Golden Wrists

3 A Plethora of Punishments

It was a day of surprises, surprises which told me clearly I had much to learn about teenage female prisoners. I remembered the Frenchman’s bit of philosophy that a female is like a fine musical instrument which would respond according to the skill one used upon it. The prospect of exploring fifty feminine instruments was entrancing, stretching on and on into the future. I returned to my office and Elizabeth Lord.

“Hello. Diana.” It was as though I had never been away. I almost gasped in sheer ecstasy as I beheld the sight of silken hair falling down beside the captive head and the two captive hands hanging limp. Elizabeth’s pubic patch screamed aloud for an attention I was not prepared to give. I simply said. “Hello. Elizabeth, enjoying yourself!”

“Actually, yes. What I mean is, I have to endure this sort of thing so I might as well get all I can out of it. The way I figure it this is a damned remarkable experience I wouldn’t want to pass up. I hope you’re not going to let me loose.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Well, don’t do it. Keep me here a while and give me whatever humiliation goes along with the treatment.”

Elizabeth still led but this time I did not follow. “You’ll have to stop telling me what to do to you,” I pointed out reasonably. “You’re the captive here to be punished and I’m the headmistress who does the punishing. Most of the time you seem to forget.”

“Yes, Diana, you’re absolutely right. Please use that damned cane on me some more until you’re sure I really am broken and mean what I say. I know your position isn’t all that easy.”

Good gosh! This mature, lovely girl had been doing some reasoning while I was gone. Her conclusions saved me time trying to express my own. I asked, “You don’t really want me to cane you again, do you?”

“Yes. I’ve not behaved well at all.”

I caned the bottom of Miss Elizabeth Lord until she screamed. It took a long time. By that time I was sweating just as hard as the naked girl in the pillory. Only her sweat was from pain, mine from exertion and pleasure. I did not let her free but picked up my papers from the desk and dealt with them even though most of my attention was upon the bowed head of a naked female I would have to treat with caution.

Elizabeth was in a strange detachment all her own, almost a trance-like state. I knew she was aware of me but only as a part of her dream, the experiment she was making of Rockley and herself. I knew also we were tremendously aware of each other. Even at a distance I keep picking up her scent.

I worked hard at keeping my mind on the paperwork even though all I really wanted to do was watch the captive Elizabeth and wonder about this treasure fate had placed within my grasp. Victoria Ponsby had admitted my punishment of her fostered only love. I was pretty sure it worked that way, too, with Elizabeth. I allowed her to stand an hour in the pillory before I used the key.

Directly I used the key, she clasp her arms around my neck and pressed her cheek against mine like a child. Once more I had the feeling I had lost control. I wanted this silent communion as much as she but knew that somehow I would have to break the spell. Gently. I disengaged, turned the lovely nudity around and placed her hands palm to palm behind her back.

I suppose I chose the binding because of the personal intimacy, something of myself Elizabeth must bear, a small but constant nagging pain she would suffer as a gift from me. She said no word as I corded her wrists as tightly as I dared. Then I compressed her forearms to enable loops of rope to clamp her elbows tight. It is not every girl one can do this with but Elizabeth’s nakedness had a supple flexibility I adored. Strand after strand I wound around the unprotesting flesh and drew the strictures tight to make the final knot tight and at the elbows where she could never reach. When I turned her once again to behold the protruding breasts, it was I who clasped my victim in my arms to kiss and kiss again before leading her to the cage and inserting her. Our eyes had said everything, we spoke no words. I stood entranced as the lush maturity turned to face the stares and walk with seeming unconcern to find what fellowship she could among the handcuffed beauties who eyed her bonds askance.

Slowly they gathered around their freshly bound companion in distress and I wondered how long it would be before one of them found the courage to untie my wicked knots. But perhaps Elizabeth would be as tightly tied tomorrow as today. It would be an interesting experiment.

Uncle Andrew certainly got around. The shock he slipped me the following day took the form of a smiling African gentleman with very white teeth and an Oxford accent who was securely attached to a mischievous-eyed maiden of Rockley age by a pair of handcuffs from his left wrist. Neither seemed to notice the connection between their wrists, and once more I had the feeling of others playing the lead while I stood in the wings.

