Chapter 9
Robert lifted the brass knocker on the front door of Elisabeth's house, and let it fall. It fell with a heavy metallic thud. It seemed to him that his spirits also fell in the same way, fell even lower than they had been all day.
He had come here for a whipping — for Joan's sake. Unless he wanted her to get into serious trouble with her father, he had no alternative. Elisabeth had made that very clear when she telephoned him that morning to remind him that he was "to report to her at three o'clock". He certainly did not want his Joan to get into any trouble. So here he was, reporting for a whipping ...
He sighed. He wondered how terrible it would be. He had not the least feeling of masochistic pleasure at the thought that the girl who was going to whip him was very lovely. His masochism was reserved exclusively for Joan.
The door opened. "Good afternoon, Mr. Andover." said Elisabeth, with a dazzling smile. "Come in."
She led the way into the parlour.
His eyes opened wide as he saw the whip that lay on the table. It was a whip that is used as a leash for large dogs. It looked very brutal.
"You're not going to use that, I hope," he said, knowing his words to be stupid.
"Oh yes, I am," she replied gaily. "I bought it this morning — especially for you."
Beside it on the table was a yellow rubber apron. He did not know it, but this was the apron that Elisabeth used when washing up in the Lyveden house. She had had an exciting idea several days ago, and had brought the apron with her that morning.
Lying over the back of a chair was a mackintosh of shiny black rubber. She pointed to it. "I bought that too. I'm going to be protected better this time."
"What do you mean?"
"You ruined that leather skirt of mine last Saturday."
"I did? How?"
"Your blood splashed all over it. And it won't wash off. The skirt is completely ruined. I'm going to wear that mack this afternoon. The rubber is on the outside, so you can splash as much as you like."
"I don't like, you know," he said with a forced smile. "I'd just as soon not splash any blood!"
"Well, you're going to," she said grimly. "That whip is going to help you quite a bit. Get undressed now. Strip yourself naked."
Without a further word he began to take off his clothes. Argument would be useless, he knew. It might also be dangerous. He was trapped. He had better be totally submissive. It might be over sooner.
When he was naked, she said: "Now put that apron on."
His eyes opened wide. "That apron? For God's sake why?"
She picked up the whip and swung it across his shoulders. "You must learn not to ask questions in future," she said evenly. "But, this time, I'll tell you why. My appetite was opened by watching a girl whip a negro servant. Well, you're not a negro, but you're going to be a servant this afternoon." She swung again with the whip, this time at his legs. "Now put it on quickly."
He picked up the apron, slipped its loop over his head and tied its strings behind his back. It felt cold against his skin. It also made him feel very foolish.
She regarded him with a dancing light in her eyes. "You look very sweet! Now hold my mackintosh for me." She put down the whip and waited for him.
He took the mackintosh and held it for her. She slipped into it, buttoned all its buttons, and tied its belt tightly.
"Let's not call it a machintosh," she said. "Let's give it a better name. You think of one."
"A better name?"
She picked up her whip again and ran its length through her fingers. "Yes, a better name. A more suitable name. Think of one quickly."
"I'm afraid I can't."
She swung the whip across his buttocks, hard. He jumped.
"You'd better," she said ominously.
He thought desperately. "Your protection?" he offered, hopefully.
The whip cut across his back this time.
"That's a very silly name," she said. "Think again."
"You — your — your clothes-saver ?"
The whip lashed across his buttocks. "That's even sillier," she said, running her free hand over the shiny surface of the rubber. "Sounds like those things you put under your arms in the summer. But take your time. I'm enjoying this." She was indeed enjoying herself enormously. Here was a man — a big, handsome, desirable man — in her power. She could do what she liked with him. She raised her whip and lashed him again across his buttocks. "But for your own sake you'd better be quick. These lashes are all extra to what you're going to get in any case."
He stood there, with his yellow apron covering his stomach, penis, testicles and knees, with his back and bottom exposed to her whip, racking his brains. What in God's name could the bloody mackintosh be called? "Your good friend? Your ally? Your protector? Oh no, I've said that."
She squeezed her legs tightly together as she struck him three times. "You're not very bright, are you?"
"Your whipping-robe?" he said suddenly, after a long moment's thought.
She had raised the whip again. Now she let it fall. "My whipping-robe." She considered for a moment. "Yes," she said judicially, "that's a good idea at last." She ran her hand across the rubber once again. "All right, listen. The first thing you do every Saturday when you come here is to find my whipping-robe, wherever I might have put it, and hold it out for me to put on. You understand?"
