Drusilla

4 The Cell

“Best you go to the bathroom,” Bryce advised briskly. Drusilla had become accustomed to such injunctions.

They were necessary where someone knew things you did not. The handcuffs no longer bothered her much at such times. When she returned, she voiced what appeared to be a certainty.

“Is this the day of reckoning, Bryce?”

“How did you guess!”

“The room’s finished.”

The room was as potent as all else that happened to her now. Drusilla felt it pointing at her like a beckoning finger. Because of her it had come into being. The carpenters had worked fast.

“like it?”

“It’s a prison.”

“Just the cell part, sweetheart. The rest’s for fun and games.”

“I don’t think I’m going to like it at all. Oh, Bryce, those—those—things! It’s grim.”

“It’s well illuminated.” Bryce turned a knob proudly. “See? It can be as bright or as dim as suits the mood.”

“Turn it on full. And that poor little window up there—it didn’t need to be barred.”

“Nice effect, though. Don’t you think?”

“And this awful little cell! Are you really going to lock me in it?”

“Only sometimes.”

“Oh, Bryce, don’t sound so damned pleased.”

“Why not! I am pleased. I’m particularly pleased with you. Come here.”

She went to him and clasped her shackled hands over his neck. Bryce hugged her tenderly. “Sometimes this isn’t easy for me,” he admitted in her ear. “But the way you’ve taken hold... ! You’re making me very happy.”

Drusilla nestled against her husband’s masculinity.

“This place reminds of me a Nazi interrogation chamber.”

“You’ve got goose pimples.”

“I’m going to disgrace myself. I know I am. You’re going to whip me, aren’t you?”

“Sure. The way you let Diana.”

“I didn’t ‘let’ her. I sorta’ got talked into it.”

“Probably hurts about the same either way.”

“Oh, Bryce!!”

“Well, don’t ever let’s get too gloomy about this.”

“You mean about my punishments? See, I’ve even managed to use that hateful word.”

“I’m beginning to like you a lot, darling.”

“What happened to the word love?”

“That’s different. A man can love a trollop. liking implies respect.”

“Was I really a trollop?”

“Ask yourself. You know best. But, sweetheart, no going back?”

“The way you said that means it’s going to hurt.”

“You may as well lie on the bench now.”

“Why? Are we going to make love?”

Bryce chuckled. “I’m not a bit sure that remark was innocent.” He lifted her joined hands back over his head and patted her seat. “This facility was specially made for you. Dispose yourself, woman.”

Drusilla knew a giggly wish for repartee, but recognized it for what it was: a tactic to delay. Scorning it, she climbed aboard her hard couch. “Face down, I suppose?” she inquired meekly.

“And bottoms up,” Bryce agreed cheerfully. “We’ll turn you over another time.”

Another time! And the monarchial ‘we’! Drusilla knew herself riding on a tide that could drift her anywhere. She discovered that her ankles had fallen neatly into circlets with her feet protruding beyond the end of the bench. Bryce was busily buckling them tight with straps that must have been there waiting.

“Honestly, sweetheart. Don’t you hate to lose these?” Drusilla looked up the length of her stretched out arms to where Bryce was inserting a key in a cuff. “Yes, I would,” she admitted slowly. “If it wasn’t that you’re about to fix me far tighter—you are, aren’t you! And don’t think I haven’t figured that you strapped my feet first so’s I couldn’t struggle.”

“Go ahead, struggle.” Laughing, he held up the jawed handcuffs warm from her skin. “Your hands are free.”

Drusilla had no intention of providing her amused husband with a demonstration of contorting frustration. But she massaged her wrists and stretched her arms wide in a sensual enjoyment of motions long denied. lifting herself on her elbows she confirmed the fact that there was no way she could free her feet and find freedom. “I’m helpless,” she conceded. “The way you’ve got my ankles strapped down I can’t possibly get off this contraption. There’s no need to fasten me any more.”

“Good try, ’Silla. Push your arms up.”

She did not complain. Might as well be tied for a sheep as a lamb, she thought wryly. Her wrists found other circles and other straps. Bryce buckled them tight and snug.

“I’ll whip your bottom sometime when only your ankles are strapped,” he promised genially. “Should be quite something, ”

“What you mean is that my agonized writhings would give you an erection,” she accused, falling into his mood. “Oh, gee, I can’t do anything like this.”

“Yes, you can. Try.”

“I can lift my head and get a bit of a wriggle out of my hips.”

“We must fix the hips, sweetheart.”

