Mark laughed joyously. His slave girl essayed a sheepish smile. "I won’t always manage it, master," she warned cautiously.
"Let’s try it again, shall we?"
They tried again. The round bottom absorbed the straiting cuts bravely. Its owner clenched her teeth in firm resolve.
Once more she won.
Mark kissed her gently. She sank to her knees before him and avowed woth sweet simplicity:" Master, I am your slave." Then added. "I want to be your slave…"
After a long, quiet time Dorinda looked up at the man whose chattel she had become and asked with genuine curiosity: "Master, are there other punishments than the whip?"
"Of course, little slave. You want them now?"
"No master, I’m content."
Mark laughed delightfully. "You shall have them all. With some you may wish you had chosen the whip. But they are for other days than now. As for being content you do not suppose I am finished with you, surely?"
Dorinda had indeed hoped just that. But managed to expunge the disappointment from her voice. "Oh no, master. Please tell me what I must do."
"Go to the rope."
Dorinda shivered. They had found a rapport. But it would not ease her pain or divert Mark’s purpose. She sensed that he could give her love more easily than mercy. Her wirst protested when she was stretched. If this was his favorite pose she would plead for kinder bonds than the steel bands that cut so curelly. She wished he had not tethered her again. It could only mean something hard to bear.
"Can’t ask you for too much self control," Mark observed. "Kepping still wasn’t easy, was it?"
"No master. I’m not sure I could do it again. Thank you for tying me."
"Oh, you’ll do it, love. I suspect you have a talent for it. In fact you have a talent for the whole scene. You are really a bit wonderful, y’know." He held her with a hand on each side of her ribs, where her arms would have been. He looked down into her raised eyes. His own became dark pools in which Dorinda saw mirrored both agonay and love. "Thank you for coming to Kyrexos," he said gently.
All of her responded to his touch. His hands had not previously explored such intimacy. She longed to plead: ‘Love me, don’t whip me.’ But instinct told her it was not the time. She did not know when the time might be. But they embarked upon a journey.
"I have not yet punished you," Mark said.
He laughed as she tensed. "So far only tests, little slave girl. But, perfect though you are, there will be times when you transgress. You will be whipped for your fault, and the whip then will affect you differently than when you are simply being brave. I will show you know. I sentence you to five strokes. Once thus sentenced, nothing can bring you remission. I think that always when the first stroke falls you will be willing to plead, to promise, to affirm that never again
… But when you have earned a penalty you must pay all of ot. That is what will make these five strokes separate from the others."
"But… I haven’t done anything to deserve punishment," Dorinda protested.
"You have now love." Mark chuckled. "Slaves never protest."
It was not a game they played.
Dorinda abandoned all defenses. She was posessed by the whip. Endless whippings loomed ahead. Months… years… Why try and be brave?
At the second stroke which curled across her bottom and over one hip she allowed all natural responses to have their way. She wept, she moaned, she even pleaded forgiveness for a guilt she did not feel. The strokes laced her body unrelentingly. At the count of five she was released.
She slumped to the floor as though her bones were broken. Her moans and twistings were her body’s outrage at what had been done to it. Mark watched, amused. He had watched his sister more times than he could remember. Even when Terry pleaded for the whip it mostly ended thus, a beautfiully erotic finale. She had admitted readily enough, that even as she writhed and groaned she savoured her greatest happiness in the knowledge that her ordeal was past and that she acquitted herself well. Dorinda’s travail must continue.
"Devise a stroke that will shame you. Ask for it."
She dared not ponder, but did the first demanding act that came to mind. Taking a wanton stance, she placed one foot upon the wooden chest, spreading the other wode. Cuffed wirsts behind her neck she faced he master. "The whip… Up underneath, please," she managed tremulously.
Mark was enraptured. The lash he gave her was cunning and cruel. It evoked from his slave girl an artistry of agonay. He knew himself a very lucky man.
For Dorinda, it was a long afternoon.
CHAPTER 2
Kyrexos was a delightful island. Dorinda could see most of her captor’s small kingdom from the rock on which she sat with Terry. The sun was warm. For the moment her condition was charmingly relaxed.
"Nicer than that room with the rope, love?" Terry asked shrewdly.
"Calm before the storm?" Dorinda asked with frank suspicion.
The younger girl giggled. "The dear boy really laced into you. You’re a beautiful zebra. Like the swimsuit?"
"Pure haven. I’m tired of looking down and seeing breasts and hair. Sweet of you to let me wear it."
"Doesn’t hide all that much, darling. But the little belt effect makes it handy to hang your handcuffs and that bit of cord. I hate carrying things. I like being naked."
"Why the bokini then?"
"Can’t very well have the mistress naked and the slave clothed, can we?"
"You’d better brief me a bit," Dorinda suggested diffidently. "I’m still a novice, y’knnow. Mark really made me come to heel yesterday. Are you going to do that too? Should I call you ‘mistress’?"
Terry giggled. "You’ll have to play me by ear. I’m a butterfly. Sometimes I’ll be very brutal to you, darling. Quite often I’ll love you to bits." She directed a puckish grin at her captive. "Tru to remember, love. Little Terry’s never been a mistress or had a slave girl to play with. It’s been me that’s been the slave girl. If you think Mark has made you come to heel, I can tell you a few stories. You are no more a zebra than I often am."
"Why do you put up with it?"
"I love it, silly. You know I do. Mark’s told you. I’m a natural born slave girl. But only for Mark."
"Aren’t you going to be jealous?" Dorinda asked mischieviously. "Now I’ll get all the whippings and you’ll be home free."
"I’m a bit curious to see how he does with both of us," Terry’s eyes sparked with a sudden thought. "If I feel neglected I can always make you whip me." She giggled. "Would you like that?"
Dorinda was about to affirm that after yesterday she would not wish a whipping on a dog, when there dirfted into her inward vision a delectable vision of a naked Terry bent well over and herself lustily caning a pert round bottom. "I’m afraid I’d love to," she admitted honestly. "Good heavens, this is contagious!"
Whilst not wanting to be burdened with things to carry, the newly elevated mistress had ostentatiously brought along on their stroll a long, slender crop with which she neatly decapitated any convenient growth along their path. Her slave girl had been constantly aware of it. Dorinda was suddenly horrified to find the wicked length now placed in her hand.
"Whip my bottom, darling, until I tell you to stop."
Joyously the younger girl stepped out of the skimpy fabric that had hugged her hips, selected her spot, then bent and garsped her ankles. Dorinda had never seen a girl’s btoom more enticingly offered. She felt herself blush. A bringht and expectant eye was watching her with avid amusement. "Scared, aren’t you?" the young voice taunted.
Dorinda felt herslef adrift. But knew this moment in life to be lived vividly while it lasted. With a tremendous sense of release she swung the crop in a slahing arc and both felt and heard it sink into the puppy cheeks with a sensual thrill such as she had never before known. She watched, fascinated, as the red weal formed and became a ridge of scarlet. The punished girl held her pose heroically, but gasped with heaving breasts. The right eye discretely looked alsewhere. Enthralled with sudden power, Dorinda was readying herself for the next blow…