Introductions were instant, the gentleman being Mr. Mandel Matussi, and the maiden Miss Phomie Prendella. Arrangements had been made for Miss Prendella to enjoy the benefits of the Rockley institute to which Mr. Matussi had been delegated to deliver her in good order. Ceremoniously, Mr. Matussi handed me an envelope filled with documents and used a key to detach himself from the girl. Prudently he joined her wrists behind her back with the freed cuff. I sensed he was much relieved to be free of her.

“Miss Prendella has a tendency to run away and get in trouble.” he explained. “She needs constant supervision and discipline.” He smiled brightly. “You will find in the envelope full permission from her male parent to whip her daily and administer any other punishments you feel appropriate.” He sighed. “Miss Prendella has been a great trial and anxiety to all concerned.”

I offered him sherry which is a terrible British expedient by which they avoid offering you a cup of coffee or pouring a decent drink. Mr. Matussi shared the couch while sipping ritualistically while Phomie stood respectfully at the end of the coffee table, hands behind her back, and all the mischievousness of Africa in her dark eyes. I was told her behavior had been deplorable in her almost constant desire for male attention. From the way Mr. Matussi eyed his ward, I had to wonder if he had provided some of this male attention himself. Phomie radiated that intense female aura which left no doubt she could accommodate the male population of any country between her thighs, I sighed in resignation and admitted to myself she would be a pleasant change from all that blue blood in the cage.

Mr. Matussi presented me with the handcuff key and made his departure. My latest girl and I viewed each other calculatingly. I sensed intelligence. Phomie’s voice was richly colored. “He’s such a funny little man,” she confided as though we’d known each other for years. “I don’t mind having to wear handcuffs but now he’s taken his worries back to our country, you might as well give me back my hands. I’m not going to run away immediately I’ve arrived.”

Phomie bounced to where I sat, turned her back, and wiggled two hands securely locked in steel. I knew this magnificent moppet was taking the initiative and I should not let her. But I was curious. I used the key and put it with the handcuffs in a draw while Phomie rubbed her wrists and said thoughtfully. “Thank you. Miss Durrant. Oh, by the way, my Daddy says you may whip me anytime you wish.”

Even with her clothes on, Phomie was a dish, a dish piled high with the assurance just delivered. I felt certain whipping Phomie’s bottom would be an event, a happening, which she might easily forget but one I would remember all my life.

“I met Mr. Everleigh at one of the Embassy cocktail parties. And when he told me about Rockley I knew I absolutely had to come.” She beamed gratification. “My Daddy is an absolute dear and doesn’t mind who whips my bottom so long as he doesn’t have to do it himself. Mr. Everleigh fixed everything and here I am.” She bathed me in the radiance of a smile in which mischief was nicely blended with serious intent. “I really am a naughty girl, Miss Durrant. I won’t pretend I’m not. But being naughty is so delicious, don’t you think?”

I would never be sure of Phomie, and she knew it. Everything she said might be a smoke screen shielding her inmost self. Or she might be simply naive. I would find out.

For the moment her roving eye had come to rest upon the oaken Pillory in which so many girls had been introduced to Rockley. “That’s a pillory, isn’t it, Miss Durrant! You lock girls like me in there and we have to stand until we cry or ask forgiveness and promise never to be naughty again. Will I have to stand in it?”

“You can stand in it right now if you wish.”

“Well, perhaps not right now ... Would you show me around Rockley. I’m tremendously curious.”

“That would amuse me, too, but Rockley insists upon a special uniform. I’m afraid it’s wearing nothing at all. Does that bother you?”

“Goodness no! When I go traveling with Daddy at home I always wear what the local girls wear. That’s usually just what you’ve described, I expect you’ve seen our pictures in the National Geographic? Would you like me to undress?”

