the semblance of ultimate obscenity.

"Thisbe!" Her outrage was channelled entirely into the single word. "Did I shock you, darling!" The younger girl's pleased complacency betrayed intent. "All us girls call a cunt a cunt. Mostly it's what we get sent here for. I mean because of what we did with the poor dear thing. 'Pussy' sounds too terribly childish, don't you think?" "Stop talking about it," Barbara implored. "You're only doing it to bother me. And I won't use that beastly word, ever." "I bet you will, y'know." The young voice was mischievously wise. "You've been sent to a place where that's all there is. Lots and lots of lovely female slits in lots and lots of little bushes. It's hard to ignore them." She giggled happily. "Especially on bath nights." "Could we talk about something else?" "We could talk about caning your bottom," Thisbe said, aggrieved. "You're terribly stuffy, y'know. It would serve you right if I was extra cruel. Anyway, you're properly fixed so I'll leave you." "Leave me! Why?" "You have to be left before a severe punishment," Thisbe vouchsafed airily. "It's called 'Repentance Time.' You know, you think about your sins and stuff." "I don't want to be left like this. It's shameful! Cane me and get it over with." "You really are hoity-toity, darling! Quite impossible really. I'll cane you extra for that little lot. And I don't see what's so shameful. That little thing you're so worried about can't be seen unless someone walks 'round back." Action following the word, Thisbe retreated and surveyed the view. Her giggle was inevitable. "I say, darling, from here it's champion! I've never seen a fig stick back better. It positively pouts at me. It's funny, girls are different. Some won't move back at all." "Will you please cane me and have done!" It was not until the words had been uttered that Barbara realized their import. She was asking . . . asking! Asking for a thing unthinkable a day ago. She was travelling far on an uncharted course. By the time she looked uneasily round to see if her request was likely to meet immediate response she discovered she was alone. It was a strange feeling. In actuality it was a congestion of awareness. The fact of her nakedness became paramount. She could not move. Supposing someone should walk in! That the "someone" would be female did not entirely rob the thought of shame. It was a shame made doubly potent by her bondage. She was tied and strapped with an ingenuity designed to expose that portion of her to be punished. To her inflamed imagination her bottom seemed to fill the room. It would be the first focal point of any eye. But the straps deep in her flesh seemed to brand her with a stigma of their own: a girl marked for punishment, almost a felon. It was something that just did not happen to "nice girls." In a prison, perhaps, to girls who were "not" nice. In her life to that moment there had been an unbridgeable chasm between the two.

Thisbe's insouciant reference to an unmentionable portion of the feminine anatomy had been shattering. If any comfort might be gleaned from her condition it lay in the fact she was face down so that her breasts and pubic hair were not emphasized. But they were there! She wondered what she would do about them. At the ripe age of twenty she was more fully developed than most of the other girls would be. They would eye her attributes with salacious pubescent curiosity. And there was Miss Amory! Miss Amory was a total enigma about whom there was much to learn. There was, of course, her caning for which she lay helpless in a state of preparation. Barbara wondered why she was not more concerned over this impending agony. She supposed agony was the word. She easily deduced that to be fastened as implacably as she was must surely mean but one thing: her punishment was beyond bearing. She must be rendered impotent in order that it be inflicted in orderly fashion. She felt like a side of beef awaiting the butcher's attention, then winced at the simile. She found it hard to relate agony with the lovable girl who was delegated to inflict it, even though she had small doubt of the youthful hand's competence and intent. Thisbe would do anything she did with her own brand of vivid involvement. She was immensely alive. I twas almost certain that this first caning would be followed by others, or at least by other punishments. She longed to be allowed to know, to assess the limits of what she was expected to bear. She felt herself adult and able to cope, albeit with shame and distaste, with whatever lay in store. But, on the bench strapped and helpless, the possibilities suddenly loomed large and forbidding. Her quick glances round the room itself revealed latencies from which to shrink. She understood some of what she saw. The others were cringemaking. Her present immobility upon the bench left her vulnerable to a hundred pains inflicted in a hundred ways . . . . She resolutely closed her mind against panic. "Frightfully sorry. Didn't know you were here." The apologetic male voice electrified. Strapped hands sought to cover peeping breasts. Strapped legs sought to close. Nothing moved. The naked Barbara turned agonized eyes towards the voice. "I should have knocked, y'know. Was looking for a cane actually." He was one of the old young ones who have no age, the features ascetic without severity. He conveyed an impression of being only physically present as though his mind was bent on other pursuits. His attire fell only briefly short of the clerical. He belonged to a group who should have been shocked at what he beheld. But he peered absently at the blushing girl's reared bottom without visible recoil. "Waiting to be caned, I take it?" he inquired affably. "Go away." He looked surprised. "Why?" "You shouldn't be seeing me like this. Please leave." Both appeared to have exhausted the obvious. They stared. "You are the new girl, aren't you?" he inquired at length. "Yes I am, but please go away." "And you're waiting to be caned?"

"Yes I am. It's none of your business." "You mustn't talk to me like that," he chided. "Your age won't give you any privileges. I say, you're frightfully pretty, y'know." "Are you going to leave or must I scream?" "Thisbe won't be back for a little while. If you want to scream, I don't mind. Girls are rather good at it. I say, have you seen a long yellow cane lying 'round? Around, I mean. I know there's some in the cupboard." "No I haven't. Please don't stare." "There was a thin white riding crop. Have you seen that?" "I haven't seen any of your instruments of torture. I wish you'd go away." "Are you looking forward to it?" Barbara longed to kick him. "Looking forward to what?" "Your punishment . . . having your bottom caned?" He managed to make the outrageous query sound patient and solicitous. "You mean I'm supposed to enjoy it!" Mortification was giving way to irritation. "Some girls do, I've found." His eye reluctantly abandoned Barbara's bottom and roved the room. "Ah, there it is! I left it here after Lady Clarabelle." He sauntered towards the discovery. Then, for a moment, paused. "I say, you really are magnificent down below. Most amazing rear extrusion. Pity you can't see it. Quite phenomenal." Internally the strapped girl curled into a ball of cringing shock. That a man should see . . . that anyone should behold what she knew she so amply displayed! Her whole being cried: No, no, no! But for endless moments the male regard gravely examined her pubic offering before the cane was retrieved and the formal footsteps left the naked sacrifice upon her wooden altar once more alone. She crouched tense against the straps, her eyes riveted upon the door. "Oh, that's Mr. Fawley!" Thisbe identified Barbara's description. "His name's Leslie. He's Math and Biology. Are you taking Math?" "You mean he's a teacher . . . here?" "Of course! He's a frightful ass but rather sweet. He caned Clarabelle's bottom yesterday and forgot his cane. He imports them specially. They're no better than the one I'm going to use on you, but he thinks they are. He's that sort." "Men . . . caning a girl's bottom! You mean that?" "Well, it's not just us prefects that have the job, y'know. All the teachers have a go. They're frightfully good at it-except poor Dolly Winsom, she's languages and can't hit worth beans."

Once again Barbara had the feeling of her known world slipping away. "But he saw me naked!" "That's because you hadn't any clothes on, darling." The statement seemed innocent of sarcasm. "You mean he's allowed . . . that he looks . . . that he sees . . . ." "Well, he's bound to see us all naked sooner or later, y'know," Thisbe said reasonably. "He never seems to notice much." "He jolly well noticed me! Besides, it shouldn't be allowed." Thisbe tittered. "Who's to know! Except Miss Amory. And she likes to look at us herself. You'll see." Barbara was about to make another heartfelt probing for sanity when, without warning, her tautly curved bottom exploded in scalding agony. "Caught you by surprise, didn't I!" Thisbe sounded proud. "Oh . . . oh . . . oh!" Barbara's voice was a series of choked moans. "Oh, how could you! Oh, don't you ever do that again." Thisbe did it again. To the ungrateful recipient it felt as though she had been cut in two. She was certain of some shocking wound. Try as she would to remain mute, small choking whimpers proclaimed her pain. "Really hurts, doesn't it!" Thisbe queried by way of consolation. The wounded girl could think of no words awful enough for her need. But her main concern was that the blows should not continue. Undoubtedly this enthusiastic moppet was exceeding her authority unaware of the frightful damage she was doing to the frail flesh. "You mustn't hit me anymore, Thisbe," Barbara said firmly. "Please ask Miss Amory to come down here for a minute." "Why?" Thisbe sounded genuinely puzzled. "Because I can't stand it, that's why." "Oh, is that all!" Thisbe laughed. "We all say that, y'know. I'd have thought a big girl like you would hardly notice a few with the cane. You're almost a woman." "Age hasn't anything to do with it. Such agony is impossible. It's positively inhuman." "You mean like this?" Thisbe struck with all her slender strength. Barbara screamed without restraint. The bound bottom seemed resonant with the sound. Its nerve ends radiated agony throughout the fastened nudity. "You're getting some lovely marks, darling." Thisbe spoke with the assurance of a connoisseur. "You'll be so proud."

"Thisbe, stop it!" Thisbe struck shrewdly into the lower curves. She knew from past experience where it hurt the most. "I expect that one touched you up a bit across that thing you don't like to talk about," she offered blandly. "You've destroyed it," Barbara affirmed vehemently when she had finished screaming. "I insist you call Miss Amory." "It just feels as though it's ruined," Thisbe explained casually. "Actually, they take an awful lot. No bones, y'know, they sort of flatten out." "Call Miss Amory. I'm seriously hurt. This can't go on." "It can, y'know, darling. I'm going to give you an extra stroke very hard in a tender spot every time you ask about Miss Amory. Poor dear, she can't be bothered with things like this. Now here's the first." Barbara was quite sure it was hard. She had become convinced all her spots were tender. Wherever the cane struck it seemed to enter within her flesh so that she would be scored for life. Her screams and moans had no time to totally subside before the next blow elicited more. "You must . . . you must! Please get her, oh please. Help! Help!" "You do make a fuss!" The maiden with the cane paused and surveyed her work and its result. Her air was judicial and impartial. "I suppose though I made a lot of noise myself the first time. It's quite a long time ago and a girl forgets. I think we're sort of peeved about the whole thing. I expect that makes it hurt more." She struck again. Tears and sobs were mixed in with the screams. It was now evident to the bound girl that no help would come. Thisbe would continue to wield the cane within whatever terms of reference she might possess-if any! The only hope was to play upon her sympathy. Barbara was finding her total inability to move frightening. "Well, then, please don't cane me so hard?" she pleaded. "Surely you can do that?" "It's no use unless it's hard, darling. Can't you understand that? I mean, it wouldn't be real otherwise." The younger girl was sympathetic but implacable. "You do understand, don't you?" "No. I don't! You're being cruel. I wouldn't have thought it of you." "You see, you're beginning to come around. We all do." Thisbe evidently glimpsed some reaction of which her victim was unaware. "I expect you're strapped too tight to be able to rub your cunt on the pad?" Her voice dripped regret. "Thisbe!" "You said that before. You must have lived a very sheltered life. I'm going to make this one lap right across those lovely lips," "Nooooo . . . No! Oh . . . ." Whatever Barbara intended to say was lost in her fresh screams. She was bitterly ashamed of the screams. But she used them freely as

her only means of protest − someone might hear and intervene. At least they were a partial vent for agony. "I think I should gag you, darling? We have the loveliest gag." Thisbe must have read her thoughts. "No! No, no no! You mustn't! Oh, please . . . ." "Then how about toning down on the vocals? You're being terribly noisy, y'know." "I don't think I can. You hurt me so much I can't help screaming." "Would you like to bite on something, Barb? There's a bit of wood?" "No thanks. I . . . I'll try. Honest, I will try. If only you'd help a bit by not hitting me so hard." "Try anyway, darling. If you think I hit hard, just wait for Miss Amory to have a go at you. How about this . . . . ?" The naked and helpless girl did her best. The scream was there as the fire burned its way deep into the flesh of her behind but she contained it into sobs and gasps that escaped control. Her loins were aflame with agony. When she could again manage words she asked brokenly: "How . . . how many must I have?" "Never really thought about it." Thisbe said casually. "It's nicer for me and worse for you if there's no number. We can sort of go on and on without having to keep count." "No, Thisbe, no! You just can't! You'll whip me unconscious." Thisbe giggled. "You do like to be dramatic. I suppose it's because you're older. None of us girls ever went unconscious. You won't. I did try and act it once, but Miss Amory tricked me and I got caned twice as bad for my pains." "Tricked you?" "She pretended her only way to test was to rest a live coal on my back. When she was halfway to the fireplace my courage gave out. I remember I screamed quite a lot that afternoon." "If you screamed, why can't I?" "Oh, alright, if it means that much! But I won't make the strokes any lighter. I do have a duty, y'know." Barbara screamed. She screamed for quite a long time.

• "I thought we'd have a light supper here in my lounge," Miss Amory said as she arranged dishes. "Is it very sore?" It sounded worse than if the word "bottom" had been blatantly used. "I hurt

terribly," Barbara said uncompromisingly. "I'm so glad!" The surprising words seemed appropriate in the surprising place. "Dear Thisbe, she's so good for a new girl. She's so bright and happy." "It's not her that's being caned." Barbara was still aware of her twenty years and was still determined to promote some recognition of seniority that would prohibit corporal punishment. "I really don't feel today's infliction on me was warranted." "The dear child canes very well," Miss Amory acknowledged thoughtfully as she passed a plate. "Of course we will recognize that you are almost a woman and full grown. I'm sure we will manage punishments severe enough for your senior status." "That wasn't what I meant, Miss Amory." "I'm sure the whip is more appropriate for a girl your age. Please do be patient." The Mistress of Silverways had a quicksilver faculty her latest pupil was coming to recognize. Awkward questions or complaints were blithely ignored. But Barbara tried again. "I do think I'd prefer to be punished by you. Miss Amory. I'm sure you would exercise better control than a young girl." She paused a moment, then plunged. "But why must I be punished in such ways at all?" "Suggest another way, dear." Miss Amory's voice was sweet. Barbara munched a Jersey potato and was aware of a chink in her armour. She could think of nothing. In a choice of sufferings her mind was blank. "You would not really want to be locked in a cell . . . or a dungeon. It's terribly depressing after a few days." "Could I choose that?" Barbara glimpsed a civilized ray of hope. "There are chains, of course . . . ." Miss Amory dealt with asparagus. Again the world crumbled. "On me . . . I'd be chained?" "Of course! Come, come, Barbara! You're just looking for ways out. Leave your punishments to us. Forget them now. Eat your supper. How does your uniform fit? It was made to measure." "It fits. I feel indecent." "It's so you are always ready for punishment, dear. It slips off so easily." The punished girl watched her companion. The woman who was now her Mistress and whose authority had condoned the pain on which she sat. Miss Amory was all wrong for her role, wrong age, wrong appearance, wrong manner. Yet there was something frightening in her suave acceptance of the incongruities that accompanied what, presumably, was her own choice of vocation. For Perdita Amory there surely should have been a man! In a burst of candour Barbara blurted: "You know I can't really understand much of . . . of this!" She waved a hand vaguely. "You're not a bit what I expected."

"I'm glad of that." Perdita Amory twinkled. "But we sit here so civilized . . . you're quite lovely. Yet in another room some poor girl may be screaming under a whip?" "Thisbe said you had a nice taste for dramatics. Don't indulge it. It will bother you, and me." "I can't imagine you being so cruel." "There you go again. Stop it. You're not dead or dying, are you! But I'm sure you thought you were. Silverways simply deals in the realities of the female young." "And the female not so young?" "You!" The grey eyes sparkled. "The very young do not sit as you do now. Aren't you enjoying yourself? I am." "I'm sorry! I'm ungrateful. I'm so terribly curious. Do you . . . well, do you . . . deal with us by invoking vivid contrasts. Shocking us out of preconceptions, then moulding us anew? Is that it?" "You invite attention, Barbara. You're asking for punishment. Can you imagine the warden of Brixton Prison enduring the inquisition you seem determined to inflict on me − from a sentenced prisoner?" Barbara squirmed. She suspected she was on the right surmise. But prudence counselled caution. "I'm sorry." She tried to look contrite. "What would you like me to talk about?" She avoided sarcasm. Perdita Amory smiled whimsically. "How about Mr. Fawley. I understand you've met him?" "If I talk about him I'll offend you," Barbara squirmed. "Go ahead. I grant immunity." "He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be looking at naked girls." "Poor Leslie! What have you got against him?" "It's just not right, not decent." "Define decent?" Once more the chasm! Barbara stepped back from it hastily but did not surrender. "People are not supposed to see each other without clothes." "Apart from your bottom, do you feel any different now from before he had a good look at your charms?" Another squirm. "No, I suppose not." "Of course you don't! Neither does he. You may as well bear in mind that if you flunk or misbehave in his class he'll cane you . . . and in the bare, too."

"I don't understand that. Why naked?" "Because when girls are quite young they are prurient foxy little baggages indisposed to reason. Strip them and whip them and they become surprisingly human. You're just unlucky that you got here a few years late. Your breasts are quite firm, aren't they?" "I think you're trying to shock me. But yes, they are. And yes. I am shocked. And I don't see what me . . . my breasts have to do with it." "I may have occasion to whip them." The silence seethed. Barbara felt the scarlet mantling her cheeks. Felt, too, a trembling she could not repress. She plied her knife and fork busily, eyes lowered. She could think of no retort. It did not occur to her to suggest her companion had jested. "Shocked, darling?" Both the query and the endearment were hard to cope with. Barbara could have kicked herself for feeling coy when she said her polite, "Yes, Miss Amory." "Why not call me Perdita?" "I couldn't. It would be disrespectful." "You have my permission." The grey eyes sparkled. "Because of my grandmother . . . Lady Corydon?" "Because you're twenty. It makes things easier between us. It won't be considered a familiarity, and I won't whip you less." "But the other girls?" "In front of them you can call me Miss Amory." Barbara silently viewed another surprising vista. She could find no firm emotional footing anywhere. She blurted out the fact most evident in her mind: "I'm too old and you're too young to be here. You're altogether too young to be . . . what you are." "Bustles and moth balls and dried skin . . . ? Is that what you want? A nice safe frustrated spinster with fusty breath?" "You're beautiful. Why don't you marry? Instead of . . . this?" "Because I prefer this, darling." Miss Amory bestowed a whimsical smile upon her troubled companion. "This does have its compensations, y'know. At the moment the most enjoyable prerequisite of my office is you." "Me!" "Isn't it obvious, this delightful piquancy. There are not enough years between us to matter, other than to bolster the authoritative advantage I hold over you. You will give me immense pleasure."

The younger girl squirmed. "You'll enjoy my humiliations, is that it?" "It's part. Don't look so glum, darling. In what other prison would you enjoy this pleasant interlude?" Barbara could concede the point. But her bottom still hurt, the skimpy tunic still seemed a badge of shame. "How can I possibly go on talking to you like this − seeing you as a friend when you're constantly having me punished?" "Why not?" Why not indeed! In a shattered world the pieces can be reassembled to suit the whim. Barbara eyed the amused features across the table with a new assessment. Perdita Amory had not established her reputation by being orthodox. If she herself was compelled to have a jailer, it would be hard to find one more desirable. She was about to ask another question when the door opened and Thisbe's voice said brightly, "Here I am, Miss Amory." It was as though she was buffeted by capricious gusts of summer air wafting her hither and yon beyond her ken. Barbara fought down the impulse to skip along the hall as did her bubbling companion. Deliberately she remained sedate. "Isn't it spiffing!" Thisbe enthused. "You share my room tonight, just you and me. I was scared they'd put you in the dorm with the kids." Once more Barbara's words seemed formed by the obvious: "What's to stop us walking out of this house and going away?" she asked. Thisbe giggled. "Go ahead if you want to, but you're on your own. There's bars on all the windows and the doors are always locked. Even if you got out there's some awful dogs in the park and there's always Herbage the gardener. It's his job to catch us. It's also his job to handle us if we want to make a fuss. He's awful strong. Most girls try to get away once. But only once . . . !" "You mean the penalty is that severe?" "It's awful! You know you're going to die. It's twenty strokes a day in public and the dungeon every night for five days." Barbara digested the glad tidings while they mounted stairs. "Isn't it a nice room?" Thisbe danced around the feminine compartment with its two single beds that seemed of crudely heavy timber construction. "Take your tunic off, darling." Why not! Barbara shed the absurd garment without sense of loss. She wondered if she would ever become accustomed to nakedness before others. The instinctive need to cover pubes and breasts . . . . She stood naked, then winced at what was disclosed when Thisbe folded back the sheets. Black and grim upon the white expanse there lay a shackle and a chain. "I'm sorry, darling." Thisbe looked truly dolorous. "I'm afraid you have to wear it." Rejection after rejection sped through Barbara's mind. But she shrugged resignedly. It was in keeping with her new status. No doubt it was for emphasis rather than restraint, though it was certain that any female ankle wearing it could never stray. Lugubriously she disposed herself upon the sheet. "What about a nightgown?" she asked without optimism.

Thisbe laughed. "Silverways doesn't have such things. Look, darling, this thing I have to lock on you doesn't hurt. Say you forgive me?" The youngster was pure sunshine. "I forgive you." Barbara grimaced ruefully as she watched the nimble fingers position her proffered ankle and encircle it with the hinged metal band. It was a tight fit, made even more compelling by the heavy padlock which clicked shut with a finality that made its new wearer shrink. "All the best young ladies wear them," Thisbe cooed. "Isn't it lovely! You can't possibly get loose." "Where's yours?" the captive demanded, aware of possible discriminations. "Oh, I've got one. I'll put it on in a minute. If you're comfy I'll get into bed too," she chuckled. "I have to be sure everything's been done. Once the padlock clicks it's too late." Barbara had drawn up the clothes to cover her nakedness, but her ankle was pulling and testing its metal tether. It was a strange feeling to know that she could not leave the bed. A few metal links only . . . ! Yet about them an implacability! She watched her blithe roommate shed her tunic and chain her own ankle as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "There'll be an inspection in a minute," Thisbe explained. "If we are not properly chained there's no end of a fuss and all sorts of punishments. The Mistress puts the lights out then, too." Surprisingly and later in the darkness, Barbara slept.

• However ineffectual Miss Winsom might be in other ways she certainly knew her languages. Barbara yielded her a grudging respect. She was an untidy female of indeterminate age who went about her task of teaching with a slightly harried air but much determination. "I'm sorry your desk is a bit small," she had apologised, "but a girl your age should know better than to be here." She seemed to feel that this dictum about covered the contingency. The desk was indeed cramped. It was just one more emphasis on her age. Her bottom was still sore. She was blushingly aware of the curious eyes of a number of girls, some quite young, who made up Miss Winsom's class. Even though the eyes were young, they were knowing. Barbara suspected that in any other place there would have been giggles. She could not be other than aware of their curiosity in her breasts. Always the shining focus was upon the twin spheres that set her apart and ahead of the rest. She asked herself why she was compelled to sit thus. Yet before an hour had passed she realized that even she might gain benefit from Dolly Winsom's erudition. Silverways did other things than punish. Pens were busy, paper rustled, Miss Winsom's pointer rapped the blackboard. Barbara had allowed her concentration to become absorbed in Latin conjugations when the incredible substrata of Silverways surfaced. "Lady Clarabelle!" Miss Winsom's voice did its best to be stern.

Barbara remembered the name from the day before. She was astonished to discover that the bearer of the title was a child of twelve. True, the eyes were wise and the curves pronounced. It was easy to believe that Lady Clarabelle, whoever she was, might be precocious. She rose readily at the summons. "Yes, Miss Winsom?" "Bring me that paper, the one you are trying to hide." Lady Clarabelle lost some of her insouciance. "It's just a piece of scrap, Miss Winsom." "I would like to see it." Lady Clarabelle reluctantly left the safety of her desk and offered the crumpled sheet as though for sacrifice. Miss Winsom examined it with pursed lips, smoothed it out and held it up to view. "I am sure you will all be interested in this work of art," she proclaimed acidly. For the first time since her arrival at Silverways, Barbara felt humour rising to her lips. The class was staring at an outrageous caricature beneath which was the caption of "Winsom Winnie." The class did its best to meet the shocking disclosure in an acceptable silence of violated propriety. The few repressed giggles that escaped maiden lips were quickly quenched by Miss Winsom's alert eye. All present, including Barbara herself, watched breathlessly. "You expect me to be pleased, Clarabelle?" The youthful feminine member of the nobility shuffled her feet. Then, brightly and hopefully, she offered: "I didn't think you'd want to see it, Miss Winsom. It's nice of you to want to, though." "Kindly prepare yourself for punishment." "What for, Miss Winsom? I hoped you'd be pleased." "Don't be absurd, child. You are contradicting yourself. Prepare." "Am I going to be caned, Miss Winsom?" "Of course. What else do you expect?" "Couldn't I write some lines or something?" Lady Clarabelle contrived to look penitently hopeful. "No. You may fetch the cane." The juvenile Clarabelle quite obviously searched her mind for some further tactic, but finding none went to a cupboard and returned with a length of yellow cane, the sight of which sent an audible gasping shiver through the class. Barbara watched, fascinated. Lady Clarabelle kissed the wicked object. She had obviously abandoned hope of mercy or reprieve and now performed with something of a flourish. Barbara could

well imagine she was a young woman who was abundantly accustomed to penalties. She watched as the cane was handed to the waiting woman and the delinquent damsel divested herself of the school tunic. Her heart missed a beat when she beheld the striations on the youthful flesh. Lady Clarabelle carried with her a startling array of evidence of past punishments. Catching Barbara's horrified eye she grinned companionably as though in pride of her decorations. She then, ritualistically, handed the instrument of her punishment to the waiting hand and said perkily: "I'm terribly sorry to he so bad, Miss Winsom. Please punish me." Miss Winsom accepted the cane without evidence of joy. "Your bottom or your hands, Lady Clarabelle?" she asked surprisingly. Barbara supposed that perhaps titles carried options. It was something to remember. Clarabelle was obviously wrestling with awful decision. "My bottom's been caned an awful lot lately, Miss Winsom," she ventured tentatively. "It is nothing to be proud of, child." "I expect it will have to be my hands, then, won't it?" The delinquent was obviously fishing for compassion. "But it does hurt terribly." "It is intended to," said the math teacher primly. "Kindly extend your arm." The journey of the young hand to where it would be cut with the cane was slow and agonized. Its owner's features had lost their radiance. Clarabelle was unhappy. But she contrived to stand erect and to straighten her arm and flatten out the small pathetic palm. Her eyes were pouring out a mute appeal to the woman with the cane. "I shall cane you with moderate severity," said Miss Winsom. "You are quite incorrigible." She turned her uncertain features towards the new arrival. "You will pay special attention. Barbara. What you are about to witness can very easily happen to you." Barbara said a demure: "Thank you, Miss Winsom," in what she hoped was a sufficiently grateful tone. Internally she was in turmoil. That she could be called out in front of the class to emulate the youthful Clarabelle was a humiliation she had never considered. Examining it now she realized its logic. Why not! Her age was now purely incidental. As a castigator of delinquent damsels, Dolly Winsom lacked conviction. Adjusting her glasses she examined the extended hand as though it was a French verb of doubtful validity. Manfully she tapped it with the cane and lowered it a couple of inches. Clarabelle was staring stonily at the wall. It will never be known if the aim was wide or the victim moved her hand. Miss Winsom missed her stroke. She took a deep breath and tried again. Clarabelle closed her eyes. The whining withe connected only with the tips of the extended fingers. "I think we should do that one over, dear," Miss Winsom said doubtfully. Clarabelle did not share the opinion. She was busily hugging her burning fingers beneath a naked armpit and emitting sounds of mourning. "Hold your arm out again, Clarabelle." Miss Winsom managed to say it as though she meant it.

"I can't, Miss Winsom. It hurts too much." "Don't be silly, dear. You know you must." "I think some bones are broken." "Do you wish me to add extra strokes, dear?" Clarabelle held out her wounded hand. She evidently possessed remarkable recuperative powers. Her eyes were loaded heavily with reproach. Her face was flushed. Barbara's heart bled for the girl. This time, at the moment of impact, Miss Winsom's glasses leaped from her nose. They fell to the floor with a surprising clatter. Clarabelle repeated her writhing comfort for her wound. The teacher groped. Inconsistently, the punished girl took a moment off from her agony to retrieve the spectacles and hand them to their nearsighted owner. "Here they are, Miss Winsom," she said virtuously and returned to her own demonstration of distress. "Thank you, dear." Miss Winsom was obviously relieved to find her visual aid undamaged. Replacing them she said brightly, "We are having a lot of trouble, aren't we! Never mind. We must persevere." Clarabelle tensed and cocked an inquiring eye. "But it did count, Miss Winsom?" "No, dear. I didn't do it very well. I'm very sorry. But I am sure next time . . . ." "But that's not fair!" The naked child was standing erect, indignation overcoming pain. "I can't help it if your glasses fell off." "Clarabelle!" "Well, I can't, can I! That one ought to count." "I think it will be best if you bend over and touch your toes, dear." Miss Winsom evidently doubted her own prowess and desired a bigger target. Someone tittered. Clarabelle fingered her already well-marked behind gingerly. She seemed about to protest but thought better of it. Slowly she did as she had been told. Miss Winsom seemed to gain fresh confidence. Her first blow at the small defenseless rounds was shrewd and hard. The sight of Clarabelle gasping on the floor was beyond bearing. Barbara disentangled herself from the clutching desk and stood erect. "I have to protest this," she said vehemently. "That poor girl has been whipped enough. She is covered in marks. Surely there must be . . . ." "Stop!" The authority in the teacher's voice won. Barbara's protest wavered into silence. She felt foolish, and lost . . . . "Your opinion was not asked, Barbara." "No, Miss Winsom."

"We have a rule here for young ladies who profess nobility." Barbara had an awful inkling. "Yes, Miss Winsom?" "They have the privilege of taking the place of the one whose cause they champion." "Yes, Miss Winsom." "You may return to your seat, Clarabelle. Barbara, you will stand here if you please." It was another of those moments. Silverways was alive with them. Barbara's first thought was to stalk from the room in search of Perdita Amory and an appeal to reason. But the authority vested in this odd untidy woman was potent. She remembered her caning of yesterday. She could still feel the clutch of the steel shackle on her ankle, even though it was gone. A quick realization that Perdita would be compelled to uphold the actions of her staff destroyed her confidence. Miserably and with flaming cheeks she marched manfully to the space before the blackboard. On the way she passed the returning Clarabelle and received a grateful smile. Miss Winsom had got her second wind. "I think it would be nice, Barbara, if you face the class and tell them your age and why you share this room with them, and why you are happy to share their punishments." Her voice was very firm. It was part of a pattern! It had to be! She must have been discussed before arrival and ways designed to humiliate and break her spirit. To do what was asked of her now was her most difficult task yet. She longed to storm angrily from the room, then had a mental vision of Herbage the gardener dragging her back by force. She faced the class, head high. "You should prepare yourself, dear, before you speak to the girls." Miss Winsom's voice was gentle. Another blow! This one cruel. Naked before these avid young eyes! A nude confessional! But she would be stripped for the punishment to come, so what did it matter! She hated what she must do. But if she did one thing she must do them all. She was in a trap, a trap of her own making. Barbara shrugged, and slipping out of the school tunic, laid it across a chair and resumed her stance before the sparkling young faces. "My name is Barbara. I am twenty years old," she said in a clear determined voice. "I am a lot older than most of you, but I am to share your schooling. I am to share everything Silverways means to us. I think that because of my age it will be lonelier and more difficult for me. I ask you sincerely to look upon me as though I was in your own age group. I am here because I misbehaved. I think you are here for that, too. We all are, so we are equal." She took a deep breath. How absurd it all was! She plunged on: "Miss Amory has been very kind to me . . . ." Surely that had to be the right note. "I think I am about to be punished for . . . for what . . . you heard me say. I don't suppose I'll be very brave − no braver than any of you . . . ." Her voice trailed away from lack of conviction. Her breasts and pubic hair felt aflame from the hungry watching eyes. She turned doubtfully to the waiting woman.

