Chapter 9

The hot days passed. They went by remarkably quickly, a pleasant succession of indolent mornings helping Cynthia run the house, afternoons dozing after lunch, then playing tennis at the club, or on their own court with Pam, alternatively swimming or riding. There were several parties in the evening. She had put in her papers at the proper office in Shaftesbury and was now classed as a "voluntary resident," subject to all Territory laws and distinctions. At last she felt she belonged. She was caught in all the ardor of this spell.

Cynthia was subdued after her "little leathering," as Alec called it to his friends, and it was instructive to Joanna to watch with what alacrity she got up whenever a man entered the room, or performed some ordered chore. There was fear in her eyes for a week. Joanna marveled at all this and even apologized to her sister for "getting her into it."

Cynthia had answered with sincerity, "Oh rubbish, Jo. You enjoyed seeing my backside basted and I'd have liked to see yours get the same, too. I know perfectly well what went on between you and Alec and I only hope he poked you properly."

"He did," said Joanna, remembering.

"If I showed any jealousy-which, incidentally, I don't feel-what I took at the post t'other morn would be but child's play. It was pure, undiluted agony but I know in my heart it did me a world of good." She hesitated an instant. "Edward Arborough seemed taken with you, Jo."

"With me, or with my...."

They smiled. They were friends in a new sense, now.

Pamela was caned, and caned again, all in a day. Cynthia was spared, though one strange morning Joanna found her in a tiny girl's play dress of cotton voile with ruffled rompers, that showed beneath the hem. It was some sort of penance, and she had to wear it for two days.

Another week passed and Joanna began to fall wholeheartedly into the swing of Territory existence. Then one day, returning from the Tennis Club, she forgot to pick up some jerry-cans of gasoline Alec had ordered from a nearby road station. She was caned at once, in the hot, sullen and overlarge Punishment Room. Eight cuts across the naked buttocks and, as Alec had predicted, eight hurt twice as much as six. But by now Joanna acknowledged the omission within herself, it was simply a matter of summoning up physical courage for the occasion, and she was proud to be able to take the score without undue flinching. Afterwards, she stared at her dark weals in her bedroom mirror with a nod of inner recognition. Then she sent for Edna to bathe them in witch hazel. That evening, as was the family's custom, she sat for dinner on the child's high chair reserved for anyone who had suffered corporal correction during the day. like little Pamela she too had, moreover, first to raise her skirt before seating her striped bottom on the roughly serrated surface.

A day later she was introduced to her first "Restraint".

It came, as she had been warned much Territory punishment did, as a result of another correction. The cane brought on the cane, as they liked to say. She was alone in the house one afternoon when Alec, taking a moment off for tennis, couldn't find his racquet. She had borrowed it without asking him and, despite her apologies, was sent up to her room immediately. All too soon a maid knocked at the door.

"Mr. Reddick, he wish to see yo' in his study, Miz Swanne. An', " the liquid eyes lowered, " 'e say, you take off your panties underneat' yo' slacks first, please, Ma'am."

She had on tightly stretched pale gray bell bottoms and as she walked into his "den" a minute later they felt very close to her bottom, indeed. A man sat in a leather chair in one corner, also in tennis attire, and holding his racquet. Amber eyes flickered over her. It was Edward Arborough.

Joanna drew up short.

"I believe you met Teddy," Alec said cheerfully enough, flexing a long cane of a smoky color in his hands, "the other evening at the Bensons."

"Mr. Arborough saw quite a lot of me there, I think," said Joanna flushing. Again the man's presence oddly disquieted her. She stared at his cold features, with their pliant mouth and sharp scrutiny; the muscles stood out on his forearms and the sight of his broad hands sent a tingling up her flesh.

"We were going to play a set of tennis. This will warm me up nicely. My service arm."

"You don't propose to ... to see me here," Joanna said, darkening, "in front of this gentlemen?"

"It won't be the first time he's seen a grown woman whipped. Somehow I don't believe Ted will object to watching another. I'm going to give you six with this excellent cane. As Cynthia may have told you, it's made of ivory, and hurts. You see, I don't propose to ask you to bare your person."

"It won't be possible," she whispered, after a moment.