Phomie was still miles ahead but I comforted myself with the knowledge I could bring her back to heel with the ancient remedy of pain. But this I did not want to do. It would be far more fun to allow her the rope by which she would later hang. I stood in awe as I watched the baring of black beauty beyond any I had ever seen. Phomie’s skin was like satin and had a radiance all its own, and a texture I would wish to touch. Miss Prendella also possessed and exhibited with pride a well-whipped bottom. She explain it was evidence of her latest naughtiness with a junior embassy official now sent home to Ugammi in disgrace. With the final shedding of clothes and shoes, she raised her arms above her head, turning slowly as she flexed her contours for my approval. Phomie was something else!

Had Miss Prendella wished to fight the handcuffs, I could not have handled her sleek, young strength. But I need not have worried. When I produced the shinning steel bracelets, her only demure was to ask if I minded using the pair in which she’d been delivered. I gather there was some sentimental attachment I would hear about in time.

This glorious daughter of Africa held out her wrists and sighed gently as I locked the circles tight. Testing as though to make sure they would not come loose, Phomie giggled, “They’re so useful when I meet boys because they think they make me helpless. I only have to struggle the least bit to get them tremendously excited.” She sighed happily. “And they’re so wonderful to remind me to behave myself.”

“You don’t consider sexual intercourse with a man as something bad?”

“Of course not! It’s such lovely fun.” She chuckled in pure joy and raised her hands so I could see the shinning silver bands she wore as bracelets, “I mean like it’s not bad like borrowing the car, or getting home late. Or being rude to Mommy.” Brightly, as though bringing stupidity up to date, she added, “Everybody does it, you know. Or else none of us would be here.”

“There’s no men to do it with at Rockley.”

“Yes, that’s what they told me. That’s the real punishment in coming here, isn’t it? But I’m sure you’ll lend me one of your dildos ... You will, won’t you?”

“I don’t even have one to lend.”

“Then I’ll bet you have fun with us girls.”

“That’s none of your business, young lady. You’d best watch what you’re saying.”

“Will you do it with me, Miss Durrant? Or let me do it to you?”

I refused to be provoked but led Miss Prendella to view the delights of her future home. I dwelt at length upon the dungeon’s doom and gloom, and made her lift the weight of chains she would have to bear should her behavior warrant. I felt only a small twinge of defeat when she bubblingly proclaimed it the most exciting place she’d ever seen. The cage intrigued and she implored me to put her inside with all the others. But her indoctrination was not yet complete, so I took her back to my office and the waiting pillory.

“I’ll bet you’re going to lock me in that thing and cane my bottom,” she said as though it were her idea. “My poor bottom’s been caned a great deal lately, Miss Durrant. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind caning me somewhere else.”

“For instance...?”

“I couldn’t help noticing all those other girls in the big cage, and all those marks across their bottoms. Perhaps, if it’s all the same to you. Miss Durrant, you don’t have to cane me at all because it’s already been done.” She gave me an understanding smile. “If you put me in among all those other girls, they won’t be able to tell if I got these marks today or yesterday.” She grinned. “I’m not all that keen on getting caned there where I sit down, it hurts terribly. So if you wouldn’t mind...?”

The little so and so was echoing my own thoughts. I had no wish to add stripes to youthful contours already marked up. But it’s not practical to use a cane upon a girl’s back. And I certainly was not going to use it on any other part. I lifted the upper yoke of the pillory and said, crisply, “Get yourself inside here and stop telling me what to do.”

There was only a momentary pause, and, even though she could have gotten the best of me in a struggle, Miss Phomie Prendella arranged herself neatly within the spaces only just big enough to accommodate girlish wrists and neck.

Obviously she felt no ill. “I thought it best to try. Miss Durrant. I do understand your position. If you’ve all the other girls, you absolutely must cane me, too. Please don’t feel guilty.”

I felt guilty as hell and snapped the yoke down hard and let Phomie hear the click of the padlock which meant she could stay there forever if I so desired. “Six strokes on your bottom,” I snapped at her in an effort to maintain control. “Scream all you like.”

Phomie did not scream even through I must have hurt her brutally. By now my aim was quite remarkably accurate, and I planted the cane only on those areas not previously scored. My African beauty made no sound, her only recognition of the punishment was the shifting of her feet and tensing of her arms as I added six more ridges upon her flesh. I left her there to stand while I returned to my desk to make believe I was dealing with bits of paper that really mattered. The scent of Africa filled my room to make me long to take this girl to my bed.