"Very well done, my dear," said Miss Winsom. "I've been looking at your bottom. It's quite well caned. Dear Thisbe is such a good girl." Barbara felt sure she was getting a message. She said, "Thank you, Miss Winsom," without hope. "Perhaps your hands, dear . . . ?" A woman caned in front of a class of little girls! Caned on her hands like a child of ten. "I would prefer it somewhere else, Miss Winsom, please," she asked as politely as she could. "Your bottom is badly wealed, dear." "Perhaps my back?" "We do not cane backs, child." The voice was the same one used on Clarabelle. "Backs are for the whip. You will not be whipped in class." "I'm afraid it will injure my hands. I'm adult." "Nonsense, my dear. You will take your six bravely, I am sure." Six! Six adult blows on adult hands! Barbara quailed. "How do you want me to stand?" she asked timidly. The math teacher displayed an unsuspected originality. "I would like you to kneel, dear, facing the girls. Your hands will then be at a convenient level. I will cane them from behind." Barbara knelt. The floor was hard on her knees. She felt silly and tearful. But these were tears of chagrin. She shrank inwardly at the thought of weeping in this exposure, weeping for any reason. But the caning of the day before had shattered any illusions she might have about herself and pain. Thisbe would bear it more heroically. Uncaring for those who watched, Barbara closed her eyes as the cane made its preliminary explorations of her tautened palm. Obediently she raised it in response to the lifting of the cane. It was quite unreal that she should kneel thus with arm outstretched awaiting a pain she could not bear given her by a woman she had only just met. She knew her posture advanced her breasts so that . . . . The pain was as unbelievable as all the rest. From her wounded hand it spread to encompass all of her. For only one bare choked moment she held the pose, then with a gasping cry she did as the younger girl had done. She knelt, bowed and oblivious to all else save the horror of the agony she nursed beneath a hairy armpit. "I think it would be nice, Barbara, if you refrained from such a childish reaction." Miss Winsom's words were still gentle but penetrating. "I would like you to set an example for the younger girls." "I can't! I'm sorry . . . but I can't . . . . It hurts so much." Barbara had cast pride

to the winds. She hugged her wound. "The other hand, dear." It seemed impossible that such agony could come from this pale woman. The caned hand throbbed. Without belief that she could survive, Barbara straightened up, gazed out beyond the blur of faces and held out her uninjured arm. It was worse! She was sure it was worse! Dolly Winsom was getting into form and focus. The cane bit squarely and cruelly and without mercy. The hurt girl was unconscious of how it happened but she was again in the shaming posture she had been told to avoid. She hugged both hands and did not care. "I am disappointed, dear." Barbara wanted to say that she was disappointed, too. Instead she moaned softly and rocked her kneeling nudity in an expression of suffering beyond words. "Come, come, dear. You have four more." Barbara shook her head from side to side so that her hair swirled. "No! Oh, no . . . I can't! Girls aren't caned this hard in school. Never! It's far too hard to bear. It's . . . it's . . . cruel." "You are a young woman. Stop acting like a child." "You've made me a child. Isn't this what you want!" "You are being impertinent." "I'm not! This whole thing is impossible. You should punish us in some way I can bear . . . that we can bear." "Clarabelle can bear it. So can you." Barbara examined the thought. It was probably true. The realization was bitter. Under the spur of pride she once more straightened up and held out an arm with wealed palm flat and taut. Her hand shattered beneath the blow − or so it felt! The pain was sickening, a degree of agony beyond the norm, beyond anything most people ever knew. Barbara had endured schoolgirl canings of her hands in years long past. But they bore no resemblance to the searing cuts she was receiving now. She could not restrain a cry. It was a mixture of agony and anger and bitter mortification that she should appear before these youngsters to such disadvantage. She felt forever shamed. She huddled into the nursing of her injured hands. Let 'em look! What did it matter! "You see, dear, you are halfway through. I'm sure this is doing you good. Your next hand, please." Miss Winsom managed to endow the torture with a semblance of the commonplace. "I can't!" "What did you say!" "I said I can't. I'm sorry, but you hit me too hard. I can't bear it. No one could.

It's . . . this whole thing's impossible." "Hold out your hand." "No!" "Very well." There was no defeat in the teacher's acceptance of a fact − rather there was triumph. Some point had been proven. "Put on your tunic and come with me." For Barbara, too, there was triumph. She had forced an issue. She would bring this playacting to an end. Her hands throbbed but her heart beat high. It was almost with happiness that she followed the angry back upstairs. The little girl feeling was strong as she stood aside before the desk while Miss Winsom enumerated her crimes. It appeared there was more than one. Perdita Amory listened patiently and without comment. From time to time her speculative eye was turned upon the delinquent. Barbara could swear that in some of the glances there was a glint of humour. Neither woman paid any attention to the possibility she might wish to speak. Apparently she was without defense. The end of the interview was decisive. "I will have a discussion with this delinquent girl later," Miss Amory decided. "For the rest of the day you can have Thisbe immobilize her. Quiet reflection is always beneficial." And that was that! Barbara wondered how wise she had been to remain silent. She had done so out of an empathy with Perdita that she did not feel for the angry woman who had taken her to the Headmistress' office for correction. If Perdita Amory punished her further or more harshly she was sure there would be justice in whatever it might be. Thisbe was delighted. Her fresh task took her away from school and endowed her with a cherished authority. "Didn't take long to ink your blotter, did you!" She chuckled as she led the way downstairs. Barbara explained. Then asked, fearfully: "Is this going to be something awful again? Something I can't bear?" Her youthful jailer patted her bottom reassuringly. "It's nothing at all, darling, except you aren't going to move much for awhile." And so it was! A room and a post. Not much more. The post was ominous. It spoke of punishment. In resigned obedience Barbara removed her tunic and backed against the timber. Busily Thisbe produced rope. "It's not too bad at the start, darling. Depends on how long you get left. Maybe it's better than poor Dolly Winsom's class." Again the sense of unreality. To stand and be bound! To do it from choice. There was no visible threat. Just two girls, one naked. Barbara wondered if her Grandmother knew or would condone her throbbing hands and tender seat. She supported herself by clasping her hands behind the post. Defiantly she thrust against it with her rump. Pain was becoming a fact of life. She might as well get used to it.

"You're terribly sweet," said Thisbe as she roped the passive wrists. "I don't know why, but I just adore tying a girl any way at all, but especially to this post. When I get through with you, you'll make a perfect Joan of Arc or damsel in distress." "I'd sooner be safe at home," Barbara said wanly. "I used to think that," Thisbe admitted, "but then I realized I'd just do it all over again. It's . . . it's sort of inevitable with me. I'm an incorrigible." She giggled and tugged. "I'm not sure I'd go home now if the door was wide open." From Thisbe, the statement was believable. Thisbe and Silverways were made for each other. Barbara supposed that time would reveal their secret better than words. As a member of the Victorian upper classes her world had been riven again and again in little more than a day. Undoubtedly there were shocks yet to come. But there was a reassuring quality to this young beauty busy with her ropes. Comforting herself with the thought that, at least, her hands were not being caned, she stood quiescent while the ropes sought her flesh. "It's lovely when they're tight." Thisbe's exuberance implied pleasure even in the victim. "I always think it saves so much trouble when a girl can't move. Then you don't get bothered by trying to get loose or to reach your cunny or rub yourself of anything." Again the unmentionable had been mentioned. Barbara refrained from picking up the reference, but asked instead: "There's a reason, isn't there, why I have to be tied like this. What is it?" Thisbe tittered. "You're sort of being set aside, darling, for a later date. Everyone's too busy now to give you attention." She tugged so lustily on a rope that Barbara winced. "That's what I'm getting at − the attention. What are they going to do to me?" "I don't suppose you'll like it," Thisbe said soberly. "I don't know what it will be. Maybe a flogging or the dungeon or something . . . ." She made the appalling prospect sound quite casual. "After all, you did talk back, y'know." She giggled happily. "I wish I'd been there to see." "Ouch!" Barbara was suddenly aware of ropes intruding on intimacies still treasured as inviolate. "What do you need ropes under there for?" "Part of a pattern, darling," Thisbe said airily. "They come down from behind, then up beside your cunt, one each side. I'm not allowed a single that I could slip inside. It's not considered 'nice.' " She sounded deprived. "But they're . . . they're . . . !" Barbara found it hard to voice the words that acknowledged the ropes as being where they were. "Yes, they are, aren't they! Between the cheeks of your bottom and up through your lovely bush. Here, I'll pull your waist bands ever so tight so that nothing will slip."

The bound girl said "Ouch" again and hoped the youngster would take the hint. But the intent fingers probed and pushed without pause. Already Barbara's hands were firmly bound behind the post. Her ankles, knees, waist and certain unmentionable portions of herself were tight and firm. She now became blushingly conscious of her own breasts. Whether by intent or accident the twin spheres with their pink buds were thrusting themselves into an unfamiliar prominence. Without pause, Thisbe kissed each of them lightly, then bit each nipple with a momentary severity. Victorian taboos were being shattered with devastating speed. Barbara's instinctive cry of protest died before a quite new sensation she could not define. It seemed that the outrageous thing Thisbe had just done to her was alright because it was Thisbe who had done it. It was confusing and disturbing. The younger girl looked at her in wide-eyed delight. "You've never had your tits nipped before . . . !" she accused joyfully. "Want me to do it again?" "Of course not!" The words were not really Barbara's, but she had to say them. "You can't stop me, darling." If Barbara's breasts had been prominent before they were doubly so now. Thisbe was right. The bound girl was helpless. She could move her shoulders a little but that was all. Her nipples belonged to the laughing nymphet far more than to herself. Once again she found her reaction to this condition strange and disturbing. She would forbid that her nipples be violated, but if it happened she would not mind. Uncomfortably she had to honestly face the fact that she wanted it to happen. "Don't touch them. Leave them alone!" she ordered virtuously. Thisbe took them in her mouth and sucked. The left, the right and back again. Barbara stared fixedly at the opposite wall and tried to ignore both the hard small tongue and its effect. "Now I'm going to tie 'em, darling," Thisbe said as though conferring a privilege. The naked helpless girl looked down. Her nipples were red and erect. They were still wet from the mischievous lips. She made a quick indrawn breath as a curve of rope snaked between them and up over her shoulder. When its twin bit over the other side of her neck she found that her last ability to move had been stolen. She was welded to the post as though a part of it. Thisbe made small adjustments here and there and then stood back. "You look quite splendid, darling," she said with genuine admiration. "I do wish you could see yourself." Barbara blushed with pleasure, then was angry that she had done so. She had a feminine wish to see herself, too. Despite the frustration of being unable to move, she sensed that what had been done to her was an art form in its own right. She found herself believing that a naked girl is just a naked girl − in most situations redundant. But a naked girl bound . . . ! Again the strangeness, an elusive something out of reach. "I love being tied like this," said Thisbe incredibly. "If only they didn't leave you alone for so long." She chuckled nostalgically. "After a few hours you just long and long for someone to come and do something to you. You'll see what I mean . . . ." Glowingly she kissed her captive's lips, kissed hard and fiercely, then bit each rampant nipple and fled away − probably to avoid awkward questions.

In the silent solitude the segments of Barbara's tumultuous impressions fell into place. She was bound, awaiting punishment. Thisbe was magic. The scarlet nipples burned in memory of the elfin lips. She glimpsed why Thisbe's affirmation of affection for Silverways could be true. Here was a girl thing she had not learned in school. She remembered the whispered pruriencies of the dormitory and the cloak rooms. They were juvenile innocence matched against Thisbe's female wisdom. The bound girl sensed that in Silverways she might well be the youngest pupil of the lot. She recalled the knowing eyes of the class when she had bared her body for their vision and for her punishment. Tensing within the strictures of Thisbe's ropes she sensed an uncharted sea . . . she was adrift. The ropes hurt from the beginning. Barbara accepted the fact that they were intended to. Thisbe's hands had bound her but it was the authority of Silverways that tugged the cords so tight that some of them were buried in her flesh. Or was it! Could the younger girl have been more merciful! Barbara dropped the speculation and tried to wriggle. She was victim to the captive's moral compulsion to escape. She tried, tried hard until the hurt of her trying made her desist. She remembered Perdita Amory's words about quiet reflection. She wondered if the patterns of dream and reason could combat the cut of the cords! She knew shame and hurt and a persistent awareness of the ropes on each side of her lips within their bush of hair. She refused to use any of the applicable words even to herself. She was bound shamefully between her legs. She felt positive that the pinching strands accentuated the existence of something never acknowledged. She had known guilt before a mirror in examining her own full pouting lips and the potent closed slit between. Was it a guilt that Silverways would dissolve! There was a huge question mark. "There she is, Marjorie. Isn't she nice." Barbara came awake with a start. Lady Clarabelle's voice was unmistakable. The child stood hand in hand with another her own age. Both were regarding the bound nudity with rapt attention. The object of their scrutiny could think of nothing to say. She recalled that a girl in her predicament was supposed to be thankful for any diversion. "I wonder if our breasts will grow that big," Marjorie mused. "I hope we grow that much hair on our cunts," Clarabelle offered winningly. "I say, Barbara, what's it like to have big breasts and all that fur?" "My breasts aren't that big," Barbara protested. "Of course yours will grow. I think you'd better leave." "We're supposed to be in the lavatory. We can't stay long. Have they told you what they're going to do to you?" "You're almost certain to be flogged," said Marjorie kindly. "It was sweet of you to try and help me," Clarabelle acknowledged. "Would you like us to suck your tits for a minute?" "Of course not! Run along before you get punished." Marjorie was a damsel of deeds rather than words. Purposefully she advanced and proceeded to cup the rope-framed orifice within a wise, small palm. Before Barbara's gasp of shock at the indecency had exploded into speech a pair of eager lips had possessed her left nipple and a busy finger was at work on her right. "Oh don't! Stop

it! Stop!" The bound girl longed to stamp her foot in vexation but could not move. She was shockingly aware now that her feet and legs had been well separated and bound to each side of the post. The small hand enjoyed a clear field. Marjorie paid no attention, but continued her work. "Don't you like it?" Lady Clarabelle inquired solicitously. "Of course I do! Oh no, that's not what I meant! Oh damn!" For Barbara the expletive betrayed a great depth of distress. She had always regarded the word as something in reserve when all else failed. It slithered across the moppet's attention as water from a duck. "You like it a lot," Clarabelle continued wisely, "but you think it's rude. I bet you still think that hole Marjorie's playing with is just to pee through. You're lucky you came here, you don't know very much. I love having my cunt attended to. We all do. Even Dolly Winsom." "Oh please stop! You must stop! I'm sure it's wrong." Even as she uttered the words they sounded unconvincing. Barbara's naked being was suffused by sensations new and strange and frightening in their intensity. What other ineffectual protest she might have made was lost by a cry of alarm from Clarabelle. A moment later the two pairs of legs had twinkled out of sight in a hurried retreat, leaving their bound prey with wet turgid nipples and an unfamiliar throbbing in her loins. The incident had been fleshly and disturbing. Barbara wished it had not happened. She returned to the exercises of the mind. Pain was a counter to other sensation. It soon triumphed and took over her full attention. She supposed it noon when Thisbe came with the blindfold. No time was wasted in rendering Barbara blind as well as helpless. It was done laughingly despite the helpless girl's protests. Protests that were vividly real. Barbara cringed from the thought of standing naked in a dark world. There would be a thousand reaching hands . . . but the scarf about her eyes was tied tightly and securely, she was kissed and left to make her pleas to a room that might contain an audience or might not. The captive girl forgot all else but to listen. She was sure the cloth upon her eyes was the beginning of a punishment. It was there for a purpose. But it was a long time before she was aware of movement and hushed whispers. Something was taking place or about to begin. "Please don't hurt me while I'm like this," she asked of the invisible in a small hesitant voice that was instantly swallowed by silence. The muted sounds resumed. Barbara judged there was more than a single person present. Since they made so little sound it was to be presumed their interest was her. But her tingling skin felt no touch. She could have wept or screamed with the uncertainty. When, finally, fingers loosed the knot behind her head they did not whisk away the scarf. As she shook her head to rid herself of the fold she heard the sound of rapidly receding steps. Whoever had given her back her sight did not wish to be seen. Wildly and fearfully she flung her head and her hair from side to side to cause the scarf to fall, then blinked in the light and in amazement at what she saw. The girl was tied with her wrists firmly corded to a bar above her head so that she was almost on tiptoe. She was naked. Her ankles were linked by a chain that seemed more ornamental than utilitarian. She was beautiful as Perdita Amory was beautiful, and of about the same age. She stood as though resting in, her bonds without defiance. She was smiling at the startled girl who had just regained her sight. She

obviously enjoyed Barbara's shocked survey. "Fun, isn't it!" The voice held laughter. "Not for me!" Barbara was ashamed of the tart retort immediately she had made it. "You were joking, weren't you?" "Not really. I find this piquant for an hour or so." The girl made a disparaging moue. "Trouble is it's often a lot longer." She grinned sympathetically. "You've been like that a long time, I know." "Yes . . . my name's Barbara, I'm sorry no one's introduced us." The laugh was delightful. "You are stuffy! They said you were. I'm sorry you're getting off to a bad start." "Am I really!" Barbara found herself in urgent need of comparisons and reassurance, a compass course. "Have I behaved so badly . . . ? I just don't know." "You'll be lucky if you're not flogged." Even the ugly word did not diminish the vibrant femininity. "By the way, call me Susan. I always wanted to be named Susan." "Isn't it your name?" "Names don't matter much. What matters is that we are both tied tight down here as a pair of maiden sacrifices . . . sans clothes. Are you frightened?" "I suppose so," Barbara admitted doubtfully. "Mostly I've been hurting enough to take my mind off it. I'm hurting now. Aren't you? That looks terribly tiring." "Oh, it is! But not yet. I always start out feeling beautifully concupiscent, and then as I tire and my wrists hurt more and more the little fire stops burning. Sometimes I even cry. You do have lovely breasts. I think breasts are so important for a girl. Do you like mine?" "You're beautiful all over." Barbara's tribute was warm. "But why are you here like this?" "Did you really find Dolly Winsom's cane that bad? It's something I haven't tried." "But you're adult! You're not a . . . a . . . pupil. Why do you accept these awful punishments?" Barbara was groping again. "Why do you?" The voice was taunting. "You're an adult, or near enough. I hear you've made quite a point of it." "I should never have come here. It was a mistake," Barbara avowed. "Is there any way I can get out of it?" "None. You crossed the line, so here you stay I'm glad." Barbara did not like to ask why this lovely creature should be glad of her presence. It seemed too personal. So she switched: "Everyone tells me I'm tied here to be

punished later. Is that the way it is with you?" The strained shoulders tried to shrug but could not. Instead the red lips curved in a wry grin. "I expect so. I'm never too sure. It's the not knowing that burns the lovely fire in our cunts. Is yours nice and hot or have those two ropes of Thisbe's doused it?" Barbara winced. The word from this exquisite creature was doubly shocking. She ignored it. "Why don't you escape?" she persisted. "I like it here. This sort of thing doesn't happen to me often enough to spoil my happiness. Besides, I told you. No girl can escape after she's crossed the line." "Are you chained every night?" "I'm sure I'm an enigma, darling. Don't worry about me. If I'm whipped, I'm whipped! I won't mind." The hours passed. Pain tolled their passing. The girls talked but gradually fell silent as the ropes exacted their toll. Susan's ebullience withstood their travail well, but finally she drooped and let some of her weight hang from her corded wrists. They exchanged commiserating glances and finally tears. When an intrigued Thisbe peeled the ropes from Barbara's protesting skin and led her away, the girl who wanted to be called Susan remained stretched in her bondage. She made no complaint at being left a prisoner. She even smiled a fond farewell.

• It seemed surprisingly familiar. The only difference to her previous tête-à-tête with Perdita Amory lay in the fact that Barbara's ankles were now joined by a shackle, two heavy anklets and a length of chain that enabled a cautious walk but nothing more. At the moment the captive feet were hidden beneath the dinner table. Barbara was conscious of them, but about in the same degree as the school tunic imposed awareness by a wish she did not have to wear it. "We won't let it spoil our dinner together, darling." Perdita Amory assured as she played hostess. "Punishment is punishment and dinner is dinner and never the twain shall meet. Was it very bad against the post?" "I'm all weals from the ropes,"Barbara conceded. "Look at me." "You're beautiful." "I'm beautiful because of the weals," Barbara guessed shrewdly. "But that other poor girl . . . is she still standing tied down there?" "She's still tied, darling. Do you like the chutney?" "She'll be hurting terribly. I bet she's crying." "Isn't that a nice comfy thought." Perdita appeared to ponder the vision. "The poor darling hanging there alone and naked and in pain while we have this lovely time together."

"That's cruel." "Not really. She adores it." For a moment Perdita Amory was lost in some awareness of her own. "I don't believe it!" Barbara burst out. "No girl could adore that. Let her loose. Please!" Miss Amory held up a warning hand. "Careful, darling. Remember what you are. That's the main purpose of those chains on your ankles. It keeps an awareness alive, saves you penalties. When you feel an urge to crusade, just rattle your chains." Barbara sulkily subsided. Her vision of the taut nude slenderness was still vivid. But it was tempered also by the memory of Susan's carefree acceptance of her lot for the first couple of hours. Suppose there was an element of truth in the adoration thing . . . suppose! It was one more puzzle she could not solve. "That subject is closed," said Perdita Amory amiably but firmly. "Now, what would you like to talk about?" "Am I to be flogged?" "Goodness gracious, you do harp on the morbid." "Everyone seems to think I will be. Sorry if I seem concerned." "Delightful sarcasm, darling. Would you prefer to hang by your thumbs for awhile?" "I don't think it's even possible." "I assure you it is. Ask Thisbe. Or you could ride the horse?" Miss Amory passed the horseradish thoughtfully. "You'd look delightful sitting up there." "I don't even know what you're talking about." "We can also cane the soles of your feet. These are all nice routine punishments." "You're trying to frighten me, aren't you. So I'll behave. Please don't frighten me too much. I'm not finding any of this easy." "There, there! Poor darling." Perdita patted the bare forearm across the table. "But it was you who opened the subject. While we are on it, I may as well tell you that you are to be whipped before the assembled school. It's a lovely ritualistic affair that gets you nicely dealt with and gives a graphic lesson to all the others." "You expect me to enjoy this dinner after that announcement?" Perdita's eyes sparkled. "It won't happen today, darling. I forbid you to allow it to come between us. If you turn sulky or distrait I will have you taken now and soundly thrashed." How strange and impossible it all was! From Perdita's lovely lips the horrific threat fell innocuous. Yet Barbara was positive it could happen. Resolutely she tried to do

better. "I'm afraid I didn't do too well in class today," she said diffidently. "Do you think it's good for those smaller girls to have me among them? I feel a freak." Miss Amory carefully spooned French beans. "You've scarcely managed a prelude at Silverways yet, darling. Aren't Thisbe's lips delicious on your nipples?" Barbara flushed. Perdita was quicksilver. "I suppose I may as well admit to you," she began hesitantly, "that I want very much to change my mind. I want to go home." She allowed her words to trail into the heavy silence, then added convincingly: "I can't endure these punishments. I did try but I failed. Maybe there are girls who can stand such pain, I'm sorry I can't. Even though this is all incredible and I only half believe it − these chains on my ankles for instance. I feel I've let Grandmother and you down. May I go home tomorrow, please?" "No." She took a deep breath. Somehow she must get her message across. "Very well. I understand I have sinned against the laws of Silverways. Give me this . . . this . . . public whipping so that I make amends. Then let me go?" "You are utterly delicious, darling. So sweet and earnest. I can hardly bear it." "Punish me and let me go, please?" "No." It was heartbreaking. The chains on Barbara's ankles were suddenly heavy. Her home had receded onto a distant planet. Freedom was a word, meaningless to her. Tears stung her eyes but she fought them back. She busied herself with knife and fork but tasted nothing. When the conversation resumed she asked no more questions. Thisbe was late, but the captive refrained from asking why. When the girl finally escorted her from the warmth of Perdita's presence it was not to the room wherein she had been chained the night before. Walking carefully to accommodate her hobbled feet the two girls made their way to a quite different chamber, a large and luxurious feminine compartment whose owner Barbara easily guessed. "You're lucky," Thisbe giggled enviously. "I thought it would take you at least a month. It's those breasts of yours." Barbara stood still in alarm, remembering! "You mean they're to be whipped! She said something . . . ." "Silly!" Thisbe bestowed one of her unexpected kisses on the tremulous lips. "Just be a good girl and you'll see." Thisbe was the oldest of the two of them! Barbara sensed it. The years did not count. The younger one had a wisdom beyond anything the captive girl had glimpsed. In her care Barbara felt juvenile and absurd. She was glad of Thisbe's warm affection and easy acceptance of the rules of Silverways and its enigmatic Mistress. "First we take your chains off," said Thisbe. It seemed a good beginning. Barbara gratefully stuck out her ankles for the key and watched the shackles cast aside. "And now the tunic and the shoes, darling." Thisbe was brisk.

Again the clutch at the heart. At Silverways a girl was made naked for punishment. The hated tunic seemed suddenly very dear. Thisbe chuckled in understanding. "No whipping this time, Barb. You'll see. Don't worry. Any girl who looks as nice naked as you do ought never to wear clothes." "I could say the same for you." "I hate clothes." The younger girl's voice was surprisingly vehement. "I only wear 'em when I have to." Barbara stood nude. It began to seem a natural state. With this beguiling moppet she did not care. But others . . . ! Her whole being revolted against sharing her sex with children and adults. "Isn't it a lovely bed, darling?" Thisbe's query was alive with mischief. The naked girl bestowed her attention on the central object of the richly appointed room. It was a huge four-poster of massive construction. At sight of the metal rings she quailed. It was not hard to guess! The collar fitted perfectly. It was of leather finished with metal. A girl's fingers would be impotent against it. A padlock secured its short chain to the ring at shoulder height on the bedpost. "It's not my idea, darling," Thisbe mourned. "I'm afraid it's sort of de-rigueur for the occasion. You have to stand. You can't sit. The chain won't let you, not even on the bed. It's terribly frustrating 'cause all the rest of you is free." She grimaced ruefully. "And you don't know how long it's going to be." "You mean you've stood like this?" Thisbe giggled. "Oh sure. More than once. So whatever sensations you experience you'll know I had 'em too if that helps." "But why?" Barbara's question was cut in two by an eager hug and an ardent kiss. Before she could speak again her lips were sealed by an admonishing finger. With a kiss tossed back from the doorway Thisbe left her to her fate. The door closed gently. At first, and compared to other confinements, it seemed fun. The collar on her neck was a constant reminder of captivity, but it did not hurt. The rest of her person was her own. To have complete use of hands and feet was now a privilege to be treasured. Barbara treasured it! But disillusion was speedy. Freedoms are to be used. She discovered she could not use hers at all. She could not sit, lie down, or walk. The locked collar with its short, heavy chain invoked a total authority she could not counter. It was but a minute before her fingers were busy at her neck. Surely there had to be a way to get rid of the single tantalizing restraint! Surely . . . ? But there was not! The padlock mocked her. It was almost like the presence of Perdita Amory in the room. Finally she was forced to accept that she would stand as she was until her Mistress elected to provide a key and fingers willing to use it. It became one of the times Barbara would always remember. She came to think of them as the "Silverways Hours." Periods in which she endured a solitary confinement that might or might not be painful, but which always sent her into a reverie of introspection or vivid adumbrations of things to come. She felt her heart beating

harder than it should. She was aware of excitement. It went oddly with the chagrin of chain and the bedpost. But the aura of Perdita Amory was heavy in this room where she stood waiting. But waiting for what! Had virgins felt like this when chained and waiting for their nuptials with pagan god! She could not even guess what Perdita would do to her. There was something immensely personal about her presence in this boudoir. By rights she should have been chained in the bed beside Thisbe. Or, because she had misbehaved, in one of the dungeons over which she had shivered when they were spoken of. She stood on one foot and then the other. She put a foot on the bed and took it back down. She leaned back against the post to which she was chained, then turned and embraced it. These motions were only faintly comforting, better than no motion at all, but frustrating and serving only to emphasize her captivity and dependence on the will of another. Resignedly she supposed that was its purpose. "You look terribly sweet, darling, a little forlorn perhaps, but delicious. Miss me?" Perdita Amory laughingly kissed the cool lips of her prisoner, tested the collar, chain and padlock. Nodding as though satisfied, she stood before the huge mirror of her dresser and began to disrobe. Barbara was perturbed. Everything was wrong. She should not stand thus and watch so personal an act. In fact, she should not be in this room at all. Uncomfortably she turned and leant her cheek against the massive wood, once more a victim of her own blush. "Don't be absurd, darling," Perdita Amory's voice sparkled with amusement. "I won't have you a prude. You will stand and watch me undress. That's an order. You don't want to be tied tight so you have no choice, do you?" The naked captive made appropriate small negations. She turned and bestowed her full attention to her Mistress' toilette. She felt ashamed of a vivid curiosity she could not deny. To say that Perdita was beautiful was inadequate. Hers was a loveliness that glowed with a vibrancy of its own. The watching girl stood entranced. Her previous knowledge of the female nude had been confined to Thisbe's willing exhibition and the cold classics of art. What stood before her now was a force possessing an aura she could feel. Excitement drove away all other emotions, her breathing quickened. "Like me, darling?" The naked woman posed and performed a gay pirouette for her captive's approval. "Oh yes . . . Yes! You're . . . you're . . . oh, it's silly to say you're beautiful, you're so much more!" Barbara's sincerity came from a sudden welling in the heart, a quite elemental response. "We're both lovely. I'm so glad. Being beautiful is everything." Perdita ran her hands sensuously up and down her flanks, touched her own nipples playfully, then did a thing that shocked Barbara to the core. With a natural and unthinking grace she took a hairbrush from the dresser and used it on her pubic hair. "Mmmmm! That's nice!" She was suddenly a small girl tasting candy. She glanced at the prisoner of the bedpost and laughed gleefully at Barbara's obvious dismay. "Poor dear darling, I shock you terribly, don't I! Never mind. Tell me if you like this?"

Again another world! The chained girl was in the grip of a force beyond her experience. The wide sweet lips that claimed her own, the loving arms that pulled her breasts against their twins, the pubic thrust . . . . In an urgent need of love she clasped the warm nudity pressed against her own, her lips hungrily fed on kisses such as she had never dreamed could exist. In palpitating need the female flesh became as one, sharing an intensity of emotion that shattered Barbara's inhibitions into limbo. For the chained girl nothing could ever be as it once was. When the arms withdrew she was panting. But the owner of those arms was still Perdita Amory with glinting eyes, amused and tender for an innocence that was hers to use. 'Mmmmmm!" Again the small girl ecstacy. "You taste gorgeous, darling. I'm so lucky!" She produced a gamin grin. "You are too, y'know. Would you like your bottom caned now?" Always shock! The collared girl stared in disbelief. A scented mist of femininity and now this! Her face must have mirrored her dismay, for the laughing woman gave her one more ardent kiss then backed away to survey the chained nudity that betrayed, in every curve and tension, the sudden dissolving of a dream. "I always think it's so nice for a girl to be caned just a little before the night, darling." The voice reeked of mischief. "But what have I done?" Barbara was distraught at thought of giving offence to this new warm wonder. The mocking trill of laughter: "Nothing, darling, except exist. Being you is reason enough to shred a hundred canes." "I don't understand." Urgent fingers plucked at the locked collar in frustration. "I . . . I . . . ." "Don't try. I'll teach you when the time comes. Just trust me and indulge me. With you I'll be insatiable." "But you're going to cane me . . . ? Standing here like this . . . ?" "Why not!" The grey eyes danced. "If you must have a reason, use the ones that brought you here. I expect there are more of them than dear Lady Corydon was able to enumerate for me?" Barbara flushed, her fingers busier than ever on her collar, her eyes downcast. "You don't have to tell me a thing, darling. I really don't mind. It's nicest if you face the bed-post, clasp it with your hands, then spread your legs and back away and bend as much as your chain will permit. You'll find I can give you really scrumptious slashes like that." "I don't want to be caned. Please don't?" "You were going to get five. Now it's six." Barbara's voice was tearful. "I never have a chance, do I? I'm so beastly helpless." "That's right, darling. It's a gorgeous feeling when you get used to it."