"Yes," he said.
She raised the whip again and slashed at his legs. "I think you'd better call me madam in future."
"Yes — madam." He swallowed his anger down into his stomach. He would put up with whatever she demanded. It would all be over more quickly.
"Now go into the kitchen," she ordered.
"Where is it?"
The whip lashed across his shoulders. "Where is it — what"!"
"Sorry. Where is it, madam" He was gasping with the pain she was giving him, but he was determined not to cry out. He wondered dully why they were going to the kitchen.
"Out of the door and to the end of the passage."
She followed him into the kitchen, her mackintosh swishing and rustling as she walked.
The kitchen was quite large, for it was the living-room of the house. The parlour was used only for guest and important occasions. There was a deal table in the middle of the floor. This was of brick tiles, with two threadbare rugs on either side of the table. Two easy chairs before an anthracite stove, two upright wooden chairs beside the table, an oak dresser, made up the furniture of the room. Opposite the table was the sink with a draining-board on its left.
On the draining-board was a large pile of dishes.
"Those are the plates and things from breakfast too," she said. "I told Mum to leave 'em to me to wash up." She laughed gaily. "My, wasn't she surprised! What she didn't know is that I've got my own servant now. You're going to wash up."
He nodded. "All right — madam." This didn't seem so bad.
"And I'm going to be here," she said, sitting on the edge of the table." And I'm going to watch you — to see that you do it properly. If you don't" — she raised the whip up in front of his eyes — "you going to get his across your back. Not your bottom, your back. You understand? And if you break anything, God help you?" She began to pressed heavily. The lips of her vagina opened hand on her mackintosh above her genitals and pressed heavily. The lips of her vagina opened and closed under the pressure. "But if you do things right, you'll get it only over your bottom. You understand?"
"But if I do things right," he said, watching her press her hand down upon her genitals, "why should I get it at all?"
Like a flash she raised the whip and struck him across his chest. The rubber of the apron lessened the pain of the lash a little, but he nevertheless staggered back against the sink.
"I've told you to address me as madam," she said, her voice trembling with her excitement. "Start again."
"But if I do things right, madam," he repeated, with angry, ironic emphasis, "why should I get it at all, madam?"
She jumped away from the table and began to lash him wildly. "Oh, you're asking for it, aren't you! How dare you use that tone of voice?" She lashed backhandedly as well as fore handedly. "You think this is the time to risk sarcasm?"
He turned abruptly as she began to lash him. Better for the whip to fall on his back, in spite of the slight protection of the apron on his front.
When she had finished she said breathlessly: "Now start again. But be careful."
"I've forgotten what it was I was saying." His voice was humble now.
"Do you really want more?" she asked menacingly. "You'd better remember and quickly too."
He frowned with concentration. "Oh yes. I was asking you, madam, why I should get it at all, if I do things right,"
"That's better," she said, with satisfaction. It was pleasant to tame a man. "I'll tell you why. Because you've come here this afternoon to he whipped, in one way or another. That's why. And so you'll get a swipe across your bottom for every plate you wash up properly, but it'll be across your back when you don't do it properly. Now get started." She sat down again on the edge of the table and watched him closely.
He turned to the sink, put the plug in its place, and turned on the taps. He measured the temperature of the water with his hands. The sink filled up.
The whip cut across his buttocks. "That's right," she said. "Now what next?"
He lifted a pile of the plates and was about to put them into the water when the whip slashed down across his shoulders. He spun round in agony. "But why?" he protested. "What have I done wrong?"
She pointed with the whip towards a packet of detergent. "What about that? Do you think you can wash up in plain water?"
"Oh," he muttered. "I see." He tipped a large quantity of the powder into the water and received another slash across his back.
"Too much," she said crisply. "But leave it as it is."
He put the pile of dishes into the water. Very carefully he washed each dish and put it on the draining-board, upside down. He received a lash across his bottom for each dish he washed.
She began to talk to him as she whipped him. "Your destiny is fixed now, isn't it? A whipping every week — till you go back to the university, anyway. You'll have a breather then. But you'll be back soon enough, and then they'll start over again. And if I get an extra day off now and again, there'll be an extra whipping for you on that day. I'll give you warning, of course. I'll telephone you the day before."
She paused and waited for him to reply.
He made no sound. He went on carefully with his work.
She lashed him across the shoulders. "It's rude not to reply when someone's talking to you."
"I'm sorry — madam."
"I don't much like that pause," she said reflectively. "That pause before you say madam. I think you'd better try to say it more naturally."