The strap across the small of her back was so inevitable she made no comment, contenting herself with an exaggerated “Ouch!” when Bryce buckled it tight.

“That noise was just in the hope I wouldn’t draw it as tight as I might,” he accused knowingly. “So now it gets tugged one more notch.”

Drusilla said “Ouch” again and meant it. The leather band circled her waist with a compulsive intimacy. “I can’t move at all now,” she mourned.

“Good! Don’t want you threshing around when the whip bites.”

“I wouldn’t thresh around. Can’t you give me credit for a bit of self-control?”

“Would you really like to lie there without restraint?”

Bryce asked gently.

Drusilla instantly remembered her shameful dance from Diana’s straps and bar. “No, never mind,” she declaimed hastily.

“Save you a lot of embarrassment, sweets. You’ve seen this before, haven’t you? I know you peeked.”.

Drusilla peered over a taut and helpless arm at the whip dangling from Bryce’s hand. It looked a lot more menacing now than it had in the hall stand. “I thought you’d just bought it to scare me,” she admitted. “And, yes, I peeked. But, darling, aren’t you going to use a cane—like Diana?”

“You liked Diana’s cane?”

“I don’t like either. But her cane looked less lethal than that awful thing you’re playing with.”

“On your lovely bottom, love, I suspect the cane hurts more than this. But I do have one.”

Without enthusiasm, Drusilla watched her husband go to the cupboard. It was easy to convince herself the cane he returned with was more deadly than Diana’s. Bryce held both instruments of punishment up for her inspection.

“Take your pick, ’Silla.”

“How do I know!” she retorted pettishly. “I don’t know either of them.”

“I do have a tawse.” It was as though he had saved the best till last.

Every nerve was tingling as Drusilla beheld the several thonged perfection of some leather-worker’s craft. At least it was shorter. She wondered if that was good. “And you bought all these things for me!” she said bitterly.

“Think you’ll like this better?”

“I’ll try it.”

It was like making a purchase in a store. Drusilla tensed against her restraints, not bothering to ask if her choice was irrevocable. She was sure it was. “Go easy on me, Bryce,” she begged. “I am a novice, remember.”

Bryce did not bother to answer. Watching, Drusilla was willing to believe his arm might have swung harder. But when the short, tough thongs lapped her bottom she was by no means sure. It hurt like blazes! Her bottom blazed under the stroke.

“You took that remarkably well, ’Silla.”

“I bloody well have to, don’t I!” Drusilla exclaimed bitterly between gasps.

The second slash brought home to the strapped woman her frightening immobility. The strap round her middle was punitive. No matter how hard it was struck, her bottom and hips would move no fraction. They were displayed in total vulnerability for her punishment. It didn’t seem fair. Surely a girl should be allowed to wriggle a bit while receiving such pain! “You’re hitting me awfully hard,” she offered dolourously.

Bryce’s next blow evoked a gasping cry. It was by far the worst of the three. It burned Drusilla’s tightly fastened bottom with pure venom.

“You were mentioning something about hitting you hard?” Bryce insinuated slyly.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Forget I said it.” Drusilla was in full retreat. The demonstration was convincing. She longed to clutch her wealed flesh.

“You find the original impacts preferable, dear?”

“Yes! Oh jeepers, yes!”

“Perhaps you’d like to ask nicely?”

How easy it would be to say something! But how unwise! Drusilla gulped and swallowed pride. “Please, darling, whip me the same way you started. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“You feel your tawsing humane?”

“Oh, of course—oh, yes!” She longed to smite him.

“Would you care to ask me to continue?”

“Oh. dammit, Bryce, must you have your pound of flesh? Must you rub my nose in dirt?” Drusilla could contain her humiliation no longer.

If number three had been frightful, number four was pure nightmare. The tawse splatted on the prisoned flesh with the full force of a man’s arm. Drusilla screamed, but part of her peal of agony came from shock and outrage. The room was quiet except for the panting female breath.

“You were saying, dear?”

It was a polite inquiry, moderate and urbane. Drusilla debated whether to scream again as her only vent for frustration. But she deemed it late. It would be misunderstood. Her response was urgent.

“I’ll be good! I’ll behave! Honest!” And then, in a small, pathetic voice: “I’m sorry I was smart ass.”

“That’s better, sweetheart. And I think you still wish to make a request?”

“Oh, yes—of course! Yes! Will you please whip my bottom the way you—like those first two?”

“The ones you complained about?”