"I don't think I can stand all these canings and things . . . ." Barbara felt there just had to be some way of logically making clear to this exquisite creature the impracticality of constant punishment. "I'm punished so terribly. I didn't dream . . . Oh please?" "Seven, darling." The tears came, and with them the naked arms and the naked breasts. Warm female lips sought the salt drops and drank them like nectar. The frightened girl sobbed to her heart's content and clung convulsively to the capricious loveliness that held the key to her captivity. After a long scented happiness the chained maiden managed a wan: "I'm sorry. I really am . . . . I didn't mean to cry." There was a small silence. "Thank you for . . . for . . . being so nice to me. I want to please you so much." "You please me very much indeed." The arms tightened. "I . . . I'll try and be sensible − I mean I'll try and behave when . . . when you do what you're going to with me." "When I cane you, darling?" "Yes, when you cane me." The impossible words had become possible. "Let's do it now, shall we!" Once more the little girl bent on mischief. "Let's!" A magic had been wrought. Barbara clung to the retreating lips for as long as she could. Then, with a heart almost free of care, turned to her post and experimented with the posture she had been told to adopt. It took only a little wriggling and shuffling to place her penitent bottom to its most protrusive advantage. She supposed she was quaking with fear, but was no longer sure even of that. "You have a natural gift, darling. It's going to be such fun." The bent-over girl peeked under a raised arm and watched the naked Headmistress of Silverways go to a cupboard and select a cane, the nature of which produced a shiver that was all too real. "I'd sooner you didn't scream, darling. But if you must . . . ." Barbara vowed to herself she would die before she would do more than moan. Aloud she said: "I really will try not to, Perdita." It was the first time she had used the sacred name. She wondered why it was now! Barbara would remember the seven strokes. Not because of their impact on her flesh, but because they became her first realization of that strange mercurial quality by which pain varies in its awfulness according to the nature of the one who inflicted it. There could be no doubt that the strokes inflicted by Perdita's strong arm imposed more agony than Dolly Winsom's caning of hands. But the two were separated by a

gulf. The comparison was not betwixt the incidental pain but between the two women who wielded the cane. With a feminine illogic, Barbara vowed that never would she scream so long as it was Perdita who was beating her. To scream would be ingratitude for love . . . . She paused her thoughts to consider the word . . . love! Perdita's cane dissolved thought, dissolved everything save pain. It was far the worst pain yet. To produce it a strong arm must have flashed with full intent. It bit and spread and burned beyond even the cruelty of Thisbe's shrewd cuts. To keep from screaming, Barbara made huge panting gasps as though to exhale and expel the predator within her flesh. "I'm so proud of you, darling." Perdita's tribute came hazily through the mists of agony. It was followed instantly by a second slash that breached the defenses of the chained girl to the degree in which her gasps turned to moans and she was forced to writhe and twist in order to maintain the position in which her bottom was so conveniently offered to the rod. It was when the hurt victim had so completely returned to her humiliating pose that the hand sought its way between her legs and cupped her sex. For a devastating moment it kneaded and squeezed and was withdrawn. Barbara sensed a purpose, but was too embarrassed to protest or to inquire. She was also shockingly aware of a sensory reaction that, while it lasted, had driven pain and thought of her punishment from her mind. When searching fingertips found her nipples she moaned as though in anguish. Perdita's cane cut its capricious pattern on the living flesh. Each stroke was cruel and evoked the moans that were the limit of Barbara's containment. But when the punished limbs returned to their straddling bend the fingers would flicker and find and linger lovingly. The punished girl became so lost in a maze of pain and ecstacy that she abandoned thought and devoted herself only to the responses of her flesh. When the seventh stroke had bitten its scarlet indentation in her skin she remained in position. She had lost count. Lost orientation. Lost coherence. She rested her cheek against her raised forearm and sobbed gently. Lost in incredulity. Perdita raised and turned the passive but palpitating flesh. Once again two naked girls found comfort and passion in the meeting of their lips and the flattening of their breasts. From a wisdom of her own, Perdita Amory withheld her pubic thrust. That was for another time. For now she was a ministering angel, infinitely sweet. The impact of Barbara's next shock was diffused. Perdita mischievously allowed awareness to take shape without the help of words. The caned and captive maiden stood against her post and sought to soothe her burning bottom with her own tender hands. There was an inexplicable comfort in the pressure of palms, but when she traced fingertips across the seven ridges she gasped and tensed in such an explosion of strange unbearable sensation that she dared not repeat the experiment. The watching woman smiled. Perdita Amory retired. Her captive watched the feminine process of preparing for slumber without curiosity. She admired and was properly shocked by the gossamer nightgown that hid nothing. But she said no word. When her Mistress kissed her good night, stretched luxuriously beneath the covers and doused the light it all seemed reassuringly normal. It was not until captive eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom that realization struck.

She still stood chained to the bedpost! At first Barbara felt silly. She wanted to giggle. But to stand naked and chained through the hours of darkness was a daunting prospect. No doubt the capricious Perdita had forgotten . . . ! But had she! Fresh stripes might result from finding out. This could well be one more part of what she must suffer at Silverways. But she was tired and hurt and longed for sleep. It would be foolish to stand thus when a word might spell release. "Perdita?" "Yes, darling?" "I'm still chained." "Yes, you are, aren't you!" Perdita was amused. "Do you want me to be . . . I mean all night?" "Of course, darling. You're so sweet like that. Good night." It was infuriating − not to be borne! "Perdita?" "Don't be a nuisance, darling. I want to sleep." "So do I. It's not possible chained like this." "Really, darling, you must try and be nicely resigned. Remember your situation in life. You were a very bad girl." "I don't care how bad I was. I deserve some sleep." Perdita languidly got out of bed, and without aid of the candle, sought the cane. "Only three, Barbara. Poor darling . . . ." Barbara automatically resumed the shaming pose. There was no thought in her mind of refusing. In an angry defiance she protruded her bottom more than she need. She accepted the three singing cuts with wailing moans that spoke only of pain. When they were done she found it easy to sob, "I'm sorry. I expect I'll learn." The Mistress took her punished pupil in her arms. Again the soft, warm, sensuous embrace. But this time the full red lips whispered a message into a captive ear. "Next time five, darling. Then ten. Then fifteen . . . . You will be a good girl, won't you?" Barbara nodded. She would be a very good girl indeed. Perdita kissed away the tears and returned to bed. The girl in chains leaned back against the post. Her anger had gone, the pain was only a warm companion. It was all too strange to comprehend. Sometime in the night a silent woman came from her bed and chained a willing ankle and released a willing neck. With a great thankfulness and something akin to love, the still-chained maiden clutched the blanket thrust into her groping hands, and sinking to the rug disposed her nudity into instant sleep.

•

"Something with the calculus, wasn't it?" Mr. Fawley asked absently, turning over papers on his desk. "Algebra, sir," Thisbe volunteered brightly. "Thank you. Ah, here it is!" Mr. Fawley held up the errant sheets as though the prompting had been redundant. "By the way, was I supposed to cane one of you girls?" He surveyed the five attentive maidens doubtfully. "No, sir," volunteered the ever-helpful Thisbe. "That was yesterday. Phyllis got six. You had to go and find your cane." "Quite so, quite so." Mr. Fawley seemed glad the matter was past. He fixed Barbara with a surprisingly firm eye. "That's where we met, wasn't it?" He blinked a few times, gathering thought. "You've had a sound caning, I believe?" "Yes, sir. Thank you." "Always as well to make sure. A girl's not much good until she's been well caned." "Quite so, sir." "That's what I just said. You don't have to repeat." Mr. Fawley fixed her with a speculative eye. "Would you like a good sound caning now? Clears the air, y'know . . . and I'm never too sure about these others." "I've been very well caned, sir. Several times." "Her bottom's all purple," said Thisbe. "No one asked you. By the way, which of those equations . . . ?" Mr. Fawley's math class was well launched for the day. Was there a pattern or was there none! Was this a private wonderland of improbabilities, or was it all contrived! Barbara examined her four fellow pupils. They were reassuringly similar to Thisbe. She had little doubt they were four minxes, their eyes had a sparkle! Mr. Fawley himself was a puzzle. She suspected his pupils found him a mixture of humour and severity, probably erratic. Once his absentmindedness had been appeased he proved himself, like Miss Winsom, far more competent than he looked. She had forgotten most of the math of her schooldays and made blooper after blooper. She was grateful and surprised that she escaped punishment. When the class drifted to its afternoon close he suggested casually that she remain behind after the other girls had gone. The desk was slightly larger than in Miss Winsom's room. But Barbara still felt she did not belong. She sat awkwardly and self-conscious before the Master's grave scrutiny. "You've been sentenced to a public whipping, I believe?" His opening gambit was hardly cheerful. "Yes, sir."

Once again he seemed irritable and distrait. "I know what's wrong here," he suddenly declaimed. "You ought to be standing in front of this desk and your hands ought to be tied." He seemed pleased at the memory. Then added: "Behind your back." Barbara wanted to giggle, or to weep, or to scream! Instead she kept a straight face and said: "Yes, sir." "Well don't just sit there. Get me cord." Barbara disengaged herself. No cord was visible. But evidently she was supposed to know where to find it. She went to a cupboard. "It's in the other one, opposite. No need to bring a cane." The last remark seemed as out of keeping as all the rest. But the bewildered girl took comfort from it. There was quite a lot of cord and some straps. She chose a length of the kind least likely to hurt. Feeling a complete fool she returned and handed it to the waiting man. There was an awkward pause. Then, abruptly, she turned and crossed her wrists behind her back. There was nothing absentminded about the tie. Barbara bit back a protest as the cord was shrewdly wound, tugged and knotted. She could never free herself. It also hurt. "You may turn and stand at ease." Mr. Fawley sounded as though bestowing beneficence. His visage had softened. All was well with his world. Everything in its place, including this quite beautiful older girl. "Does it bother you much?" "The cord is very tight, sir." He dismissed the trivial with a wave of his hand. "I don't mean your hands. You'll have to get used to that. I'm talking about your whipping." Events had not caused the sentenced girl to forget, but they had diffused the apprehension she would normally have felt at so daunting a prospect. "I'm very frightened, sir." It seemed as good a thing to say as anything. "Are you!" Mr. Fawley appeared to be giving her reply a clinical examination. "Have you ever been whipped in such a manner before?" The granddaughter of Lady Corydon whipped! Barbara longed to acquaint him with the outrage of such a thought. But her response was meek. "No, sir." "It will be a remarkable experience." "I am sure it will, sir."

"You are hopeful of benefit, I trust?" The thought was new. Benefit seemed improbable but was probably expected. "I expect it's bound to do me some good, sir." She realized her wrists were working instinctively against their strictures. "Stop fidgeting. You cannot get free. In my opinion girls should be kept properly bound in some way throughout their whole time with us here. You concur?" What an absurd question! Barbara almost spoke the words aloud. "It would certainly keep us controlled, sir." She stated the obvious. He waved that remark away with the other discard. "I am speaking of your mind, your attitudes, your seeking of humility?" "If we were always bound we could never possibly forget, sir. Has Miss Amory an opinion on the subject?" He dropped it as erratically as he had picked it up. "You will be pleased to know I intend to be present when you are whipped?" Barbara was not pleased at all. But since the whole staff was to be present, including the scullery maid, he was to be expected. But she became daring: "Do you think it proper, sir? I understand I have to be entirely naked?" "Don't apologise. I enjoy it." "I was thinking of the proprieties, sir. I don't think parents or guardians can possibly approve?" "Ah, but they're not here, are they!" Mr. Fawley proclaimed, almost with an air of triumph. It was all hopeless. Silverways slipped through a girl's fingers no matter how she sought to grasp. But Mr. Fawley seemed an amiable eccentric. The girl with tied hands tried again: "I don't approve, sir." It was as though he saw her for the first time. Barbara stood unhappily in her school tunic, aware of its deficiencies. Unconsciously her hands worked at their cords. She knew herself the focus of a pair of penetrating eyes. "You're a very pretty girl, y'know," he said irrelevantly. She had heard it before. That Mr. Fawley should see her as such came as a surprise. She said, "Thank you, sir," and waited. "I feel I can be frank with you. Your age, y'know. Haven't had a girl your age before. It gives me exquisite pleasure to cane a girl. With you I could almost say cane a woman." "It is kind of you to tell me, sir." "Quite so. Point is, we may as well drop pretenses. If you don't give me excuses for having you strip and bend over I'll contrive them. You do appreciate this confidence, I hope?"

Barbara appreciated none of it. She longed to turn and flee. But there was a certain fascination in a thing so bizarre. Mr. Fawley appeared the soul of rectitude. Whatever she said had to sound absurd. "Do you . . . do you . . . actually do it . . . sir? I mean, to this class?" "I think it best that we overcome your morbid modesty. Clothes on girls are absurd. Kindly remove your tunic." Silverways never answered questions. Barbara was getting used to having her queries dissolve into limbo. She fell back on the obvious: "My hands are tied behind my back, sir." "Eh! They are! Of course, of course! Back to me please." Barbara obeyed readily. To get her hands back was something. She stood erect and helpful while the cords were unwound from her wrists. Her mind was a blank as to what she should do next. "There we are!" Mr. Fawley sounded as though he had completed a major task. "Get yourself sensible. Only lake a jiffy to tie you again." "Sensible, sir?" "Naked, of course. Don't quibble." "I don't think I care to, sir." "Come, come! I have some tolerance for false modesty in a new girl, but don't strain it." "It's wrong, I'm sure it's wrong. I won't!" There was a trace of amusement in Mr. Fawley's regard. "I am reasonably robust," he said pleasantly. "And there's always Herbage?" Barbara was panting, her heart thumping so loudly she feared he could hear it. "But you've already seen me naked when I was strapped to that bench. Why . . . ?" "It's one of the reasons I wish to see you again." Barbara was angry at her feminine pleasure in his implied tribute. But she was faced with a decision that would not wait. Her vision of the fabled Mr. Herbage who she had never seen was horrendous. She removed her tunic and fought down her shielding hands. They could not cover enough of herself to matter. "My shoes, sir?" "Leave them on. You are quite remarkably beautiful." The naked girl stood silent. She was tired of thanks and calling him sir. Tired of shame, and pain, and not knowing. It was becoming easier to simply do as she was told. Here she stood naked before a man. A week ago it would have seemed impossible. It would have been forbidden. "Your wrists, Barbara." Miss Corydon had disappeared. Barbara shrugged resignedly and turned her back.

The strictures on her wrists were as cruel as before. Undoubtedly Mr. Fawley had enjoyed much practice. When she was secured she returned as supplicant before his desk. Were there greater humiliations than this! Miserably she realized there might well be. Her enrollment at Silverways had divorced her from the world where rescue lay. She was delivered into phantasmagoria. Escape had never seemed more impossible than at this moment. She was lost. "If it would help your transition I can sanction you're remaining nude during class?" Barbara burst into tears. It was all too much! She no longer cared about anything. With bound hands she could do nothing. She bent her head, shaking it impotently to rid it of the shaming salt drops. Thus she did not see the Master rise. It was not until he enfolded her in protective arms and smoothed down her untidy hair that she was shocked into the realization that Mr. Fawley was a man of many parts. It was a mirror of the atmosphere of Silverways and of the naked girl's indoctrination that she did not struggle, no maiden protest left her lips. The arms felt good, the shoulder was the right height. Barbara used the shoulder gratefully and wept upon its cloth. Her wrists tugged constantly at the cords in an instinctive seeking to return the male embrace. All the loneliness of her condition went into the nestling nudity she pressed against Mr. Fawley's serge. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the release of tears and human contact. The smell and feel of Mr. Fawley was comforting. A male oasis in a desert of female breasts and pubic hair. Absurd as he might be, he had somewhere picked up the gift of holding a girl naturally. His hands were right. He patted her gently here and there, but said nothing. When her tears subsided, he used his handkerchief with surprising gentleness. It must have been at least ten minutes before they again became teacher and pupil. Barbara's hands were still bound as she stood for his attention. She felt better. Mr. Fawley immediately destroyed her well-being. "If you will bend forward, my dear? As far as you can manage with the knees straight. Keep your hands well up your back." "You're going to cane me?" It was total disbelief. "Of course . . . I thought I explained?" He had, but Barbara had not believed. She could not believe now. "But you've been kind to me . . . I thought . . . ?" "I will be extremely lenient. A mere beginning. The girls call it a bare six." She ignored the pun. "But I've been caned so much?" "So I've noticed. Most unfair really. It is one of my perquisites." He was honestly aggrieved. "I've known girls whose bottoms were so sorely caned I was forced to bestow my attentions elsewhere. I feel, however, that I can still place these six to advantage." The bound victim felt a strange sympathy, an aftermath of strong male arms and soothing hands. Six! A week ago unthinkable! Today only commonplace. Her principal concern she put into words. "I don't think I can keep still, sir. I'm not very

brave." "We will take our time," said Mr. Fawley grandly. "Could you . . . could you . . . . Oh, I know this sounds silly, but could you tie me some way . . . ?" She dreaded the shame of Writhing before his eyes. "That's uncommonly thoughtful of you, dear girl. There are rings." There were rings! Barbara spread her feet so that they could be tied down to the floor. Evidently her fear was shared by others. Silverways had risen to the occasion. She watched as each of her ankles was tied down to the metal circles in the floor. Her legs were now well apart to make her posture more shaming as well as more helpless. Now she could not move from where she stood. She had become very much Mr. Fawley's property. She gazed wincingly at the cane now in evidence. Thisbe may have supposed it no worse that others, but at that moment, Barbara was quite prepared to endow it with a superior cruelty. "That better?" "Yes. Thank you, sir, you're awfully kind." "You can't move much, tied like that. I'm sure you'll come through like a Trojan." "Now, sir?" In response to his nod Barbara bent as far forward as she dared without danger of losing her balance. She felt awkward and untidy and most conscious that the view of her posterior Mr. Fawley was about to enjoy was probably one that good Queen Victoria would never sanction. "This is really delightful," Mr. Fawley said generously as he struck. She had steeled herself but the shock was grievous. Every person who caned her seemed to inflict a quality of pain all their own. Mr. Fawley had his. It tied Barbara's stomach into knots and drove her limbs to writhing against their bonds. She did not remain bent, but sprung erect, her eyes dilated in appeal. "Oh, please . . . !" "With your legs apart like this I will be able to contrive strokes within the juncture on skin as yet unmarked," said Mr. Fawley as though he had just discovered a fresh tributary to the Nile. "I'm sure you'll be pleased." The agony fought a bitter fight against laughter. It was too absurd! Kindness and cruelty casually dispensed within the confines of polite usage. Barbara was almost thankful for the second stroke that effectively exorcised humour. She writhed and moaned in ways that provided exquisite pleasure for the watching man. "Maturity tells," said Mr. Fawley in an awed voice. "None of the younger girls achieves your controlled anguish. Are you enjoying it, by any chance?" "No, sir." "Ah, a pity. Some do. Occasionally it adds a piquancy. Please feel free to express yourself." "You want me to make a speech!" Her voice was bitter.

"I was thinking of vocalizations of distress," he rejoined stiffly. "Would you like me to cut under more . . . . ? Between your legs?" "No, sir!" "Very well. And now if you will arch your back . . . ?" Barbara supposed the fearful slash was to remind her not to refuse suggestions. If Mr. Fawley wished to snake the cane up between her legs it might be wise to let him. "That one was terribly hard, sir," she ventured. "Yes, wasn't it!" he agreed affably. "You'll be very pleased with the mark it's left." "You're being very kind." He ignored the sarcasm. "Would you care to cane Thisbe sometime?" he asked helpfully. "Good heavens, no!" "The dear child would be so grateful. She loves it. Are there any of the other girls . . . ?" "I don't know any of the other girls . . . except Clarabelle. Are you telling me you would allow . . . ." "It would please me to arrange it. I feel an obligation to you. You're being very sporting." Once again the searing, blinding pain bit at her outthrust seat. Barbara sobbed herself back to where his words registered. "You are a quite perfect subject, dear girl. We may look forward to an edifying association. If you can contrive a more acute posture we may perceive the vaginal lips in reverse protrusion. I may manage a cut so that the tip . . . ! The effect is exquisite!" Barbara obeyed and could agree on the exquisiteness of Mr. Fawley's shrewd aim. She yelped and swayed. "Please please!" she begged. "I'm trying hard to to . . . do what you want. But please not so hard. Not so cruelly hard?" "I assure you I could make it worse." "Please don't. I promise to be . . . what should I call it? A good girl? Is there something I can say so as not to be caned anymore?" The remaining two blows branded her flesh in quick succession. Barbara screamed and gave herself utterly to the absorption of her agony. Nothing mattered save that she hurt. She moaned and wept in ways feminine and beautiful. She knew nothing of orgasms, but foreign eyes might well suppose she writhed in an unending climax of explosive proportions. Mr. Fawley's eyes glowed. When she stood painfully erect she met his eyes and tried to smile. She knew a great thankfulness the six were over. But knew also a strange sense of union with the man who had sliced them on her flesh. She no longer believed she understood anything, least of all herself. None of her reactions was as she would have expected.

"Dear Thisbe will be here for you soon. How do you feel?" She could not escape the trite. "I feel well caned, sir. Thank you." She struggled with a hesitancy. "Do you wish me always to call you 'Sir?' " "Jolly decent of you to think of that. Name's Leslie, actually. Might as well use it when I'm punishing you in private. The rest of the time it had better be 'Sir.' Want me to cane you again?" "No!" All her anguish was in the word. Mr. Fawley was hurt. "You don't!" It was as though she had slapped him. His absurdity touched some feminine compassion deep within her. "Oh . . . I didn't mean . . . . !" Barbara looked at him imploringly. "You mean you did enjoy it just a bit?" He was suddenly a small boy seeking adult recognition. "Oh, yes . . . yes!" The bound girl was stricken by the enormity of the words that had been born out of the tenderness he had touched. They were insane, but they had been uttered. Mr. Fawley gazed upon her as an Israelite upon the Promised Land. "I knew you were good stuff," he breathed reverently, "the moment I saw you. You're quite wonderful, y'know." "Better than Thisbe?" Barbara asked archly. Then felt guilty. "Oh, quite different. No comparison. Thisbe's a darling minx. You're a woman." "Doesn't the cane hurt us all the same?" It was her first intelligent question. "Oh, no!" He sounded shocked. "You're all wonderfully different. I expect it's the degree of enjoying or hating." Barbara could not bring herself to tell him of her hatred of the bitter agony of his cane − of any cane. Instead, she said demurely: "I'm still tied. Have you forgotten?" He released her feet but not her hands. She did not ask why. There would be no sensible reason. When a bright and smiling Thisbe arrived, Mr. Fawley allowed her to be led away with wrists still tightly bound. The grinning Thisbe, who obviously guessed all that had transpired, carried the discarded tunic. "You'll have to stay naked, darling," she giggled. "Untie my hands. Then I can put it on." "It's not that. There's a rule. Once a girl has been tied − any way at all − by a teacher, none of us is allowed to touch her. She has to stay tied until permission is given to let her loose." "Let's go and ask for permission. I don't want my hands tied like this all night."

"We're not allowed to, darling. You're stuck. Being naked doesn't matter too much cos we'll be going to bed." But being naked mattered a lot to Barbara in the big hall where pupils and staff met for meals. She was obliged to, blushingly, sit bound and naked while Thisbe fed her. The smaller enjoyed her plight. No one else seemed to notice. Mr. Fawley smiled and nodded, but that was all. When she had been made ready for bed it was still early. But Thisbe played safe and locked the chain on the slender ankle Barbara now offered as a matter of course. The tied girl kicked her links and then subsided on the bed. "I can never be comfortable with my hands tied behind my back," she complained. "Sleep on your tummy, darling," Thisbe advised. "We all have to sometimes. Always after a whipping." "It hurts. He tied me so tight. Be a darling and tie me more loosely. No one will know." "Fawley could tell," Thisbe demurred reluctantly. "I'd love to untie you, but I'm scared." "What would they do to you?" The younger girl shrugged. "Goodness knows! Depends on who found out. I don't suppose it would be too awful . . ." She eyed the cruelly bound wrists with compassion. A minute later, and despite belated protests, Barbara was free and rubbing her indented wrists while her rescuer stood bright-eyed holding the cord. They hugged and kissed. Barbara knew herself in love with this eager child who knew so much more of Silverways than she − perhaps more of all of life. The hurt wrists were well massaged, then once again sedately crossed behind their owner's back. The careful business of retying them was half completed when the acid voice intruded on the task: "You need not bother, Thisbe. Barbara will be tied properly." Mr. Fawley surveyed the shocked tableau with a knowing eye. "It was my fault, sir. I asked Thisbe to untie me." "Thisbe, run and get me several lengths of cord, there's a good girl. And get me a cane, too." "Please don't punish Thisbe . . . Leslie?" Barbara put all the seduction she could muster into his name. She could tell he was pleased. But it did her no good. "A thorough little baggage," said Mr. Fawley. "I know how to deal with her, and she knows I know." Barbara knew defeat. After all, they had been caught in the act. Disconsolately she turned her back to the math teacher and offered her wrists, around which were the loose remnants of Thisbe's tie. "I expect you want to tie me again, don't you?" He tied her. It was neither tighter nor easier than before. It hurt exactly the same.

She faced him doubtfully and said: "Thank you, Leslie." If the use of his Christian name held magic, it was not working now. Mr. Fawley selected a length of cord from the proffered selection in the hand of a panting Thisbe. "Kindly sit on your bed," he requested. Barbara sat. She watched as her ankles were expertly bound. The shackle on one of them discommoded him not at all. He made a neat, tight and workmanlike job of rendering her feet useless to her. As a sort of emphasis, which might or might not hold humour. Mr. Fawley also tied her big toes, each to the other. He cut off the loose ends with a sharp penknife he produced from his pocket. The now very helpless girl subdued an impulse to thank him for a job well done. He had that air. Having rendered one delinquent damsel helpless, the math Master turned his attention to her partner in crime. "Off with that tunic, my girl," he ordered without rancour. In a moment, Thisbe was bare. She kicked her shoes under the bed. Her eyes were very bright, her breasts were heaving. But the girl who watched was uncertain of their stimuli. "Lock your shackle, Thisbe." Mr. Fawley was intent upon his mission. With skilled fluidity, Thisbe shackled herself to her bed and rattled the chain to show she was secure. It was just possible for a girl so chained to stand beside her bed, and this she did. Her back to the Master, her wrists crossed. Thisbe knew the drill. Mr. Fawley bound the slender wrists of the willing girl. Barbara could tell the withes were as tight as her own. Her hands lost, Thisbe relapsed on the bed and proffered her feet and watched them secured as Barbara's had been. She giggled delightedly at the stricture on her toes. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Fawley!" She actually sounded grateful. "There's something more, Thisbe." There was that in the stern male voice that dampened the maiden ebullience. "Yes, sir?" Thisbe's voice was apprehensive. "Over on your tummy, m'girl." "Oh, please, Mr. Fawley! Please not that!" Thisbe was suddenly a scared child. She evidently had previous knowledge of what the order meant. For a moment she locked eyes with the man who held the cord. Then, with a small moan of foreknowledge, let herself fall face down on the covers. Mr. Fawley bound the young sweet elbows together. Thisbe did not plead again. She knew her fate. No doubt it was not the first time. A tear appeared at the corner of an eye, but she kept very still while she was bound, her small, firm breasts buried in the quilt. The Master worked slowly and with care, using strand after strand of neatly positioned rope. Barbara realized he was giving thought to circulation. That meant they were to be left tied all night. Her pulse raced in a longing to plead for mercy. When the strong fingers were done with Thisbe's arms, her elbows were tight together, her forearms had become one. Her soft young shoulders were racked back. She would be in constant pain.

"Thank you, Mr. Fawley." Thisbe's voice was wan but resolute. "I'm sorry I was bad. Thank you for a nice easy punishment." Easy! Barbara almost made the exclamation aloud. Miserably she condemned herself for what had taken place. But it was done! She joined Thisbe in a polite good-night, then listened to the click of the lock after Mr. Fawley had put out the light and left them alone. Thisbe giggled. "What's there to laugh at?" Barbara felt the humour misplaced. "I didn't bring the cane. He never noticed. He forgot." The punished youngster evidently saw this as a major victory. "He'll be right back then," Barbara said with conviction. "He may not. He's terribly absentminded. Oh gosh, Barb, I'm sorry I got you into this," "I got you into it." "Not really, and he knows it. That's why he's tied my elbows, the rotter! I don't know which of us was to get the cane. Probably both. I bet you can do without it." "We'll be like this all night?" "Oh sure! I say, darling, we're neither of us in bed. It's a real panic getting under the sheets the way we're fixed. I've had this before. I ended up on the floor once with my foot up in the air." "But isn't that . . . that round your elbows awfully painful?" "Yes." Thisbe sobered. "It's a brute. But there's nothing I can do about it and neither can you. It keeps getting worse." Through the gloom of the dark room Barbara watched the twisting contortions of her bound companion. She longed to help. The task of getting beneath the bed covers was hard enough without hands, but with an ankle chained to the foot of the bed it became doubly difficult. She longed for freedom to hold this warm young creature in arms of love. A sudden loneliness in her imprisonment made Thisbe's slender nudity trebly desirable. The bound girls needed soft shoulders and warm breasts on which to share their tears. But the fetter on their ankle forbid. It was a refinement of punishment cleverly designed. It was cruel. Wriggle by wriggle Thisbe achieved the impossible. Watching the employment of one free naked leg and a pair of nimble teeth, Barbara emulated her roommate's writhings. Sleep blotted out the day.

