Chapter 10
Joan woke up early on the day appointed for the next flogging of the homosexual teacher. She felt her body alive, quivering with anticipation. She looked across at the still sleeping Kristina and smiled at the memory of how they had fenced with each other over the handcuffs.
So tonight she was to flog someone. To flog, not just to cane or thrash. It was not something she would like to do to Robert — she loved him too much for that — but it was something that she very much wanted to do to someone else. She had no particular animosity for the homosexual teacher — for the reason that he was homosexual, that is to say. If anything, she felt rather sorry for him. He must miss so much in life. Going to bed with a man could not, she thought, hold as much attraction as going to bed with, say a beautiful woman like Kristina. But that was his affair. And tonight he was to be flogged. It would be the eleventh time, Kristina had told her. He must really want his job very badly, Joan thought. Or he must be very fond of money. If she were in his place, not all the money that Fraulein Kaltenbrunner paid her, not all the money in the world, would have kept her in Munich. She would have run for her life. Perhaps, though, she sagely admitted to herself, she had different ideas about the value of money.
Kristina stirred, opened her eyes, smiled, and stretched. "Good-morning," she said brightly. She was always in a good mood in the morning. She had been out late the night before, but it made no difference.
"Good-morning, good-morning, good-morning," chanted Joan happily. "The very top of the morning to you, you sleepy-head."
Kristina cocked an eye at her. "You seem unusually gay this morning."
"Do I?"
"Yes, you do. Why?"
Joan was too shy to tell her why. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because it's the beginning of another lovely day."
Kristina glanced at the window. "It's raining," she remarked, and then grinned. "You don't have to tell me why you're feelin gay. I agree with you. It's an exhilarating thought to wake up to. And I've got news for you."
"Good news?"
"Very. We're not going to flog the pansy tonight, after all."
Joan's face fell. "I don't think that's such good news. Why aren't we? What's gone wrong?"
"Nothing's gone wrong. We're going to flog someone else instead — a real man, not a damned little pansy."
Joan looked at her excitedly. "Who?"
"A rather good-looking American. Thirty-ish, tall, athletic — quite a man, in fact."
"But who is he? And why are we going to flog him? I mean, is he a masochist or something? Does he want it? Oh, do explain, Kristina."
Kristina stretched again. She took so much time over it that Joan wanted to scream.
"Come on," she begged. "Stop torturing me."
Kristina relaxed and grinned. "No, he's not a masochist, and no, he most certainly doesn't want it. I don't think any of us would be very interested in flogging someone who wanted it. Would you?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Joan in a small voice, thinking of Robert. "Even when they want it, it's usually more in their minds than in the thing itself. They always get much more pain than they bargain for. But go on about this American. Who is he?"
"He's in some economic. mission here. And — well, let me begin from the beginning. You remember me telling you that there are others — that it isn't only the pansy we flog?"
"Yes, I remember."
"What we do is keep our eyes open for someone whom we can trap into doing something he wouldn't want someone else to know about. And the easiest way to do that is to let a married man take one of us to bed — and then threaten to tell his wife unless — "
"Unless he accepts a flogging. Yes, I see. But do they always accept?"
"Not by any means always. Sometimes we have our bluff called. Because it is bluff, you know. We never would really go to a wife. We're not that bad! But usually they submit because they just don't dare to find out whether we're bluffing or not. And this one tonight is one of those. He's got a very rich wife who's in America for the next two or three months. He doesn't want to lose his wife. She provides him with all sorts of nice expensive things. A Cadillac, for example."
Joan's eyes were shining. "It's all very convenient, isn't it? He has two or three months to get rid of the marks too. Which of you went to bed with him?"
"I did. Last night. And he must be in a pretty bad pother of terror at this moment."
Joan frowned thoughtfully. "But did it just happen by accident? Or did you know all this before — about his wife, I mean. Did you plain it?"
Kristina swung her feet out of the bed. "It was a very careful plan," she said, with satisfaction in her voice. "I met him in the interval at a concert a week or so ago. He engineered an introduction. All very correct and proper. Then he rang the next day to take me out to dinner. I went, and he started wolfing, of course. So we started making enquiries. We found out all about his rich wife and so on — and last night I let him take me to bed." She laughed gaily. "And when it was all over, I told him what was going to happen to him."
"How very, very neat!" said Joan admiringly. I know you wouldn't really go to his wife, but he doesn't know that. He thinks you would, I suppose. Doesn't he say it would just be your word against his? If you haven't any other evidence, I mean."
"If you were a wife," said Kristina, "would it make any difference to what you would believe? If a woman came to you and said that your husband had taken her to bed, would you want any other evidence? I doubt it. You'd believe it all right. No, my dear, evidence is necessary for a divorce court. It's not necessary for what you believe or don't believe."
Joan got out of bed and took off her pajamas. "Yes, I see that. It seems I have a lot to learn."