“Yes, dear. I’m sorry about that.”

“Your beef was ill founded?”

“Was it ever!” Drusilla’s exclamation was heartfelt.

“You realize I was letting you off lightly?”

“Yee-e-s-s... ”

“You don’t sound all that certain?”

“I am! Oh, I am! Please whip me like that!”

In the momentary suspense awaiting the next stroke, Drusilla had time to marvel at the words she had just uttered. Their humility was both laughable and frightening. That they had emerged from her own lips would have been incredible a month ago. That they expressed only a deep sincerity was a thing of wonder. She had just asked Bryce to whip her in a certain way and been anxious that her request be granted. How crazy could a woman get?

Number five was admittedly more bearable. Bryce had returned to the rhythm of his original blows. Drusilla found she need not scream. She fought the straps but did not move. The effort was a substitute for writhing. Diana’s cane had inured her to shock. She held panic at bay while her immobilized bottom received her punishment. She was completely absorbed by the pain as the tawse slashed and seared and extracted responses from every crevice of her being. But she could not fail to know her punishment was moderate. Diana’s cane had been more cruel. With Bryce she was simply a naughty girl being reasonably whipped. The tawse was teaching her a lesson. Everything fell neatly into place within the context of what she and Bryce had set out to do. She counted the strokes silently. Surely it would not be more than ten! Drusilla clutched at the round number with an anxious hope. When it passed and the tawse continued to scorch her skin With eleven and twelve she was about to utter a resentful plaint, but was stopped by her husband’s announcement.

“Thirteen! That should be about right for a start. What d’you think, sweetheart?”

Drusilla schooled herself to caution. She was very helpless and very naked. “I expect it is,” she ventured noncommittally.

“Not sure, darling?”

“Oh, Bryce, don’t tease. I’d have been glad to stop at ten—or even five.”

“Your bottom’s beautiful.”

“It doesn’t feel beautiful.”

“How does it feel?”

“As thought a fire’s burning on it.”

“But you’re not dying?”

“All right, Bryce, you’ve proved your point. I can be whipped and survive. If you’re a little bit kind about laying it on I can manage not to scream.”

“I’m proud of you, ’Silla.”

“I’m proud of myself.” Drusilla cocked an anxious eye.

“But it’s not going to be a daily event, is it?”

“That’s up to you.”

Bryce’s serious rejoinder made the straps seem very tight. “You’re reducing me to childhood, aren’t you? I’m either a good girl or a bad girl. If I’m bad I’m punished?”

“And I lay down the rules.”

“O.K. We’ve gone over this before,” Drusilla agreed wearily. “I’ve just made the discovery that, even after what you’ve just done to me, I don’t want to call it off. I have to be crazy but that’s how it is.” She paused, half ashamed of her admission. Then added, more carefully: “I guess we’ve proved something. You can let me loose now.”

There fell a silence. For the naked woman strapped to the bench it was more eloquent than words. Her heartbeats quickened. She knew!

“In the morning, love.”

“Bryce!” Drusilla’s exclamatory word vibrated with emotion. “You’re not going to leave me strapped to this damned bench all night?”

“Yes, I am, pet.”

Drusilla drew a deep breath and warned herself inwardly: “Careful, girl, careful!” Bryce was no longer predictable. A couple of wrong words and the tawse could be cutting at her again. She forced her tongue to moderation. “Isn’t that taking a mean advantage of me?”

“I don’t think so. You could have asked the same about the handcuffs.”

She was forced to examine his proposition in a way she would not have done in freedom. He was right, of course. Her punishments would vary in degree. But the principle was established. “Do I deserve it?” she asked cautiously.

“Not in the sense you’re thinking of,” he admitted. “But in this—this—thing we’ve agreed on you have to lose a lot of freedom. Some of the loss will be uncomfortable.”

“All right!” She allowed some of her resentment to seep into her words. “Strapped tight like this! I can’t move!”

“Don’t beef, sweetheart. You’re lying down. You’ll sleep.”

“I won’t! I won’t! It’s awful!”

“It can always be worse, ’Silla. Would you prefer standing against the post?”

His tone was a warning she could not ignore. Angrily she knew it best to accept what she must. If she was going to play this experiment out with him she must not be constantly shaming herself with outraged exclamations. She contented herself with sad reproach.

“Oh, Bryce! All right—all right...!”

He kissed the back of her neck and left her alone. Immobility! Helplessness! The totality of it was scary.