When I had dealt with Phomie’s introduction to Rockley, I tied her wrists and elbows in the same manner as with Elizabeth Lord. I noted that as my cords looped and bit deeply into her skin, her breathing increased along with mine. In self-defense I hurried with the most unkind binding there is for a girl, clamping Phomie’s elbows tight and knotting viciously, while at the same time explaining to her that she would find another girl in the cage tied the same way. And that, if either of them could get the other free, they were at liberty to do so. When I opened the cage door and thrust the black girl inside, I was conscious of casting my bread upon the waters in the hope it would return to me ten-fold. Approximately fifty young women would yield obedience. They were mine!

Her reaction to the neatly spread out tunic was instant. “I stopped wearing those silly things five years ago and I’m not going to start wearing them now!”

“Would you prefer twenty strokes with the cane, dear?”

Cynthia was undeniably shocked and seized upon the only deficiency. “There’s no panties and no bra, the whole thing’s indecent. It’s worse than being naked!”

“You may have both bra and panties, dear, if you don’t mind them being lined with stinging nettles.”

We allowed the awful suggestion to hover above our prisoner. “You wouldn’t!” Cynthia stared in wild disbelief.

Possibly I should explain that the English stinging nettle is like the American poison ivy. Any girl who had to wear undergarments lined with that plant’s leaves would soon be itching and burning something fierce. Cynthia considered the possibility and extended a pair of maiden hands in meek surrender. “If you’ll take off these handcuffs, I’ll dress the way you wish.” Rockley held all the cards so the end result was always the same.

After a while we tired of the individual sport, and with a dozen school-clad maidens among their fellows in the cage, dumped a pile of tunics inside the cage with instructions to have them on or face the cane. I had never unlocked so many handcuffs in my life. The one exception was Elizabeth Lord.

Elizabeth was a beautiful woman and wore her nakedness with nonchalance. As usual, she spoke first. “I’ve wondered about this school girl thing. Half the girls have to tug and stretch. You’re going to have a lot of ruptured seams.”

I unlocked one cuff and clasped it with it’s fellow on her left wrist as I motioned to my desk on which reposed a waiting badge of shame. “Try this one, Elizabeth.”

“I’m going to look silly.”

“Put it on anyway.”

She shrugged, her raised eyebrow could have meant anything.

When she had tugged the white blouse into place, she laughed. “These things are for girls who don’t have breasts. Good gosh, look at mine!”

It had the effect I desired. I did not want Elizabeth simply one of the girls, I wanted her as Elizabeth. And she would evoke either giggles or awe, When she saw the corset she exclaimed, “You can’t possibly mean this. Miss Durrant! If I cinch that corset around my middle. I’ll be honestly ashamed.”

“Do it!”

I had caught her interest. The corset intrigued, it was a pretty thing and would be cruel in its clasp on any maiden above the age of twelve. To do it right, Elizabeth removed the blouse she had just donned to fit the waist-cincher around her already flat tummy for good effect. She had obviously had a previous acquaintance with such an artful constriction but I said nothing of my suspicion. When it was fitted in place to her satisfaction, she turned and thrust the deadly laces to my attention, while placing her free hands upon the top of her head and saying, mischievously, “There you are, Miss Durrant, do your worst.”

I didn’t do my worst but took my time. Little by little I constricted an already narrow waist into the remarkable effect of flared hips and an upthrust bust. The effect was breathtaking and as far removed from school days as a girl could get. The white blouse now bulged delightfully, showing taut nipples beneath the silk. I handed my prisoner the blue serge.

“I suppose you realize I can scarcely breath.” Elizabeth said in unconcern, “And you’ve had this tunic altered to fit no girl that ever was ... Holly cow!”

The effect was gorgeously erotic - almost no waist at all but plenty of breasts and hips! In pure mercy, I allowed her to sit while I tugged on the bobby socks and shoes. I was nervous as to what might happened if she bent down.