There was a deathly silence.

Then Alec said softly, "It's not as easy as that. You can't turn back now, Joanna." He added with a grin, "At least not that way." Barely audibly she mumbled, "Please punish me in private. If you must."

He glanced nonchalantly at the wafer of gold on his lean tanned wrist.

"I'm giving you one minute-sixty seconds-to bend over that desk with your feet together and your arms stretched out in front of you."

She moved instinctively at his command, stopped, then started again and, crimsoning, placed herself as he had bid. He at once pulled tight on her waistband, hauling the skintight slacks painfully up her crotch. At least, she thought in her misery, he will not see my face. She was close to crying already.

"And they say," came Alec's voice from behind her, "that the human primate does not signal sexually by the rear. What an idea. Ted old chap, did you know that theory that the female developed big breasts as a compensatory frontal signal ... for the vertical primate, I mean?"

"This one isn't vertical," came the reply.

"Being fearful means being non-agressive. Would you call that a fearful can, Ted?"

"I would," said Edward Arborough emphatically.

"Stick yourself back. Come on."

Then there was silence. It was snapped by the wiry rap of the cane. He did not strike hard. Yet she was amazed at how painful it was. The lean bone was so stiff it seemed to slice right through her fat. Her cheeks writhed helplessly together and she gasped for breath at the second.

"Lower," came Edward Arborough's growl then. The third was twice as bad.

Her clenched hand hit the desk. Tears of vexation-she had so wanted to show she could swallow her dose-poured from her eyes with a kind of rage. The fourth made her leap and writhe, catching her breath with a sharp sob.

"Lower still. The top of the legs, man."

"Get right over," came Alec's voice, "and stick out your seat."

But, bracing her muscles, the pain was beating her. She chewed on a knuckle not to cry out. The cold cruelty of the tough cut across her tenderest flesh undid her. She reached back and held her fire-hot cheeks.

"Take your hands away."

She turned back her face, her mouth trembling with pain, and suddenly met, through wet fringed lashes, the fierce gaze of inner laughter of Edward Arborough. She knew she loved him wrathfully, then. Her hips seemed to blunder against the desk, their sullen outlines ripe for the rod. The fifth struck in like stone. Again she reached behind, and was reprimanded. When all six slices were over she writhed like an adolescent, rubbing her weals. Cynthia's warning about the ivory cane had been exact. A bell was pushed and Bella came.

"Mrs. Swanne's having difficulty with her hands. Put her in Restraint for the rest of the day, would you, Bella. A chain saddle and, yes, the bit."

Up in her room she was stripped. A small fetter-chain similar to that worn by Mavis Smith-Peters secured her ankles. A wide leather belt was fastened tightly about her waist. From a ring in front another slender chain was led between her legs, threading through her cunt lips in front, and drawn between another ring behind; it then went up her spine to be taken through another ring, this at the back of her head, secured to a bit in her mouth. The chain then went straight down, at extreme tension, to connect with her manacled wrists behind. If she moved her wrists down, to relieve this tension, she yanked back her head and incidentally tautened the already unbearable pressure at her center. She had on high-heeled shoes and a short skirt-a sarong or cummerbund would have been a better term-was placed round her cut buttocks. She felt fat, hot, heavy, cumbersome, and helpless.

"Count yourself lucky," growled Bella behind her, tightening the chain another notch, " 'e don' order me to give you a charge, a shot, as well. 'Lec-tricity. You feel dat through yo' bones. Now walk. Get walking downstairs, Ma'am."

It was an ordeal. Each pace made her gasp. She stepped precisely, like a racehorse, trying not to move her hips, which caused the dreadful chain to chafe. Down in the living-room she was left alone, staring at the ceiling, her mouth parted by the bit, to Bella's comforting words, "An' you don' pee. See. I fetch you once and you pee in the yard, through that there chain. Got it, Ma'am?"

She tried to nod her head. Left to herself, she sank gently to the sofa. But the bending movement caused the chain to tighten at her cunt, and she fairly hissed with pain. Somehow she made it. She sat there, as though on hot bricks, feeling the total helplessness steal through her and reduce her to a thing. Her consciousness was outside herself, somewhere beyond this frightened, fettered dummy that was Joanna Swanne. When the men came ir from tennis she rose at once, as though she literally didn't exist.