Kristina chuckled. "We'll teach you!"
Joan stepped into the shower cubicle. "Do you find many men like this?"
"Not as many as we'd like to find. But we've always got the pansy in reserve. In one way or another we usually manage to get in at least one flogging every week." She went to the cubicle. "Shall I do your back?"
"Yes, please. What time do we begin tonight?"
"Seven. We'll leave here a bit earlier, though, because we have to go past the pansy's flat."
"Oh", said Joan with relish, "we are going to do something to him, after all."
"No, we're not. We're letting him off completely. We're going past his flat to pick up the whips and things."
"I wondered about that. So you keep them there, do you?"
"Yes. We couldn't very well keep them here in the school. Kalt would have ten fits if she ever saw the knout. Ten fits, did I say? She'd have ten thousand!"
"I must say," said Joan, soaping her breasts with sensuous pleasure, "that you have got everything extremely well organized." She nodded her head, as though in answer to a question. "Yes, I'm very glad to be at a finishing-school, and I'm so happy that Daddy found this one. Poor dear, he'd have ten thousand fits, too, if he knew why I'm so happy."
At six-thirty that evening, a very frightened American was pacing up and down the length of his living-room, and cursing luridly and blasphemously to himself.
His curses did not make him feel any better. He went to a bar and poured himself a stiff drink. He raised it to his lips, and then paused. What was it that bloody girl said? "It will be just one flogging — if you're sober when we arrive. If you're at all drunk we'll flog you anyway, and come back another night, when you're sober, and give you another one. So I advise you not to drink very much tomorrow evening."
He swore again, and drained the glass. But that one, he decided, had better be the last. He had already had quite a lot.
Five of them! It was difficult to believe, in this so-called civilized day and age. Five female sadists — and he in their hands. Oh, how innocently he had walked into their trap! But anyone would, he told himself. Men — married men — take girls to bed without giving it a thought. Who could have believed that there was any danger in taking this angelic-looking Swede to bed? But now where was he? He was on the point of being flogged. Flogged! Not just beaten. Flogged! She had made that very clear. And by five of them!
Again he wondered whether to get his car and race off out of Munich for a few days. But he would have to come back sooner or later. And a hell of a lot sooner than later: he had his work at the mission. That couldn't be left for very long.
Should he write to Louise and confess everything? And then tell them to go to hell? He'd escape the flogging like that.
He shook his head hopelessly. Louise would leave him. She had been very definite the last time. No more forgiveness's. And then what would happen to his Cadillac? Where would his two-hundred dollar suits come from? And his allowance from Louise ... He would have to start living on his income. Oh no! Better to take the flogging. Far better. And they were youngish girls, after all. It might not be so terrible.
He stood in the centre of the floor, thinking about the flogging. The house was very quiet. Obeying the Swede's orders, he had given his house-man and maid a twenty-four-hour leave to go home and visit with their families. He was alone.
A flogging. That meant that his back would be whipped too. Oh Christ! He would never be able to stand it. Christ Almighty!
He turned and went back to the bar. He poured himself another drink and drained it at a gulp. Hell! He could stand just one more drink. But no more after that! Definitely not one more! He must not give them any opportunity of accusing him of being at all drunk.
He began to pace up and down again terrified, alone, helpless — wondering how bad it was going to be.
"Is it very far?" asked Joan, as the taxi drove off.
"About half an hour," said Kristina.
They were all sitting in the back of the taxi: Kristina, Joan and Olga on the seat; Danielle and Sophia on the two tip-up seats facing them. The glass screen that separated them from the driver made it possible for them to speak freely.
Kristina said: "You said you're beginning to like the idea of assistants. This isn't the first time you've had assistants, then?"
"It's the first time I've had more than one." said Joan. "At home, one of the maids recently appointed herself as my assistant."
Joan told them about Elisabeth's being under the bed, and her demand that followed.
"You're very lucky to have her," said Danielle. "I wish I had a maid like that."
Kristina said: "Are you going to keep her after you're married? Will you be able to take her with you?"
"I've thought about it," admitted Joan. "But I'm not sure what Robert would say."
"He has to obey you, doesn't he?"
"In anything to do with sex and whipping, yes," said Joan.
"Well, this is certainly sex and whipping," said Olga, with a laugh. "I should fix it, if I were you. Don't bother about your Robert. Present him with a fait accompli."
"She's pretty, you say?" asked Sophia.
"Extremely pretty," said Joan.
"You'll have to watch out that Robert doesn't fall for her."
"Oh, I don't think there's any danger of that," said Joan confidently. "He doesn't like her very much. He's certainly not at all masochistic for her."
"All the same, I should watch out," repeated Sophia.
"What's more to the point at the moment," said Kristina, "is to make sure of keeping her. I mean, you don't want her changing jobs while you're away, and then not being there for you when you get back and want her again."