When I had once more cuffed her wrists, and led her to my room and the big mirror, before which we stood in mutual admiration of a contoured creation of beauty. I then made her sit while I converted the loveliness of her hair into a couple of school girl pigtails with wide blue ribbons at each end. Not until them did my constricted captive ask, “But what’s it prove, Miss Durrant? Except to make me feel silly and a sex object every girl is going to giggle over. Or is this only a prelude to publicly caning my bottom?” She laughed delightedly. “If I can manage to bend over for it, of course!”

Mindful of my weakness where Elizabeth was concerned, I put her back in the cage and stood watching long enough to hear the oooh’s and ah’s, and watch the cluster of schoolgirls form around this one who was one of them and yet not one of them. I went back to my office to do some thinking.

The obvious way to derive maximum impact was to tease and torment one girl at a time. But my naked nymphets were far too numerous and would compare notes when placed back in the cage, I hit upon a treatment they must dislike intensely, but one far more in keeping with their dress and simulated youth. Talking about it with Constance and Betty, we agreed it was probably the English atmosphere and the pert impotency of handcuffed teenagers which provided the true inspiration. We decided on instigation the following day.

The store house of Rockley came up with the right equipment, as usual. Fifty collars, delightful metal circlets which locked with a loud snap and provided a ring at the back of each girl’s neck. Rockley scored again with its immense Great Hall which accepted my fifty captive school girls in a circle around its walls. Before relieving them of handcuffs, we ran the long, long chain of previous acquaintance in a continuous thread through the rings of their collars, so that, even if completely free, there was nothing they could do beyond cause their companions distress, then get their own neck tugged and jerked in return. Their initial attempts to escape their bondage were amusing but they soon realized they weren’t going anywhere and quickly settled down. They were all baffled by what came next.

As an American, I was forced to be amused by the English reverence for The Cane. It starts them out quite early in life, and I understand that even at advanced ages, elderly gentlemen hire commercial ladies for the express purpose of having her slice away at them in nostalgic memories of younger times. It was the cane I would have Constance and Betty use today, but not upon bottoms already marked by its sting. Today was to be a festival of ‘hold out your hand, you naughty girl.’

Well aware of my ignorance of such corporal absurdities. I had Constance attend me in the office, directing her to cane the experimental palm I held out in order to fully understand the quality of the cane I was about to impose upon delinquent hands. Constance was dubious. “It’s going to hurt a lot more than you think. Miss Durrant. Most of these girls have probably been caned before at school, and have some idea. For them there will be no shock. The pain may seem truly awful. Frankly, Miss Durrant. I would rather not inflict it.”

“Thank you, but do it and get it over with.” I extended an uninformed hand, palm up.

Constance was right. The cut of cane was so bloody awful I could scarcely believe it happened. Uncaring of dignity I clasp my hand under my armpit in an effort to absorb the agony. Constance watched with sympathy. “I told you so, Miss Durrant. Caning their hands is far worse than striping their little bottoms. I suspect we are going to have fifty very obedient young ladies by the time we are through. Do you still wish to have the young ladies received this punishment?”

Reluctantly I straightened up and tried to ignore the burning pain.

I had never previously experienced such throbbing pain and could well believe it was swollen twice normal size. But when I looked at it, there was no evidence of agony other than the red mark. I was stuck with a dilemma of my own making. “You are right. Constance,” I said, “it hurts terribly. But I want each girl to receive what you have just given me. In that case, it will be a stroke across each hand. If we fail to make an adequate impression, you and Betty can advance that number to two or three. Let us begin.”

Once more I felt a bitch. Not so much over the pain my little darlings were about to endure but over the whole erotic scene Uncle Andrew had made possible. I was positively on fire in my desire to see the manner in which each maiden would cope. At the back of my mind was a vivid speculation about Elizabeth Lord.

Rockley’s girls stood around the wall as I mounted the small stage and faced the class. I tried not to look at Elizabeth, who stood out from the rest like a bacon on a dark night. She was entirely glorious and was offhandedly fingering the metal collar on her neck. For her, the thing about to happen would be infinitely worse than for the rest. My pulse raced.

