It was not an equal contest, of course. He was armed with a man’s strength, an athletic wrist, and that appalling length of black whalebone. All she could put up against it was her soft female flesh, which was no match for that deadly accurate weapon, that was turning her once white flesh into purple pulp, but she was determined to keep it presented fully to the rod, and take her strokes without conceding by rising or crying out.
Through four five and six, she writhed and gasped, hissed through her teeth, as the secondary wave swept her, or groaned in agony. She was aware that she was developing a single massive bruise, she could feel it swelling and throbbing in the intervals between strokes, for he was drawing out what she saw as punishment, rather than her normal impersonal service, letting her savour the full value of each cut before delivering the next. She could imagine a solid black bar across the underside of her haunches, overlapping onto her thighs, and raised as thick as a finger.
As the seventh ‘belter’ landed in this tumescent mass she bit her lip to choke off the scream which rose in her throat and fought the rebellious body which wanted only to lift itself from the desk, and cease to offer the unprotected buttocks to the devastation inflicted by the supple rod.
The eighth burrowed deep into the centre of the monstrous bruise: her legs bent, her knees fretting against each other as if this might somehow throw off the claws that seemed to be tearing into her nether flesh. She jammed her knees into the desk to still them and clung to the solid piece of mahogany, whining through her nose. There was a pause, and the growl told her to get her arse up where the rod could get at it. She gathered her forces to brace her legs back, and offer her riven flesh fully to the rod.
She held on through nine and ten, and slowly, and very stiffly, rose and reached down for her knickers. Although even the touch of the delicate fabric was extra agony, she was determined to carry it off, and drew them, wincing, over her throbbing buttocks, carefully lowering her skirt and smoothing it into some order. She turned, and walked stiff-legged to the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I understood that Mrs. Helworthy was expecting me, and would be getting ... over anxious.”
“Quite right. I expect she’ll have creamed in her pants by now,” the lady’s husband agreed, “but you seem to be overlooking something. I promised you ten for delaying my wife’s present, but we still have to settle the score for the embarrassment you caused me by turning down the job without explanation.”
There was a deathly hush. Madeleine looked at him for several seconds, without a word, then limped back to the desk. She bunched her skirt up round her waist again and paused with her thumbs under the elastic of her panties. “How many?” she asked.
He told her, and she groaned inwardly, but drew the panties off as instructed, kicked off her shoes and parted her legs as far as they would go, unencumbered now by rolled knicker material around the thighs, and rose up on tip toe. He was not only cruel, but knowing. She was going to have to endure it all through again, the full ten strokes, but this time with her legs apart and staying on her toes. If she didn’t get her bottom right up to meet the rod, he wouldn’t allow the stroke, and she’d have to take another. He’d recognised her defiance, seen through her attempt to disguise how deeply she’d been hurt, and now he was calling her bluff. Well, she’d show him she wasn’t bluffing. She see him out, and take it, though her body cringed already, without a fresh blow struck. To peel the panties off that throbbing wound in her hinds, to strip them of their only protection, however illusory, and leave them vulnerable to those terrible searing cuts, had her belly squirming, and her nates clenching. She took up the prescribed position, and tried desperately to gather her resources to meet the renewed attack on her flesh, which she had thought safe, only to have her relief so cruelly destroyed.
Maurice Helworthy surveyed the tempting target spread for his delight. Bent as she was, she might just as well have been naked, since all that part of the woman’s anatomy that was presented for his inspection was bare, save the dark stockings that accentuated the shapely columns of her long, tapering legs, contrasting with the pale ivory of her spread buttocks and thighs. The paleness threw into sharp and violent relief the violet bruise, two inches wide, dragging its throbbing length from one side of the underhang to the other. Between the spread cheeks pouted the plump purse of her sex and, above, the wrinkled brown dimple of her anus.
He’d intended only to confirm that Madame Ruskova’s protege was as appetising as she’d promised before passing her on to his wife, not that he’d doubted for a minute that the old procuress would let him down but, when he realised that this was the woman who’d turned down his offer, he determined to have his revenge for what he considered a serious slight. Who did she think she was, refusing a chance to join his prestigious organisation? He’d spotted her worth at once; over-ruled his partners to secure her the appointment, and felt she had left him looking foolish. Well, she’d suffered for that. Those ten strokes were as ‘tight’ as he’d ever laid in his long experience of the rod, close, with plenty of wrist behind as wicked a stick as he’d ever met. They must have hurt atrociously, and he’d hoped, expected, that when he awarded her a repeat, she’d either rebel, or beg for mercy but instead she’d accepted his challenge, and bared her ridged and throbbing under buttock without protest.