"That would be rather awful," said Joan, nodding her head. "I think I'd better write to her and suggest the future plan. I shan't be getting married for another couple of years, but I might be better to let her know what's in the wind."
"She might get married herself," said Olga, "if she's as pretty as you say."
"That's a chance I'll have to take," said Joan. "But I'll certainly write to her straight away."
Kristina sat forward suddenly. "Did you bring your handcuffs? I forgot to remind you."
Joan smiled and patted her bag. "I didn't need reminding." She looked down at the briefcase which held the instruments. "That was a very lovely whip I used. May I look at the other things?"
Olga leaned down and took the case on her lap, her flimsy rubber dress rustling as she moved. She opened the catch.
Joan looked admiringly at her dress. "That is a good idea. And it's so smart, too. Where did you get it? I'd love to get one for myself. The last time I thrashed Robert he spattered drops of blood all over my dress and nearly ruined it."
"It came from the States," said Olga, turning the briefcase upside down on her legs and tipping out a number of cruel-looking instruments, some lengths of rope, and a rolled-up sheet of flimsy plastic material. "I'll send for one for you, if you like. They're made especially, of course."
"For women like us?"
"Oh, yes," said Olga, disentangling a knout with nine tails and putting it into Joan's hands. "I don't suppose other women could want a rubber dress. They're only for women like ourselves. And what do you think of that little fellow?"
Joan examined the instrument in her hands. It was composed of a short oak handle to which were bound nine lengths of black rubber-covered wire flex. The lengths were each of about sixty centimetres, and the thickness of a pencil. They were heavy.
"What a beautiful thing," breathed Joan, running the cool lashes through her fingers. "It must give a terrible amount of pain."
"It does," said Olga contentedly. "I haven't tasted it on my own body, of course, but it makes the pansy scream his head off."
Joan felt a prick of pleasure in her genitals. It's what we call a cat-o'-nine-tails in England."
"I know," said Olga. "In Russia it's called a junior knout."
"Why junior?" asked Joan in surprise.
"The senior knout has hooks on the end of the lashes."
"Hooks? Good heavens!" Joan said nothing more, but she privately felt that hooks on the end of a knout was going just a bit too far. "Did this come from Russia?" she asked. Olga smiled. "In the sense that I'm Russian — or, at least, of Russian origin — you might say that it did."
"What do you mean?"
"She means that she made it herself," said Danielle, handing Joan another instrument which she had taken from Olga's lap. "And I made this one."
Joan looked at it with awe. It was a frightening-looking thing, with the same sort of short oak handle, and with a large number of lengths of fine piano wire. "Great Jesus!" murmured Joan in English.
"Yes," Danielle replied seriously, also in English. "That's the sort of thing the victims say when they first see it."
"What do they say when they feel it?" asked Joan, feeling another prick in her genitals.
"Just a long series of howls and wails and screams for mercy," said Olga in German.
On her lap there now remained only the lengths of rope, the rolled-up plastic, and one other instrument.
Joan picked it up and examined it curiously. It had the same sort of handle again, but its lashes were made of leather shoe-laces, and were not more than twenty-five centimetres in length. "This is rather sweet," she said. "But isn't it a bit short? Did one of you make it, too?"
"I did," said Kristina. "And it's the right length for its very special purpose."
"What's its special purpose?" asked Joan in puzzlement.
"For whipping a man's penis."
Joan drew in her breath sharply. She had never thought of ill-treating a man in that way. The idea shocked her for a few seconds, and then she began to see that it had exciting possibilities. Poor Robert, she thought suddenly. The things that are going to happen to him when I get home!
"It's a satisfying form of flagellation," said Kristina quietly.
Sophia said: "Kristina darling, you out-do even the British in understatement!"
Kristina smiled. "It's something we do quite a lot in Sweden," she told Joan.
Danielle looked out of the windows. "We're nearly there. We'd better pack these things away."
The American looked at his watch. They were late. Could it be that they weren't coming? Could it just possibly be that that Swede had been pulling his leg?
He stopped his pacing and considered this new idea. Yes, it could just be. She could have been punishing him for his unfaithfulness to another member of her sex by giving him twenty hours of fear and worry. Why hadn't he thought of that before? It was much more likely, surely. Who could ever believe that five young girls from a smart finishing-school would want to give a man a flogging? A man who had never done them any harm ... There were female sadists in the world, he knew very well. But five young girls from a smart finishing-school wouldn't be likely to have developed into sadists so quickly. Highly improbable. Impossible, in fact.
He suddenly felt better. His fear fell away from him. What a fool he had been, worrying like this all through these past hours! What an absolute idiot!
He grinned shamefacedly. That Swedish girl had certainly pulled his leg very well, hadn't she? He'd give her a good piece of his mind next time he saw her.
He went to the bar, poured himself another drink, and drained it in sheer relief.
And then the bell rang, and he jumped as though he had received an electric shock.