From the slight height of the stage I surveyed my captives who stared back as though I were the angel of doom. “Your punishment today is appropriate to your dress,” I began. “You will feel the punishment unjust but it matches your behavior before you came to Rockley. I want each one of you to kneel where you now stand. Come, no dawdling.”

They were baffled and paused to stare at each other in dismay. But if one knelt, her companions must also. The result was a pleasant clatter and clink of chain as they assumed their new position. As I observed Elizabeth Lord kneeling humbly with her teenage companions, my nostrils flared in joy.

“Your hands are about to be caned,” I told them in my most authoritative tone. “Some of you will have enjoyed this experience in school, the rest of you will have heard of it. When your turn comes, extend your right hand with open palm, and watch while it is done. There will be no closing of eyes or turning away. You will repeat this as often as required. There is no need to panic, you will not die.”

The girls were exquisitely controlled, the collar and linkage imposing a compulsion they could not contest. Constance, Betty and I had agreed to share the task of using the cane, while, at the same time, keeping an eye on the long line of darlings. First on the chain was a fierce-eyed daughter, intelligent enough to realize her helplessness, but unable to control her anger. “I do this under protest, Miss Durrant. At the end of my time here, I shall make quite sure my parents and the police take action against you.” Her voice lost something of its arrogance as she added. “Please don’t cane my hand too hard. I’m only a girl.” Bravely she extended one bare arm.

I made the cane zing. The eyes of number one almost jumped from her head in shock. She stared at me in horror before thrusting her punished palm beneath an armpit with an moan of misery. My own gasp was one of joy.

Number two was frankly scared, a lissome little sweetheart with dark brown hair and pert cones for breasts. She put her hands behind her back and said, apologetically, “I’m sorry but I can’t possibly. I can’t stick my hand out for that pain. And I can’t look at you while you cut it in two.” Her voice was choked with emotion.

Without a word I allowed the quivering tip of my instrument to friction the young breasts, making a bland assurance, “If you do not extend your arm, and do as you’re told. I will cane these twin delights until you do.”

No arm could be extended with greater speed or palm offered with more appeal. My cane cut the air with a wicked song while the girl stared in wide-eyed horror. With a choking sob and tears, she nursed her wounded hand while I tapped the bare shoulder of number three.

The cane was the baton of a sympathy of gasps and sobs and tears. Most girls, when their time came, stared defiantly as their sacrificial palm awaited the fatal cut. Always the injured hand fled to the soft refuge of a girlish armpit. But there were those who bore their pain with remarkable fortitude - after all, their blood was blue!

The disturbance came while I was dealing with number twelve.

An angry redhead across the wall scrambled to the her feet, dragging her companions with her, to cry aloud in anger and authority, “Don’t be such a bunch of sheep. There’s only three of them! Come on, rush them all together!”

There was a startled hush, girl looked at girl while nervous hands fingered collars on slender necks and the chain Even my aides and I were startled into silence, but that was momentary. With purposeful strides. Betty seized the rebellious hair to shake a rebellious head vigorously before handcuffing the wrists behind the girl’s back. She then unlocked the collar and led the would-be leader of insurrection to the center of the hall in full view. In that center there rested a sinister black box from which she immediately extracted panties and bra and, despite struggles, clothed rebellious loins and breasts. But here was not the svelte symmetry of girlish lingerie, the panties and cups of the bra were well padded in a manner to make me long to laugh. Having got these garments properly in place. Betty donned rubber gloves and began to stuff a supply of stinging nettles within each cup and the panties. She seemed to be stuffing more into the girl’s crotch than there should be room for. She then roped the cuffed hands high from a noose around the rebellious neck, closed the lid of the box, and resumed her former position. The rebellious girl was left standing stricken and helpless as an example for all go see. It was beautiful to behold. The girl, her name was Amy, stood for a moment stricken in disbelief and gathering her thoughts as her shoulders weaved uselessly against the binding by which Amy’s hands were prohibited from reaching her garments. The poor, dear girl shook herself violently as might a dog to rid itself of fleas, shaking and twisting against the bit and sting of nettles plastered against her skin in her most tender places. There began then a performance to hold every maiden eye spellbound. With a sob of outrage. Amy lowered herself to the floor and rolled and contorted in anxious motion by which she no doubt hoped to rid herself of this hateful infliction. All could see the agony in her face and most knew to some degree the flaming sting that she felt so privately. Failing to gain relief, she now knelt beside the big black box to twist and trust against the lid to try and rub off her bra or panties. But they had been place on tightly and all her efforts failed. Scrambling to her feet, Amy devoted all her efforts to freeing her handcuffed wrists from the rope around her neck, but this, too, was painful and unrewarding. Eventually she stood before us all, suffering a punishment we could not see. Her breasts heaved as her breath came fast in total frustration and defeat. Amy looked around the circle of teenage concern as if in search of aid. But then, with an inarticulate cry, fled from center stage to fall kneeling at my feet. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please forgive me. Miss Durrant, I promise I’ll behave. Please, please, please!!!”