He intended that her challenge should fail. He’d put her into as difficult a situation as he could devise, the strained separation of her thighs together with the requirement to stay on her toes, would tax her physically and divert her concentration, besides leaving her feeling the exposure of her vulva and anus and the ever present threat that the tip of the rod might worry its way between her cheeks to lash those so vulnerable, and tender, spots.
The black length felt good in his hand, he could feel its weight and suppleness, and a sense of it being a live creature, eager to feast on the tender flesh offered before it. All things being equal, he would simply use his dexterity and athletic wrist to unleash it into the tumescent bruise he had already raised. That would give her something to digest, but he was conscious that this was a gift to his wife. If he let the rod loose on that blueberry band, it must surely burst. The skin over the pulsating swelling on the right looked ripe to part, and he felt that he should stop short of giving a present with the blood already flowing. Zena would no doubt take care of that herself. Well, there were more ways than one of skinning a cat, or a pussy come to that. He had no doubt that Zena would extend that little attention to her guest as well. He stepped forward to measure his mark on the bending female, and laid the rod, gently, on the very top of the thighs, just below the crease, and the swelling purple rope.
The braced legs twitched involuntarily, and the knuckles of the small hands, gripping the edge of the desk, whitened. He drew back his arm, only to bring it flashing down again, to thrash the rod precisely into his invisible mark. He was rewarded with a gasp of pain, followed by a long drawn out oo ... oo ...oo… ooh, as the matching welts on each thigh top filled and darkened, and her hips swayed from side to side, as she rose and fell on her toes. But she held her position, and was firmly back on her toes, her buttocks raised to expose her thigh tops, by the time the next stroke was due.
Inevitably it fell onto the spoor of its predecessor, and the gyrations and smothered cries were repeated. with interest. With great deliberation, he laid on three, four and five. Half way now and she was displaying extraordinary courage. Her gasps were a little more urgent, her cries showing somewhat more distress, the gyrations of her clenched haunches more frenzied, but she was holding on. He watched her as she fought for control, watched her steady her tortured body, rising on her toes to present again, despite nervous ripples down her thighs and a slight inward turning of the widely parted knees. These were mute testimony to the extremity she was in.
He let her savour her pain before lashing her again. The extra wait, far from refreshing her, seemed to be unsettling, for she twisted to one si
de, groaning and seizing the opportunity to increase her suffering, he declared that she was not in position, that the stroke would not count. She groaned, but did not protest his not altogether just decision, and forced her buttocks up, and her darkly marked thighs back to receive the seventh stroke, though it would only be scored as six.
To his surprise and chagrin, she took three more cuts without giving him any reasonable excuse to disqualify them, though she cried out at each in a strangled way, and her oohs had degenerated into muffled sobs. Only one more to go. He stood back, letting her absorb their bite to the full, and contemplated the ravaged flesh, wondering how best to employ the next stroke. In all honour it was all he had left, unless of course, he could force her to get up before ‘permission’. Should he lash it into the blue-black welts on the back of the thighs, or risk bloodying her by cutting into the old swelling plum under her right buttock? He watched the squirming flesh for a few seconds, as the cheeks clenched as far as the spraddled pose allowed, then made up his mind.
Stepping slightly to the side to shorten the reach of the rod, he swept it down and up again, to land exactly on the crease and rising, the shortened tip grazing the inside of the right thigh, and flashing in onto the plump lips, parted slightly by the spreading of her legs. She screamed and her knees closed, as if she might yet squeeze out the terrible hurt to her innermost person. Her hips swayed from side to side as she wrestled with her pain, her belly thumping up and down on the desk, but she clung desperately to the far edge, fearful of incurring another such stroke, if she was judged to have risen.
It took her several seconds to master the viper in her mound, but then she lay still, except for involuntary twitches, and the occasional sob. Reluctantly he accepted her victory, and gave permission to rise. He watched her as she recovered her knickers and, for the second time that evening, eased them, wincing all the while, up her lacerated thighs, and onto her sore and swollen bottom. Well he’d not cut her after all, but he didn’t doubt that there’d be blood in her knickers by the time his wife dismissed her.
“You’ll find Mrs. Helworthy on the next landing, second door on the left. Hurry up. She’ll be expecting you.”