Alec took a gin and tonic and explored her firm bare breasts, but Edward Arborough raised the flap of skirt behind and tutted, professionally.

"Too high, I told you too high. With a buttock like this you have to come low, Alec. Right in the sulcus, if possible."

She flamed her shame, but could not move. Her ankel-chain chinked protestingly when Alec twisted one nipple, but that was all. He checked to see that the corners of her lips had been Vaselined, for the bit.

"She's thick through and a good fuck," was what he said meditatively.

The men left her. Cynthia came back from buying some school things for Pam in "Essbury", and commiserated, though without too much conviction.

"Poor sweet. You really were walloped, weren't you. But this position's excellent for the neck muscles."

At six in the evening she was led off on the leash to urinate in the courtyard where she and Alec had watched Cynthia get hers. Then before dinner she was released in her room by Edna. She lay on the floor, gasping and holding her cunt, as soon as the chains were taken off her, but by the time she soaked in her hot tub she was coming in gushes, uncontrollably. She folt again that loss of will and the total relaxation of her soul that following it. That Saturday Pamela was birched. It was by far the most exciting punishment Joanna had yet seen.

Riding together, Cynthia had explained:

"Pammie goes to Brankhurst School, and will till she's eighteen. Believe me, what we give her here at home in the way of any c.p. is practically a rest cure compared to what the junior kids get there. Yes," she said, nodding solemnly in the saddle, "I think I can say that at Brankhurst they get beaten very soundly."

"The cane?"

"And the birch."

"I've never seen the birch."

"You will, Pam's first Saturday pay-off." She turned her big dazed eyes on her sister. "You never tried a birch, with your friend?"

"Never," said Joanna with a laugh. She found she could talk about this experience freely now. "We paddled the daylights out of each other's fannies, but never that."

"It really has great charm. The birch gives terrific cutaneous sting, but it doesn't bruise and you can go a number of cuts. I don't think they ever order less than two dozen at Brankhurst these days."

"Golly," said Joanna.

"It's mostly the senior girls who get it, and often in public. But the Duty cane is what they all dread wholeheartedly."

"What's that?"

"The Duty mistress of the day holds a punishment period at nine each night and any girl whose name's on the list gets a juicy six from a tough cane. Second appearance same week merits nine, and a third twelve-but frankly I don't think any girl comes up three times. You should see the face of a girl who's had even one Duty that week. It's comic. And the canings are really Edwardian. If the girl doesn't remain bending over and holding the bar...."

"like here."

"Exactly," said Cynthia smiling. "She goes to the end of the line and returns for the extra strokes she missed plus a new six, this time fastened over a punishment desk. With a niner that might mean going to bed with eighteen cuts across your fanny."

"Ouch," said Joanna, feeling a queer quaking in her cunt as she moved on the stirrups. "Eight is bad enough."

"All in all, they prepare them for life very thoroughly at Brankhurst, we find," Cynthia said dryly. "We let Pam run loose here, in comparison, but once a month we frighten her. You'll see."

"You were right about that ivory cane Alec keeps in his den," Joanna said. "It really is a beast."

"Isn't it, though? So you got it in front of Edward?"

"Yes."

"That man wants to beat your bottom," said Cynthia after a moment.

"I know," said Joanna, and she did. It was in his pallid eyes, in every aspect of his being. Suddenly she heard herself saying, "I wouldn't let him get so much as a gasp out of me."

Cynthia smiled to herself. "You have got it badly, dear," she finally said, then her bay broke into a canter.

It began at breakfast. Pamela's usually placid face was troubled and her spoon made a heavy clatter in her plate of cereals and Joanna was about to address her. Cynthia caught Joanna's eye and cautioned her.

"No one talks to Pam today. Not till noon, that is. Saturday the second. She pays off her blacks today."

"Oh. How many does she have?" Joanna asked, after a moment. "Five."

"Thus ensuring Her Highness, if I am not mistaken, of fifteen cuts." Joanna arched her brows. How different, how altogether other, was her mood this time to what it had been when she'd seen Alec cane the teener in the living room in front of Mrs. Morrison.