• For Barbara, Silverways was hard to adjust to. Successive incidents cancelled out preconceptions. Hovering within her consciousness was the sentence imposed by Perdita Amory. To be whipped, naked, before the assembled school, was a punishment she feared with cold dread. There clung about her mental image of the

scene something of medieval horror. She was sure she was exaggerating the terror it would eventually hold. But she recalled pictures in books of sailors triced to the rigging or soldiers to the huge wheels of cannon. There was an implacability about the flogging ritual that could never be taken lightly. That her punishment did not happen but was delayed on and on was, she supposed, a part of its potency. She could understand its erosion on recalcitrant spirits. Her whipping was alluded to from time to time, casually as an inevitability about which there was little to say. She never prompted, perhaps with the faint hope it might be forgotten. A hope that died when she was sent to the classroom of Igraine Tareyton. No one had prepared Barbara for Miss Tareyton. She suspected, later, that everyone was secretly amused by her inevitable shock. Miss Tareyton's position on the faculty was vague. It was loosely referred to as "art." Thisbe would only giggle when questioned. The new girl approached the sacred door in expectation of an even more erratic replica of Dolly Winsom. When she closed the door behind her she found herself alone except for a single girl who surveyed her with eyes sparkling with amusement. The girl was Susan. "Come and kiss me, darling," said Igraine Tareyton. It was vintage Silverways. Designed shock. The contrived impossible. A force she did not recognize took Barbara's steps toward the welcoming arms. But not before she had viewed the incomprehensible. Miss Tareyton was immodestly clad. The girl in the school tunic could find no name other than "Grecian" for the brief white folds that cunningly, and barely, concealed the white breasts and slender hips. Miss Tareyton's midriff was bare as were her arms and legs. But surprise did not end there. Upon her left ankle was a now familiar sight. A bright and lovely shackle was locked upon the feminine slenderness. From it a long and moderately heavy chain snaked its way to a ring set in the floor. The area around the teacher's desk was carpeted, perhaps to mute the sound of trailing links that might intrude on study. The whole effect was to make the waiting woman even more lovely than Barbara remembered her. They kissed. Their arms clung as though their enforced but shared captivity had forged a bond that made them as close and unselfconscious as a year's acquaintanceship. Once again Barbara was aware of sensations and implications of which she was uncertain. "Do you want to call me Susan or Igraine?" The soft bare arms held the newcomer at arm's length and studied her with an intent smile that fired the beginnings of a blush. "Shouldn't I call you Miss Tareyton?" "You can if you like. I told you names don't matter much. I wish they'd sent you to me before. I've been hungry for you." "But your foot is chained!" Barbara had to say it. "Oh, that!" Miss Tareyton idly kicked her tether to produce a clinking response.

"If it isn't that it's something else. Are you visiting or am I supposed to teach you something?" "I was just told to come." Barbara stamped her foot in vexation. "This place is just too absurd. I can't keep pace with it." "Don't try, darling," Igraine Tareyton kicked her chain again. "This thing on my ankle . . . and all the rest. They're the answer to everything. Oh, of course! I forgot." With a purposeful grace unimpeded by the following chain, Miss Tareyton opened her desk drawer and produced a shining thing of silver. "You're supposed to wear this. It's been specially made for you. Hold out your hand." The bracelet was beautiful. But Barbara recognized it instantly. When deft fingers locked it upon her wrist she remembered the less ornate mate to it that Thisbe wore to proclaim her waiting punishment. Her ritual whipping had not been forgotten after all. She admired it ruefully. "When does it happen?" she asked dolefully. "If no one has told you, no one will. Sometimes I've worn one of those blessed things for a month. Perdita just chuckles." "You!" "Of course! Why not?" Miss Tareyton took the bewildered girl in her arms and hugged her soundly. "Don't ask questions. Just take me as you find me. Let's take our clothes off, shall we?" "Why?" "Well, why not, darling! I'll lock the door. We won't be disturbed. It's lovely on this rug and we're neither of us chained enough to matter." Barbara was aware of excitement. They were two little girls plotting against their elders. It was absurd, but became credible under the aura that emanated from this girl in waves almost tangible. But she had to know more. Had to try and understand this incredible female and her incredible status. Her questions were definite. "Are you a prisoner, Susan?" "Mmmmm! Isn't it lovely." "I don't see anything lovely about being a prisoner. Can't you escape . . . really?" Igraine Tareyton shook her ankle playfully. "Not with this on, darling. And as I told you, if it isn't this, it's something else." "But you're a teacher. You're given a title. You mete out punishments?" "Of course, darling. I don't want to just sit and twiddle my thumbs. The girls are gorgeous." Barbara was still thinking of what to ask next when Miss Tareyton, with a mischievous grin, unfastened and tossed aside the two white trifles that had stood between her and nudity. Clasping her hands behind her neck she thrust out her naked breasts and inhaled a sigh of deep content. "Oooooo! That feels so good. You next."

Barbara might never have shed her tunic of her own volition. But gay and insistent hands did most of the job for her. Naked, she faced her laughing companion with a look of wry puzzlement. "Aren't we beautiful!" Igraine posed and allowed her gaze to feast hungrily on the younger girl. "Be a nice darling and go and lock the door. My chain won't let me go that far." Barbara obeyed. Her doubts were softened by the loveliness of this unpredictable female. She was trembling in an anticipation of she knew not what. There seemed, most strangely, little need of words between them. Reaching hands and warm lips became more than eloquent. She found herself lying on her back upon the rug. Igraine's hands were tracing patterns across her breasts. She closed her eyes. "Stop it!" The words were a small explosion in the room. Barbara sat up, startled. Her hands instinctively shielding her breasts. Wide-eyed she beheld Perdita Amory holding a key and surveying the naked pair with cold intensity. After the exclamation no one seemed to want to break the silence until the same controlled fury demanded: "Well?" "Not her. Me." Miss Tareyton said it as though it explained everything. "Barbara, go and bring me cords." There could be no thought of disobedience. Barbara was now familiar enough with the premises that her errand was easy. When she returned the cords were taken from her anxious hand without thanks. Igraine was still kneeling. But now, without a word, she stood erect and placed her hands behind her back. Incredulous at what she saw, Barbara watched them bound. "Now you." There could be no doubt of Perdita's displeasure. Barbara longed to ask what rule was broken, what sin had been committed, but did not dare. Meekly she allowed her wrists to be tied behind her back. Her tunic lay unneeded on the floor. She remembered that girls to be punished had to be naked. Then came the shock. Perdita Amory took more cord and tied the soft unprotesting elbows so that they joined. Gasping in dismay, Barbara stood with wracked shoulders and thrusting breasts, her elbows afire, and watched the same stricture placed upon Igraine. The older girl accepted what was being done to her with a strange lack of concern. The watcher could not name the small smile that did not leave the full red lips even when she was jerked and turned with the force of her binding. When her arms had been fastened in their punishing security she thrust forward her foot so that Perdita Amory could unlock the shackle. "You know where to go." Igraine knew. Disconsolately Barbara followed. Miss Amory brought up the rear of the small cavalcade. She steadfastly refused to meet the imploring eyes of the bound girl who knew not the manner of her transgression.

It was down, down, down. As one flight of stone steps followed another Barbara had an inkling of her fate. She shivered from more than the increasing chill. Constantly she fought down an impulse to turn and kneel at the feet of the woman who held them all in thrall and implore forgiveness for a sin she knew not of and for mercy. Her heart bled for the lovely nudity whose insouciant steps she followed. Her punishment seemed so unjust. The elbow strictures nagged frighteningly. The dungeon sapped courage. She was to learn later that its heat was mechanically contrived from some central source. Without its artificiality two naked maidens could never survive the night. Candles were lit to supplement the faint daylight that filtered down a tunnel-like an aperture from a small barred window high above. In the gloom of corners and along walls could be seen grim ringbolts and the inevitable chains. There was a huge metal bound chest. It was too much too soon. Pathetically the young delinquent obeyed her instinct. She sank to her knees and bowed her head before the imperious woman whose slave she had become. "Please don't put us here. Please don't! It was my fault. I . . . I . . . didn't know I still don't know. Punish me, not Miss Tareyton . . . ?" Perdita's features softened. But she shook her head. Her fingers stroked the maiden hair as she said with sadness: "No. Both of you." It was through a mist of tears that Barbara beheld their chaining. Igraine was first. She knew where to stand and what to do. First, with legs apart, she looked down as Perdita shackled the slim ankles. From the metal bands the chains led to the stone and a heavy ring. Then the bound girl knelt shaking her head so that her hair fell down her back while the metal collar was locked upon her neck. The chain was lighter, but it too led to the wall. Miss Tareyton could stand, sit or lie down. She could walk a couple of paces in either direction. That was all. She remained kneeling and watching with enigmatic eyes while her companion in punishment was similarly secured. To Barbara the chains locked upon her ankles and neck weighed a ton. But it was not their weight alone that appalled. It was their cold implacability. They would never come off! Never, never, never . . . ! She would remain chained in this dismal place forever! The fantasy gripped her for several vivid moments. But she found comfort in the key Perdita held. It would be used for her release. Sometime . . . sometime . . . surely! Aware of the inconsistency of cords in this place of chains, she spontaneously turned to offer her knots for release so that she might be totally linked by metal. It seemed obvious. Perdita laughed softly. "No, no, little one. Chains do not hurt, the cords do. Wear them and remember." In a sudden change of mien she kissed both her prisoners warmly and lingeringly and went away. The thud of the door and its bolts told the naked girls exactly where and what they were. "It's no help saying I'm sorry, darling, but I am. I expect you'll hate this." Igraine made a rueful gesture that produced its accompanying chink of metal. "Don't you hate it?"

"I'm not like you . . . and I've been here before." "But you're smiling!" "Am I! Well . . . ." Igraine rose to her feet and idly played with a chain with her big toe. She was thoughtful and embarrassed. "I suppose I have to tell you. I love it . . . love being Perdita's captive." "You mean it's a game? This isn't real?" Once more Barbara was on an uncharted sea. "Oh, it's real, alright! By morning I'll probably be as unhappy as you. But only because of the way she's tied our elbows. If it wasn't for that . . . ." "I don't understand? We hurt . . . ." "I'm not sure anybody understands, darling," Igraine admitted ruefully. "I'm just plain naughty, and bad, and incorrigible . . . and a lot of other things." She chuckled. "You'd be surprised at all the names people have thought up to explain me." "But you're a woman!" "You mean I'm not a child. Women aren't naughty, they're wicked. I won't use that word on me. But others did." Barbara could see questions and answers going on and on. She sensed Igraine's shyness in these admissions. She was sure they were not easy. Her sympathy welled over for her luscious sister in chains. Impulsively she stepped forward to take the hurt nudity into arms she no longer possessed. The result was both ludicrous and terrifying. An ankle chain tautened first and tripped her against the tether on her neck. She fell sideways against the tug of her chains, her hands and arms useless to aid her in her shuffling fall. She had never felt more helpless or more frightened. "Oh darling!" Igraine was leaning against the full length of her own fetters, her face alive with concern. "Are you hurt?" "Not much." Barbara got slowly to her feet. She was emotionally shaken. The dungeon had her! The gloom and the chains were now real and personal, a part of her or she a part of them. Tears of vexation and self-pity filled her eyes. She shook them angrily away. She would not be selfish in her sorrow for their plight. Igraine was a pale feminine ghost in the shadows of the opposite corner. A ghost angrily articulate. "Perdita didn't have to chain us to opposite walls. Oh, damn! We can't get anywhere near each other. Next time I get a chance I'll give her a piece of my mind." The inconsistency of the avowal made Barbara forget her hurt. "But how do you dare? I wouldn't. She'd cane me. I know. I tried." "Well . . . there's times when . . . when I'm Miss Tareyton. I can say anything I want. Believe me, I'm going to."

"Are there times when I can?" Barbara asked hopefully. " 'Fraid not, darling. You're right, she'd cane you. I get caned too, or worse, if I speak out of turn at the wrong time." "I still don't understand." In spite of the gloom there was a trace of wry humour in Igraine's voice. "It's simple, really, though I suppose it could only happen with people like us: I mean with a position in society and a lot of money. I'm a black sheep. I always have been. Not an ugly black, but an awfully dark brown by most people's standards. I've always wanted to be a captive. To be tied up and chained and punished . . . . When I was a kid I was always getting . . . but never mind that! What matters is that darling Perdita is the other way round. We're made for each other. So when it became evident we were a bit of an embarrassment to the family Perdita had this simply spiffing idea. Silverways has always been a family possession. We simply moved in and created what you have seen. To keep the family and the clients happy I became Miss Tareyton. I do it very well actually. My classes are erratic. If I disappear for a few days, no one notices. Girls like Thisbe have put two and two together, but even she isn't quite sure. You see, Perdita only punishes me with a reason. There are always plenty of reasons, of course. But it maintains plausibility." "But why are you so frank with me?" "Because Lady Corydon knows. I thought she might have told you. And then, your age. Perdita and I think it's going to be much more delicious for us all if you know." The laughter heightened in the voice. "The gorgeous thing about your knowing is that it changes nothing. You are still the bad girl sent here for punishment and control, and this is what you will get. We think it may be much more vexing for you at times: like now. You'll think you can influence Perdita with your title and your age. But you won't − not any more than I can." "But if you like it, doesn't that . . . doesn't that . . . well, throw everything out of balance . . . . It's unreal." "Oh, but Perdita knows me too well. She knows what I love and what I hate. She can punish me as easily as she can punish you. I adore to have my elbows tied like this. But only for a while. After that I'll cry about it just as you will. It gets simply unbearable in about an hour and there's just nothing a girl can do. You just suffer." "And you want this? You endure . . . ?" The bound and restricted shrug was emphatic even in the gloom. "Yes." The single word was an all-encompassing admission. It explained everything and nothing. Twisting in her chains and striving hopelessly to ease the bite of the cords in her flesh, Barbara was forced to realize that no matter what artificialities might exist in Silverways, they would fall defeated beneath the reality of pain. Pain possessed her now. It was as real as the dungeon and the chains that held her captive to the wall. She knew a great longing to hold the older girl in her arms. It was denied. The denial was a part . . . . "Our time in here . . . ." Igraine was seeking the right words. "It could be so

lovely if it wasn't for our elbows . . . and the worst thing. Keeping us apart is cruel. I'm just so damn hungry to get at you." Barbara was painfully aware of a silence she could not fill. A desert of unspoken implications she glimpsed but failed to understand. An angry clinking of Igraine's chains bespoke anger. "You really don't understand, do you, darling!" There was amusement and awe in the lovely voice. "For 'Dita and me it's been for always. I know it is for Thisbe and one or two of the others . . . ." Again the pause for thought. "But we never push. It just has to . . . sort of happen. When you want it to happen hard enough it does . . . ." "It's something sexual, isn't it?" Barbara felt she had said the unmentionable. A forbidden word! She waited for the skies to fall. "Of course! It's so wonderful." "Tell me, then." "I'm scared. It's not for words. It's for fingertips and tongues. I was going to show you when darling Perdita walked in and caught me. She's terribly jealous. That's why we're both getting punished." "Tell me anyway. With you I don't think I'll be shocked." "No. We both belong to 'Dita. She'll tell you when she's ready. If I tell you with a lot of words that won't even sound nice it will spoil things." There was a faint snicker. "And she'll be angry. I won't get out of here for a week. I say, darling. Look at the candles!" Startled, Barbara looked. The candles had burnt low indeed. They would soon be gone. With them would go most of the light. " 'Dita's really too much!" Igraine said angrily. "We'll have to sit here in the dark. Each of us alone. Oh, damn!" Barbara could add nothing to the exclamation except tears.

• She would always think of Thisbe's whipping as a prelude. The girls referred to the ritualistic punishment flippantly as "losing her bracelet." When the last stroke had fallen on the white back the metal band was taken from the tied wrist. It was all a part of the vividly impressive lesson to them all. Barbara realized that was what it was: be obedient or this will happen to you! Thisbe's wide eyes as she was marched to the platform by Mr. Fawley and Miss Winsom mirrored a terrible realization. Thisbe removed her own tunic. The girl about to be whipped obviously knew the drill. She divested herself of clothing without a blush. But the act held her audience breathless. The eyes of the youngest maiden to the head prefect were rapt. Some in fascinated fear, some with an emotion Barbara could only guess. Mrs. Merridew was in attendance to strap the meekly proffered wrists to the bar and to raise it high so

that the naked Thisbe stood with arms apart and far above her head. A lovely statue of youth and innocence delivered to the lash. As a parting ministration the Matron gathered the captive's hair and brought it forward to fall beside one cheek and on one taut breast. The simple act that revealed the youthful back in all its vulnerability brought a clutch to Barbara's breathing and a sudden flaring of desire within her loins. The two prisoners had been released from the dungeon only in time to attend the ceremony. Igraine, who had suddenly reverted to a very proper Miss Tareyton, had intimated her ignorance as to whether the release was temporary or if their punishment was over. Barbara's tunic and Miss Tareyton's Grecian folds failed to hide the angry weals the rope had left upon their arms. Igraine wore hers with gay insouciance, but Barbara was blushingly aware of her own. To her they were a badge of shame. Good girls, "nice" girls, did not get chained in dungeons! When Perdita Amory stepped up on the platform a sibilance of indrawn breath rippled through the hall. She carried the fatal whip that would bestow upon Thisbe's flesh a memory and a warning. Knowing little of such matters, Barbara was relieved to note its seeming simplicity. No cat-o-ninetails, this! No knots or bits of metal with which to scar. Only a single tapered thong falling from the firm hand in sinuous promise. The bound and tractioned Thisbe looked back beside one raised arm. Her eye was wide with a vivid need to know the instrument that would cut her back. For a fearful moment she examined it, the eye then raised pleadingly to the patrician features of she who held the stock. Then the sentenced girl swiftly turned back to stare fixedly to the front. She stood unmoving, only the rapid rise and fall of her breasts betrayed the agony of her emotions. It was quite beautiful! Even as she winced in sympathy, Barbara was able to recognize the grace and rhythm, the fluid flow of motion as the Mistress' arm flashed and the black thong whined and bit its scarlet path across the female flesh. Thisbe tautened in shock. Her sinews were suddenly in harsh relief against her skin. Her head was thrown back, turning from side to side as though able to absorb pain. She raised a naked foot, again and again. But she made no sound . . . . To Barbara, as she watched, the whipping of Thisbe held something of the quality of a symphony. The arc of the whip. The white arm rising and falling and sweeping forward as with a roll of drums. The impact, the sudden start, and then the writhing of the fastened youthful body for whom there was no escape was a clash of cymbals fading into the resonance of violins . . . and the fresh false hope of the horns as they trilled or moaned their promises of spring. It was very beautiful with an elemental exquisiteness all its own. The scarlet and purple striations mounted. It was inevitable that they must evoke screams. But even there, a symphonic progression came naturally as gasps gave way to moans and small cries of infinite distress and then the final screams that did not care for shape or form or ritual but spoke only of a pain unbearable. Watching, Barbara wondered if a whipped girl was expected to remain silent through her punishment. Thisbe had seemed to strive for this stoicism . . . . No doubt she would be told when it came her turn to be bound upon the platform. But, watching the whipping of the pliant girl, she could not believe . . . not to her . . . oh, surely not to her! Twenty strokes. The watcher had no gauge by which to measure. They could be much or little. No doubt she would discover that also when her time came. The metal

band was taken from the fastened wrist. Miss Amory bestowed a beatific smile upon the assemblage. The school dispersed. Looking back before she left the hall, Barbara's heart melted in sympathy for the white slenderness still standing with hands tied high . . . alone. It was a most pleasant lunch. Incongruous in its luxury when compared to the dungeon from which they had come and to which they might return. Two smiling sisters and a girl . . . . "Thisbe's a darling. She takes the whip so wonderfully." Perdita glowed. She was living in retrospect the twenty strokes by which she had extracted the screams from a child she loved. She let her amused gaze flicker across her companions. It was like a caress. "Was it very bad, darlings?" "You know it was . . . ." Igraine checked her outburst in a sudden uncertainty of status. " 'Dita, am . . ?" "Yes, you are, darling. Back to the dungeon." "Oh, damn! Must you?" "Of course!" Perdita smiled lovingly at her pouting sister. "But no cords on pretty elbows. Only chains." "Humph! Oh well . . . ." Igraine brightened perceptibly. "I'm being very kind." Perdita was laughing at the changing expressions on her sister's face. "I could make it much worse." "Oh, alright. But you're not going to bung Barb in there, too?" "Not immediately, but soon. You know you want her." "Yes I do. But the poor dear doesn't want a dungeon, even with me in it. Forgive her and let her go back to class?" "Did you enjoy Thisbe's whipping, darling?" The question was direct to Barbara. Igraine's plea was ignored. "It frightened me horribly. Because of . . . you know!" "That's understood, dear. But apart from that?" The obvious words were suddenly insincere. They would be taken as such. Barbara sought others. "I was strangely moved . . . not . . . not what I think I should have felt at all." She had said the right thing. She sensed it. Everyone was pleased. It seemed a propitious moment. "Was it right, I mean was it proper to allow Mr. Fawley to witness . . . what just happened to Thisbe . . . her naked?" Perdita smiled in affection, Igraine in amusement. "You're thinking of yourself . . . when you stand there like that?"

Barbara squirmed. "I suppose so. It's too personal for me not to. But apart from that, it's . . . it's . . . oh, you know!" Igraine giggled. Perdita gravely considered the query. "The dear boy does so enjoy seeing a girl whipped. I'm sure he cherishes a secret passion to whip me." "You're poking fun." "Not really. Darling Leslie is a rather lonely man. Don't let's rob him of his dreams." "They're not really dreams. He does it. Maybe not to you, but . . . ." "Darling, there's so many hurdles for you to cross. Miss Tareyton and I want to help. This prudery thing . . . it clings so. It's hard to rub off. Would you like Mr. Fawley to be the one to whip you when your time comes?" The angry denials came in such a flood Barbara choked on them. "You wouldn't!" "Yes, I would. He'd be so grateful. I think he feels a bit guilty about whipping the younger girls. But anyone of us three could take him into a sublimated ecstacy." "She threatens me with him constantly," Igraine informed archly. "Oh please, no, no, no!" "Who would you like to choose to whip you, darling?" "Nobody. I don't want to be whipped. I wish I didn't have to be. Do I really have to? I mean, is it necessary?" "Oh, terribly! Darling, will you excuse me if I take a minute or two to pop Igraine back into the dungeon. She's been free far too long." It was a familiar unreality. The girl returning to her chains bestowed upon her a grin of rueful resignation as she preceded her sister from the room. Barbara sat quivering, seeing in her mind's eye the white nudity linked by metal to the stone. It seemed so unkind . . . . It was not until Perdita briskly returned that she was aware she had sat in total freedom from bonds and had made no use of it. "She's such a darling," Perdita said reflectively. "She always makes such a fuss when she's chained down there." "She struggles! You use force?" Barbara was aghast. "Of course not, silly. She's pure mischief. She'd twist me 'round her finger if I'd let her. Come along, I've got a little something for you. Don't ask what." The blindfold was something new. It imposed its own dark tinge of fear. Barbara never knew to what room she was taken. But the warm firm grasp upon her arm was reassuring. She followed where she was led. She judged it to be a narrow short bench. She lay upon her back, arms dragged

down, wrists strapped tight. Then anklets, there were clicks and then tension. Her feet and legs that had dangled awkwardly beyond the flat hard surface on which she lay began to rise and to separate. She sensed ropes and perhaps pulleys. The steady pull continued until she tried to raise her head in alarm and protest. A girl's legs can only be stretched so far before becoming a matter of concern. It appeared to be simply and effortlessly achieved. When the relentless tug on her anklets ceased Barbara found herself strapped down by only the bands about her wrists that held her body firm. The tensioning of the ropes had drawn her down so that her bottom had gone beyond the bench but was held suspended by the upward pull of her stretched legs. There was intense discomfort, but it went unheeded beside her sudden shame at an exposure so wide as to evoke appalling visions of what Perdita must obviously see. She had been stripped naked before being bound. Nothing was hidden. "Please, please cover . . . it?" Laughter! The laughter of pure natural enjoyment. "What is 'it,' darling?" "Oh please, you know!" "Say it." "Please cover my pussy." "At least I got you to call it something. You know what Thisbe and Igraine call it. Their name's much the best." "What are you going to do to me?" "Wouldn't you like to know!" "You're teasing. Perdita . . . you're not going to . . . to . . . not whip . . . it?" "I should. It would teach you a lesson. Have you ever been gagged?" "Please don't gag me. It's awful here in the dark. Not knowing . . . and I can't move." "You're not supposed to. Here comes the gag. I've warned you so you won't be alarmed. But open your mouth or you'll be sorry." Barbara opened her mouth. A wet wad of cloth was shoved in over her tongue, A strand of rope around her face held it there. The corners of her lips hurt. She made unfamiliar "Ngggiiinnnggg" sounds. Articulation was lost. With it went orientation. She was suspended immovably in dark space. She struggled fretfully against the straps but achieved no movement. It came quietly. It needed no warning. It was soft and undemonstrative and undemanding. At first it was scarcely an awareness, but with the fingertips carried their caress beyond the first few tracings on her skin Barbara knew she was being played with as one idly strokes a cat. As yet there was no intent, no identity, no part of her that they sought. She was a naked girl thing, bound and passive and utterly captive whose body was being used by her owner. The helpless girl easily pictured the satisfied smile upon Perdita's face.

It was pleasant and comforting, nice to be owned. There was no urge to try and spit out the gag or to rail against the thing that sealed her eyes. Barbara existed within her bonds. She ceased to think. For minutes the lingering fingers robbed her of all save sensation. Then there began the thing that was to change her life forever. The single questing finger exploded a single word in her mind. An awful word she would not use. But extraneous suggestion had placed it there: Cunt! One of Perdita's fingers was within her cunt! Having acknowledged the hated word she immediately renounced it. But the finger remained. Miss Amory's finger was inside her pussy, where no finger had ever gone. She could not move. She could not speak. Had she been able to she knew not what she might have said. It lingered but a moment, a sensory moment evoking responses increasingly familiar. The bound girl was shocked to realize it was the same flare that had burned her at Thisbe's whipping. When the fingers found her nipples and had their will with them she strained against the straps and managed to emit small sounds around her gag. When soft wet lips found a nipple and used it and a hand explored through her pubic hair to cup the swollen lips of her vulva she knew herself on the brink of knowledge. She recalled the savage rites and introductions into puberty and adulthood employed by primitives upon their females. Surely not in England . . . not here . . . did others . . . ! Barbara was glad of the gag. It prevented her saying things that would sound childish. She was thankful for the blindfold. She supposed the thing she felt was shame, or demanded shame. If she had still her eyes, they would not have known where to look or what expression she should show the one who watched. This way was merciful. She tensed her muscles against the straps and sought to close her legs. It satisfied honour. When the tides began to roll and she found herself transported to the clouds, to the depths of the sea, within some deep hot female orifice that played upon every nerve so that she became a single searing entity of utter sensation . . . delight! The bench shook beneath the thrust and wrenching of her thighs as the words exploded. It was done! Or was it done! She lay . . . untouched. For along time she cared not whether she was alone or the cynosure of avid eyes. But finally she came to believe in loneliness. It did not matter. She had been robbed of everything, or commonplace sight and sound. In their place she had been granted a thing to change a life. An irradiation of glory. When the lips returned they shunned subterfuge. Strong demanding fingers grasped her loins and the hard tongue entered her and took possession of its own. From the very start she flared. Soon she was straining against the ropes upon her ankles. The strength of muscular thighs bunched and tugged, not in a striving for release from bondage but in order to enable her to keep in rhythmic pace with the demands of whatever stupendous flood of passion the wise and knowing tongue had unleashed. The naked girl lay strapped and helpless and hoping vividly the moment that was now would never end. Again there was a time of aloneness and waiting. Barbara renounced thought. It was profitless. She was far too drained for reasoning or analysis. When the hands came again after a long, long time, they busied themselves with the straps and the ropes. When they gently eased her from the table they immediately tied her wrists behind her back. It was a sign she was back within the world of Silverways and that

she might be tempted to touch her gag or remove the blind. She did not care. She knew herself in the grip of something far beyond her ken, beyond the whisperings and the hints and the arch young eyes. Magic had made her an initiate of a thing she could not name. "Welcome home," said Igraine. Even in the dark she had guessed where she was being led. Now the blind and the gag were whisked away. She stood naked, hands tied behind her back, blinking in the candlelight. Half ashamed, half fearful to look her Mistress in the eye. She was still dazed and drifting in a scented haze. It did not matter that her hands were bound. She would not have used them other than to straighten her hair. Igraine had risen at sound of the opening door. She stood, her back against the wall, in all the full panoply of her chains. They were very total and very heavy. The effect of them upon the pale nudity they held was aesthetically satisfying. They belonged, as did the girl who wore them. "Tell me I look lovely, darlings," she pleaded in mock earnestness as, with fettered hands, she produced a music both ominous and evocative in its clatter. Barbara was without will. As the shackles were fitted and locked upon her she was able to see upon Igraine a mirror of her own bondage. Chains from each ankle to the wall. A broad leather belt locked about a slender waist. At its back a ring and through the ring a chain whose ends were the metal bands upon captive wrists. Since the chain was twenty inches long and could be moved back and forth within its confining ring, it enabled its wearer to sacrifice one hand at the expense of the other so that small limited functions might be accomplished with a single set of fingers. About the slender neck was another collar of heavy leather locked tight to the long slender chain tethering it to the wall. They were chains that could have been more cruel. But the nature of them suggested their wearer might bear them a long, long time. When Barbara's hands were untied and her wrists fettered she felt a premonition. But she could put no name to it. "If you're good girls, you can have a little light. These candles will last," Perdita told them good-humouredly. "Please, darling, don't make Barb so damn helpless. It doesn't matter about me." The Mistress did not answer. She stood surveying the naked girls in their chained impotence. She captured Barbara's eyes and laughed delightedly at the suffusing blush. A thousand words passed between them without a single one being said. Gaily she kissed each in turn. Neither spoke a word of plea or protest. Perdita addressed herself directly to the younger girl. "Your whipping will take place when you are released from here, darling. Something to think and talk about . . . ." At the door she turned and spoke in tenderness to her chained sister. "Igraine, darling . . . be kind to her." It was not until the thuds announced the final locking of the door that Barbara understood. "We're chained to the same wall, Barb," Igraine whispered softly. There was a clinking of chain as two hands reached and touched. Chained feet

followed so that lips could meet. The female flesh was warm and comforting. It is hard to measure time in a dungeon. They kept no count of candles or of light and dark. Only of each other. Barbara's whipping became real for her the moment the chains fell away. Her premonition of infinity had been false. A few days and a few nights in the dungeon . . . ! She could not tell. She knew only that between them the sisters had changed her forever. Even the awfulness of what awaited her now was tempered by the new and vivid femaleness into which she had been thrust. A femaleness she well knew could, ordinarily, have been matched only by the marriage bed and the bridal night that now seemed an inconsequential improbability. When an enraptured Thisbe led her from the dungeon but locked the door on her still-chained companion, she looked back in sadness at the shackled captive who wryly shrugged and rattled a regretful chain. The newly freed penitent was groomed for her flogging with much care. Thisbe recognized the change in the older girl and exchanged her knowledge with wise eyes. The youngster's back was a latticework of weals of all colours that appeared to discommode her not at all. But, seeing them, Barbara wondered if Thisbe had been chosen as her groom on purpose that she might behold the marks that her time in the dungeon had made more rather than less pronounced. Soon her back too . . . ! "Aren't they gorgeous!" Thisbe demanded rapturously. In their own way they were. Barbara recognized that this was just one more of the incongruities of Silverways that were remoulding her values and attitudes. It was as though she had been here years. "It soon stops hurting, darling," Thisbe offered helpfully. "I'll get more than you, though, won't I?" "Well, perhaps . . . !" If Thisbe knew she would not tell. "It's a really marvelous feeling after." "Who's going to whip me?" "I don't know." Thisbe giggled. "I asked if I could. I'd love to whip you. You're so . . . so . . . well, anyway! But all I found out was that it wasn't me." She looked up anxiously. "You don't mind me wanting . . . . ?" Barbara did not mind. She said so, and kissed the raised lips, holding the eager face between unchained hands that were, for a brief time, free. But they were not free for long. The bathing and the perfuming done, there were clothes. Not the school tunic, but the full regalia of a young lady of fashion, including an absurd but decorative hat. Seeing them, Barbara balked. They were lovely, and she desired them with feminine longing. But . . . ! "You have to wear them, darling." Thisbe's voice oozed sympathy. "It's to make you more ashamed when you have to take them off." "I'll have to strip myself up on the platform the way you did?"

