“Only one—and it was sort of fun. I was of a good mind to get myself arrested so you’d have to come and bail me out.”
“Enjoy your chain?”
“Oh, Bryce, how can a girl enjoy a thing like that cutting her in two all day!”
He nodded complaisantly. “Yeah, you enjoyed it. I can tell. ”
“Darling, please take it off me now.”
“If you’d really wanted it off you’d have been after me immediately I got home.”
“I was busy with supper and I didn’t want to spoil things.”
“That’s a good girl! You only have to wear it for a week.”
“Oh, Br-y-c-e! You do tease.” She shrugged prettily. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. I’ll starve myself to make it comfortable.”
“Won’t do you any good. I’ll take up the slack daily.” Drusilla enjoyed their repartee. It was one of the good things they shared. They had always teased; making a game of it. Now, in her voluntary captivity, it was doubly piquant. It held the potent spice that she could never be quite sure —! She sat back on her heels, finding herself unwilling to abandon her slave girl pose. Amused and quaintly triumphant she watched Bryce examine her trophy.
“S-i-l-l-a!”
She sensed disaster instantly. Her eyes widened in disbelief at what was being displayed for her attention. It was a copy of the local morning newspaper.
Bryce’s gaze had become sharp. But he was still attuned to fun. “Funny, funny.” He acknowledged her tease. “Now! Where’s the London Times?”
“I must have left it on the bookshelf and picked this up by mistake.” Even to herself it sounded lame.
Bryce said nothing, just looked down at her. “I wanted to look at a paperback—”
Her explanation shattered against his disbelief. He clung to silence as though giving her plenty of rope. Desperately, Drusilla knew this was a moment that must be turned to laughter. Somehow she must be amusing, witty, clever—above all, convincing! “I wouldn’t cheat, y’know,” she said brightly while her heart thumped.
“No, I don’t know.” He said it very slowly.
She gestured ineffectually. “But there wouldn’t be any point to it. You’d—you’d—”
“Yes?”
“Well, you’d know I was cheating. You know me too well—”
“Maybe that’s the trouble.”
“But I was there! I was! Oh, Bryce, don’t be so—so—”
“Skeptical’s the word.”
“I know it is,” Drusilla acknowledged bitterly. “And you’re simply oozing it. Look, darling, I can describe things, tell you what I saw.”
“We’ve driven past there too many times.”
They had! It had been a fun thing to traverse the block.
Most everyone did it. Suddenly she knew herself back at square one. Because she had fibbed in the past, Bryce would believe she fibbed now. She could not blame him. The lovely mood crumbled around her in ruins. Kneeling before the disappointed man, Drusilla buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Bryce sat, saying nothing, letting her cry.
Beneath his dour silence Drusilla felt as guilty as though she actually were. Her husband’s refusal to utter the obvious cliches and platitudes gave her no scope by which to search for ways to touch or seek his sympathy. Everything had gone hopelessly wrong.
“I could laugh this off,” he said finally. “It’s no big deal. But in the light of what you and I have been trying to do—”
She nodded blindly. “I know.”
“There’s no use crying.” It was man’s eternal plaint. Drusilla allowed one brimming eye to peer through her fingers. “Isn’t there any way you can possibly believe me?” she asked wanly.
“Can you suggest one?”
“Don’t you love me?”
“Oh, Silla, that’s got nothing to do with it.”
With frightful clarity she understood the quandary she posed for him. A wave of hopelessness sent fresh sobs and fresh tears into her cupped hands. Drusilla wanted to stay within the dark and feminine refuge forever but knew what she must do. The chain around her center was a reminder indeed. She scrambled blindly to her feet. At the door she looked back humbly. “May I—?”
Bryce waved a disgusted arm. “Sure. Run along.” Drusilla ran to their bedroom. While she flung her clothes from her the tears dried. She went to the bathroom, washed and fixed her face. Then returned and stood naked before the man who had not moved. The chain within her flesh was now a badge of shame.
“I’ve been to the bathroom,” she said pathetically.
He got the message instantly and looked up in surprise. “I’m going downstairs now, Bryce. I’ll be— ready.”
He said nothing. When, minutes later, he followed, Drusilla was sitting on the bench. She was the calmest of the two. “Don’t let’s talk about it,” she said listlessly. “Let’s just do it. Do I lie on the bench again?”
“No. Stand against the post. Put your arms round it.”
His voice was as drained of emotion as her own.
“Of course. How silly of me. I’d forgotten.”
Drusilla recalled his promise on the phone. She had already been sentenced. Keeping her mind a prudent blank she did as she’d been told. Facing the wooden surface she compressed her arms so as to accomodate her breasts between them as best she could. Then hugged her nakedness close to maintain the position she had chosen. She was aided in this endeavor by the ropes that quickly looped around her center.
“Oh, damn!” Bryce irritably searched for the key, then unlocked the padlock and drew the chain carefully away from the weals it had made in her skin. “Sorry. I forgot. It doesn’t belong now.” It had the flavor of apology.
Now the ropes were tight around her and the post. A strand cinched her flesh to the wood, welding her to the stanchion. Her breathing became tremulous, confronting pain.
“One on each side.” His voice was brusk as he pushed her feet where he desired them and bound them fast. Once more he took the trouble to effect the cinch so that the ropes became more than ever circlets intimate within her skin.
He handcuffed her limp wrists which she offered passively. Then raised them and locked their chain to a fixture she could not see on the reverse side of the post. Her arms were held up but not high enough to make the metal bite.
“That will do.”
Drusilla was quite sure it would “do.” She was allowed more movement than when on the bench. But it was little enough: A fluttering of the elbows and knees, that was all. Her bottom was held tightly and protuberantly. She supposed it was upon its exposed contours the tawse would snap its fifty bites. But she was conscious now of her back. It seemed more naked and more vulnerable than previously. Suppose Bryce used his whip on it! Drusilla saw her back as a white and virgin field, femininely inviting. She shuddered.
“I’ll come down again before I go to bed.” It was a disinterested but polite reassurance.
It was all wrong. Everything had gone wrong! Under the spur of anxiety, Drusilla asked the most imprudent question of her life.
“Aren’t you going to whip me?”
“D’you want me to?” It was as though he was reminded of something forgotten.
“Oh, Bryce—!” It was Drusilla’s plea for understanding. “I don’t want it, and I do! Oh, darling, I’ve messed something up somewhere. We had things so lovely. Supper was such fun. And now—boom, it’s gone.
“Yes.”
Her voice became vehement. “I don’t want this spoiled. I don’t! I don’t! I didn’t cheat the way you think. But that doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t care! I want you laughing. I want to please you.”
“I expect it’s a mood. It will pass.”
“You don’t sound as though it will pass. Darling, don’t go away and leave me like this.”
“You want to be untied?”
“No, I don’t. Being tied this way is part of our deal. It belongs. I meant, don’t let’s part with this state of mind nagging at us.”
“So what d’you want me to do?”
“Whip me.”
Long afterwards, Drusilla would relive the moment as high drama. But at that moment she knew only shame that her plea for punishment arose from a sudden furnace heat between her thighs. A surging lust for Bryce. The tawse would fan it to fresh flame and would bring to him also a hunger for her flesh. Shaming as it might be, the whip would restore to both of them their lost rapport. That the punishment might be beyond her ability to bear was a possibility that did not cross her mind.