"It's very uncomfortable," Dorinda added with what I suspected was understatement.
I looked at them proudly. What a treasures!
They seemd ill at ease. They came and stood solemnly before me. "How will you punish us, master?" Terry asked sadly.
Punish? Good heavens, I'd award them the Victoria Cross, the Legion of Honour and the Congressional Medal.
They surveyed me with soft meek eyes in which there was the faintest glint of mischief. It hit me like a ton of bricks. They beheld realization down. They laughed. "How the devil did you manage it?" I demanded.
"I picked your pocket, master," Terry said demurely.
My hands flew to my pocket. The key to the handcuffs was gone.
"It's on the table, master," Dorinda confirmed.
"We wanted to powder our noses, master," Terry supplied.
"We were just readdy to lock ourselves back on our rings when little Sweetheart came leaping by. So we grabbed her."
"You mean, you had the key to freedom, but you'd lock yourselves up again?"
"Of course, master! We are slave girls. We know our place." They said it in unison. A trick, I suspect, they had deliberately cultivated.
I expect I looked thunderstruck.
"Besides, our ankles were chained, master." They offered that as if it was excuse for good behavior.
"You are utterly too much!" I told them with reverence.
"Yes master. We know we must be punished." Again in unison.
I knew with certainty that if it took every penny I had I must buy these girls and take them home. With two such treasures life could offer no challenge I could not face. "I would not dream of punishing you," I said firmly. I love you too much."
They looked at each other. They were by no means twins. But there was that same empathy between them.
"We know we did wrong, master. We want you to punish us."
What would I have done? Think before you answer! With one girl you could kiss her and dry her tears, if any. Or pick her up and carry her to the couch and arrange her legs. But two! Each beautiful beyond a man's wildest dreams. You can't do that to two, not at once.
They looked at me soulfully.
"You'd better whip me, master. It was I who stole the key."
Terry managed to make the confession sound like George Washington and the cherry tree.
"We are both equally guilty, master," Dorinda said firmly. I had a feeling that, married to Dorinda, a chap would have to toe the line.
"You both want to be whipped?" I asked unhappily. I was trying frantically to think of a way out.
"Yes please, master!" The duet sounded as though I'd offered a trip to Acapulco. Happy anticipation.
Those two girls proved something I suppose we all know but don't quite believe: that females get the best of men every time. We struggle and protest – I expect we enjoy it – but relentlessly they push in the direction they want to go, and all of a sudden we are there too. Damn remarkable!
Not so! You say. Why would two girls ask to be whipped? Seems like you have a point. But you haven't. They want to be whipped because every stripe I paint on their lovely skins makes me more their captive than they are mine. Besides, women have a sense of the rightness of things. The situation called for them to be whipped. So whipped they must be! each stroke would make them stronger and me weaker. They would weep. But their tears would melt my male armor… Oh, never doubt it. Women are stronger. Women are The Establishment.
"How would you like to be whipped?" I capitulated.
"It is for you to decide, master," the duet cooed.
A devil took hold. The male ego dies hard. "How about across your dear little quims?" I asked nonchalantly.
The silence was pregnant. But short.
"Thank you, master." They sounded ecstatic.
"How do we go about the job?" After all, it was their idea. Another silent sibling sensory. "One of the rooms has rings, master," Dorinda ventured without enthusiasm. I was glad of the absence of zest. Teach 'em a lesson. I let them lead the way.
Terry tied Dorinda. Then I tied Terry. They apologized for asking me to unlock their ankle chains. Obviously their legs had to be spread. By the time I was through there were three lovely blushes in the room.
It had the genius of simplicity. They lay on their backs on the floor, a noose round each ankle. The ropes went up and over pulleys in the ceiling. When the ropes were pulled hard enough the lovely legs rose up and spread wide so that by the time their bottoms left the floor each girl seemed to be about ninety percent sex. No one could imagine two delightful quiffs more invitingly displayed or more helplessly held. The fact that the girls had the use of their hnds altered nothing. About all they might use them for would be to beat upon the floor.
"I hope you like this, master," Terry said doubtfully.
I could see her point. If I was a girl I would never choose that pose. Even on her wedding night a girl does not open it quite that far – at least I wouldn't think so! There they were, two hair ensconced vulvas screaming to be whipped. I chose a very slender riding crop that was nearly a whip itself.
Again the problem of two. Which one to weal first? Whichever you chose you left a question mark. On the basis that terry was the most culpable I laid a truly lovely stripe flat over her sex.
She wasn't a bit heroic. But then she never pretends to be. Having so much freedom, she used it. She went wild. But no matter how she tried she always ended up where she started. The ropes round her ankles won. Even while she writhed she was open. When she lay still again her cunt screamed for attention.
I hit Dorinda. In pain the two girls are different yet the same. To writhe is to writhe, to moan is to moan. But each has their own distinctive way of telling you they hurt. Dorinda is the most voluptuous of the two. To whip dorinda is to know an agony yourself. The agony of desire. With her first twistings and small cries I am aflame.
Two red weals bisect two female quims.
"It hurts terribly, master," Terry tells me as though I need the information.
I whip them back and forth, one to the other. Their cries merge. Their struggles become continuous. Girlish hands beat against the floor and rach down to appease their wounds. When their eyes catch mine they smile.
Once more I am all the conquerors of the world. But I use judgement. I hope they would agree. I stop whipping the appealing cunts before there is damage. Besides, I love their owners. I go away. I leave them tied, moaning. They are so involved with their hurts they do not see me go. Miss Corbin is not happy. She looks at me sideways as I enter. "Alright, beat me," she invites bitterly.
I am indeed going to beat her. But not at her request. I survey her plight. My girls have, as usual, done an admirable job. Pettie's wrists are still handcuffed behind her back. But a rope drags them up to the ceiling so that she stands on tiptoe, bent forward to ease the strain, helpless. But in pain. Rope on het wrists would be bad enough, but handcuffs…!
Her bottom is beautifully displayed. It exhibits nine gorgeous wound and asks for more.
"I suppose I get whipped to death?" Pettie asks without hope.
It is a good thought. But not to death! Why waste a perfectly good girl? I tell her so.
"Fuck you, Buster!" she exclaims so that I know she has relinquished hope.
My power is complete. All three girls are helpless and exposed to whip and cane. I could make an orchestration of agony. It is at such times that we display mercy. It inflates our egos.
"You said that deliberately to annoy me, didn't you?" I ask.
"Whip me and get it over with."
"It will never be over."
It sinks in. Pettie is faced with the unknowable. heroics are no match for the forever. Faced with it, discomfort wins: "Please lower my arms. I hurt dreadfully."
"What else did you expect?"