"Perfect arithmetic," came Cynthia's smiling response. "And as there are five limbs in each rod she may find the infliction somewhat stimulating, er, from the rear. Bella put the birches up last night. They're toughly budded. It's a wood that absorbs water, you see, and they're steeping in a pickle of vinegar and brine right now. But what's wrong, Pam dear? Don't you want your cereal?"

"I'm not very hungry, Mummy."

"Eat it up at once. You'll need all your strength. Your father says I can do the honors today and I mean to give you them as sharp as I can. Wet.'"

"Across the buttocks, of course," suddenly put in Joanna, on an impulse.

"The naked buttocks."

"Bent."

Together they burst into giggles. But Pamela's spoon moved slowly. There was a tear at the edge of one eye.

Joanna joined the Reddicks in the big, bare Punishment Room shortly before noon. The system of bars over which she had bent twice was now freshly polished at one end. Today, a short low bench, padded in leather, appeared to have been bolted to the floor in the center. It reminded her, at first sight, somewhat of the kind of stool a shoe salesman sat on back home, with panels for the feet sloping down. It was copiously supplied with straps.

Alec and Cynthia were laughing excitedly together. She had on a tight-fitting pair of white silk pants and a matching shirt. She looked radiant, her stiff braid catching the light, her eyes shiny, and her nipples quite flagrant under the thin material. Alec was casually clad and toyed asbsently with a cane.

"Cynth was saying that she guarantees to make our Pamela squeal, and I said we'd make it a bet. If she wins I give you three with the stick, Jo, and if she loses I give her three."

"Some bet!" protested Joanna. "Thank you so much."

"Oh, come on, Jo," said her sister. "Look. Let me show you the rods."

From a vase near the bench she extracted an endless birch. To Joanna, who had had some vague imagination of a broom, the dripping twigs, secured at one end into a sort of handle by waxen twine, looked full of menace. Cynthia cut the air and made her blink.

"That's more like a whip," she said respectfully.

"Five lovely licky whips," said Cynthia, testing their resiliency again. "Christ, how I hate the birch."

"Seriously," said Alec, "give her these hard and low. Joanna, you may think we're being unduly severe on our young, but I assure you it's for her good."

"Cruel to be kind," said Joanna, smiling thinly. She too found it hard to take her eyes off the springy motion of the twigs.

Alec Reddick tapped his wife's protuberant rump with the end of his stick and the fatty cheeks wobbled to the touch.

"I'll make those three hurt, if you don't lay on," he said gently.

"You always make them hurt," she said. "Or perhaps," she added, "I should say you always make them hard." She saw the pole-like shape stiffened in his slacks. And suddenly Joanna knew she wanted to see Cynthia whipped in earnest one day.

There came a knock at the door.

Pamela entered in her navy tunic, her hair held neatly back with a tortoise-shell slide. She carried in one hand the chart Joanna had seen in her bedroom, the one marking her "blacks". She looked quite sick with fear as she approached and dropped a semi-curtsy.

"I beg permission to be corrected for my faults," she said in a low voice.

Alec snapped, "Read them out."

The girl looked at her board. Without expression she recited:

"On the 4th. Untidy Dress at breakfast. One Demerit. On the 8th. Impertinence...."

"Explain."

"I was cheeky to mother. After lunch."

He nodded grimly and the girl continued. When the litany had ended she handed him the chart. Her chest was heaving.

Alec studied the chart gloomily in silence for a while, prodding at the floor with his stick. Finally he said, "What you need, young girl, is a damn good hiding to cure you of these habits. You will receive three strokes of the birch rod across your bare buttocks for each Demerit. And if you continue this way I'm going to put them up to four. Proceed."

The girl's eyes went desperately to her mother.

Once again Cynthia slowly shucked her shirt, her immense dark-tipped breasts jutting forward aggressively. She flexed her right arm reflectively. "Strip," she said.

Pamela took off her clothes, folding them neatly on a pile on the floor.

"Now come here and get it."

Standing trembling in front of the birch bench the girl made a curiously sensuous sight, her cunt a mere slice in the pad of fat at the junction of her straight, slim, rounded thighs.