For a few moments Drusilla fought the straps to assure herself again of the impossibility of escape. Then desisted. It would be too easy to get into a panic. She hoped it meant something that, despite the indignities, she wanted to hold on to her husband’s regard. A screaming, hysterical woman would get neither of them anywhere. She possessed a safety valve. She must make it sustain her over the humps! Resolutely she closed her mind against an unattractive vista.

On his way out Bryce had lowered the light. The bench and its nude captive reposed in a dim yellow gloom. Chafing at the restraint imposed on her by another’s will, Drusilla became aware of an enemy. It was the strap around her middle. It held her with a venom in which there was something almost personal. Idly she savored the strangeness of being unable to touch herself. Her hands were way off in a captivity of their own. She could not use one to reach down and seek easement. She could do nothing beyond wriggling her fingers and toes or resting her cheek against one or the other of her prisoned arms. She wondered if her pussy was wet! But that was a test impossible. Ignoring discomfort, the woman in bondage turned her thoughts to the increasingly exciting glimpses of eroticism which she had, at first, refused to recognize. She had enjoyed the handcuffs. Silly perhaps, but true. In retrospect, the punishments of her flesh had left her with a glow that burst into flame every time she allowed her mind to dwell on them. At that very moment her bottom was imparting a myriad of messages to which the cleft between her legs was vividly responsive. The straps holding her motionless were the imposition of a male hand—a hand that had loved her! By morning she might hate them. But now, save for the nag at her waist, they bound her with an erotic intimacy that joined forces with her burning bottom to excite... Drusilla’s mind drifted back and forth across the spectrum of her domestic captivity. Soon she slept.

Drusilla had decided to greet her husband in the morning with a remark couched in such a way as to make him properly ashamed of what he had done to her. But the flaring light and his cheery “good morning” caught her dozing in the aftermath of sleep.

“Oh, Bryce... !” Annoyed, she knew her greeting held nothing but thankfulness.

“Caught you asleep, eh! Bet you never thought—?”

“No, I didn’t! That strap across my back’s cutting me in two.”

“Hmmmm!” His fingers searched. “Bit tight, all right. Sorry, love. Here, I’ll unbuckle it.”

Drusilla remembered the story of the tight shoes. She gasped in the sensual ecstasy of release. “I love you, I love you, I love you... !” Her gratitude was heartfelt.

“All set for the day then, eh?”

She tensed. Surely not that! But she was still helpless... !

She looked up wanly at her captor’s smiling face and pleaded: “Please... oh, please?”

“Want to go to the bathroom?”

“Yes,”

“O.K. I won’t tease. Just a moment. There’s a little something—”

The “little something” was a length of chain. Drusilla was still fastened too tightly to be able to see her husband’s actions. But the cold links went round her tummy. They were pulled tighter and tighter. ... A padlock clicked shut. “What’s that for?” she asked uncertainly.

“Just a small reminder, pet. And now—!”

Drusilla wanted to cry with happiness. It felt so good to have her hands and feet. The agony of their stiffness was pure joy. She pushed herself achingly from her hard couch and was grateful for Bryce’s helpful arms. “Oh, darling... !” She hugged and cuddled, suddenly aware of how lonely the night had been. They made love with a tremendous urgency and new, strange agonies of delight.

Their time had been far too short.

When Bryce, in a flurry of motion, had dashed off to the office, Drusilla was left wondering if something had been forgotten. She was free! Had he forgotten to handcuff her! Or had she been promoted?

Exactly how free was she?

The chain was hurting. It was meant to, of course’ It divided her as neatly as had the corset. Her journey to and from the bathroom had told her all to graphically that her hips were once more wanton and that she walked as provocatively as did a whore. Her fingers searched the padlock at her back. It was secure. She belonged to the man who held its key.

The hurt was not unbearable. The chain was, as Bryce had said, a reminder. It would nag her constantly, telling her what she was. Yet, in the privacy of their home, its effect on her was intriguing. In their bedroom Drusilla strutted up and down before the big mirror and gigglingly admired the outrageous behavior of her hips. Try as she would she could not make them behave. She was not sure she wanted them to.

Drusilla bathed. She washed her hair. Luxuriating in her possession of hands no longer joined, she did slowly and pleasurably all the things she wanted to do, some of which the handcuffs had inhibited. She walked about her house. made coffee and toast, read the paper. It was not until she leant against the sink to do the dishes that she realized she was still naked.

