Drusilla’s whipping took place in near silence. Bryce had made no reply, but had presumably stood studying his captive wife while she herself pressed her forehead against the timber and awaited his reaction. When she heard him go to the cupboard she quiveringly looked back over a naked arm. Seeing him select the whip that, as yet, had made no mark upon her flesh, she quickly returned to her illusory refuge and closed her eyes.
With female logic, Drusilla had considered the pain implicit in her plea as some huge monstrous thing that would work its will on her, then go away. That it might leave her unconscious or moaning in agony seemed no more than was to be expected. In the travails of being flogged she was still a novice.
In the self-imposed darkness between her shackled arms, the delinquent wife recognized her emotional approach to her ordeal as unique. She wondered if any other woman had ever asked as she had asked, or been granted her request with the same impersonal detachment. She was imbued with a fierce determination not to scream. Whatever the agony, she must cling the silence of assent. If this path led to the salvation of her marriage she would tread it without demur.
It was a new and different pain; and on another part of her. The tapered thong slashed the width of her shoulders and the narrow span of her waist. Then, as though demonstrating versatility, lapped her loins with venom. But, even as the first sense of violation sent her thrusting against the post, Drusilla knew with certainty that she was not being whipped as cruelly as might be. The pain was frightening enough but, within the latitudes of such punishments, Bryce was being kind.
Drusilla soon lost the tally. Perhaps it was best not to count and not to hope. Let it happen. Suffer. Endure! Above all, accept. Holding to silence as she might cling to love, she found what expression she could by tugging at her handcuffs until they hurt, and turning her head from side to side so that one cheek and then the other shared the solace of the post with her forehead. Only under the worst of the blows did she open her eyes, and then briefly. She made no effort to look back at the man who held the whip. It was as though, while she was whipped, each of them had a privacy all his own. A privacy that her beseeching eyes might violate. The searing cuts mounted. She wondered if her back was raw and bleeding.
When it was done, Bryce quietly went away.
Pain is a companion. For a little while the prisoner at the post was not lonely. But from her previous inflictions Drusilla had learned the treacherous transience of a whip’s agony. As the blows fell upon the helpless flesh they seemed forever, but within minutes of the final stroke their scald began to fade, leaving only a tenderness to the touch and the flaming weals that proclaimed an erotic beauty all their own. The fire within her sex was more permanent. It burned demandingly.
Drusilla wept. The tears were a relief; a port after stormy seas. They were also an angry expression of her frustration at her helplessness and the fire within, which would burn smolderingly through the night with no hope of assuagement. She tugged fretfully at her handcuffs, unable to get a good look at them. The rest of her was fastened too tightly to offer any hope of release at all. Under the compulsion of loneliness and longing, she leaned back against the ropes confining her waist and tried to friction her nipples against the post to which she was tied. But the result was only more pain. She soon desisted from any effort at all, but hugged the post and allowed her tears to drift into fitful dozings through the night.
Drusilla did not know the time, but it was not yet morning when Bryce unlocked the handcuffs from behind the post and then joined them again the front. His hands tore savagely at the ropes by which she was bound. When her tired, hurt nudity fell gratefully into his arms he lifted it bodily and carried her to their bed. In the darkness before dawn, lying upon her wounded back, Drusilla shared with the savage male the most transcendent love-making she had ever known.
The phone awakened her. The bedside clock said ten forty-five. The whipping, her tiring time against the post, and then the tumultuous orgasms had kept her deep in slumber while Bryce rose and departed for work, leaving her to sleep to satiety. Bemused, she fumbled for the receiver.
It was Diana’s voice; a controlled intensity. “Did you know Bryce picked Hinton up this morning? They had a project they were both working on.”
“No. Bryce slipped away without waking me. I was asleep.”
“Haven’t you had a phone call?”
“Only yours.”
“Oh, darling... !” Diana’s voice trailed off into a wail. Drusilla knew instantly. But her voice said the expected:
“What is it, Di’? What’s happened?”
“There was a pile up—on the bridge. A truck smashed the car through the rail. They’ve recovered the bodies—”
Death is not like the whip. Its impact grows with the hours. Drusilla was numb. Driven by urgency. Men would soon be knocking at the door. The phone would ring. She must be ready—she was naked!
The sudden shocking realization struck her like a blow.
Frantically she dialed Diana’s number.
“Yes?” Diana sounded tired. And then: “Oh, darling, it’s you! What’s the matter?”
“I’m handcuffed.”
“Good God!”
“And I don’t have a key—and I’m naked!”
Diana’s laughter was hysterical, a recognition of farce.
When she got it under control her voice was decisive. “We’d best be together; the way it’s happened. Do what you can while I’m getting there. I know a store... I never had the nerve... ! I’ll buy handcuffs... there’ll be keys... ”
Thankfully, Drusilla replaced the receiver. Ruefully, she looked at her handcuffed wrists and at her clothes. She reached for panties...
The phone rang stridently.
5
Moppet
There was no beginning. It was preordained. Both women accepted it without debate. A force like gravity. Ginny’s laughing acceptance was the wisdom of Eve.
Time heals. They let it work its magic.
“We may as well live together,” said Diana the practical.
“No sense keeping two homes. We’re neither of us going to be exactly rich.”
“Your house,” said Drusilla. “It’s the nicest.”
“That the only reason?”
They could always be direct with each other. It made things easy. “You and Hinton were just—sort of marking time,” Drusilla said slowly. “I loved Bryce—terribly. He’s still there.”
Diana nodded. “Best for Ginny, too. No move.” She grinned. “But aren’t you forgetting... ?”
“The room!” Drusilla had not forgotten. “No! That’s his too. I don’t want to be—to be—put in there.” She leaned forward and kissed her pensive companion. “Selling my place gives us lots of money. Build a new room just the way you want.”
“You’d better have yours dismantled before you call the realtor. I’d love to see his face... !”
They employed the same contractor to do both jobs.
Diana dealt firmly with his hesitations and curiosities. Material salvaged from one was used on the other, particularly the bars and gratings. Since the project had been dumped into her lap, Diana insisted that Drusilla should see none of it until after completion. Then there would come a day... ! Only one of Drusilla’s demands was listened to: that there be daylight. She wanted no captivity beneath the glare of neon. The thud of hammers and the rasp of saws imparted to her a suspenseful and quivering anticipation.