"I'm going to thrash you hard and tight. If you try to clench or squeeze it'll only hurt you more. Keep your buttocks relaxed and concentrate on some good resolutions for the future."

Contemptuously, she yanked at a pink-lobed ear and Pamela went sprawling over the bench. To this she was soon rigidly secured. The strap at her waist had cuffs in back to which her wrists were brought. Her knees were strapped, as were her lower thighs. Belly horizontal on the bench her legs sloped a little down the planes to which they were fastened, hardly parted, the anus no more than a dimpled darkening in the valley between the chubby humps.

Cynthia jellied these blubbery and already shivering rounds in her hands, then dampened them with a sponge. Did it really hurt twice as much wet? Joanna wondered, watching the tenseness in the girlish face as she stared apprehensively ahead.

"For Untidy Dress," said Alec quietly. "Three."

Cynthia appeared to have donned a golf glove, to give additional impact, no doubt. She stood well to one side, feet spraddled and flexing her knees. She was frowning in concentration as she prepared to begin.

"Do you wish to appeal?" he asked in the same voice.

"No," came the answer. Pamela squeezed her eyes shut. Zzzzsch!

The long twigs whirred actively, completing their whip with a venomous biting and burying into the young flesh.

"Ugh!"

The tails clawed up thin vivid weals. "One," said Alec calmly.

Twice more the extraordinarily leathery limbs wrapped round the buttocks, and twice more the girl gasped out in pain.

"For Impertinence," said Alec placidly, consulting the chart, where he was ticking off mark by mark, "three strokes. Do you wish to appeal?"

"Nunno," came back the chattering reply.

She had opened her eyes and was helplessly gazing back, striving to draw herself in as the twigs once more approached. Cynthia swung as if her big breasts were loaded, as well as her glove.

Zzzz-schlk!

"Oh-uuuuungh!"

After the sixth she was sponged again. Splinters of twig were spitting at Joanna's feet with every stripe. Blood-dark weals on the right began to thicken. At the ninth the bench fairly bounded, and Joanna felt a sudden demanding spasm deep within her. This was getting exciting, indeed. She glanced at Alec's frankly swollen manhood.

Cynthia said, "She's clenching," and tossed aside her rod. Sweat streaked her turgid breasts, whose nipples were plum-like studs. "I can't get at her like that."

In a quick gasp Pamela pleaded, "I can't help it, Mother. It cuts in so."

"I told you to relax. If you insist on squeezing like this...."

Joanna was agog. Cynthia had gone to a closet. "Please, please...." The girl's voice was nearly frantic.

Alec smiled across. "Amazing how she does dislike the plug. All the young ones do."

"Please ... please!"

"If you're not damn careful, Miss Mischief, I'll see that you get another three for Unnecessary Repetition." Cynthia had come back with something Joanna could not quite discern in her left hand and perched on the forefinger of her gloved right what appeared to be a dollop of dark pomade. "You've got six more coming and I want you to feel 'em right inside those cute little cheeks of yours, my dear."

"Oh mother, oh please, I can't...."

"Don't be monotonous, dear. Count yourself lucky to have the mayonnaise first."

Quickly she greased the anal valley and then the gloved finger thrust in knuckle-deep, peremptorily. Pamela jerked, gasping, her face a mask of distaste as if she had just swallowed a pint of castor oil.

Cynthia soon found the saddle strap attached to the belt in front, drew it through the trembling legs and slid on, via a ring at its base, the palpable and evidently so unpleasant "plug". Joanna watched with rapt attention. It appeared to be a short rubber cylinder, widening at its base, which was at least two inches. The wet rose dimpled deeply as Cynthia moved it home, and Pamela panted protestingly.

"Please, Mother, oh really please. It always makes me ... want to go."

"It makes you feel you want to go, but you can't. You just wait till you're well and truly buggered, my girl. There!"

"NOOOOH!"

There was a rubbery pucker of slick membrane as the sphincter swallowed its vessel and a tight circlet of paler tissue gripped the red plug tightly. It was held home snugly as the saddle strap was fastened to the belt in back.

"Now try to squeeze," said Cynthia, choosing a new birch from the vase.