" 'Fraid so. There's another little thing, too." The other little thing was a length of cord. It lay in curled cruelty upon the bed while Thisbe helped her charge to bedeck her finery. When both girls were satisfied that the one to be punished had been made as beautiful as their skill made possible, Barbara accepted the incongruity of bonds with a rueful shrug. She turned her back to the sparkling-eyed nymphet and crossed her wrists. "I'll do you terribly tight, Barb. It's for such a little while." Barbara knew herself trembling. The tying of her hands told her how close she was to the fateful walk. "Am I to be escorted by two teachers the way you were?" She shrank from the prospect. Thisbe glowed with pride. "No, darling. Just me. I wish I just walked and . . . well, held your arm or something. But there's one more thing . . . honest, Barb, it wasn't my idea." Darling Thisbe! So long as it was her, Barbara knew she would not mind. But the indignity was clever. She raised her chin as the collar was buckled 'round her neck, and only winced slightly when the leash was snapped in the ring. Here was designed a shame more demanding of her courage than to be naked. Gowned exquisitely. Hands bound. A dog collar upon her neck. Led to her punishment on a leash . . . ! She tried to meet no eye as a glowing Thisbe led her into the big hall and to the platform. But instinctively she sought Igraine and in a fruitless search for the Grecian clad beauty could not avoid all the eyes and their varying messages. Only two adults were present: Dolly Winsom and Mrs. Merridew. The latter was already stationed in full view. With her on the raised surface was a stool, and on the stool a whip. Barbara shivered. Mrs. Merridew smiled beamingly in welcome. The platform was worse than she had feared. It was a shocking exposure. The collar and leash were soon gone. Then the cords upon her wrists. Thisbe squeezed a hand very hard and was suddenly gone. Mrs. Merridew nodded comfortingly and murmured: "The clothes, dearie." The tunic would have been so much better! But this! A piece at a time, all to be fussed with, nothing simple, a long and shaming journey into nudity. She placed the lovely things upon Mrs. Merridew's waiting arm as she discarded them. Then there were no more. When she stood totally naked, the matron placed the forsaken finery in a sad, small pile over to one edge of the eminence on which they stood. The discarded things seemed to mock the girl who had worn them. She turned away. Mrs. Merridew strangely comforted. She went about the securing of the proffered wrists with a bustling competence wholly domestic. The naked girl watched as each of her wrists were strapped to the bar. "Much the best to have 'em tight, dear," Mrs. Merridew assured her sagely. And then to see them raise up before her eyes. Up and up . . . the tensioning stopped only short of making her stand on her toes. She was quite sure no girl in history had ever been so cruelly delivered to hungry eyes. Barbara dared not think of the whip and the totality of her offering for its claim upon her flesh. A girl can stand and stare into infinity only so long. The matron had departed, leaving the trembling girl alone. When the penitent eyes sought contact they beheld Perdita Amory. The Headmistress was devoting her attention partly to the platform

and partly to the assemblage. Her smile was quiet and assured. Turning it upon the frightened victim, it was as though she beheld visions. Barbara knew her time had come. The hall fell hushed. There were footsteps. Barbara stole a quick glance at the stool. The whip was still there. Evidently it was the one to be used. She was without courage. She knew that if there was something she could say or do, she would do it now. But from the beginning she had been aware of inevitability. She was being flogged for a reason, a reason she did not comprehend, but which Silverways comprehended all too well. When the steps upon the platform were firm and unmistakable she could bear the suspense no longer. Twisting painfully against her straps she contrived a fearful glance back over her wrenched shoulder. It was Leslie Fawley. No, no, no! The negations on her tongue fought for expression. But she dared not speak. Emotion swirled in her mind and found a partial release in the tensioning of her muscles against the straps upon her wrists. So great was her horror at thought of being publicly whipped by a man that she knew her struggle in danger of lifting her feet from the floor in a futile protest, a naked negation of shame. She looked down desperately in hope of succor. But the eyes of Perdita Amory had become an enigmatic mystery. All present were in the grip of the ritual by which she was to be punished. As though in confirmation of a thing in doubt, Barbara stole one more glance. It was inevitable that her eye be captured by his smile. Now he held the whip and gave her the tribute of a quaintly old-world bow. She sensed his happiness. For him she would be surrogate for his sublimation of Perdita. Her back would be Perdita's back, their flesh one. But the captive girl's most vivid impression was of Fawley himself. For the occasion he had discarded his day-by-day attire. Now he wore only corduroy trousers, a sash and a ruffled shirt open at the neck. His habitual air of absentmindedness was gone. If Barbara had been afraid before she was doubly afraid now. "You will count each stroke as you receive it." The command struck her like a blow. Another humiliation! Another imposition of a foreign will. "Did you hear me?" "Yes, sir." Mixed with the shame there was now rage. She would count, but she would make no other sound. She vowed it. Vowed it fervently. He chose her waist. The narrow curved centre of her being taut beneath the strained outline of her ribs. The lash circled it with a snap that echoed round the huge chamber. When the thong fell away from the punished skin it left a brand, a narrow scarlet belt to divide the white nakedness. Barbara was glad of the pain previously inflicted on her. Without its knowledge she would have screamed instantly and been convinced of death. The circlet of scald around her middle was dire and not to be borne, but it had happened. It was real. She survived the welling scream and said flatly: "One,"

It was only then she realized she did not know how many strokes she was to receive. The whipped girl had no way of knowing if the man was striking her with all the force of his arm. She was willing to believe that he was, But she had come to know the sensitivity of punished female flesh. She knew only a fierce determination to best him by silence. To find her only revenge possible against his maleness: that she should not yield. When the second blow striped the width of her shoulders she conceded the hated single word: "Two," before she writhed in silence. The vow was hard to keep. The pain atrocious. As Barbara spoke the numbered tribute to her suffering she found instinctive aid in the contortions she could not control. Her strapped wrists gave her little freedom to respond. But what she had, she used. One of them was to lift an unfettered leg in agony. The thong cut swiftly into the softness between her legs revealed by the raised foot. It was total shock and total outrage. A girl was flogged on her back and not within the scented privacy of her loins! But the searing pain told its own story of violated flesh. Once more she looked back across a sweat-drenched shoulder to give a glance of reproach and of appeal. But Mr. Fawley radiated an intent assurance that held no hope of mercy. He smiled and nodded as though to indicate he had matters well in hand and struck again. The count continued. She saw her ability to enunciate it as a small victory. She was sure she would be punished further if she failed. But it was hard to control her voice. It became tremulous as the numbers mounted and the grid of agony lacing her body from knees to neck marked her with weals she feared must assuredly be forever. She could look down and behold upon her sweating skin the red wounds where the tip had circled her and left its glaring imprint. She hated the man. Oh, how she hated him! To whip her loins! To do it deliberately every time she gave him the chance to cut her between her legs because she could not control the responses of her limbs. Why, oh why did Perdita allow this to be done to her! And where was Igraine! Had Igraine ever been whipped like this − had any girl! Barbara supposed she lost consciousness. She dimly remembered her whispered utterance of, "Thirty-four," but that was all. She was returned to awareness by a cold, wet cloth laving her sweat-bedewed features and parched lips. "There, there, ducky," Mrs. Merridew said gently, "it's all over. You took it like a trooper. Don't fret." She was still bound. Her wrists were afire from the hurt body that had hung limp from them. But the thought uppermost in her mind thrust all else aside: "I didn't scream . . . did I?" "No, dear. Nary a scream." She was alone. She sorted sensations. There were enough. Thankfulness that it was done. Constant pain. The bitter chagrin that a man had so used her body. Barbara savoured them all, then looked bleakly at the empty hall. She knew herself a naked statue, a centrepiece left there so that she might drain her punishment to the bitter dregs. She wondered if there were peeping eyes, whispers. But what did it matter? She pulled at the straps that had held her through her agony and which held her now.

Looking up the column of a wrist she noted a loss. The metal band was gone. She had paid its price. But tomorrow there could be another.

• Barbara leant against the bedpost and watched her Mistress. It was a nightly ritual, but there were also days when she was left conveniently chained for Perdita's disposal. It was always the collar at her neck. Her wrists and elbows varied at the older woman's caprice. At the moment she was being punished for an imaginary sin. Her wrists were strapped together and another strap circled her elbows and drew them tight together. The strap was not as bad as cord. But it still hurt. She wore it with rueful pride for what it did to her figure. Her breasts could not be lovelier. But she had been strapped thus all evening and was now hopeful of release. She was also tired of the bedpost. To stand and stand . . . . "You want to eat me, don't you, darling?" Perdita's voice was mocking. "Yes, terribly." All pretense had gone after the whipping. Barbara understood now its potency. It had stripped her of everything redundant to Silverways. What was left was only what the sisters desired. She knew herself a creation. She sometimes shared Igraine's use of the four-letter word she had so despised. Perdita came and cupped the defenseless pudenda in a teasing hand. "I'm going to bite it," she threatened. "One day I'll pluck your hairs, one by one. Slowly. I'll tie you tight. You'd like that?" "Oh, yes!" The heat had now become familiar between her legs. "I think I'll leave you as you are all night." "Please, Mistress!" The captive was never sure. It could be teasing or very real. She had learned not to plead too demandingly. She had become a beautiful play-thing. She gasped as the fingers had their way with her flesh. "Please, please, please . . . !" She writhed charmingly and began to moan. "I'm going to hurt you." "Thank you, Mistress." "Not very hard, but in a new way. Come on, darling, ask me nicely." "Please hurt me, Mistress?" It was an entrancing game. The chained girl looked at the tiny silver things with a curiosity tinged with fear. Perdita kept her always on the verge. When she realized their purpose she shrank back against the bed. But she could not escape. She could never escape. Appealingly she watched as the Mistress slowly positioned the ornamental clips against the waiting pink buds already engorged and erect. For a moment the intent eyes raised to smile at the girl about to be pained. They exchanged their awareness of the thing between them. "I love you." Barbara whispered the words and held herself steady for

the approaching metal. She closed her eyes and drew in her breath with the pain. But the expansion of her lungs made it worse. The skin of her breasts tautened and the clips nestling into the twin nipples bit harder. She moaned in a dimension of sensation she had come to recognize as endemic to Silverways and its Mistress. It was love. It was lust. It was beauty. It was wonder. It was so many things she could not name. In their entirety they composed an emotion that was a composite of Igraine, Barbara and the woman who ruled them both, Perdita. "They are very beautiful on you." "Yes, Mistress, but oh, they hurt." "Of course, darling. Don't be silly. Would you like to wear them all night?" "No, Mistress." "Don't say it like that. You're supposed to be grateful." It was a wicked game she could not win. But the chained girl had come to adore it. In between her gasps and wrigglings she managed to infuse joy into her plea: "Please, Mistress, make me wear them all night." She was laughingly kissed. Suddenly the clips were gone. She yelped with the agony of their going. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" "But I must do something to you!" Perdita was in a capricious mood. "Come, darling, suggest something you won't like." "I'm already hurting, Mistress. The band on my elbows . . . ?" "I'd forgotten." Perdita was not contrite. "You should be strapped like that always. I must have a special strap made, a sort of single glove. It's a shame to release you. The way it sticks out your breasts . . . !" "I like it, too," the captive admitted. "But I wish it didn't hurt so much. If I asked to be caned could I have the strap off?" "No." "Then can I make love to you like this? It's wickedly frustrating." "You think that's a punishment! Ask for it properly." Barbara blushed. Demanded in this fashion, the word was not easy. "Please, Mistress, let me eat your cunt?" "Weeelll, that's a bit better. But, sorry, no." Barbara knew what was required. "Please put the clips back on my nipples, Mistress. Make me wear them all night." "I've thought of something better. You haven't seen quite everything. I'll show you."

Wonderingly the naked girl looked down as the familiar shackle was locked upon her ankle. This time the chain was long. That meant . . . ! She glowed with happiness. "They really are adorable," Perdita said as she thoughtfully positioned a firm breast and its nipple and allowed the small serrated jaws to close on their prey. The wise grey eyes raised to watch the effect of the pain on the nipple's owner. She was well satisfied with what she saw. Carefully she repeated the punishment on the twin. Barbara gasped but said no word. The naked girl whose nipples were now in thrall watched her Mistress with eyes half closed in pain. Perdita was rummaging in a drawer. When she returned the things she held were even more tiny than the clips. Held up for inspection, they proved to be a pair of exquisitely fashioned padlocks, minute but perfect. Fingers would be impotent against them. "There are tiny holes," Perdita explained happily. There were! There was special pain as the locks were inserted and clicked shut. Their weight was miniscule, but pendant from the clips Barbara was well aware of them. Quite visibly they would prohibit the clip's removal. Perdita held up the key, smiling mockingly, then put it back in the drawer. Barbara knew it as one of the moments when she flared within her sex. A recurring thrill of suspense every time her Mistress faced decision. She breathed in ecstacy as the strap was taken from her elbows, and then her wrists. She was free! Free save for the shackle that would keep her ankle tributary to the bed. Her first instinctive act was to throw her arms about the neck of the woman who had released her, but the impassioned hug broke off into a yelp of pain. Perdita laughed gleefully. "Poor darling, you forgot. You are going to have to remember." The clips were potent. The two girls gigglingly experimented with embraces. They managed a very satisfying fleshly contact. When they broke away, gasping from an endless kiss, Barbara raised intrigued fingers to the silver things upon her breasts. "You can't get them off, darling. But try. You must!" Barbara's breath was coming fast. Her fingers were curious and anxious. Hesitantly she fingered the metal that had become a part of her. They responded instantly with pain, an exquisite personal sexual agony that sent quivers up and down her spine. Carefully she gripped with thumb and finger and exerted pressure. The padlocks mocked her. Ruefully she shared Perdita's amused expression. "I can never get them off, Mistress." She fingered the silver again. "I don't think I'd want to, if they didn't hurt so much. They never stop hurting." "Just think, darling, on and on. Always burning on your breast. They'll never let you go. When you wake up from sleep they'll be hurting. When we tongue each other they'll be there and you'll have to be so careful. You will be careful, won't you! I won't countenance harm to my darlings. They're mine, even though the pain is yours." "Oh, Mistress!" "Lie on the bed and open your legs wide. Use the pillow. You can play with your toys while I lap your clit. It's a special treat for my girl."

Barbara lay upon the bed. She put the pillow beneath her bottom. She smiled ecstatically. Perdita Amory was stripping herself with joy. The silver clips burned steadily at the captive breasts.

• " 'Dita has the damndest sense of humour," said Perdita's sister without rancour. "What a thing to do to a pair of innocent girls." Barbara was gasping. She was not as inured to Perdita's punishments as was Igraine. "But we never did anything!" She was still finding it hard to reconcile penalties with innocence. "Well, I did sort of cheek her, I suppose," Igraine admitted doubtfully. "I say, darling, think we can keep this up? I mean, it's going to put an awful strain on our affection." In spite of discomfort Barbara smiled. Igraine was always delicious. If two girls were forced to have their hands tied behind their backs with a rope dragging them high so that she was bent forward to ease the stress, and that same rope travelling to a second pulley and down to her companion's tugged-up hands, she could think of no preferable companion in distress than the girl who now was joined to her so that for either to pull down meant an added strain on the other. "We just mustn't pull," she gasped. "Sort of hold steady." She tried a half-hearted giggle. "Share and share alike." "Kiss me. Please try." It seemed impossible. But was it? Each bent and tortured girl faced the other across a dubious gap. Straining so that their raised arms were extended to the utmost and their wracked shoulders rewarded them with pain, they managed a brief warm contact with their lips. "Oh, darling, that was so good! It's so good to know we can." The warmth of Igraine's voice bolstered Barbara's small store of courage. "If she keeps us like this much longer, let's try and reach each other's cunt with our toes. If we back up, it should be possible. The way 'Dita's talked to me and tied me has made me so damn wet between my legs." "Your cunt?" Barbara inquired mischievously. She was beginning to find satisfaction in a word increasingly applicable to the situations in which she found herself. The vulgarity made her feel as though she was striking back. "I'll try it on you first, Barb. Spread your legs and get as close to me as you can." "I don't think it's possible." "Well, never mind. It's something to do. My darling sister could leave us like this all afternoon. By the way, you're in love with her, aren't you? I can tell." "I'm in love with you, too."

"It is possible, y'know." Igraine was straining. "I mean, to love us both. We love you. If I had you I'd never let you go. I don't suppose she will either." "As long as she punishes us together we'll be together." "We're together now, but it's not doing us much good," Igraine complained without bitterness. "Oh, damn, this hurts my arms." The signal of success was Igraine's gasp of pain matched by Barbara's gasp of response. The older girl's toe had found its haven and was twisting busily. "Is it any good, Barb?" It's owner's voice was anxious. It was frustratingly good. Both girls redoubled their stress. But it was only a matter of moments before the older one reclaimed her foot and stood panting from the unnatural exertion. Both giggled at the absurdity of what they were trying to do. Wryly recognizing it as a diversion in the boredom of captivity they took turns again and again without more than brief exciting contacts they could not maintain. "I bet 'Dita measured it out," Igraine said bitterly. "She's got us tied almost to the inch. We can just touch now by almost tearing our arms out. If she'd given us a couple more inches we might have some fun. Damn!" She considered their plight silently. " 'Dita always wins . . . . I suppose it's my own fault. It's yummy yummy sometimes, but like now I could scream." "Haven't we been here a long time? How're your arms?" Barbara twisted back and forth in a fruitless effort to find ease. "And my wrists hurt like billy-o." "We can resign ourselves to the morning, darling. It's bad but we'll survive. We'd best stop struggling. If we stand still we'll last longer. I say, Barb, have you noticed anything different about Leslie Fawley lately?" Mr. Fawley was a bête noire for Barbara. Her nudity still bore the marks of her whipping at his hand. In their meetings since, she had treated him with cold hauteur. "It's because he whipped me," she said bitterly. "It's made him feel his oats." Igraine giggled. "He isn't half so absentminded. There's a look in his eye . . . . 'Dita told me he asked her permission to whip me, too. I expect it's habit-forming." "It's beastly! To be whipped by a man. Ugh! I hated it." "Wish I'd been there to see. That was rotten of 'Dita to keep me chained in the dungeon right through it. The girls all agreed you were beautiful. I found out from Matron that half of the little dears had knickers that needed laundering after." "But why a man, and on me?" Igraine gave the question serious consideration. "I think she wanted to . . . to . . . sort of break you. Make you realize you were a big girl in punishments as well as age. I think too, for some reason of her own, she wanted to make Fawley happy, some sort of reward. But I don't know what for. He's an odd duck. I expect 'Dita knows him better than we do." "But doesn't she tell you everything?" "Gosh no! I'm the way I am, so that's the way I get treated. I'm only half a school

teacher. The rest of the time I'm just a bad girl." Another giggle. "Like now." It was all impossible, all upside down. Barbara pulled angrily at the rope that kept her on her toes and agonizedly bent. "Oops! Sorry, darling, I forgot. Pull me up again. I say, Igraine, it seems to me you get punished a lot more with me here. You hardly ever get to be Miss Tareyton?" "It's lovely! Don't fret. 'Dita's pleased too. I think she often felt guilty about bunging me in the dungeon all alone or hanging me up like this with no one to talk to. But now she can punish us both together. I'm so glad someone sent you here." "You've got lots of girls. What about them?" "Too young, darling." Igraine chuckled. "We thought it best to keep the image of Miss Tareyton un-smirched. Poor me! I've had to suffer alone. It was always lovely, of course, but it's twice as lovely now. Though I am beginning to get a bit tired of this one." Barbara sighed. Igraine was magic. For her, everything was in reverse. There remained no doubt that the bright-eyed young woman adored most of what was done to her by a sister, both indulgent and cruel. "But. Mr. Fawley," she persisted, "has he punished you? Does he know?" "He found out, of course," Igraine admitted. "Inevitable, I suppose. Walked in on me one day when I was strung up naked. Chatted affably the way he does, asked if I wanted to be let loose. When I said. 'No thank you,' he went straight to 'Dita and asked permission to punish me once a month. They had quite a row about it. I expect that's why he was allowed to whip you. A sort of sop to his pride." Interlocking absurdities. Cross-purposes of desire. Barbara squirmed in frustration of both spirit and flesh. She had come to realize how much comfort she gained from Igraine's proximity. Without admissions it had come to be understood that Barbara was at Silverways to be punished − taught a lesson − moulded afresh. Her attendance at class had become uncertain and sporadic. Used mainly as a humiliation. The cot and the shackle in Thisbe's room were rarely used now. If she was not chained to the bed of the Mistress it was because the Mistress had chained or bound her in some shared punishment with Igraine. The younger girl knew only fear when vagrant thought suggested a possible separation from the vibrant flesh to which she was now so grotesquely attached. "You both look terribly unhappy." Thisbe's cheerful voice shattered the pained reverie into which Barbara and Igraine had fallen. The hours had passed and worn down their optimism so that they had become content only to stand and endure. "You can let us loose, Thisbe dear," Igraine announced hopefully in her best Miss Tareyton tone. Thisbe viewed the naked Mistress with amusement. Obviously the incongruity was evident. "I'm supposed to," Thisbe informed them, "but I have to chain your ankles. Do you mind?"

"Hurry up and do it. Don't chatter." "And I mustn't untie your wrists. Just let them down so you can walk." "No one's arguing. Hurry." "Is it hurting much?" Thisbe felt no urgency. "Of course it is! Don't natter. You've been tied like this." "Not with another girl on the end of the rope," Thisbe snickered. "I hope you don't mind me seeing you like this, Miss Tareyton?" "I love it! Now let us loose." Barbara sensed that Thisbe was unusually proud of her responsibility. She took unnecessary care and time in chaining their feet. The tether between would allow them to walk slowly, that was all. A resurrected Miss Tareyton became increasingly acerbic at the delay, but her nakedness disarmed her tongue. Thisbe only smiled. Her smile became even more pronounced when she produced the collars. "Oh, no!" The exclamation from the two girls was in unison. "Oh, yes," said Thisbe. "Let our hands down first." "No. That comes after." Barbara and Igraine endured their stress silently while collars were locked upon their necks and leashes snapped. There was that in Thisbe's eyes that warned them to behave. The youngster sparkled with authority. "I think something's up," Igraine guessed darkly. It was impossible ever to be angry with Thisbe. The older girls allowed themselves to be led wherever she chose, their leashes negligently held in one small demanding hand. With wrists untied and still hurting and the chains clinking from their hobbled feet, they walked nakedly to a fate they did not guess. "Don't blame young Thisbe," said Mr. Fawley. "She just did what I told her. She doesn't know what's happened." "Do we have to wear these leashes and have them fastened to these chairs?" Igraine demanded. "Yes, you do. And from now on watch your tongue." "Where's Perdita?" "Perdita is safe. Very safe indeed." The male voice oozed satisfaction. Barbara looked at Leslie Fawley with the same gaze of disbelief that Silverways constantly evoked. Fawley had changed. He had abandoned the funeral attire and adopted a quite dashing ensemble that displayed wider shoulders and narrower hips than she remembered. His approving survey of their separate nudities, their chains,

their bound hands, was in no way absentminded. It was shrewd and knowing and satisfied. "You shouldn't be looking at us like this," she reproved. "Don't be silly." He waved her words into the wind. "But you can't take over Silverways." Igraine was tugging at her bound hands in distress. "It's . . . it's . . . well, you just can't!" "Why not?" Igraine floundered. "It's against the law." Leslie Fawley leaned forward in his chair, the chair that was Perdita's in Perdita's office. He enumerated points on his fingers. "You are right. I can't get away with this forever. But I can get away with it for a very long time. Next: I'm a teacher, I have established authority. The girls obey and respect me. Thisbe brought the two of you here without a quiver of suspicion of anything wrong. Next: you, Miss Tareyton, will not be missed as a teacher. More of the girls have guessed your secret than you suppose. Next: you are both conveniently helpless. I can do what I like with you − I'm going to. Next: Dolly Winsom is with me. She will not rescue you. She will carry on as though nothing has happened. The affairs of Silverways will follow an untroubled course." "You'll go to prison." "I doubt it. No profit motive. The books will be in perfect order. I simply want to whip bottoms . . . and other places." "Where have you got 'Dita?" Igraine's voice was stricken. Leslie Fawley waved a condescending hand. "I may as well take you to her. Until you've talked you won't be able to adjust. You're both half expecting her to sweep in here and put me in my place." It was another humiliating journey. The girls were in class, the servants below. In a male hand the neck tethers were demanding, as the two girls were led below to one of the rooms that had so many uses. Perdita Amory was in a cage. Both girls recognized it as one of the disciplinary devices often threatened and sometimes used. It was a small cage so that a girl inside it must perforce kneel. The Mistress of Silverways was doing this, her chained hands holding the stout bars through which she peered at her visitors with cold, enquiring eyes. "He drugged me," she said briefly, as though it explained all. "She is a model prisoner," said Leslie Fawley with irreverent humour. "So far, she has been allowed to wear clothes." His tone made it clear the privilege would be short. Perdita ignored her former math teacher. "It looks as though you are going to be compelled to whatever it is this absurd creature demands of you. All three of us are helpless. I've never been more helpless in my life." She smiled at them in wry compassion. "I believe he can maintain this usurpation for a few days." She turned a venomous glare upon the smirking male. "After that we can visit him in prison on visiting day." "Let her out. Don't dare hurt my sister." Igraine was bitter.

"I intend to hurt you all, my dear." Barbara remembered all too well his bland confession of the enjoyment of female anguish. Fawley loved to cane. Inwardly she cringed. The best the three of them could hope for was to be thrashed. "I have reasoned with him," Perdita explained. "Don't waste breath. He is in control." She turned. "Fawley, I think I understand what motivates you. But consider this offer. Keep these two girls comfortably confined so they can cause you no trouble. Have your amusement with me. I'm virgin material for your whip and your cane. So long as I am convinced of their safety I will obey you implicitly." "That's no bargain. You have to obey me." "I will go beyond obedience into total feminine submission." Fawley considered the woman, kneeling and chained in the cage where he had imprisoned her. "I may give you a try," he conceded ungallantly. "There is a cell in which they can be locked with dignity." Leslie Fawley laughed derisively. "Haven't noticed you being overly indulgent with 'em. Damn cruel sometimes." The caged woman flushed. She had no answer. Igraine came to the rescue. "She loves us. We love her." "Try loving me, m'dear. I'll warm up that curved bottom of yours to get you in the proper frame of mind." "Is that all you want us for, to be caned and whipped?" Barbara demanded furiously. The memory of his flogging of her back was still vivid. The thought of being his captive was disgusting and frightening. She tugged and twisted in futile frustration. The cords burned. "I have a fairly comprehensive course laid out for the three of you." Fawley sounded as though instructing algebra. "You won't be bored. For instance, Miss Amory has a ceremonial whipping to look forward to." "You wouldn't!" Leslie Fawley was unperturbed. "By that time the school will be conditioned. They will have accepted the status quo. I find the prospect immensely diverting." His avowed ambition! Each girl viewed its probability and was appalled. Perdita Amory tied naked on the platform! Listening to the assured male voice they knew it possible. "We've listened to your gloat. Now what?" Perdita demanded. "A test, dear lady. I lock this door. I place this riding crop handily. I suspend these two sweet things by their ankles. Then I release you totally - no cage, no chain."

"Well?" Perdita's eyes were, for the first time, frightened. "Then, Miss Amory, you will strip naked, you will find cord, you will present me with your wrists crossed at your back, and you will pleasantly request me to tie your hands." "And if I don't?" "I am sure you have guessed. Your two darlings remain suspended until you do." He cut the air savagely with the crop. "I will use this delightful implement to cope with argument." "There's no need to hang them up. It's dangerous. I'll do what you want. I have no choice, have I!" "You are an admirable woman. I realized it the moment I first applied for a position here," Fawley mused reflectively. "All this time since with a vision of you stripped and bound for my whip." "You're a pervert, insane!" "Isn't there something about the pot calling the kettle black?" Perdita flushed. Barbara sympathized with her vulnerability. Fawley would be able to regard what he was doing as a form of poetic justice. "Oh, very well! But can't we simplify this? Whip me to your heart's content and then leave. I won't prosecute." The grey eyes actually pleaded. "Surely that's a good offer?" "If your person was yours to dispose, it would be," Fawley concurred. "But it is not. For the time being I possess it. Our two precious damsels will lie on their backs with their feet in the air. They can be used persuasively without endangering their health. Allow me to demonstrate." It was a beastly posture. Barbara hated the helplessness that delivered her to it. She and Igraine lay upon their bound arms, their feet had been raised, tractioned and spread, their chains discarded. Two bushes of pubic hair demanded attention. "I will use this slender crop on their cunts until you have complied," Leslie Fawley informed his Headmistress complacently. "As an earnest of intent allow me to give them one each now." He was a man, a brute, without feeling! The wicked slenderness cut Barbara viciously in that intimate place now most prominently exposed. The pain was the kind against which there is no defense. She bit back the scream, but knew a second stroke would extract it. "That was needlessly cruel," Perdita Amory said from the cage. "I have given you my word. If you are going to brutalize those two girls there is no point in my trying to keep it." "You'll keep it, Miss Amory." Fawley was busy with the padlock on the cage door. "I'm sure your own juncture between the legs is just as sensitive." He was in complete command. Perdita Amory knew defeat. Barbara watched her Mistress' capitulation in misery.

Features haughty with distaste, the older woman crawled from the cage and stood erect. Without a word she offered the strangely dominant male her chained hands. "You want me to strip. Then take these from me. Don't worry. I won't fight." The chains were cast aside. Perdita Amory and Leslie Fawley faced each other, a man and a woman at the beginning of a rare captivity. For moments their eyes were locked. Neither yielded. Fawley's new assurance sustained him. Determinedly the lovely fingers rose to the fastening of her dress. "Have you the decency to turn away, or are you going to be a boor and watch?" Her voice reeked contempt. "A boor, by all means, Perdita." He was impervious. "Don't call me that!" "What would you like to be called, now you've become a chattel?" She did not answer but stepped away from him and began what was probably the most difficult task of her life. He watched with undisguised avidity as the breasts and finally the dark pubic hair were delivered to his gaze. "I hope I please you?" "You are far more than beautiful." Barbara watched, bereft. She found her Mistress' nakedness surpassingly lovely. But what was taking place now meant the end of any hope of freedom. Poised and unhurried, Perdita crossed the chamber like a gleam of sunlight, found the requisite cord which she disdainfully handed to the watching man. Then, with an obviously superhuman effort, she turned her back for him and crossed her wrists. It touched the heart! The erect nudity with her arms thrust back, her head proud, her eyes fierce as her hands were completely bound behind her back. Barbara recognized the tableau. She had played its leading role often enough. Despite its beauty she knew only dismay. When the last knot was tugged, Perdita stepped back, turned and faced her captor. "Three naked girls, bound, helpless. What possible use can you have for us all?" "Come, do I need to explain?" He was laughing at her. Perdita's flush and instinctive twisting at her bound hands sent Barbara's blood racing. It had only just occurred to her − Fawley was a man! What did men do to captive girls! Her own cheeks flamed. "You would not dare!" "Don't be absurd, Miss Amory. All three of you are going to be well and truly fucked. You should be grateful." The male voice became sardonic. "Make a nice change, I'd have thought. There is something better than a tongue, y'know." "You're an animal." Perdita was furious. "Use me, not them." "I shall use you all. You'll come to like it." "If that's what you're after then do it and get it over with." Perdita was panting in a medley of emotions.