She dressed, more from a sense of what was proper than any wish to be covered. Anxiously, she examined her contours in the mirror for any tell-tale intrusion at her waist. But the chain was sufficiently indented within her flesh to betray no hint of its presence. The padlock was at the small of her back and was only faintly discernible.

She considered phoning Diana. Diana would drool over the chain and lock. But today was hers alone. The metal constricting her waist made Bryce a tangible presence in the room. Another woman would be an intrusion. She was about to go downstairs to explore what shocks the new room might hold for her, when the phone rang.

“Thought you’d be at your lawyer’s,” Bryce’s voice was jaunty.

“You didn’t think any such thing.”

“You’re wearing some damaging evidence, y’know.” Drusilla sniffed. “You could say I locked it on myself.”

“How about your bottom? I bet it’s rosy red?”

“Never mind,” she said icily. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Hoity-toity, we are feeling our freedom, aren’t we?”

She was certain he was chuckling into the mouthpiece. “But actually, I did have something in mind.”

“Bryce, don’t be mean... ?”

“Oh, you’ll love this one!” His voice told her plainly she would not love it at all. “You’d like a bit of exercise? Get out of the house... ?”

“Not wearing this chain. You know what it does!”

“Well, that’s sort of the idea.” She could imagine him grinning. “I want you to walk down Tilbury Street.”

“No!” Outrage pronounced the negative. “Why not, pet?”

“You know perfectly well why. That’s where the whores solicit. I wouldn’t walk down there any time. I certainly won’t now the way you’ve got me fixed.”

“Fifty with the tawse, darling?”

“I don’t care! I won’t do it!”

“Plus a night against the post?”

“Oh, Bryce, don’t be so unkind.”

“Don’t say no too hastily, pet. Think a bit.”

“That’s mean. You give me such awful things to think about. It’s not fair. Either way I lose.”

“A free choice, darling.”

“There’s nothing free about it. It’s coercion.”

“You’ll get a tremendous charge.”

“Bryce, you’re spoiling my day. Are you serious about—about—what you’ll do to me?”

“You know I am, sweets. Stop quibbling.”

“I’ll be arrested—or accosted—or something.” In the midst of her protestation, inspiration dawned. “Very well then,” Drusilla amended crisply. “I’ll do it.”

His chuckle was audible. “In the middle of the block there’s the Pacific News. Remember?”

“I’ve seen it, going by.”

“Drop in there and buy a copy of the London Times.

It’s the only place in town that sells it.” Another chuckle. “Just a bit of proof in case you were thinking of cheating.”

“Bryce, I hate you!”

“No, you don’t, sweetheart.”

She slammed the receiver savagely back on its cradle. Driving the car was surprisingly uncomfortable. The chain protested her every movement. While she wrenched at the wheel to park it was like a live thing round her middle.

There is a Tilbury Street in most towns. They are all alike. In order to face it Drusilla had donned her most unattractive garment and made herself as dowdy as possible. Setting out upon her challenge, she wished she had been less thorough. The sway of her hips was now doubly grotesque. She had practiced walking, but nothing helped. She approached the fateful block on Tilbury with a forthright stride.

Purposeful speed was the answer. It carried her past interested eyes, post hostile glares. A policeman spared her only a flicker of attention. Potential clients withheld their offers. Drusilla was pink cheeked and panting by the time she handed over the coins and accepted the foreign news-paper. Passing the bookshelf on her way to the door she saw the paperback.

It had received raves. Its cover blurb was unblushing.

Drusilla could not resist. She put down her purchase and browsed. But it was the old story of promise unfulfilled. The more she thumbed, the less her urge to buy. Disappointed, she replaced the epic on its shelf, brushed forcefully past a loitering male, and once more ran the gauntlet to her car. Settling into her seat she felt a thrill of victory. The rolled paper beside her was a prize. Now her ordeal was over, she wished it prolonged, and in more bewitching attire! The loiterers were mostly sad middle-aged men who looked harmless—it might have been amusing. She was tempted to retrace her steps, but thought of the policeman deterred her. She started the motor. Her chain burned.

Supper was a success. Drusilla had hummed happily while she worked. When she kissed her husband, home from toil, she was wearing his favorite dress. It was not until after the dishes were disposed of that the loving wife sank to her knees before her lord and proffered the newspaper that was her proof of obedience.

“Meanie, making me do a thing like that... !”

Their mood was good. Bryce accepted the offering. His eyes approved her humorous approach. He bent forward and kissed her.

“I bet you had three orgasms and loved it.”

“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.

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.