Pamela was weeping softly. There was a gust of air from her lungs as the limbs lashed her, but she still did not cry out. It was as if she could not, rather than would not. She absorbed the three stoically but with such expressions of agony that Joanna knew any outward movement gave her considerable discomfort-within. Mouth wide, she took the last three in the same manner, even though one of them made a distinct rap as the wood contacted the ring at the base of the plug. When the twigs lapped round her raw right flank she gave a whimpery whine, but that was all. Cynthia unplugged her with a pop.

"Let that be a lesson to you, minx. Next time you try those tricks, I'll put some caustic on this persuader, and you'll really want to spread."

Pamela reclined on her side on the floor, moaning and holding her wet streaked flanks. All spirit had been taken out of her, it was clear.

"Pull yourself together and put on your things."

With quivering lips she kissed the drippy twigs, thanked for correction, and gradually dressed. Making for the door she emitted a short, hard fart, and sobbed again.

When she had gone Cynthia stood erect.

"Well?"

She was Amazonian and superb, bare-chested, her colossal breasts rivuleted with sweat, head thrown back, challenging.

"I win."

"Oh no, you don't," Joanna came in quickly. "I didn't hear her cry out."

"I did."

"She didn't."

"She did, too. I know Pam and she never yells. That's the closest she ever comes."

"That wasn't a squeal, it was a whine," objected Joanna.

As if by common consent they turned to Alec. He was grinning from ear to ear.

"This seems to be a judgment of Solomon," he said at last. "I hate to decide these things. So tiring. But look, why don't you two ladies get your glad rags off and I'll settle it with a little contest. Each gives the other three and only the loser gets the three from me. How's that?"

Eyeing his cane Joanna said, "That's not fair. It means we both get something." She was beginning to feel anger adding to her excitement. Alec merely went to the side, however, and Cynthia started peeling. "Nobody gets nothing," said Joanna, furiously following suit.

"Nobody ever does," Cynthia said, equally annoyed.

They faced each other, hot and naked. Joanna, gazing at the parted quim of Cynthia's succulent quim, suddenly said in a hoarse voice, "If the loser gets the cuts, who gets the nine inches of prick?"

"It's nine and a half," Cynthia said dryly.

Alec was laughing. "You're right, Jo," he said, "the winner."

He brought two brimming glasses of water.

"Who's first?"

"For a drink?" said Joanna. "I don't feel thirsty."

"Here, take these."

She held the glasses stupidly, one in each hand. "Now turn round," he instructed her, "and face that wall. If you spill so much as a drop while Cynthia canes you, you lose. And vice versa when you give it her. If you both spill, I'll think of something else."

"Mayn't I take a sip?"

"No," said Cynthia, picking up the cane.

Joanna stood with her feet together. She was feeling so electrically excited she was almost wanting the stroke. All the same the touch of the trembling wood made her shiver.

"Lean forward," said Cynthia.

"Is that fair?" she asked.

"I think so," Alec answered calmly. "She wants to cut under you."

"That was what I was afraid she wanted."

She held the glasses vice-like, with the tension of a strong-wristed athlete. She tried to tuck something of her buttocks under her, but it wasn't much use. Cynthia came with a run, giving a full-blooded swipe across the lower curves. It was intensely painful but somehow Joanna knew she could bear it in this mood. And she bore the next two like it.

"Damn!" said Cynthia, tossing aside her stick.

Joanna turned. She was blinking, but managed to smile. She held out the glasses hospitably.

"Now let's see if my forehand's on today."

It was. Cynthia gave a choking stumble at the first, an anguished cry at the second, and shouted "Damn and bloody blast!" at the third, which followed up swiftly. Water had slopped from the tumbler in her right hand. She set them down and turned.

"Okay, let's get it over with. She wins."

"She certainly does," said Alec, smiling. "I'm really ashamed of you, Cynth. And as a reward I'm going to show Jo something you really don't like."

Cynthia's face changed. "No," she said quickly.

"You see, Jo, she said she didn't like the birch...."

"No!" said Cynthia, pleading this time. "But it's the birch on a certain portion of her...."

"No, Alec, please! Please, please, please."

"Who's being repetitious now? Go and lie down on the bench. On your back. "Alec, I beg of you...."