Fawley patronizingly patted the enraged cheek. "You're absurd, y'know, but I'll make allowances for this mother hen instinct and your noble wish for martyrdom. Those two girls on the floor are a lot closer to reality than you have ever been. Let me quote a line from melodrama: 'I'll break your spirit, me proud beauty. I'll make you beg." Perdita's breasts heaved. "I suppose it is possible." "But there is one job we may as well get out of the way immediately." Fawley bestowed a cheerful smile on the three apprehensive faces. "I'll give you each a sound thrashing to start with. I'll get a little more respect from you afterwards. You'll never get adjusted without it." "But I've promised to obey!" "You overlook my pleasure in the cane, Miss Amory. The bottoms of girls are ideally designed for it." "You'd whip us for pleasure?" "You whipped your charming sister and the delightful Barbara." Perdita squirmed. She had no retort. "Very well. I won't argue. But this nakedness . . . ? Is it essential? Can't we be allowed some trifle?" "No. You please me naked. Saves trouble. You are available." No single one of the three captives had a thing to say. Each was absorbing their helplessness and its implications. Fawley had them! But for how long! How much of their pride need they abase in order to gain whatever mercy he might be cozened into granting. Barbara knew a tinge of irritated amusement at Igraine's preoccupied features. She had little doubt that her irrepressible companion in punishment was making a mute assessment of the erotic possibilities of her change in ownership. Igraine possessed a femaleness all her own. "Since you're so anxious we may as well get going," Fawley said affably. "I'm sure you see the logic . . . ?" Perdita sniffed. Barbara and Igraine watched, wide-eyed, as their legs were returned to the horizontal. When their feet touched the floor they were promptly chained. Sheepishly they struggled to stand erect. A girl with her wrists tied behind her back and her ankles tethered fifteen inches apart is at a surprising disadvantage. They watched their new Master place similar hobbles on Silverways' former Headmistress. "Have to be fair about this." Fawley was in his element. "There is nothing fair about any of it," Perdita retorted icily, then squealed in shock as the limber crop curled around her hips. "Obviously you should be the first, Miss Amory. Kindly bend well forward." Leslie Fawley pleasurably swished the crop.

"Please, no!" Perdita was trying hard to cope with the pain and shock of the first blow her flesh had ever known. "Don't humiliate us like that . . . like schoolgirls." Fawley laughed. "You mean you want to be fastened, tied?" "It would be more sensible. Or do you want us making exhibitions of ourselves? No girl can possibly stand still for what you propose to do to us." "That's the whole point, dear lady. I'll make you stand still. But supposing you don't! Imagine the delectable spectacle of the three of you hopping round this room with burning bottoms. Either way I win." "We already concede your victory." "Bend over." Perdita took a deep breath and obeyed. Her face was white. Her bound hands were tightly clenched against their cords. A moment later she was writhing on the floor. Barbara remembered the first shock. Perhaps Perdita had never known the awfulness to which she so often sentenced her girls. She knew it now. The crop had caught her curves in an almost wraparound slash. The pain would be unendurable. "Don't be a child. Get up and bend over properly." "I won't! It's too awful." "You, the Mistress! Come now . . . or do you want me to use the whip?" Perdita got to her feet. Her inward battle was as visible to all as was the scarlet line she now bore upon her flesh. She bent over and managed to accept two more strokes before again falling to the rug. "You." Barbara realized it was now her turn. Miserably she hobbled forward and bent down. Three vicious cuts sliced her. The fourth would have sent her to the floor, but Fawley wished to humble Perdita with a demonstration of stoicism. "You." Igraine took Barbara's place. She was watching the male face sardonically as though reading its every thought. She wore her bonds exquisitely as though they were a part of her. "Lie on the bench. Raise your legs, bring your knees all the way back. Ask me nicely to cane your cunt." There was a deathly silence for moments before Igraine's insouciant: "Yes, Master." Daintily and with a feminine grace that defeated the awkwardness of her bound hands she arranged herself as directed. The effect was both lovely and obscene. Even though the girl's ankles were chained she contrived an exposure of her sex totally shaming. "Is my cunt satisfactory, Master?" she enquired demurely.

"Igraine!" Perdita was outraged. "But what else can I do, darling?" "You don't have to be so pleased about it." "I won't be a bit pleased when he hits me." "It will serve you right." "Ladies, ladies! You lend nobility to my task. I please you both. I am inspired." The crop sang and flashed. A pair of naked legs kicked and pedalled from the bench. Igraine emitted a sound neither scream nor moan. Swallowing its successor, she said brightly: "Oh, thank you, Master. You did that beautifully. My poor little cunt! Could you make the next one a little easier, please?" Her legs and knees dutifully returned to their required pose. Barbara was positive the second cut into the naked loins was not as hard as the first. She envied Igraine. The younger sister's temperament seemed specially designed for Mr. Fawley. She watched the flailing legs that once again returned to their shame. "Have I got a nice cunt, Master?" Igraine asked archly. "If ever I get out of this mess I'll thrash you within an inch of your life," Perdita promised her sister fervently. "You're shameless." "But, 'Dita, we shouldn't begrudge poor Mr. Fawley a little fun." Butter would not have melted in Igraine's mouth. "Please, Master, just one more. I'm on fire." The third was of a severity to dampen even Igraine's ardour. Barbara felt a need to giggle. Farce had entered the picture of their plight. "That will be all for the moment, m'dear," Fawley said to the wildly kicking legs. He turned to the angry Perdita. "A charming girl. I'm sure you have benefitted from her demonstration?" "I am only disgusted and shocked." "If you will be so kind as to bend forward I will add pain." Perdita shrugged but obeyed. Her lips were set in a straight line. Barbara guessed her resolve. This time she absorbed five of the wicked slashes before falling into a moaning heap. "An admirable prelude," said Mr. Fawley. "Prelude!" Perdita looked up at him askance. "Yes, a prelude, m'dear. We now commence your more serious thrashing. You are to receive twenty strokes. Two batches of ten. You may rest while Barbara is attended to. However . . ." Mr. Fawley allowed his gaze and his pause to convey import, "in order to introduce an element of sport and freedom of choice into your caning, you will be allowed at any time to request a change of posture should you wish to take your sister's position on the bench."

"That obscenity!" Perdita scorned. Furiously she bent forward to invite the cane. "I should mention also that should you break position the stroke will be repeated." "Damn you," said Perdita and clenched her teeth. Barbara watched and marvelled and knew fear. The Mistress took the ten cruel stripes with no more than moans and small controlled writhings. She had evidently made her resolve to remain the Mistress of Silverways, what ere befell. Barbara trembled. She was positive she could not do as well, but when her time came she was compelled to take only one extra stroke. After the ten she retired weeping and with a bottom vividly on fire. Her bound hands denied her the small comfort of soothing it. "How do you want me, Master?" Igraine was frankly casting caution to the winds. Fawley was delighted. "How about alternates?" Smiling as though about to receive a costly gift, Igraine bent over and took the singing cut. She winced and gasped and said, "Thank you." There was no bravado. She was simply a girl getting her bottom caned. Barbara suspected that Mr. Fawley was puzzled. He had struck to hurt. Three pairs of eyes watched the naked girl return to the bench and flagrantly display her most secret place, the lips of which were sensuously swollen. Mr. Fawley took much care in measuring distance. It was a harsher slash than it need have been. Igraine screamed. "Haven't you any decency at all?" demanded Perdita. "Oh, Master, I'm so sorry." Igraine was on her feet and smiling warmly at the man who was beating her. "Would you like to give me another one because I screamed?" Leslie Fawley resisted dire temptation. "I'll just make this next one extra hard." he said magnanimously. The appealing curves of the bent-over bottom took the "extra hard" one in their stride. When the punished girl straightened up with flushed face and shining eyes she immediately advanced on her tormentor and kissed him soundly. "Oh, thank you, Master. You're so kind to me." "Igraine! You impossible little hussy!" Perdita tugged frantically at her bound hands. "I know what you're up to." "So do I," said Mr. Fawley good-humouredly. "But she's still delightful." He gave the older sister a shrewd glance. "Think you might become like that in time?" Perdita refused to answer. Tears of vexation were in her eyes, but she would die before shedding them. "My cunt's all ready," said her sister from the bench. They were so frighteningly helpless. Feet chained, hands bound. Barbara wryly reflected that there were no decisions. The man would do as he pleased with his

plethora of female flesh, but it is not easy for a girl with a wounded bottom to stand and watch her sisters whipped in the certain knowledge that her return to punishment was soon. When a flushed and uncertain Igraine resumed her position as a member of a shackled audience it was easy to see that Perdita was far from the security of her former scorn. She had been hurt beyond tolerance and was about to be hurt again. "I'm sure you'll enjoy your next ten," said Mr. Fawley jovially. There was no way out. Perdita stepped forward. Then, on impulse, or perhaps from some need of self-assertion, she marched to the bench and disposed her nudity as had her sibling. "You have a magnificent cunt, Miss Amory." Fawley savoured the word, knowing its impact. "Cane it," Perdita said curtly. The crop sang its path into the dark bush and warm flesh. Legs thrashed, a girl gasped heart-brokenly. But suddenly the motion and the sounds stopped. Perdita was once again in her shaming invitation. "You wish another, Miss Amory?" Fawley allowed surprise to show. "Not I. You!" Perdita told him curtly. "May I commend your choice." "Get on with it' "You are adjusting admirably." "You are holding a riding crop, Fawley. Use it to whip my cunt." Perdita put all her bitterness into the words. Barbara watched the weals mount as though sealing with their agony the female slit that had so many names. The Headmistress took her ten − not in silence or without motion, but she took them. When she was helped to her feet she moved with caution, her face anxious. "An antidote to pride, Miss Amory?" "Keep your sarcasms, Leslie. What you're doing isn't clever." "Perhaps you'd care to return to the bench for ten more?" Perdita tensed. "You're capable of making me, aren't you?" "Indeed I am. I am seriously considering doing so." "What do I have to do? I mean, to avoid ten more?" "I would like you to kneel and tell me pleasantly how much benefit you have derived from your thrashing." "I can easily do this. It will be insincere." "Do it anyway. Sincerity will come another time."

Barbara could easily follow Perdita's evaluation of alternatives. The clenched fists and twisting arms told their story. Then, awkwardly because of her shackled feet, she sank to her knees, took a deep breath and plunged. "Thank you for whipping me, Mr. Fawley. I am sure I have derived great moral and spiritual benefit from the pain you have administered." The silence was intense. As though to savour her degradation to the full, the kneeling woman looked up and asked, "Is there anything else?" "You could call me 'sir.' " "Should I abase myself further . . . sir?" Fawley let it pass. He turned his eye upon his next victim. Without a word, Barbara placed herself upon the bench. Shamed, the Headmistress of Silverways struggled to her feet to watch and wince.

• Barbara had wondered about the night. When it came she was unprepared for what it brought. It brought Perdita's bed, but not Perdita. "You're not going to. I don't believe it!" Her exclamation was sincere. The chains were gone from her ankles but her wrists were still tied, her bottom still flamed. "I am going to," said Mr. Fawley firmly. "It would be more correct to say WE are going to. Have you been fucked before?" "Of course not!" "I am a lucky man. Your enjoyment will increase as the evening progresses. I am told the first time is unsatisfactory for a young woman." "You're joking, aren't you! Don't frighten me." "At the very worst there is nothing to fear, dear girl." Barbara eyed the bed, Perdita's bed where she had known love. The thing portending now filled her with a dozen dismays. It was a desecration. "I won't!" she told him vehemently. "I just won't." "You wish to fight?" "Yes." "Very well, m'dear. Please fight." "I can't. My hands are tied. Oh, this is awful!" "Just leave everything to me, Barbara." "I won't, I won't! Not even if you whip me." "You would, y'know." His tone was ironic.

"You'd hold out nobly for maybe fifteen or twenty good hard swats and then decide pussy protection was too expensive. But you'd be hurting and all upset. The way I'm going to introduce you is more humane." "How can rape be humane?" "Careful of your language, love. Remember your status." "You'd whip us just for saying something?" "Of course, if it's something I don't approve. Insolence, f'instance." "You need not think I'm going to lie down." For answer, he tossed her bodily on the covers. He was stronger than she had supposed. Against her ineffectual bound struggle he tied her ankle down to a bedpost, pulled its twin over to the other side and treated it similarly. Barbara's striated sex once more proclaimed its attractions. With hands tied at her back she had been unable to fight. Tearfully she realized the hopelessness of her fight for virtue. But she tried again. When her wrists were loosed she beat at the laughing face and busy arms. But now it was her tied feet that inhibited. When her wrist was tied up to the head post and its mate secured opposite, she acknowledged her defeat by a frustrated wail of protest: "No decent man would treat a girl like this." "I am not a decent man." "I can't move. Is this any way to . . . to . . . do what you're going to!" "It's a very convenient way. I'll put a pillow under your bottom, maybe two." "Let me loose. I'll . . . I'll submit." "That's a quick change of principle." The same thought had struck Barbara. "I'm so helpless I can't stop it happening," she said disconsolately, "so what's it matter?" "You females are damn practical when it comes to the pinch," her ravisher acknowledged. "I'd never have thought it of you." "Then you'll let me loose?" "No. Tempting, I'll admit, but no. Fact is I rather like the idea of fucking you like this. You're most attractively spread, and tied that way you won't be able to scratch my back." "I'd never do such a thing!" "They all say that, I'd give you about the third time." "What d'you mean, third time! How many . . . ?"

"You really don't know, do you!" Fawley was overjoyed. "I say, you're quite a treasure. Think the other pair is as innocent?" "How should I know? Am I innocent? I didn't know. I thought this . . . this beastly thing you're going to do to me . . . I thought you did it to a girl and that was that." "Only for clods, dear girl. Neither of us is that. Only morning will tell how I have risen to the occasion. That's a pun." Barbara guessed. The cloakroom whispers had produced a modicum of physical fact. She looked up at the amused intent features and realized she beheld a man she had not previously known. In a paroxysm of revolt at what fate was doing to her she convulsively heaved and surged against the ropes that bound her spreadeagled on the bed. The Master watched, nodded in satisfaction as her struggles failed to extract an inch of slack. Barbara was adequately tied. "Then put something on me," she pleaded, "I'm so naked like this. Cover me, At least until . . . ." Gravely he spread his white handkerchief over her whipped sex. When the bound girl realized that this satirical motion was the limit of his response, she flamed pink and retorted angrily: "If that's the best you can do, keep it. I bet it looked absurd." "It did indeed, pet. Beauty unadorned, y'know." "Are you going to do this to the others?" "Of course, but not tonight. Tonight is yours. Paying you quite a compliment, really. Not quite sure why." "Keep your rotten compliment. You're going to get into no end of prisons. You're bound to get caught out." "It will be worth every year and every bit of oakum." "If you'll stop now I'm sure I can get them to intercede for you. In fact, I expect you could just walk away," "And leave you all with burning bottoms!" "You can't take our bottoms with you. I expect we'd agree we'd been taught some sort of a lesson and let it go at that. I know I would." Leslie Fawley chucked her under her helpless chin. He betrayed interest. "What sort of lesson?" It was easy for Barbara to answer. "We're women, you're a man. You're stronger than we are. We thought you were . . . well . . . an absentminded professor. But you're not. That's what we learned. I suppose that ordinarily a girl like me never gets to know men until she's middle-aged. I say, Mr. Fawley, let me go. Please?" "You are exquisite. Have you any conception of how lovely your breasts and this bush of hair is to a man?" He placed his hand on her sex. "The others have got them just the same. So has Thisbe, except hers aren't fully

developed." Barbara shivered at the male touch. "Perdita is perfect, too," he agreed. "I don't mind telling you I will get a tremendous enjoyment out of subduing her." "She's subdued now. Look what she did for you. We're all subdued. You were quite right about the thrashing, it changes us. Please don't put your hand there." "Perdita is play-acting. She is not broken. I'm not sure I want to break her, she's too delicious the way she is. She is sure she'll best me somehow. As for my hand, it stays. You may as well get used to it." Gently he inserted a finger in the plump lips. "How's this?" Barbara gasped and tugged. "You mustn't, you shouldn't! Oh, stop it. Stop!" "You know you like it. I seem to recall, too, a recent offer to submit your body to my evil lust if I'd untie you. Bit inconsistent, aren't you?" "That's different." "In what way? I'm curious." "I don't know in what way. You're impossible." "Suppose I offered to free you in return for you asking me to whip you a certain number of strokes. What would be your price?" "Ten?" Her answer was prompt. "Be serious. I could take offence." "Well, twenty's considered pretty awful, isn't it?" "Far too low." "I don't even know if you're serious," Barbara wailed. "I think you're teasing me. It's cruel. There's no use my offering to be whipped with some awful number. That day you whipped me before the school I became unconscious . . . . I think it was a thirty-four. Don't do that to me again. Look, I'll give you my parole. Untie me and I'll obey you and I won't try to escape." "You mean that now. You'd renege." He gave her a paternal grin. "You're much better off the way you are. You can only earn punishments with your tongue." When he had gone, Barbara struggled again, but it only hurt her wrists and ankles. She knew she could never escape. Yet she had never longed more ardently for escape than now. Spread wide upon a boudoir bed! Even without Fawley's avowed intent to ravish her the connotation was all too clear. She was a damsel staked out to accept the seed of the male. She had been arranged and fastened for his pleasure. He would find enjoyment in her shame, her helplessness, and presumably in her pain. The bound girl could not believe other than what he would do to her would hurt. When Leslie Fawley returned he was not alone. Igraine's nudity walked beside him, slowly because her feet were hobbled, dejectedly because her hands were still tied

behind her back and she was led by a leash to a locked collar on her throat. When she caught sight of the pinioned girl upon the bed, she took swift tripping steps forward and was dragged back into control by the leash from an unsympathetic male hand. "Darling . . . ! Oh what . . . ?" "Darling is in the best of health," Fawley said gruffly. "Come along, m'girl. You can worry about yourself." There was a certain obvious quality about what took place before Barbara's stricken eyes. Igraine was thrust back against a lower bedpost. The leash was replaced by the short chain and lock Barbara knew so well. Igraine would stand there helpless at her Master's pleasure. When he had gone, she tested the limits of her strictures and said a hearty, "Damn!" Her collar and chain barely enabled her to turn and look commiseratingly at the prisoner of the bed. "Oh, Barb, has he . . . has he been beastly?" "Not yet. He's going to, though." Barbara found it absurdly similar to a query as to whether she had been given, or had yet to receive, her tuition in algebra. The two captives shared a wide-eyed dismay. "He's going to fuck us all, isn't he?" Igraine asked dismally. "I suppose you're first because you're the youngest. I read somewhere that men like us young." "Ugh! Yes, that's what he's going to do. I say, Igraine, is it going to hurt terribly?" "I don't know, either," Igraine wailed. "You don't suppose I've been letting men stick their horrid things into me, do you! I don't think even Perdita . . . we've never needed men. We don't like men in that sort of way. And now Leslie Fawley . . . ! I'm so angry I could scream. There's not a thing we can do, though. He's got us for sure. He can keep us tied and chained forever." She sniffed dolefully. "Or at least until some relative or tradesman scents something wrong. That could be ages." "I suppose you're chained there so we'll all feel terrible when he . . . he . . . does that to me. Oh, Igraine . . . !" Perdita stalked angrily into her own bedroom. Her chained ankles marred the total effect of her disdain as did the collar and the leash by which she was controlled. Her grey eyes instantly absorbed the tableau of the bed and its implications. "Do you really have to be such an absolute cad?" she demanded of her captor imperiously. Her answer was a vicious slash with the slender crop with which Fawley had prudently armed himself. She yelped and tautened the leash, her eyes wide in mute query. "You forgot to address me as 'sir,' " the omnipotent male said in a voice equally regal. "Must you be a cad, sir? Or can't you help it . . . sir?" "Two for insolence, m'dear," Fawley said equably. "But I'll attach you first." A scarlet-faced woman endured her chaining to the bedpost in silence. Barbara wondered what the effect on Perdita would be to stand where her slave girls had stood so often in the past. No doubt the flushed cheeks were evidence enough of her

chagrin. But what came now was worse. "Turn and protrude your arse, dear girl," Fawley commanded with deliberate vulgarity. Perdita ignored the demand. Her eyes stared past him . . She did not even deign to strain at the brief chain affixing her to her own bed. The slender wickedness sliced across her loins, biting at one hip. She moaned gaspingly and, for a moment, bent against her chain, then, once more, stood stonyfaced and stared into nothingness. This time it was her breasts, the lovely firm curves of which were indented by the singing impact and responded with a vivid broken line of scarlet. Their owner screamed a poignant ululation of pain and despair. "Do what he wants, darling. He'll kill you," Igraine pleaded of her wounded sister heartbrokenly. In utter defeat the older girl did as her sister asked. Proclaiming shame in every movement, Perdita turned to the post so that Barbara could now behold the cruelty of the brands across the innocent breasts. Shuffling as best she could, the Headmistress of Silverways protruded the curvatures of her buttocks to receive her punishment. The crop whistled its punitive duet. The hurt girl screamed in pain and anger. She straightened up, gasping and resumed the stance her chain and cords impelled. "What, no thanks?" Fawley asked with heavy sarcasm. "Thank you for whipping me, sir. I am sorry I was insolent." The once lovely voice had been drained of feeling. "No good resolve, m'dear?" He was insatiable. "I will try and behave as you wish me, sir. I am sorry to have caused you the exertion of whipping me. I will try harder." It was a narrow line she trod. Fawley bestowed a sharp assessing scrutiny, but let it pass. Jerking himself out of anger he smiled broadly and announced: "And now the wedding, dear ladies. I am told it is an occasion beloved by female hearts." "Do it to me, sir," Perdita asked levelly. "I am the oldest. Barbara is a pupil here. Surely there are decencies." "You wish me to fuck you, Miss Amory?" Fawley's tone was conversational. "In place of Barbara, sir. Yes." "There will be no bargaining, Miss Amory. But I am gratified by your progress. You betray faint evidences of docility. May I hope this is due to my personal charm, or is it solely a tribute to this?" He slashed the crop whiningly through the air. "To the whip, sir." Perdita would never be far, from thin ice. "Ah, a pity! Perhaps when you take dear Barbara's place upon the bed it may have a softening effect."

"No, sir." The negative was frigid. "The whip engenders warmth . . I believe?" Leslie Fawley was in hot pursuit of his pound of flesh. "Oh, stop it! You don't have to bait her like that." Igraine could contain her anger no longer. "You've got us helpless, haven't you? What more do you want?" "Humility, my dear." "She calls you sir and answers your rotten questions." The younger sister glared. "You've been jealous all these years. Jealous because 'Dita was the Head and not you. Now you're taking it out on her. You couldn't do any of this if we weren't tied up like . . . like trussed chickens. You ought to feel ashamed." "Perhaps five strokes, Igraine?" Fawley was gloating. "You mean you're going to hit me five times with that rotten riding crop?" Igraine was in a full flood of indignation. "Well, go ahead. I can't stop you. You can whip us all to your heart's content and we can't do a thing about it. Does it make you feel beautifully male?" "You are familiar with the required posture, young lady." Leslie's voice was urbane and deadly. "Oh, damn!" It was hard to judge if Igraine's disgusted exclamation was due to her imprudent tongue or the sentence it had earned. "You mean I have to turn 'round and' stick my bottom out?" "Unless you prefer the five across your front." In the matter of captivity and its tribulations Igraine was a girl of long experience. The roles the sisters had played for so long had often encompassed cruelty. Of the three she was probably the best equipped to cope with their shaming thralldom. She made a small moue of revolt, but turned to the bed, winked at a despairing Barbara, and stuck her bottom out aggressively. "You don't have to cut it to pieces, y'know," she suggested reasonably. To the girl tied upon the bed it appeared that Mr. Fawley did exactly that, or tried to. He wielded the riding crop with an intent vigor more worthy of a true delinquent rather than the innocent naked girl who had done no more than express a vehement opinion. The repeated sound of the cutting impacts on female flesh was stomachtwisting. The captive features of the girl receiving them were eloquent of their agony, but Igraine managed not to scream. Barbara felt like screaming for her, so awful were the sounds and the motions of Igraine's punishment. When the five were past and the punished girl had disposed of sobs and gasping, she gave the watching girl a rueful grin and then turned back to the man who had wielded the whip. "Thank you, Sir. You did want me to say that, didn't you?" "Not in that tone of voice. But it will do. I don't want to cut you to ribbons so early in our charming game." Mr. Fawley was expansive. No one could doubt his joy in caning so much available femininity. Perdita kept silent, though her breasts were heaving.

"You're so kind to me, Sir." Igraine, by some magic of her irrepressible temperament, managed to make the tribute sound sincere. Leslie Fawley savoured his triumph to the full. No one could doubt his happiness. The watching girls felt a prescience that even though his adventure eventually placed him behind prison bars, he would consider it worth the cost. There was a fleeting feminine gratification in the implication of their worth, but it could not long survive the striations of the whip or the male assault impending on their honour. It was not easy for a Victorian young woman to feel tribute in deflowerment. "There is something I wish the two of you to remember," said Mr. Fawley portentously and with relish. "You are honoured to be present at the nuptials of myself and a daughter of the noble house of Corydon. A union which I hope will be repeated through the night . . . ." "There is no need to make a speech," said Perdita icily, and then hastily added a belated "Sir." "We've been told how it's done," Igraine added helpfully, "but you really shouldn't do it, y'know." "Don't get yourselves whipped on my account." Barbara felt her contribution trite and inadequate. Leslie Fawley bowed. His stature increased hourly. The three interjections had detracted nothing from his purpose. "When I was so rudely interrupted," he continued determinedly, "I was about to instruct that you will maintain the positions you now enjoy. In short, you are forbidden to turn 'round." "We can't look!" Igraine's disappointment was real. "Igraine!" Perdita bestowed a furious glare upon her younger sister. "We do not want to look. We can at least spare the poor child that humiliation." "Oh alright, 'Dita. Keep your shirt on. But I wouldn't have thought a tiny look . . . ." "Stop it!" Igraine retired into a disappointed silence. Her elder sister now turned her anger upon the male predator. "I suppose you realize, Sir, that we cannot sleep chained like this, and must inevitably hear every sound?" "Adds a piquancy, don't you think?" "Perhaps for a member of the lower orders, Sir. Certainly not for either a lady or a gentleman." "The implication in that little lot should earn you five, m'dear." Perdita's voice held a tremor as she asked: "You wish me to turn round and protrude myself?" "No, never mind. I must share my happiness. But it does occur that this

auspicious occasion might be marred by untimely remarks. How do you feel about gags?" "They are a gratuitous insult, Sir," said Perdita. "I won't say a word, honest," said Igraine. "Please don't gag the poor darlings. They don't deserve it," said Barbara. "We are unanimous," announced Mr. Fawley grandly. "They will be gagged." "Do you have to?" Igraine asked sadly as she looked at the wet wad in Mr. Fawley's hand, and at the bandage. "I have dampened the cloth. It will lessen the discomfort." "I suppose you whip us if we won't open our mouths?" "You are most perceptive." Igraine opened her mouth. She bit down experimentally on the wad of cloth compressing her tongue and filling her cheeks, then stood still while the bandage was wound over her lips and knotted at the back of her neck. She tried to speak, but no words were possible. She tried other sounds and achieved noises so shaming she desisted. Unhappily she watched the same operation carried out on her sister. Perdita made no demur. She had faced the hopelessness of their condition. "Nice and tidy," approved Mr. Fawley. "Those bandages are just the thing. You both look delightful in case you're wondering." He examined them with satisfaction. "Stand at attention and eyes front." He chuckled satirically. "I'll bid you ladies goodnight." Barbara would always remember it, the moment Leslie Fawley transferred his attention from the chained sisters to herself. He stood thoughtfully drinking in her nakedness for a meditative moment and then began to undress. "No, don't!" Her exclamation was instinctive. He gave her only a quiet smile and continued his task. There was a forceful intent behind each motion that told his waiting captive more than words. Barbara watched the removal of male clothing in fascinated horror. For her it was the first time. Naked, Fawley seemed larger than when clothed. The illusion of the absent minded professor was gone. Despite her vow to herself not to look, Barbara's startled eyes focused on the male erection that rose demandingly from between Leslie Fawley's legs. It seemed, to the tied girl, at least three times as large as she had dreamed. Even the cloakroom whispers had failed to do it justice. "Your role, at least at the start, is purely passive, dear girl," Fawley said reassuringly. "I don't suppose there's any need to gag you, is there?" She shook her head, unable to speak, bereft of words as of all else, including her honour. She watched and then gasped as a pillow was taken and inserted beneath her bottom. Mr. Fawley critically judged the resultant lift, then added another. Barbara's sex was now demandingly upthrust, the tension on her bonds increased. She had a

momentary vision of virgins on altars and of pirates' prey. But all visions dissolved before the sight of the naked male climbing to join her on the bed. Straddling and shadowing her nudity, Mr. Fawley adjusted his maleness so that its head nuzzled her point of entry. She became conscious of a slippery moisture. The former math teacher moved firmly forward with his rigid appendage following dutifully. Barbara felt pain and pain and pain. And that was all . . . her wide eyes looked up and found his close. They were smiling. He backed away only with his head. She felt his lips take her left nipple and begin to suck. The pain had gone. She was tied too tight to move.

