Dorinda sat upright, startled. "No!" Her negative was from the heart. Terry enjoyed her slave’s dismay. "Don’t paninc. Always one more left. That’s the nice thing about being a gril."
"I don’t do that."
Terry surveyed her companion with interest. "Well, I’ve never done it," she admitted. "Mark never gave me a chance with a girl. But I’ve got one now. You don’t think I’m going to pass it up, do you?"
"But I’m not a lesbian."
"Who says anything about lesbians? That’s just a name. If we want to explore each others cunny woth our mouth, we don’t have to wear a label."
"Mark would flog us both half to death."
"Well, he might if he found out," she admitted reflectively.
"I’ll tell him."
"You won’t, y’know darling."
Dorinda had to admit to herself that Terry was right. She began to glimpse that, whilst her brother would subdue her with the whip, his sister would devise more devious and colorful ways to enslave. Terry had risen to her feet and was flexing the riding crop thoughtfully, her eyes hungry for whatever excitement the situation might engender. Dutifully the slave girl did as she was told.
The female psyche is a complex thing. Its responses are triggered by subtleties not always understood. Faced with a fresh assault on resources already frayed threadbare, Dorinda was bereft. She knew she could only earn the whip by attempts to dissuade, so composed her nudity to best advantage to absorb attentions which, no matter how gentle, were basically similar to her recent ordeal against the tree. She felt sure of disgrace.
But Terry’s magic was not only in her sunny laughter and elfin spirit. She was vibrantly female, exquisitely feminine. Her hands were enchanted hands. Her lips were enchanted lips. To be touched by them anywhere was to feel the shock of electric senuousness. Dorinda, who had thought herself depleted, was washed now in a fountain of youth that endowed her with infinite renewal. Gasping to keep herself afloat in a sea of pleasure she allowed herself to be led into the scented pathways of a girl who loves.
"Wasn’t it super?" Terry cooed. "Girls would be silly not to enjoy themselves."
It was after. Long after! Dorinda lay gratefully in the sun, replete and at peace as she watched her mistress fumble with her bikini. "I say, darling. How’s my bottom?" The curved facility was offered for inspection.
"It’s a very lovely bottom and it’s got the most beautiful purple stripe right accross the middle," the slave girl assured her with satisfaction.
"Oh golly, I’m sure it has. I’ll have to mear these damn things for a week. Mark will be suspecious. Come one, darling, think of an excuse."
"You could claim a defense against my rapacious tongue."
"He’d whip you to pieces… If he believed it."
"Alright then. Not me, the goat."
"Be serious. I should whip you until you think of something plausable."
"Time of the month?"
Terry tottered. "He knows that."
"Tell you what. We’ll both confess our sin like good little girls and ask to be punished. Then he won’t do it."
The angel brightened. "You might have something there love. But – knowing Mark – I’d suspect we get about five apiece."
"You’d enjoy only five. And since I suppose I go back into training with him tomorrow I don’t suppose five one way or the other will make much difference. He’s a real ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ enthousiast."
Terry looked at her slave searchingly. "Are you sure we aren’t tarred with the same brush?"
Dorinda’s indignant negative died stillbron. "I hate the damn whip," she averred vehemently. "But I like the man who uses it on me. Does that make any sense?"
"You mean you’re in love with Mark?"
"I don’t suppose I am. I was frightened of him half the time yesterday. But when he’s whipping me I have to respect his motives. I wish he’d tie me to a tree or something instead. But I can understand his fantasy thing. He explained it very well. I can understand, too, that I sort of happened along at the right time and got elected. It’s funny, but I’ve come to recognize that this island affects my reactions. Anywhere else I’d be resentful and trying to escape all the time, always alert. But because I know it’s quite impossible for me to swim away from Kyrexos I don’t resist. I’m as much the island’s prisoner as I am yours…"
"I’ve just thought of a wonderful game!" Terry was typically irrelevantly enraptured. "You’ll adore it, darling."
From something in the youngster’s voice Dorinda felt she would not adore it at all. But followed tinglingly curious. She was made to carry the paper bag.
It had been an old warf, fallen into disuse. An unptrentious bit of ruin. Terry led the way beneuth it to the water’s edge. Divesting herself of the bikini’s halter she giggled portentiously. "I want to blindfold you, love. But I promise, no shocks. When I take it off you’ll have the loveliest surprise." She went into further evidences of merit. Dorinda allowed herself to be blindfolded with the bra. It was effective. She stood quivering, expectant.
"Hold still and don’t be scared." Terry’s voice had become authorative and absorbed. Her nimble fingers unexpectedly were working her captive’s bushe triangle.
Dorinda relaxed. She could imagine regaining her sight to behold some absurd coiffure effect with that abundant bush with which she was endowed. At least it was nit painful.
It took a long time and many impatient exclamations. At last a breathless voice apologised: "The handcuffs now, darling. Just so you don’t spoil the effect."
The victim offered her wirsts without question. They were locked tight behind her back. It felt surprisingly natural. The bra was whisked from her eyes.
"It’s frightfully clever, darling, don’t you think?"
It took Dorinda a little time to comprehend her new predicament. It was not quite the childish game she had hoped.
A sizable tuft of her pubic hair had been owven or spliced into the end of cord. The join had been reinforced by sevel knots ot lighter threat, prbably unravelled from one of the other bindings. It appeared a very secure union. The cord itself fell away from her sex across the sand and into the water.
"It’s knotted round an old bolt down in the sand. Wtach, darling." The younger girl tugged at the cord with all her strength. It did not move. It was an impressive demonstration. Dorinda was tethered tight by a tenuous link as compelling as steel.
"It’s like a parlor game, love." Terry explained gaily. "You can’t fee yourself. The tide is coming in. It won’t submerge you. But it will rise enough so you won’t like it and can’t sit down. Now the thing you have to live with is that you can free yourself at any time. Just take a big leap. You’ll loose a bit of hair, but you’ve got plenty more. I suppose it will hurt. But slave girls have to put up with that sort of thing, don’t they?"
"I can never bring myself to tear loose," Dorinda vowed flatly. "It would be like tearing off a finger or a toe nail. Even the thought curls me up at the edges."
"You dramatize a bit, darling. You’ll get loose when you want to. Just as a further inducement you’ll be expected back at the house for dinner tonight. We are even going to let you wear clothes, lovely, gorgeous clothes. But if you’re a ‘fraudy-cat and stay here, you’ll het fifty strokes."
"Fifty?!"
"Of course. Why not?"
"But fifty would kill a girl!"
"I expect you’d survive. Girls do. No problem really. Think of that noble soul who declaimed ‘Give me liberty or give me death’. All you are going to lose is a few cunt hairs… Forgive me love, but that awful word is so absolutely right."
With the last bit of cord Terry circled her captive’s waist and cinched the handcuffs tight in the small of her back. "Just in case, darling. I’m sure you’ll try." Gally she picked up the bag and her crop and left Dorinda alone with an awful decision.
She tried. She tried desperately. First backing away from her tether until it sprang tout and the prisoner hairs made their painful protest. Fiacinated by the ingenuity if her new captivity, Dorinda continued the pressure until the tuft and the skin beneath were stretched out alarmingly. Not a single hair had come loose. She realised miserably that the yielding skin made a quick, simple yerk impractical. She would have to lunge, risking whatever injury might issue. Next she sought the knots that kept her hands at waist level. Simply handucffed she might have reached something. She was defeated there too. Entering the water she explored the anchor of her tether with her toes. But found that the most hopeless prospect of all. She was foxed! Despondently she stepped back on to the dry sand. But already the tide was claming most of the small margin Terry had left her with.