She was very sweet in her progress, her repentance was real. I could well imagine what the nettle leaves were doing to her. With some compassion I told her she must return to the center of the hall and stand there for ten minutes before her neck would once more be collared to the chain. No doubt Amy computed odds and realized my offer was as good as she would get. With one more sweet little cry of despair, she fled back the way she had come to stand in the center of the huge room. Her feet were rooted to the floor but the rest of her was in constant motion as she twisted and contorted in fiery agony. The distress was beautiful on her face. I loved the way she jerked and pulled on her wrists in an uncontrollable effort to use her hands. The steel edges of the handcuffs bit into the flesh in a lovely infliction of additional punishment.

All the girls watched and learned their lesson Disobedience would earn them all this torment, and they didn’t miss that point.

When Amy’s sentence was served, she was taken back to her former place, her neck locked in its waiting collar and her hands once more freed to enable her to with swift and savage motions to rid herself of punishment panties and bulging bra. She hurled the bra and its awful contents as far a she could. When her turn came to extend a bare arm and palm, she did so in meek obedience and nursed the resultant wound in the same manner as all the rest.

My main concern was, of course, Elizabeth Lord. Elizabeth’s eyes had become sultry, lush lips swelling at the approach of the cane. I had previously arranged it would be I who would inflict Elizabeth’s punishment. I was aflame with desire, and gazed down at her swelling breasts, rampant nipples, and cinched waist with a hunger I did not bother to conceal. When our eyes met, it was she who was in command. “You wish to cane my hands, Miss Durrant?” Her husky voice held no tremor.

“You know I do. Elizabeth. Hold out your hand.”

I realized it was not because of my command that her eyes clung avidly to mine as the lovely bareness of her arm offered me an open palm. I struck it savagely.

Nothing happened! It was several moments before Elizabeth retrieved her punished palm in a manner of someone forgetting it was there. Slowly she allowed it to fall passively to her side. Equally slowly her other hand came up. Never did her eyes leave mine. “You may as well cane both of them, Miss Durrant. You do it wonderfully well.” She was mocking me.

Damn the woman! I wanted to take her to bed, not bruise her, flesh. But with every girl watching, I struck again even harder, a wicked stroke Elizabeth accepted calmly. Her voice was even. “Thank you, Miss Durrant.” It even sounded of real gratitude.

I could not let her get away with it. The performance had been superb, absolutely breathtaking, and I knew every maiden in the place was envying her control. Casually I suggested. “Perhaps your right hand again, Elizabeth?” There was a flicker of the eyes but that was all. The scarlet palm was once more there, awaiting my cane. I longed to shower it with kisses but knew I must show no weakness. Once more I cruelly cut the palm. The blow got a noticeable wince out of the gorgeous girl. But, as though by previous arrangement, her left hand replaced her right and her eyes mocked mine again. Delivering Elizabeth’s forth stroke and sensing rather than hearing the choked back cry of anguish, I broke the lock which held our eyes, and moved on to the next girl. That girl extended her palm as if mesmerized.

Victory was Elizabeth’s.