• "At least, darling, you won't die wondering," said Igraine without visible enthusiasm. "I suppose not. But why has he stuck me in this horrible pillory? I've been standing like this for hours. I'd a lot sooner be chained the way you two are." Barbara eyed her fettered companions dolefully. "Doesn't seem fair. Not after . . . after that." "It's to keep you from getting uppity," Perdita said irritably. "We were not allowed to look, but from the sounds you made in some of the . . . the later sequences, I had to conclude you were enjoying yourself." "It hurt horribly at the start," said Barbara defensively. "You mean the first time. There were others." "Well . . . well . . . it's very difficult for a girl . . . ." Barbara broke off and wriggled ineffectually in the grip of the stocks. "Are you quite sure you can't get me out of this thing?" "We can't get out of these chains, and you're changing the subject." "What do you want me to say?" Barbara asked unhappily. "I did steal a peek a couple of times," Igraine giggled. "You just see a man's back when he's . . . well, you know. He didn't see me. You didn't see me, either, Barb. You had your eyes closed and you looked terribly happy." "You were making disgusting moans of pleasure," Perdita affirmed. The naked girl in the pillory squirmed again. Sadly she viewed the prisoned hands on each side of her face. Not only was she vulnerable held in the stocks but she was vulnerable in the discussion which she heartily wished the sisters would allow to drop. "Oh, alright then?" she agreed testily. "So I enjoyed myself. I'm sorry! But I can't help it. I have an awful suspicion nature intended us girls to enjoy it. It's the most beautiful feeling. A girl goes all . . . all . . . ." "So I noticed." Even Igraine sounded huffy. "So I heard," said Perdita. "You were disgusting." Tears formed in Barbara's eyes. Dismally she watched them splash upon the stone

beneath her gaze. "You jolly well see how it feels when Leslie does it to you," she sobbed. "So it's Leslie now, is it!" "He told me to call him Leslie," Barbara sniffed. "I bet you won't call him Mr. Fawley when he's doing it to you." "We've made the poor darling cry," said Igraine reproachfully. "We don't have to be jealous or anything. Look at her being punished in those horrible stocks just to prove she's not been picked as a favourite. And the way she was tied to that bed she didn't have a thing to say about what happened. I'm sorry I was unkind, Barb." "It's alright." Barbara was still sniffing. She felt put upon and at a loss. So much had happened. Whimsically she supposed that few brides were placed in a pillory the next day. She was about to voice this thought when the door opened. "I am a great believer in innovation," said Mr. Fawley. "What do you call this!" Igraine demanded sulkily. "I am thinking in terms of fresh air," Mr. Fawley explained loftily. "You will spend the day in the park." Three pairs of eyes focused. "The idea amuses me. You will find a piquancy." Barbara watched. As the chains were taken from captive wrists they were immediately tied behind captive backs. As captive necks were unlocked from dungeon collars they were circled by other bands that snapped about captive necks with a firm snap. From the new ones hung a leash. Barbara was shivering from a fear of being left pilloried alone. But with the sisters leashed and helpless, Fawley turned his attention to her. Released from the prisoning wood she was too discouraged to fight, Obediently she crossed her wrists behind her back. The act had become cruelly commonplace. She winced at the competence of his tie. The collar for her neck was a thing of beauty, but the sound it made as it closed around her throat had a frightening finality. The tether from it was a chain. It linked her to Igraine. Igraine's tether linked her to Perdita. The leash from Perdita's neck ended in the hand of the man who controlled them with such a frightening implacability. They were a coffle like African slaves to be led or fastened at their Master's will. "You can't possibly lead us out into the park like this!" Perdita was aghast. "I can and will," said Mr. Fawley triumphantly. "All occupants of Silverways are busy at their tasks. We leave by the small Gothic door to the coach house, up past the kennels and the greenhouses. No eye will observe our passing. I will bring you back in after dark." "Why not leave us there all night!" Perdita asked bitterly. "You forget, my dear. All of us have an obligation in your boudoir." Perdita flushed. She could not bring herself to ask which of them was to be

honoured by his attention. In futile fury she obeyed the tug upon her neck. It must be supposed that Leslie Fawley had deliberately posed a psychological tantalization upon his captives. Each was chained to a tree. Their tether was a long chain ending at their neck, long enough to allow them contact. "I bet he's watching through binoculars," Igraine giggled. "The rotter knows what we'll be up to now we can get at each other." "With our hands tied like this?" "That won't stop us, silly," Igraine giggled again. "A little awkward. We'll have to wriggle a bit more." "We'll save it awhile," Perdita judged. "If he's watching he'll be disappointed. Let's test what freedom we do have." Chains clinked. White bodies found each other, lips kissed. Suddenly tears were rolling down Barbara's cheeks. "You two make love," she said heartbrokenly. "After . . . after last night I don't expect . . . ." They looked at each other askance. The serpent in their Eden was taking many forms. The crying girl was like a casualty. "Nonsense," said Perdita. "Come here, you silly girl." "Nonsense!" declared Igraine. "I want you, too." She went to them. Her tears were now of joy. Their chains clinked happily as they made their love. They did not wait till later. It was a long time, perhaps hours, before they heard the sound. "His nibs is calling for us early," Igraine said knowingly. "I bet he's jealous. I bet he has been watching. Oh, damn! D'you think he'll whip us?" She tugged at her chain. "There's no getting away. We're almost completely free but he's got us as safely chained as if we were in the dungeon. His idea of a lark, I suppose." It was not Mr. Fawley who appeared. It was a nondescript male of indeterminate age and status. He eyed the naked trio with both amazement and approval. "Posing for a picture?" he inquired affably. "But he's a poacher," Igraine whispered. Aloud, she ungraciously ordered: "Go away." "Wait!" Perdita was blushing but determined. "We are glad you came. You can see we are chained here. We are being held prisoners. If you will go to the police and have them come and fetch us there will be a reward. Please hurry." "Reward. Police!" There was more emphasis on the second word than on the first. "I ain't a-goin' ter no ruddy coppers." "You will be well paid. Please?" "I bet I will! Six months in the pokey, that's what. All three of you's naked. Ain't never seen the like. Bit of alright if you ask me."

"But surely you'll help us?" Barbara pleaded. "Well now, that's a question, ain't it? Don't look ter me like yer need no 'elp. Doin' alright, you was. I bin watching." Three blushes acknowledged what he might have seen. "You want money, don't you? We've been . . . well . . . kidnapped. We're prisoners. There'll be a big reward." Igraine bestowed her best smile. "I takes me 'at off ter whoever done it, that I do! 'Ad the right idea, so 'e did. 'Aughty bitches! Teach 'ee a lesson." "We've never done you any harm." His face clouded. "That's a lark, it is. No 'arm. 'Ell, yer got me nine months 'ard fer poachin' once. No mercy on a poor bloke at all. 'Prosecute,' yer says, and stalks off like the ruddy queen." All eyes travelled to Perdita. She was obviously discomforted. "You're . . . you're, Noakes was the name, wasn't it?" "Right, lady. Bill Noakes it is. I'd be a mug, wouldn't I, to 'elp the likes O' you." "Why not? Money and immunity. You could even be a bit of a hero. I can do a lot for you." Perdita was fighting hard. Mr. Noakes was unimpressed and unconvinced. The gulf of sympathy between him and the law was wide. "Best thing I can do," he pronounced judicially, "is fuck the lot of you and leave you alone. No rozzers fer me." "Fucking us isn't leaving us alone," Barbara flung at him. She was aware of a strange reaction from her rape by Fawley. "But if that's what you want, use me. If you'll let just one of the others go free I'll try and be very nice to you." "Barbara!" Perdita was shocked. "Well, I've been . . . ." "That makes no difference. We are all victims." Perdita turned to the watching man. "Take me. I'm the oldest. Your grudge is with me." "I like 'em young," said Mr. Noakes, eyeing Barbara's charms approvingly. "Do me a treat, this'n 'ere." "If you expect me to be nice you'll have to let one of my friends go," Barbara reminded firmly. "You ain't in no position to give no orders, young lady," Bill Noakes reproved. "If I takes a switch ter that little arse O' yours, you'll soon enough do any thin' I wants and no questions asked." He distributed a wide leer upon all present. "But I got a kind 'eart. Let's 'ave a squint at them there chains."

The three girls afforded their questionable Gallahad every aid, even to the point of spreading their legs to enable a grimy hand to cup their cunts. If only he would release one of them! Their hearts thudded with hope. "Got yer fixed proper, so 'e 'as." Mr. Noakes gave his verdict without visible regret. "I got an idea, though." Breathlessly they watched his search. Three pairs of maiden hands twisted in frustration at the cords binding their wrists. To be chained by the neck was bad enough, but without hands this oaf could do as he pleased with their nakedness. Their eyes followed as he roved in an increasing circle, his gaze intent upon the ground. When he returned he carried two sizable chunks of granite. "I'll 'ave a good try with this 'ere." It was obvious he was thinking hard. He chose Barbara. They distrusted his motives, but could not question them. Their reluctant rescuer placed one rock beneath the padlock and the tree and proceeded to beat it with the other. In a surprisingly short time it fell to pieces at their feet. The far end of her chain tether was now free. Mr. Noakes picked it up. Barbara longed for her hands. With them she would have grasped the chain from her collar and run. As it was she had no chance. His hand controlled her. "Oh, you're wonderful!" She put all the feminine admiration she could muster into her voice. "Now if you'll do that for Miss Amory she can go for help while you enjoy me over in the bushes somewhere." Mr. Noakes picked up the rocks one at a time and tossed them well beyond the reach of the still tethered girls. He gave Barbara a sardonic grin. "You think I'm barmy, Miss. I don't give a 'ang 'bout them two. I'm just sorta collecting you. I got plans." His captive's leap was swift. Twisting, Barbara contrived to grasp her chain with her bound hands. She put all her strength into one wild plunge for freedom. "You take me for a ninny, Miss!" Indignation and reproof coloured Bill Noakes' reprimand. He looked down with pure enjoyment at the naked girl writhing on the fallen leaves at his feet. His firm grip on the chain had halted her bid for freedom in mid-flight. The tether had tripped her sideways to the ground. Despairingly and without his help, she struggled to her knees. Tears of frustration and fear stung her eyes. "I don't take kindly ter that little sprint, Miss. You'll wish yer 'adn't tried it, and that's a promise." "She's free enough. Let her go and use us," Igraine demanded. "Shut up, you." Noakes' voice was sour. "A lot O' twisters, so yer are. Ain't ter be trusted. I'm a'takin' this little lot and you two can stay there 'til doomsday, far as I'm concerned." Barbara obeyed the tug on her neck. What else could she do! For a moment all three girls knew a flash of hope as Mr. Noakes paused long enough to untie Igraine's hands and then Perdita's. "It ain't that I wants ter see 'ee free," he assured them gruffly, "but that there chain 'olds yer well enough without 'avin' yer 'ands tied." He guffawed. "And I'll likely 'ave a use fer the rope for this little baggage wot I'm a'takin' wi' me."

The last Barbara saw of her onetime mistresses was a quick backward glance as she was led firmly away into the trees. Both girls were tugging at their collars and looking after her and her captor in utter dismay. "Ain't a'goin' ter find us, Miss," said Noakes with satisfaction. "I knows where they'll look, but we ain't a'goin' ter be there." It was a long and degrading walk without consideration for the captive's bare feet or repeated pleas and offers. To be so helpless in the power of this ridiculous man was a bitter humiliation. Fawley had unwittingly delivered her into this new servitude as a prize package secured for delivery. The least slowing of her unwilling steps led to a vicious tug on her collar. Her bound hands were a continual agony of frustration as Barbara was led craftilly from wood to wood and copse to copse so that they were forever shielded by foliage. When they came to her new prison she gasped in consternation. The British Isles and Europe abound in ruins. They run from sad clusters and piles of stone up on through gradations of edifice to some that still contain areas fit for habitation. The one Barbara viewed now was somewhere half the way up the line. It had been a castle, but now graced the grassy knoll blending into the scenery as though nature had used the brush of centuries to paint it there. "Do us a treat, this will." Noakes was jubilant. "Knows me way around this little lot, I do. No one ain't goin' ter find yer. I'll promise 'ee that." Barbara shivered. She could well believe she would not be found. She saw herself becoming just one more of the cruel secrets this pile of ancient stone carried in its memory. She could scream and scream and it would mock her with its silence. Miserably she obeyed the chain's imperious tug. It was not as she expected. She was not dragged down into the dark bowels of the earth. "There's a proper dungeon alright," Noakes read her thoughts, "but I ain't that fond O' 'em meself. Fixed it up a bit, I did. Like I was expectin' you. Rummy . . . ." A corner tower still stood. Barbara was pushed ahead of her captor up the narrow stone steps, broken and missing so that she was lifted and heaved. The chain was an umbilical cord between them she was never allowed to forget. At the end of their climb there was the chamber. It was large, the dimensions of the tower itself. It was lit by arrow slits around the walls. Stone pillars supported its roof or floor above. It had suffered little through the years. Some accident, such as a better mix of mortar for its blocks, had kept it intact. Barbara looked at it and trembled. It would make an ideal prison. Evidence of Noakes' intermittent tenancy lay in the rough blankets on some boughs and the battered tin utensils. "Ye'll be right 'appy 'ere," he said sardonically. Barbara wept. She was alone. She lay curled upon the filthy blankets. Her feet had been tightly tied and fastened to her bound wrists. She could not move at all. She hurt. Noakes had been faintly apologetic before he went away. "Won't be fer too long, Miss, but I'm a'goin' ter the village and let folks see me so I got an alibi. And there's some things I want ter get." He chuckled lewdly. "Fer our 'oneymoon, like. I'm a'goin' ter fuck yer proper when I get back."

It was a dismal prospect, without hope. It was the sort of place no one might come near from one year to another. Even if someone walked by at that moment, Barbara could neither hear nor see so that she could cry for help. Noakes had her as surely as Fawley had Perdita and Igraine. Fawley might or might not institute a search for her. Most likely not, since to do so would jeopardize his dominance at Silverways. With a cold fear clutching at her heart the naked girl strained and surged against the ropes that held her as a bow backwards bent. But she was tied too tightly and the knots were hidden. She knew herself impotent. Tears flowed. Noakes was delighted when he returned. He emptied a sack upon the floor. It contained a bit of everything. Some of the items sent a shiver up the spine of she who watched. "Please untie me," she pleaded. "It's been so long, and I hurt." "Wasn't born yesterday, Miss." said a busy Bill Noakes. "Well, at least undo the rope that keeps me bent double like this?" He eyed her appreciatively. "Yer tits stick out nice like that. A bit O' honest pain'll do 'ee good." "Oh please! With my feet tied I won't be able to run." "You would if yer could though, love!" His crafty voice held venom. "Well, you'd run, too, if you were me," Barbara said despairingly. "You don't have to be deliberately unkind. If you are going to keep me prisoner it would be nicer if we were friends." "Oh, aye, we'll be friends alright. Yer can wait a few minutes, can't yer, while I fix these 'ere." For what was about to be done to her. Barbara could wait forever. She was oddly grateful that Fawley had taken her maidenhead rather than this uncouth oaf, but it was small consolation. She was also willing to wait or forego the dubious privilege of Noakes' preparations. They were all too obviously intended for her benefit. Interpreting her fixed gaze, he chuckled. "Got ter keep yer safe now, ain't we, Miss?" He had a padlock. He had taken much trouble to affix a metal ring into one of the massive pillars. He carried his bound burden to where he was able to lock her chain to the ring, then he untied her and backed away to enjoy the spectacle of a naked girl exploring a new captivity. It was nice to have her hands again, to stand and to stretch and feel herself all over. She examined the chain, the lock, and the metal ring. She could tell their implacability. With the collar locked upon her neck and Fawley holding the key, she was safely captive. She would be forced to come to terms with the ragged man now drinking in her nudity. "Someone whipped yer a treat, Miss." She had forgotten. Her stripes had become a part of her. But Noakes would place an interpretation and perhaps . . . ? "Yes, I've been whipped." She made it sound as offhand as she could. "Does it matter?" "They do it fer fun?"

His curiosity was excusable. But she was fearful of what to admit. But not to plant a thought or latent wish! "I misbehaved, that's all. I was punished," she said casually. "Maybe I'll punish yer too?" He was fishing. "I won't give you any reason to. With this chain on my neck, I can't possibly escape. If you'll just tell me what you want to do I'll obey you. There'll be no need to whip me." "That's fer me ter say, Miss. Lie down." It had come! The moment had been inevitable from when he had first glimpsed her flesh. Making her mind a blank, Barbara obeyed. She went a step further and opened wide her legs. It was all so hopeless. Noakes stripped. He looked better without his rags. Barbara wryly reflected that poaching probably was good exercise. He was lithe and without fat. His maleness pointed ferociously. He smelt. When the hard length entered her after an unexpectedly gentle massaging with hand and tongue she wondered if this, too, was rape. She supposed it was. Even though compliant, she was under duress. Perhaps this was all life would offer her − a series of ravishments. Love in chains. Fucked in fetters. Igraine would be amused at the two sentences. For the naked girl upon the castle floor the thing being done to her now posed questions for which her background held no answer. Fiction demanded suicide as her response to rape. Society said she was forever soiled. But she knew with certainty she would not kill herself, and that the only soil she truly felt was from Mr. Noakes' unwashed condition. If she was kind to him he might be persuaded to bathe. For the rest she faced her knowledge of enjoyment, of pleasure, of something more that the books had not mentioned. Fawley's repeated thefts of her virginity had aroused her sexuality. Her bound helplessness beneath his thrusts had excited her sense of being woman. It was the same now. She was naked. She was chained by the neck to a stone pillar in an abandoned castle. After this rape had been consummated there would be others. The chain and collar and lock would hold her here for this man's use. She had been robbed of will, robbed of initiative. With freedom had gone decision. She found it a relaxing and reassuring thought. Had she not lain down within the limits of her chain she would have been beaten into doing the same thing under hurt. This was best. She closed her eyes and soared out beyond the world. "You done this a'fore," accused Mr. Noakes. "What if I have!" she asked indignantly. "Yer ain't supposed to." "I was raped. I was tied. I hadn't a thing to say about it." "That how you got them marks?" "Yes." She said it grudgingly, then attacked: "You're angry because I'm not a virgin. You wanted to break my maidenhead, didn't you?"

He was discomforted. "Proper goings on in that there 'ouse," he said darkly. "Yer better off with me 'ere." "Unless you're going to stick that thing into me again you might as well get dressed," "Uppity, ain't yer? We ain't started yet." 'Barbara knew herself infinitely ignorant of sex. What horrors was she about to be introduced to? She slowly got to her feet, directing a look of pure hate at the chain by which she was held captive. Interpreting her glance, he laughed. "You'd love ter run, Miss. Think Bill Noakes don't know. You got a lot O' spirit. I brung summat along what ought ter keep yer sensible." He rummaged in the pile and produced a whip. It was homemade and new. A thong of leather and a bit of branch joined by twine. It looked wicked. It would hurt. "Put it away," Barbara pleaded. "I don't want to see it. I told you I'd obey you. I have, haven't I?" "Because you 'ad ter, Miss." He hung the hateful thing in full view upon the wall. "And I'll give it to you for too much lip, remember that," he promised grimly. Now she was to be whipped for speaking! The hated thing dogged her at every turn. There was no escaping it. She was tired and frightened of this new captivity that might well last indefinitely. Chained and fucked and fucked endlessly. If she spoke out of turn, whipped! Barbara buried her face in her newly freed hands and sobbed. "Don't take on so, Miss," Noakes had viewed her grief in silence for as long as he wanted to. He was secretly pleased with the situation and was disposed to be kind within his limits. "Tell yer what, Miss, we'll 'ave a cuppa tea." "You know what you can do with your rotten tea!" He took the whip from the wall and while her face was still hidden in her hands struck her sharply across the back. While she writhed he repeated the suggestion. "Thank you. I'd love a cup of tea." Barbara's response was instant. The absurdity of her about-face made them both snicker. She wiped her cheeks and said with honesty: "I'm not going to get myself whipped over a cup of tea." Then added: "I'm sorry, honest." The pause and the steaming brew revived her spirits. She eyed her captor speculatively as they both sipped. He was human, but he would expend upon her flesh his resentment against society as well as his lust. "Please try and understand me," she pleaded. "This isn't easy for me. If I hadn't been a prisoner when you . . . you took me, I'd be frightened into screaming fits by now. You're a bit lucky, y'know." "I am that!" he agreed heartily. "But that don't change the fact that you ain't − lucky, I mean. I'm goin' ter do things ter you. I got yer, so I'd be a ninny not to." "I understand that," she agreed slowly. "It's frightening, but I'll do my best. You see," she exclaimed in a burst of candour, "I'm trying to understand you as well as

asking you to understand me." "I'm goin' ter train yer. Make you do a drill." She longed to scream. Men! Fawley, Noakes, they were all alike. Barbara longed for Perdita's cords and Perdita's chains. "You've made me curious," she dissembled. "Is there a chance I might enjoy it?" "First off I'm goin' ter 'ave 'ee suck my cock." It was like a blow, the unveiling of an utter incongruity. Such things did not happen! Did they . . . ? She gulped tea. To give herself time she held out her cup for more. "Don't like the idea, do 'ee?" "No. It's . . . it's not possible . . . is it?" "Why ain't it?" "But it's too awful!" "Yer want ter say that again?" She knew herself lost, and trembled. The ultimate obscenity. "I'm afraid I'd be, I'd be ill." She dared to be no more definite. "Bet that's what you thought fust time you was fucked?" It was true. Barbara shifted uneasily. "What if I refuse?" "Then you get whipped until you don't refuse." She nodded somberly. Their understanding flourished. "May I finish my tea?" "I'm goin' ter finish mine, Miss. Just don't be too long." "Why do you call me 'Miss?' You've made me some sort of slave." "Comes easiest, Miss. I don't belong where you come from." For a moment he was thoughtful. "I gotta admit it puts a bit O' spice on the cake, though. I calls her 'Miss' and whips yer arse. See what I mean?" "Yes, I can see that. This is an erotic adventure for you. Are you doing some of the things for the first time, too?" He flushed. "S'posin' I am − don't make no difference ter you." She winced. She was to be an experiment, too. Desolately she surveyed the act he was about to demand. She could not possibly bring herself to do it. No girl could! That meant the whip. He would whip her into unconsciousness. What then? Revive her and whip again? "We might as well get on with it, Miss." He got to his feet. As though in response to a signal his phallus distended. The naked girl eyed the object she was expected to take in her mouth, then looked at the man appealingly. She dared not speak.

"Yer take it right in, see." He was trying to be patient. "You suck it and you lick it. Use your tongue a lot." He snickered. "You should 'ave 'ad a lot O' practice with that. Then at the end yer suck like mad and you swallow every drop. Understand . . . ! Every last drop and then you clean him off with yer lips and yer tongue. You got it straight now?" Confrontation! His reference to her tongue made her squirm. How make a comparison between Perdita's scented thighs and honeyed cunt and this ugly thing that had been within her once already! It was incongruous. Impossible. She could feel herself starting to retch. Without a word she turned to the pillar to which she was chained and embraced it with her arms. "I'm sorry," she said dully. "I can't. I wish I could do it for you, but it's impossible. I suppose you'd better whip me." "It's not impossible. Miss." "It is for me. I'm safely chained. Go ahead and whip me." "You sound like yer want me to?" "I suppose I do − in preference to that other." The blows fell in swift succession. She longed to flee, but the collar on her neck and the chain falling between her breasts forbid. She clung to the pillar as to a refuge. At least the stone prevented the lash from encircling her nudity. She wept and moaned as the fiery cuts sought out the wounds already upon her flesh. At the ninth stroke she fell to her knees. "Alright," she sobbed. "I thought I could hold out. But I can't, I can't! The pain's too awful. You . . . you don't know." "Bloody silly . . . getting yerself whipped fer nothin'." "It's not for nothing, I couldn't have even tried if you hadn't done it to me. I still don't know . . . ." "You know damn well. Miss, and so do I." Noakes moved within the radius of Barbara's chain, then stood with arms akimbo, the whip dangling suggestively from his right hand. "It's your play, Miss." It was indeed! No excuses, no delays, nothing but the rampant male sex which, now she was on her knees, stared her in the face demandingly. The trembling girl refused to focus. She did not want to see. Instead, she asked timidly: "May I, I mean, is it alright if I touch?" He laughed in genuine enjoyment of her fear of him. "You'll have to, Miss, if you're going to do it right." Barbara grasped the rigid thing and, rising on her knees, thrust her mouth upon it and engulfed as much as her uneducated cheeks and tongue would accept. It suddenly seemed much larger than she had supposed. It had entered her elsewhere, but this . . . ! "Take it easy, Miss. Ain't no 'urry." For her there was. She longed to have done. But she knew there was but one path

to that. She sucked assiduously, tasting her own secretions as well as his. They made a spicy blend she could not identify. When her saliva had cleansed and her throat swallowed she found herself strangely wondering. Were all things like this? Not strange at all or awful at all when you faced them! Whips and chains, the cunts of girls, now this. She would survive them all. She curled her tongue and used it as much as she could within the limitations of her mouth. She felt him tense and heard his gasp of pleasure. She held his hips for leverage . . . . Having done the rest, the end was easy. Big, fast swallows and motions to match his. The taste was not unpleasant. Her paramount thought at that climactic moment was that she had endured nine strokes with a whip to avoid the thing she had just done. How could she have been so foolish! But she was glad Perdita would never know. "You're a real treasure, you are," said Mr. Noakes gratefully. Barbara was inordinately pleased. She was also ashamed of herself. She looked up at the male she had serviced and said, "Thank you." It was a slave girl's simple and sincere pleasure in having pleased. For a little while, at least, there should be no whip. They had more tea and some bread and cheese. After that she was taken elsewhere, chained safely and left alone. She was grateful for his thoughtfulness, but knew it meant her captivity was real and permanent. When he came for her they were each for a moment shy. She was glad when she was once more chained to the pillar she recognized as her own. "We'll 'ave another lesson, Miss." Noakes was not apologetic but he came close. He picked up the whip, but the motion was sheepish. "Please don't whip me anymore. I do try." "That yer do, Miss. But yer likely ter be'ave better if I 'old it." She knew this was so. She could not refute. She was still on her knees. "Please tell me what I must do?" she asked dutifully. "I'm a'goin' ter teach yer 'ow ter be'ave, Miss. Things ter jump ter when I orders and things ter do even if I don't, see." "Is it a slave girl you want or a companion?" The thought was new to him. He looked at her dubiously. "I just want a girl − that's it, a girl. A girl wot'll do anything I like. I'll own 'er, Miss. I'll own you." Barbara thought herself owned already. The collar and chain told her so. How much more! How much obedience did men desire? "Wouldn't that mean it's the whip that really owns me? It would be the whip I'd be obeying." "Don't 'ee try and be clever, Miss. I 'ad enough of that all me life. Stand up." Another beginning! Barbara got to her feet. It was another of the moments when her nakedness was compounded. She tried hard to look sweet and helpful. "We playa game, see. You're goin' ter show me ow obedient yer really are."

"I'll try. Is it going to be that bad?" "For you it likely is. I'm a'goin' ter shame yer." She was sure he would. She eyed the whip and counselled herself not to feel its bite because of revulsion that only she would know about afterwards. "Spread yer legs. 'Ard apart." Barbara did as bidden. Noakes' eyes immediately focused on her sex. "Shove yer cunt forward and use yer fingers ter open it up." She shrugged. What else could she expect. She did her best, her fingers pulling apart the lips of her vagina so that he might peer more intimately. "Nothin' ain't never quite what yer think," Noakes mused as though to himself. He knelt to take advantage of his privilege. "Want me to lie down so you can look inside?" Perhaps she could beat him at his own prurient game. "You ain't pullin' me leg, Miss?" "No. You see, Mr. Noakes, a girl's cunt isn't in the middle of her pubic hair, it's a bit lower down." Without waiting for permission, she lay on her back, raised her bottom and spread her legs. "Feller couldn't ask fer no more." She was not sure whether it was a commendation for her cooperation or for the quality of her vagina. His voice was faintly reverent. When they were on their feet again he still held the whip. He had trouble explaining the next segment of her drill. "Ladies is bitches," he explained. "Hoitytoity and la-de-da. Don't never use proper words fer nothin'. Like a chap ter think they didn't 'ave a cunt or take a shit. You're a'goin' ter use them words, see. I want yer to. Stand with yer feet apart and point out all yer bits and pieces and tell me their different names and what yer use 'em fer." Shame indeed! Noakes was getting his pound of flesh. But there was none but he to hear the seeming obscenities. Perhaps if she could please him . . . . ? The collar on her neck and its chain were a heavy reminder of her need to talk him into unlocking them. She took a deep breath and started with the most obvious, her index finger touching it. "This is my pussy. I use it to pee from. It is also the place where I am fucked. Its proper name is my vagina, but mostly it's called a cunt. There is also quim and quiff and twat and cunny. I'm afraid that's all I know." Mr. Noakes was a happy man. He listened as to the pealing of bells. Never in his life had a lady of quality, or for that matter any female at all, honoured him with so explicit a summation of her most private part whilst at the same time offering it in blatant view. His penis rose in tribute. "I gotta fuck yer, Miss. Yer done that real clever. I'm 'orny as 'ell." Barbara obligingly lay down, her legs making a reception committee of two. She

enjoyed the coupling immensely and was appropriately ashamed of having done so. The aftermath of coitus takes many forms. Barbara suppressed a giggle as her chain rattled its acknowledgement of her return to an erect position. Mr. Noakes obligingly flicked a few bits of oddments adhering to her back. "Proper smashing, so it were!" he declaimed vehemently. "Yer a lovely bit O' arse, Miss, and that's the truth." "Thank you, Mr. Noakes." "Call me Bill, Miss. I ain't 'aughty." "I expect you'd like me to continue?" Barbara felt like a guide in a museum. "That I would, Miss. Yer does yerself proud." One more deep breath and stern resolve. Barbara cupped one of her breasts. "I think the proper name for this is a mammary gland, but it's usually called my left breast. This nipple on it is for babies, although I've noticed men love to suck them, too. If I had a baby my breast would be full of milk that the baby would suck out through my nipple . . . ." "Never mind that there," Bill Noakes looked embarrassed. "Just give us the spicy bits, like." "They have other names for them," Barbara continued in her best guide's voice. "There's boobs and bubbies and tits, and I expect a lot more I don't know about." "Knockers," suggested Mr. Noakes helpfully. "Thanks, Bill. I hadn't heard that one." Barbara changed sides. "And this is my right breast. It does the same things the other one does." This time the giggle escaped. "I expect it's in case I have twins." She looked up brightly, hopeful of approbation, but found herself confronted by a phallus once more erect and seeming to point at her accusingly. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed. "I seem to be bothering you." She hoped the mischief was not discernible in her voice. "Ain't no bother, Miss." The magnanimity of his tone hid his own astonishment. He produced a conspiring grin. "I've 'eard tell O' ways O' doin' it dog fashion? Ain't never goin' ter 'ave a better chance." Barbara was out of her depth. She took a quick mental inventory of such accidental canine copulation as had come her way. "I'm afraid I don't know how," she stated frankly. "Yer bend over, see. Like I was goin' ter cane yer arse." She winced. He seemed unwilling to let go of the whip. "I'll try," she offered doubtfully, "but please don't whip me. I know you'll be tempted, but please don't." "Honour bright, Miss." It was the classic pose. Boys did it at school for "six of the best." Girls did it in the Headmistress' study. Barbara assumed it sadly. The chain falling from her collar

made the "dog fashion" name well chosen. Mr. Noakes made some adjustments, pushing in the small of her back and getting her arms and legs vertically closer. He then separated her legs and backed away to judge the effect. She heard him gasp. "Ruddy remarkable, Miss. I never knowed . . . ." "Something wrong, Bill?" At that moment, Barbara's thinking was negative. She did not feel like a collie or an airedale. "Pity yer can't see this, Miss." His voice was awed. "Allus wondered . . . ." He exploded in a burst of candour. "Yer ruddy twat's staring me in the face, and all." "You mean it sticks out the back!" Captive fingers sought and confirmed the phenomenon. She was as intrigued as he. "I'll just spread a bit more." She thought of Perdita and blushed. When Mr. Noakes' loins thrust against her own and his hands found her breasts, the chained girl ceased to think of anything except the stranger in her midst. "You're certainly getting your money's worth, Bill." Barbara found herself with an increasing tendency to giggle at the absurdity of her strange enslavement. It was grotesque. The canine simulation had tired them both, tea had been brewed, they sat and sipped. "Never 'ave believed it if it 'adn't 'appened," Mr. Noakes admitted expansively. "It's so nice that we're friends," Barbara sparkled at him. "Could I have this collar off, please. It hurts." "Ain't got no key, Miss." "You could undo the padlock so I could move around a bit more?" "Sorry yer said that, Miss." Mr. Noakes did indeed sound grieved. "I don't want ter 'ear nothin' 'bout you gettin' loose, see. Chained the way you is, that's the ticket. And don't go butterin' me up." "I apologize. But we seemed so happy . . . ." Barbara's hopes plummeted. They took a further drop at her companion's next words. "Yer goin' ter get six with the whip when we're done our tea." "Just for what I asked!" Barbara was horrified. "It'll keep yer in a proper state, Miss. You bin gettin' ideas." "But I've done everything you wanted! I've been nice." "That yer 'ave, Miss. A right smart half dozen 'ull keep yer being nice. You'll thank me after." "I'll do no such . . . ." Barbara broke off in confusion. "Sorry! That was an order, wasn't it?"