"Yes madam."
"That's better." She changed her position on the edge of the table, letting one leg swing. "As I was saying, it's your destiny to be whipped by me. I'm your master now. And don't you forget it." The dishes were nearly finished, she saw. She had given him over twenty lashes across his buttocks, but very few across his shoulders. "You're a good washer-upper," she said. "At least, under this whip you are." She pressed down again with her free hand. Her vagina felt very wet. "One thing it'll do, of course," she went on. "It'll prove your love for Miss Joan, won't it? Because if you don't report whenever I tell you to, I'll go straight to her father."
"You told me that this morning, madam," he said quietly.
"Yes, and don't forget that either. So you've finished. Now you can dry them up with that cloth."
He received a lash over his back for starting with the dishes before the knives and forks.
"While the towel is dry," she said, as though explaining something to a child, "you must always do the silver. Otherwise it doesn't get a shine on it."
He did nothing more to displease her, and so received about twenty lashes across his bottom before he finished the drying-up.
He had by now received so much pain that each individual lash across his buttocks did not very much increase his hurt. He moved in a blaze of constant pain, his brain spinning.
"Now you can put them away in the dresser," he heard her say. "But be very careful not to drop anything."
She whipped him across the kitchen as he carried the first load to the dresser. He put the dishes carefully into their places. Then she whipped him back to the sink again for the next load. When everything was in its place, she said: "Now get that bucket and fill it. You're going to scrub this floor. No, first take away these rugs."
Dully, he obeyed her. Receiving a lash for each action, he filled the bucket with warm water, added detergent, found the floor-cloth, and went down on his knees. He began to wash the tiled floor.
At first he made mistakes. He received a good many lashes across his shoulders. Gradually, however he got the hang of the way she wanted it done, and only his bottom was lashed as he finished each square yard of floor.
It took him a full quarter of an hour to complete the work. By that time he was only barely conscious.
She surveyed him dizzily. Several times she had had to fight back her orgasm. She had fought it back because she wanted to keep it for the finale.
She felt that she had better have the finale now. She could not hold it in check much longer.
She said: "Come here to me. Shall I tell you what's going to happen now ?"
He nodded his head wordlessly.
"I'm going to put your thing in my mouth again. I want to drink your stuff. It may be difficult for you to come — after all this whipping. But you'd better! I'll really thrash you if you don't."
She knelt in front of him and lifted the rubber apron up. "Hold this," she ordered. She put her hands to his flaccid penis and began to caress it. It showed no sign of life at all. She played with the testicles. She opened her mouth and put it over the penis. She sucked for a few moments. There was still no sign of life in it.
She took away her mouth. She looked up at him. "If you can't, you can't. But I'm going to have my pleasure somehow. I'd rather come like this, drinking your stuff, but if it can't be done I'll come while whipping you again. It's up to you."
"Go on for a bit," he said weakly. "Give me a moment or two more." He had felt the faintest stirrings of life in his loins at her touch.
"Madam," she said, with a frown. "Or do you want something to help you remember?"
"Madam," he said at once. He was now entirely submissive. Her whip had seen to that. If she had ordered him to drink the water with which he had washed the floor, he would have done it without a word. She held him totally in her power.
"All right," she said. "Let's have another try." She put his penis back into her mouth. She sank her fingernails lightly into the flesh of his testicle-bag.
A moment passed, and then another. And then, with wonderment, he felt his sexual impulse return to him. His penis stiffened and grew large.
As before, the pleasure in his loins began to assuage, if not to lesson, the pain in his whipped body. He felt a curiously soothing rapture steal through him. And he felt his juices begin to gather.
Elisabeth's orgasm was just beneath its brim. She fought to hold it in check, in order to let it overflow at the moment she felt his semen spurt at the back of her mouth.
Suddenly he came. He put his hands on to her shoulders and pressed her face closer to his body. He thrust with his hips, ramming his penis far into her mouth as though into a vagina. He thrust and rammed, and his semen spurted down her throat.
As she tasted it, Elisabeth let herself go. Her orgasm, held in check through all the excitement of the prolonged whipping, exploded inside her with a force that made her senses swim.
When it was over, she stayed where she was kneeling, her head in her hands, waiting for her brain to clear. Then she stood up.
"And now," she said practically, but with a shaking voice, "the bathroom for you. All that blood must be washed off. And I'll put a lot of strong disinfectant into the water. I don't want those weals of yours getting septic. I want you well and strong again for next Saturday."