Joanna stared at her. She had turned nearly white. Her expression was as solemn as it had been that afternoon she had advanced to the motor-cycle on the scalding asphalt. Just so she turned and walked now.

She was strapped as had her daughter been, only backwards. Her face turned distractedly, her unfettered feet stirred, but it was her huge, thick, dull breasts that were suddenly the center of the room. They confronted the ceiling achingly. There was absolutely no doubt now where she was to be punished, somehow; they even looked bruised already.

Joanna approached her head. Heat was naming behind her eyes.

"I didn't mean this to happen, darling. Really."

"Oh God, oh God."

Alec was standing on the far side, a long way off, it seemed, holding a new, dripping rod of twigs in his hand.

"Please ... Alec ... make them quick."

"They'll be quick," he said. "You'll hardly feel them."

"Three?"

"More if you close your eyes."

Zzzzzsch!

The limbs lashed. Cynthia screamed. "YEOWW!"

"That's what I call a squeal now," said Alec, smiling at Joanna. And he cut again.

Cynthia yelled and writhed as if on coals.

Joanna's eyes were glazed. The thick tits were streaked with red, as if a fiery knife had drawn the weals there. As usual, he read her thoughts.

"It's odd. The birch never cuts a nipple. Strange. Come to think of it, hold them up for me by the nips, would you, Jo, and I'll give her the last one under them."

"NOOOOOO!"

When it was done, Joanna bent to kiss her bitten lips.

But, though squirming, Cynthia replied with surprising control, "No, no ... I'm foaming down there ... for Chris' sake, Jo...."

Joanna knelt. The moment her tongue ran up the appetizing groove and met the urgent oyster of her being, or well-being, Cynthia started to gush and come and groan.

"Suck, damn you ... lick...."

The oily marble moved like an eel in Joanna's mouth and the final creaming spasm seemed to go on forever. Then she stood up dizzy and met his prick head-on.

Or so it seemed.

Alec had stripped and his veined erection glared at her possessively.

"The winner always gets her prize," he said, "from the rear. The mammal's mount."

Joanna was bursting. Bursting and blazing. As in a dazing furnace, she straddled the bench at

Cynthia's head, one leg either side, bent over with her hands grasping the wood. Cynthia stared up, smiling softly now, at the lewd weals she had drawn on the proud posteriors and the again vigorously hairy bush about the puffy purse of her sister's lower lips.

"Lucky winner," she murmured contentedly. "Mind you don't dribble."

"You practically spouted."

"Always do after I've had it on the breasts."

Alec said, "I see a quim."

"So do I," said Cynthia decidedly. "Pouchy, perfect, and pouting for prick. A dripping delight."

She put out her tongue and Joanna bent her knees to let her lick it.

"Already oiled, I fear," she gasped, her eyes on the thin, tender-looking traces that streamed, so symmetrically, it seemed, across Cynthia's stirring breasts. Having sucked the haggy seam, Cynthia then licked the puce nozzle that was already demandingly bumping into the back of her sister's thighs and buttocks.

"You lucky, lucky girl. At least save a drop for me, Alec, you brute. You know how I love sauce."

Joanna saw the twitching tree trunk of the male organ with a superb sense of fresh fright. There was still a slight ache in her whipped bottom, and her breasts, as he grabbed them, pulsed with that unspeakable union of terror and delight she had only experienced within The Territory. The ruby monster nodded, nuzzled, then screwed into her with weight.

"Unnk!" she grunted, fisting her hands. It rammed up her belly, quickly and livingly. She climbed to a back-arching, whimpering peak of ecstasy at once. "Gooood, Alec!"

Then the squelchy piston began regularly reaming her, she saw her hands beat on the bench as if belonging to someone else, her body was making mashing movements independent of her will and self, she was converted to a single straining center of sensation. The animal within her seemed to swell to twice its size and she felt wholly plugged by its coursing girth, mounting and mounting, until she was drenched at last with glutinous gism, spilling back over its own beasthood and finally spitting, suddenly extracted, as if gleefully, straight into Cynthia's quivering right nostril.

"Damn and blast," she snorted disgustedly, "I've had it everywhere else, but never up the nose."