"Yer catching on, Miss. A nice thank you 'ull be just right while yer still smartin'." "Where . . . ? Oh damn, must you?" "Yes, I must! And it's 'cross yer back. It'll 'urt." "You surely don't expect me to stand still while you do that to me, do you?" Barbara was close to tears. "I'll tie yer 'ands ter the pillar, Miss." "You make that sound as though you're being kind, but you're going to hurt me horribly. Please don't whip me . . . please?" "It's the only way you'll learn, Miss." What use to plead! She had supposed him amenable. As long as he was catered to he was kind. Best to obey him as cheerfully as she could. When the tea was done she stood passively and allowed him to tie her wrists. The collar and its chain now seemed a permanent part of her. Mr. Noakes had no interest in removing them. "Kneel down, Miss. I'll use the same ring as 'olds yer chain." Barbara knelt. Her bound wrists were now tied to the ring he had put in the pillar. The knots were before her face but she dared not bite at them. "Knees apart, Miss, and cross yer ankles." She obeyed that, too. The rope that now was tightly wound round her ankles was the one taken from Igraine's wrists. She could almost wonder if rope was used for anything else but tying girls! When he was done she discovered she could move but little. Her knees hurt. She could not ease them because of the way her feet were crossed and fastened. She knelt, naked and presumably penitent, facing the pillar and her tied hands. She knew herself beautifully positioned for his intent. "Please, oh please, not too hard!" She looked back over her shoulder appealingly. It was very hard, indeed, seeking to circle her back beneath her breasts. She screamed. What use was heroism! She hoped the frightful peal of agony bothered him. She screamed incessantly as her back was turned into blazing anguish. She tugged and fought her bonds, staring wide-eyed at the cords upon her wrists she could not touch. No single stroke was less than brutal. She was not spared. "Only six, Miss. It's done." "No 'only' about it," the bound girl sobbed. "It was awful. You don't need to whip me, I'm helpless . . . "Bet yer feel more like bein' a good girl now than yer did afore, Miss, wouldn't yer say?" She hated to acknowledge that he was right, but it was so. The whip had cleansed her of guilt and a belief in escape. "Yes, oh yes, Bill, I'm sorry." She wondered dismally if they could ever again achieve the easy understanding they had enjoyed before she had mentioned her collar and her chain.

"Fergit and fergive, Miss." He was once more jovial. "We'll go back to our bit O' training." Released from the cords, the naked girl stood chained to her pillar, chafing red wrists and watching her captor doubtfully. "Kneel!" The command was like the crack of a whip. Instantly she fell to her knees. "Up and touch yer toes." The chain tether was an impediment to swift motion, but she dared not speak of it. Dutifully she bent and touched her toes, mute but fearful of more pain. "Suck my cock." She sped to the task, but discovered he stood beyond the tolerance of the chain upon her neck. She looked up for guidance. "Ask." "Please, Mr. Noakes, may I suck your cock? Would you please come closer so that I can?" It went on and on. Bill Noakes was inventive. Shame piled on shame, but she would not risk the whip. When night came she was tossed one of the dirty blankets against the pillar. " 'Ands be'ind yer back, Miss." Always another shock. "You're not going to make me spend the night with my hands tied behind my back − oh, Bill!" "I am an' all. No tellin' what yer get up to if yer got 'ands." "With this chain and this padlock and this collar I couldn't do anything but stay right here," she wailed. "If you tie my hands like that I won't be able to sleep." "You'll sleep alright. 'Ands be'ind now." Barbara turned and crossed her wrists and fought back her protests as the cords bit. When she was tied, in a pathetic effort to placate, she quietly said: "Thank you, Bill." "That's better." He patted her cheek and went to his corner. The girl in chains surprised herself by sleeping all night long. It was a strange brief idyll for Mr. Noakes. For the captive girl it was one of varied chapters in an incredible chronicle. The best part of breakfast was that Barbara's hands were untied. Once again the accord flourished between them as they ate bread and cheese and drank more tea. A sufficient warmth was generated so that when the jailer left for the village he left his prisoner untied. The chain would ensure her presence on his return.

Alone, she had no thoughts, just a jumble of hopes and fears. Captivity seemed implicit now in anything that befell. She dreamed away the hours after an unsuccessful attempt to loosen the ring to which she was chained. When she heard the sounds of his return she was ashamed of her pleasure at being no longer alone. "Tea," she called gaily. "Hurry up, Bill, I'm starving." It was Leslie Fawley. They stared at each other with diverse concern. Barbara was certain her lighthearted greeting would be misinterpreted. Fawley was relieved that his youngest prisoner had not escaped to the police. "Pleased to see me?" His tone was belligerent. Her "Yes, of course" must have lacked sincerity. Without waste of time he plucked a discarded cord and tied her wrists savagely behind her back. Finding another he used it on her elbows. "You've been fucked a dozen times, I suppose?" he demanded tersely. "Yes. What else d'you expect!" She was angered by his anger. "And there's no need to hurt me like this. Tying my elbows isn't necessary. How helpless do I have to be!" He dragged her down the stairs. He severed Bill's padlock in the same way Bill had destroyed his. The faithful collar and chain upon his captive's neck still served his need. He used it ruthlessly to drag her back to Silverways. "None of it was my fault," Barbara complained dolefully. "I don't see why you have to be so miserable." "You were enjoying yourself." "I wasn't! Chained to a pillar like a dog." "You sounded damn cheerful . . . ." A harsh tug on the chain. "Well, I had to be nice. He whipped me every time I annoyed him. If you want the truth there's not much to choose between the two of you." "I'll whip you for that, my girl." "I'm sure you will." Barbara was past caring. "But I'll give you a bath first. You need it." Glumly and without hope, she followed at the end of her chain.

• "We know what this means," Igraine said unhappily. "Perdita's going to get it next. He's been keeping us until he got you back. Oh damn, I hate standing against this bed all night." Barbara tugged at her bound wrists well secured at her back. She angrily shook her hand to produce the clink of the short chain from her collar. She grinned wryly at Igraine. Each of them was similarly attached to the bridal bed. Each was naked and bore a plentitude of whipmarks. The only bright spot in Barbara's day had been the bath.

Perdita was strong. Even though bearing the same bonds as the younger girls she had her feet and used them vigorously in defense of her honour. Holding her tether in one hand. Fawley whipped her savagely with the other. His slender crop caught her wherever the chance of her struggles took it. She panted and yelped with the pain but refused to lie upon the bed as he directed. To be violated and ravished upon her own bed was indeed a refinement she would not condone. "Oh stop it . . . stop, stop, stop!" Barbara's heart bled for her Mistress. Guiltily she longed to tell that what was about to take place was the end of nothing. But with her return to Silverways had come the cloak of custom and respectability. A girl like her could hardly tell her Mistress to yield her naked body to a man's delight because she too might find joy. Leslie Fawley did not want his virgin for the night incapacitated by the whip. Irritably he cast it aside and treated her as a recalcitrant bundle as he had treated Barbara. One ankle, then two, then a wrist . . . ! Soon the Mistress of Silverways lay spread and bound upon her own bed in her own boudoir awaiting the carnal attention of the male. When the shaming pillows were placed below her raised loins she gave a small moan of spiritual anguish that caused the two chained girls to shrink in sympathy. Throughout the night Barbara heard the sounds. She knew each one. She had no need to look. She knew what she would see. Igraine peeked constantly and was caught and whipped for her enterprise. When morning came it found three tired and hopeless girls lying in their chains upon the dungeon stone. For a day and a night Fawley kept them there to sleep and to talk. A task awaited them. Lady Clarabelle was enraptured. It was clear to see she took her promotion seriously. "It's awfully kind of you, Mr. Fawley. I'm going to have such fun." "No slacking," warned Mr. Fawley. "Oh no, sir." Clarabelle's eyes were sparkling. "If you do this you will be expelled," said Perdita. "I thought it a nice variation on the humiliation theme," Mr. Fawley addressed his three naked captives. "I have every confidence in Lady Clarabelle's enterprise." "I'll wring her neck," promised Igraine. "So will I," said Barbara morosely. "But you're all naked and you're all tied up," Clarabelle exulted. To make her position doubly clear she added: "And I've got a whip and a riding crop and lots of lovely canes." "I am sure you will find them obedient, my dear," Mr. Fawley encouraged. "Ladies, I leave you in good hands." "Isn't this lovely," said Lady Clarabelle. Her ebullience was not shared. "I know I'll get expelled and all sorts of things, but I don't mind. I think it's worth it. Fancy caning a Headmistress' bottom!" "If you'll untie us I will give you ten pounds," Perdita offered.

"Not even for a hundred. Miss Amory. You've got such a lovely bottom." "Let's all rush the little bitch at once," Igraine suggested. "Just try," Clarabelle giggled and flexed her riding crop hopefully. It was one more total frustration. Barbara twisted at her wrists bound behind her back. She lifted one chained foot and was snubbed by its short tether. She would not rush anyone. She could walk only with dainty careful steps. "I want to have a good look at your cunts and all that lovely hair," Clarabelle said as though ticking an item off a Shopping list. "You first, Miss Amory." "Clarabelle!" All the weight of the Mistress' office was in the word. With the agility of the very young, Clarabelle made several lightning moves. Two yelps of anguish echoed through the room. Barbara and Igraine looked down in horror at one of their breasts on which the youthful moppet had planted a spring paper clip on a protesting nipple. From it hung a length of fine cord. "Take it off! Oh damn, this hurts," Igraine demanded, twisting in a futile effort to ease the pain or to dislodge the biting teeth. "I tried 'em out on Phyllis and Mildred," Clarabelle assured them blithely. "They didn't like 'em either, but I found out your tits won't fall off or anything. Besides, yours are bigger than ours." "But what good . . . ." "So you have to do what I want, silly. If you don't, I pull. But it's even handier. Watch." The enthused damsel possessed herself of Barbara's cord and gave it a gentle tug. Pain flared, Barbara yelped again. "Oh don't! Oh please, it's awful." She writhed helplessly. With obvious pride Clarabelle led her naked victim by the grotesque leash to the wall and tied it with a neat bow to a ring high enough that Barbara could not reach. After a very small protesting scuffle she did the same for Igraine. "I've got one for you, too, Miss Amory, but now I want you to lie on that bench so I can pull some of your cunt hairs. Phyllis wants 'em for a collection." "You will be soundly thrashed as well as expelled." "That comes after," Clarabelle said blandly. "Lie down please." "Don't be absurd. I'll do no such thing." "I don't mind a bit," Clarabelle assured the flushed and angry woman. "I'll just whip you with this until you do. More fun really . . . ."

Bearing the agony of a burning breast she could in no way assuage, Barbara watched the Mistress of Silverways thrashed by a thirteen-year-old child. Scorning hobbled flight, Perdita wedged herself into a cornet to receive the inevitable. Facing the stone she presented her naked rear and bound hands to the bright-eyed aggressor. "Lie down for her, darling," Igraine advised. "We can't win." The older sister ignored the kind advice. She stood rigid but flinching as the crop was viciously applied to her bottom and thighs. Impeded by a restricted target, Clarabelle grasped a handful of her victim's hair and tugged. The lovely head fell back. Reluctant chained steps followed. "That's much better, Miss Amory," the child approved. "Now I can really have a go at you." Perdita sobbed, in rage, in anger and in a total frustration that her frantic efforts could not loose the bonds that delivered her helpless nudity to the shameful authority of a bright-eyed child. The crop sliced her cunningly so that she became afire everywhere with its scald. But her sob became its most piteous when she, hating every motion, lay upon her back and her bound arms. As a defiant afterthought she opened her legs as far as her chained ankles would allow. "See! You all have to do what I tell you." Clarabelle produced an envelope. Studiously she made a minute examination of her Headmistress' pubic area. The child was utterly without self-consciousness or sense of guilt. She exuded a joie de vivre that would have been infectious under less trying circumstances. Perdita set her lips and refused response to the pain and indignity of enduring the plucking of her pubic hair. One by one the curled fronds were tugged and deposited in the envelope. Lady Clarabelle was happily absorbed. "You don't need to make her bald," Igraine complained. "I'll do yours too, Miss Tareyton," Clarabelle consoled. "And Barbara's. Phyllis will be so pleased." "No!" said Perdita vehemently. "No, no, no! I forbid you to put that beastly thing on my breast." "It goes on your nipple, Miss Amory, and you can't stop me." With humiliating ease the small fingers did their task. Perdita's left nipple was now adorned with a punishing clip and a cord as were her fellow captives. Moments later she stood impotent against the wall, tethered by a bond so frail it was demeaning to know she could not break it. "You need not think I'm going to give you an excuse to use that damn crop on me, you little menace," Igraine proclaimed haughtily as she was led to the bench. She disposed herself in vexation at what she must do. "Just wait," she promised. "The day will come when I get my hands on you. I'll skin you alive." "I don't think that's a bit nice, Miss Tareyton. Just for that I'm going to whip you anyway. Lie still." "Like hell . . . ." Igraine leaped but tripped over her hobble. A moment later she was moaning her capitulation as Clarabelle tugged demandingly at her clipped nipple. "Nooooo! Oh don't, you'll tear it off."

"No I won't. They stretch ever so. Say you're sorry." Igraine was in a quandary. "If I lie down again and say I'm sorry will I still get whipped?" "Of course, Miss Tareyton." "Then there's no use me doing what you want." "What else can you do, Miss Tareyton?" Igraine longed to scream, to kick, to heartily thrash the girl child who held the cord. It is hard for an adult to digest the knowledge of being in thrall to a thirteenyear-old. But the metal burned cruelly on her nipple. It denied forgetfulness of her subjection. In a bitter resignation she moved to the waiting bench. "Can I lie face down to be whipped please?" she inquired in final surrender. "Yes, if you promise to lift your hands well up so I can get at your bottom. Otherwise you can lie on your back and I'll whip your breasts, they're so lovely." All choices were appalling. Igraine contrived to lie face down without enduring too much fresh pain from her nipple clip. She lifted her bound hands invitingly. It seemed inevitable that she receive six strokes - always six of the best! She bore their Impacts stoically. She dared not writhe for fear of injury to her prisoned nipple. When the last stroke wealed its scarlet path across her flesh she was weeping in an agony of frustration. Responding to the teenager's demand she then rolled over on her back and spread her legs. While her pubic hairs were stolen she quietly sobbed. When it became Barbara's turn she was trembling. She suspected that whether she gave offence or not she would receive the crop. "I'll do what you want," she said appealingly. "Please don't whip me." "But that would be no fun!" Clarabelle seemed puzzled by such a lack of enterprise. "Tell you what, Barb, I'll drop the tit cord and whip you all the way to where you're lying down nicely. I ought to be able to get in a few good swats." Barbara fell victim to the obvious. The quicker she got on the bench the fewer stripes . . . . She leaped! Her chained ankles tripped her at the first step. She fell. The stone was unsympathetic to her hip. The riding crop slashed gleefully across her shoulders. Before she struggled to her feet it had cut her twice again over her tied arms. Making her hobbled way to the altar of her shame she endured four more from the vigorous young arm that knew no mercy. Nor was there mercy from the young lips that said delightedly: "That was lovely, Barb, you're so nice to whip. You wince gorgeously." It was always hopeless. The Mistresses, Fawley, Noakes, and now Clarabelle! Barbara refused to allow her thoughts to build, but lay uncomplaining while inquisitive fingers plucked her hair and probed her sex. "That's funny! Girls aren't all the same when they grow up. Your cunts, I mean. You're all three different." Clarabelle was intrigued.

"Two hundred pounds and I promise not to expel you," Perdita offered. "Some are plumper than others," Clarabelle prodded busily. "You've got the plumpest, Barb, even though you're the youngest. And Miss Amory has the longest. Two of you have sort of creases like an extra lip, and there's a sort of small pointed thingummy at the end. But yours, Barb, is nice and smooth. I have to open up your lips to make sure they're there. Yours is the nicest. I do hope I get a cunt like yours when I grow up." "We could cane it for you, that might help," Igraine offered acidly. The remark was a mistake. "Oh, can you cane cunts! I never thought . . . ." "Stop being ridiculous and take these horrible clips off our nipples." Perdita played the Grand Dame for all she was worth. "Then I couldn't control you nice and easy, Miss Amory. Sorry. I say though, it would be fun! Which would you prefer, Miss Amory, to have your cunt caned or whipped?" "The idea is preposterous." "I'm going to whip Barbara's now." Clarabelle said thoughtfully. "I'll use a whip. I think it would get in there better. I say, Barb, I'll have to tie you, won't I? Or do you think you can keep still?" Tolerance has limits. Temper can take its place. Barbara had had enough. She kicked out with her chained feet to destroy the prurient pursuit of the peering girl. Without thought she followed the fallen child and sat on her chest. Her weight was her only weapon. Knowing its limitations she turned appealing eyes to Perdita and Igraine, but sight of their stricken faces and clamped nipples and tied tethers told her plainly their inability to help. When a small clutching hand found the cord dangling from her own breast and pulled it savagely she wailed in despair and knew herself lost. She had made a stupid mistake. Now she must pay. Clarabelle was angry. For a moment she had been frightened. But, testing Barbara's submission to the cord and clip, she knew herself in firm command. "I'm going to teach you a lesson." It was easy to tell her satisfaction with the excuse the small revolt had provided. Barbara was frightened. The thing on her nipple made her more vulnerable than cords and chain. She would not again dispute its mastery. She swallowed pride. "I'm sorry, Clarabelle." She tried to think of something else to add, but could not. She awaited sentence. "Kneel in front of me and call me Mistress." "Yes, Mistress." Barbara knelt. "Ask me to punish you and tell me why." "Please punish me, Mistress, for hurting you."

"Don't be a little beast, Clarabelle!" Igraine was furious. "You don't have to be that cruel." "Don't you dare move," Clarabelle ordered the kneeling girl. She turned her attention to Igraine. "Stand with your legs far apart, and you call me Mistress too, Miss Tareyton." Igraine choked on her fury. Her eyes made a wide and hopeless scan, her shoulders slumped. "Yes, Mistress." In defeat she separated her feet as far as her chain would allow. "I'm going to whip your cunt, Miss Tareyton. Isn't it lovely!" The helpless girl's lips visibly trembled with her angry denunciations. But she controlled them and managed a meek: "Yes, Mistress." "You're going to love having your cunt whipped, aren't you, Miss Tareyton? Tell me." "I'll love having you whip my cunt, Mistress." "Clarabelle! I order you. Stop this horrible game." Perdita was struggling furiously. "You can't get loose, Miss Amory. I'll whip yours next." It was pure nightmare. The three naked girls knew themselves helpless. Their only hope was that Fawley might rescue them before they were too badly damaged. They viewed Clarabelle's choice of a whip with a dismal foreknowledge of its pain. Its supple thong would cut them where the nymphet desired. Two of them watched while Igraine fought desperately to maintain her required stance while the lash flickered up between her legs and planted itself in her moist flesh. Several times her writhing response to the thong was checked by the tug of the cord on her nipple. Between the threat of the clip on her breast and her fear of what Clarabelle might do if she failed, Igraine managed to stand with feet apart while her most intimate flesh was ravaged by the thong. Long before it was over she was moaning and in tears. Barbara did not dare move. She knelt and watched and wondered what her own punishment would be. The teenager and the Headmistress faced each other. "Tell me what I must do." It was Perdita's first admission of defeat. The demeaning words were said, the shaming requests made. Perdita opened her thighs and received the scourge upon her sex. She made no pretense of heroism but made what sounds she must. Her nipple accepted its own punishment as she twisted and heaved in the desolation of her pain. Clarabelle was joyously happy. To be led from the punishment room was a surprise. Obedient to her leash, Barbara followed her jailer from the sight of the two naked beauties panting and sweat-drenched against the wall. They followed her going with desolate gaze. "I'm going to whip their breasts next," Clarabelle giggled. "Bet that will surprise

'em." She paused and considered. "Y'know, Barb, I just adore whipping you, but it's a lot more fun whipping them. Just imagine, a Headmistress!" "Aren't you afraid you'll be terribly punished?" "That's what I was sent here for, to be punished. I get punished a lot. After this is over I expect I'll get some awful whippings, but it's been worth it. Just think - Miss Amory's cunt! Mr. Fawley's being awfully kind." Clarabelle had her situation neatly rationalized. "What are you going to do with me? Please, Clarabelle, don't be too unkind." The youngster giggled. "You'll get a surprise." It was the room with the set of stocks, the pillory. Its' grim bulk dominated the chamber. Barbara felt tremors at the sight. "You're going to stand in that," said the child. "For how long?" Thoughts of endless hours were unendurable. "Never mind that, Barb. Thing is, are you going to put your hands and head where they belong when I untie your wrists?" "I suppose I'll have to. My feet are still chained. And you're holding the riding crop." The nymphet took no chances. She positioned the pillory's victim within its shadow and fetched cord. "Just in case," she warned as she bound the already captive ankles tight and close. For emphasis she also tied the big toes. It hurt. It seemed a moment of decision, but it was not. Her hands untied, Barbara computed her chances and once more accepted defeat. Wearily and hopelessly she placed her neck in its groove, gathered her hair beside one cheek, and then with a thrill of fear, fitted her wrists in the depressions to each side. When the upper yoke was lowered to complete the circlets she knew herself captive of something pitiless. Struggle as she might, it would remain immovable. The amused Clarabelle clicked shut the padlock that locked the captive wrists and neck immutably. "Good-bye, Barb. Sorry and all that." "You're not going to leave me like this! Oh please." "Isn't it better than being whipped?" Clarabelle asked innocently. "You mean I just have to stand in this thing? I don't get whipped as well?" Barbara had cause to wonder. "Aren't you lucky." Without warning the glowing child kissed the prisoned girl with a surprising passion. With one dexterous motion she removed the metal clip from Barbara's nipple. The captive gasped in the pain of its sudden release, but the inhalation also signalled a vast relief. The pain of the biting jaws had been demoralizingly incessant. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" Her gratitude was sincere. Without the intimate burn

the day seemed brighter. Suddenly she was alone. Alone with thoughts - of the memory of the two girls she had watched whipped and who now would be whipped again. So much of their lives seemed governed by the lash and the cane. It would once have seemed impossible to bear, a burden beyond the flesh and the spirit. But the amazing lesson to be learned at Silverways was the fact of the resilience of female flesh and courage. An hour after a girl had been whipped it was only the marks upon her skin that reminded. By that time her attention would have diverted to other things. She would wear her weals as a badge or a token, perhaps with pride. If only she knew the duration of this incarceration in the stocks, Barbara knew she would prefer this to another whipping. But the never knowing and the loneliness would defeat her. She was already feeling the pangs of fear. Supposing she was left and forgotten! The thought was too awful to contemplate but it was ever present. She was forced to make the shaming admission to herself that she would have preferred to be whipped in the company of those she loved rather than to stand and stand. It was possible, of course, that the enterprising Clarabelle was making an experiment with her. She might expect that when she returned the pillory would hold a girl so frightened she would be amenable to anything. It was more probable that the nymphet would reappear with a cane. The captive girl was well aware of how well positioned her nudity was for a cane to stroke her bottom. The stocks would be potently cruel inasmuch as they would divorce the areas of her agony to the blankness at her back while her face stared at the floor or at the wall and her hands clenched uselessly in their slots. As was usual at such times, there were tears. She hated to cry when she could not touch her face, but it was a comforting release. "Undoubtedly the most delightful bottom in Christendom." The unexpected tribute brought Barbara back to life and the immediate moment. Mr. Fawley sauntered into her field of vision. "Please let me out of this awful thing." Barbara was discovering that such requests, though never granted, were an automatic reflex of the situations in which she made them. Mr. Fawley, running true to form, ignored it. "I trust our senior faculty are enjoying their unique day?" He had returned to the donnish pose of her earlier memory. "That little bitch is cruelly whipping them, if that's what you call unique," she said reproachfully. "But she hasn't whipped you?" "She has too! If you look you'll see the fresh marks. That was cruel of you to make her a gift of us three. She doesn't know when to stop." "At the moment she just has two of you, m'dear." There was that in his voice which caused her to tense. He was up to something. She felt cruelly naked and defenseless. "But you've got me." She looked at him speculatively. "If she doesn't whip me I expect you will." "Is that an invitation, dear girl?"

"In this crazy place everything is an invitation to be whipped," Barbara told him morosely. "If a girl just said 'good morning' to somebody she'd get six of the best for it. Oh, how I hate that expression!" "You are in somber mood, child." "Wouldn't you be! And don't call me child." "I am seriously considering caning your bottom. As I said on entering, it is a superbly delightful rotundity." "That's just what I said. Caning girls' bottoms or whipping their breasts is all you think about." "At our second meeting I was quite frank about this predilection, my dear. I whip for pleasure - mine! Much more honest than professing corrective virtue." "Girls do have other uses, y'know." "Indeed yes! May I say that after the breaking of your maidenhead you responded superlatively. You have the potential of a positively classic piece of tail." "Don't you want to fall in love with a girl and marry her?" "And have babies! Darling, this is so sudden." He was enjoying himself. Why not! He held the cards and made the rules. Bitterly, Barbara no longer believed in escape or rescue. "A delightful poser for you, dear girl, would be a choice between fifty with the cane across this delectable bottom or a walk to the altar with me. I am unencumbered by either matrimonial ties or money. You are most eminently eligible. Our life together in your family castle would be idyllic." "I suppose you realize that if you cane my bottom fifty times it will be cut to shreds?" "Is that your choice? I can begin at any time." "I never said that!" She was angry with her exclamation. It would give him ideas. "You are considering my offer of devotion." "I don't know whether you're serious or not," Barbara admitted resignedly. "But I expect you are - about the caning anyway. So, yes, I'll choose the cane. But please, Mr. Fawley, don't hit me too hard. Fifty is a terrible number." "I am deeply hurt by your rejection." "Not half as much as I'll be! Look, Mr. Fawley, this beastly thing hurts my neck and wrists, it chafes. Couldn't you let me out of it while we talk?" "It appears we have nothing to talk about, my dear."

The naked girl held tight within the stocks was well aware of a paucity of topics beneficial to herself. With inward tremors she watched the math teacher's selection of one of the long, tapered riding crops so beloved and so feared at Silverways. She shifted uneasily in her prisonment while Mr. Fawley flexed the withe and eyed her with bright appreciation. "Well, couldn't we just talk about this whole situation?" she asked hopefully. "I'd be ever so grateful if you'd free me, even for a few minutes." "You offer me your body as a bribe, dear girl?" She flushed. The thought had not entered her mind. But now he had planted it. His mention of marriage was, no doubt, satirical or teasing. But to go with him to that enchanted land where men had the power to transport her was eminently more practical. Between them, Fawley and Bill Noakes had taken her to a forbidden but magic land from which she could never entirely return. Thought of the stern visage of Lady Corydon and the frown of society was diluted by the sight of the crop bending back and forth before her eyes. Fifty strokes! She would faint! Falling unconscious held in the stocks, she would meet injury! Break her neck! The wooden circlet gripped her throat with an almost personal animosity. But she was feminine and a lady. "You know I can't do that," she said miserably. "Why?" "It's wrong. Girls mustn't." "We have broken the ice, Barbara." She wriggled uncomfortably within the pillory, but said nothing. "I suspect your good friend Bill Noakes broke even more ice than I did?" His voice had become cold. "He tied me and chained me just the same. There was nothing I could do about either of you." "But you enjoyed him. I recall your dulcet greeting when I discovered his lair." He had touched a nerve. She could not deny to herself those moments when she and her uncouth captor had shared bread and cheese and tea while her neck was chained to the pillar. But how to explain it . . . ! She did not understand herself. She had a guilty conscience about it but it was faint. "In his own way he was kind to me," she offered defensively. "Am I less than that?" "He never gave me fifty strokes with a beastly thing like you're holding." "You prefer a cane? I will cheerfully substitute." Fawley surveyed his captive. She was delicious in her quandary. He guessed her emotional turmoil, her frustration. The temptation to provoke her was too exquisite to renounce. "I am inclined to tie you spread out on one of these benches," he suggested casually. "If you must." He pounced. "That's what you want, isn't it! To be absolved of decision. To be able to tell yourself, 'He did it to me' instead of 'We did it together.' It's respectable to

be raped but beyond the pale to lie down and open your legs." "If you say so." "I do say that! But I'll show a spot of mercy. I'm going to start your fifty on that pert rump of yours. You can stop me whenever you wish," he sneered. "Just tell me you are ready to relinquish your honor. That is the polite usage, isn't it?" "You should know." As usual the first stroke shattered courage and resolve. Why, oh why must he hit her so hard! Why slice her bottom with such frightful venom! She longed passionately to be spread and bound upon the bench rather than endure this fifty-fold agony. But the man with the crop had been too astute. She lunged against the unyielding wood. She had not previously been whipped while held captive in the stocks. She found now that the pillory held her for her pain with an implacability utterly terrifying. "Oh, stop it, please!" The exclamation escaped her as though some other voice had uttered it. Silence No searing impact. "Two strokes! Is that the price of your precious honor, Miss Croydon?" Fawley sounded genuinely shocked. Barbara longed to scream in vexation and hysteria. "I'm terribly sorry," she said lamely. "You hit me so hard and the pain is so great . . . I don't think I think you realize . . . !" Barbara's feminine shrewdness glimpsed a faint hope in guile. "If only you'd said twenty or thirty instead of fifty - I don't have the courage for fifty. I'll faint. Fifty, the way you slash me, could kill a girl." She paused for effect. "What was that offer of yours about us getting married?" "Just that, my dear. An honorable union and bliss thereafter." "You promise you wouldn't whip me afterwards?" "Only if your behavior was outrageous." The girl in the pillory made her voice weary, pathetic, resigned: "Very well. I accept. I will be your wife." As though in maiden shame at surrender, she added, "I can't face the other forty-eight lashes. I think they'd do me an injury, maybe ruin the thing about me you value most." Another pause while she wriggled in sham embarrassment. "You made me like that - that what you did to me. Being locked in this thing . . . and those two strokes . . . ! It's made me what you call horny. I'm so ashamed . . . but I want you to do it to me again." The silence could be felt. Fawley's sigh, when it came, was a sigh of triumph. "I believe you mean it," he said reverently. "But get this straight: If I take you from the pillory, I expect total submission. You'll suck my cock or spread your legs whenever I say." "I'll give you total submission. I'll do those things. That's what being a wife means, isn't it?" "I suppose it is." Fawley was awe-struck by fresh prospects. "Be very sure I'll stand no nonsense from you."

The captive did her best to register maidenly shyness. "What should I call you, Mr. Fawley? I I'm so confused and grateful. Should it be 'Sir' or 'Leslie' . . . ? It would be nice if I may call you 'darling.' May I call you 'darling,' please?" She sighed blissfully "Just think: I can call you darling over and over while you fuck me." In a daze of mastery, choked with the emotion of victory, Leslie unlocked the padlock and lifted the heavy yoke from the slender neck of his wife to be. The wife who would give him everything his heart desired. He took her in his arms, his kiss was tender and passionately returned. "Fuck me, darling, please quickly! Oh, Leslie dear, I can't wait. Get your clothes off . . . please!" While Leslie Fawley was fumbling with buttons, his fiance struck him over the head with the small stool on which visitors sat to watch the punishment of girls. When he crumpled to the floor she dragged him to the foot stocks and placed his ankles within the holes. When Barbara thrust down the yoke from above and clicked the padlock shut she knew it was the most satisfying moment of her life. Leslie Fawley was breathing heavily, his feet implacably imprisoned while she took the vital keys from his pockets. He could stay as he was until his hour of reckoning with three merciless females. Joyously, the naked and whipped Barbara went in search of Perdita Amory, and Igraine. Today they would share liberty and a feast of tongues. Later there would be Mr. Fawley's bottom. Barbara saw no reason why the rebel Master could not be kept in chains forever. The three of them could beat him daily and taunt him with female nakedness he could never touch again, It was a delectable thought. Her eye lit on the crop that had cut her flesh. It was an admirable weapon. She picked it up and flexed its cruelty. There was also the little matter of Clarabelle. The End