Trying desperately to appear unaffected by her terrible ordeal, and the fires still burning in her pussy and thighs, Madeleine stepped into her shoes, smoothed down her rumpled skirt, and walked as steadily as her wounded thighs would allow towards the door. She closed it behind her without a word, then grabbed her wounded hinds and tottered round the corner of the corridor, out of sight. She leaned one shoulder against the wall, giving way to the dreadful pain behind her and beneath her, her body arched in a bow of agony, her hands plucking at her bottom, hissing through her teeth as the pain mounted to an unbearable summit, and hung there interminably before, reluctantly it seemed, subsiding to mere anguish. Her thighs and buttocks ached and throbbed, while her body felt as if it had been cut open, sending stabbing pains throughout her body.
She clung to the wall for a minute or more, sobbing and sniffing, then found a tissue from her sleeve and tried to clean up her face. She had survived the husband, but now she had the wife to face, and most people agreed that the female of the species is more deadly than the male. What sort of woman was Mrs. Helworthy? No coward, that was for sure, she had accepted the Black Rod. Madeleine had heard no talk of a wife during the approach by the headhunters, and supposed she must be a retiring woman of Maurice’s own age, content to let him keep his business and personal lives quite separate. Well, she’d be expecting her now, and she’d better not delay further, or she’d likely incur worse punishment still.
She dragged herself off the wall and shuffled stiff-legged on account of the damage to her thighs and spraddled to ease her pussy wound. The stairs were torture, as she ascended to the next floor and sought out Mrs. Helworthy’s room. Outside the second door on the left she paused, and made what repairs she could to her hair and clothes, then drew a deep breath and tapped on the door. Immediately a sharp female voice bade her enter.
It came as a shock that Maurice’s wife was little more than a girl, at least six or seven years younger than herself. Moreover she knew her! How could she have missed hearing of her marriage to so celebrated an advertising mogul? The name should have told her, Zena is not that common, and she should have thought at once of Zena Forbes, the poison tongued young witch of the advertising world, who’d clawed her way to the top via sundry backstabbings and half a dozen hot beds. So now she was warming Maurice’s, though it seemed she had to pay with her arse for the privilege. She closed the door behind her and faced the sharp featured little blonde seated on a couch across the room.
“You’re late. Helworthy phoned ages ago to say you were on your way. What’ve you been doing all this time, having a quick wank to ease your greedy cunt, or just lost your bottle?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but gestured to the rug in front of the couch. “Come and let’s have a look at you. Hm, that suit’s got a look of Paris about it. Too good for a whore, even one as expensive as you come. Helworthy paid out a lot for you, I understand. Quite right too, he owed me a good treat after making me take the Black Rod. Anyway, I intend to see you give good money’s worth,” she said in a cold voice, “and you can start by getting those rags off.”
Obediently Madeleine took off the jacket, and unzipped the skirt, folding them and laying them on a chair nearby.
“And the blouse, let’s see what your dugs are like.” The blouse and bra joined the suit. “Not bad for a woman of your age, I suppose,” was the disparaging comment. Madeleine felt a rush of colour behind her ears at the reference to ages, and the damning with faint praise of firm breasts that would be a credit to a teenager.
“OK, get your knickers off. I understand Helworthy warmed you up for me a little. Let’s have a look at the damage.”
Wincing at even the touch of the flimsy material of her briefs as she slid them over the bruises on her buttocks and the backs of her thighs, she bared her bottom to the sneering gaze of the young vixen, into whose hands she had now been given.
“Well, well, Helworthy has certainly marked your fat arse for you. The black Rod, I assume from the look of those lovely blueberry marks. Tell me, did he whip in?”
“Yes, just the last stroke.”
“Yes MADAM,” snapped the younger woman, “and just answer the question, when you’re spoken too. I’ll ask, if I want to know more.”
Madeleine swallowed. This was going to be a difficult evening, she could see. “Yes. Madam,” she said, submissively.
“That’s better. You’re a whore, and a servant, and don’t you forget it. I’m going to make you wish you hadn’t an arse, or several other parts of your anatomy before you leave, but there’s always room for more.” She pointed to the carpeting beside the couch. “On your knees, bitch.”
As Madeleine dropped to her knees and approached the couch, her sore thighs protesting at the movement, and the cut to her mound reacting to the rubbing, Zena swung her feet onto the ground and drew up her short skirt, spreading her thighs widely, revealing thick blonde curls, and an absence of underwear. “We’ll start by seeing how good your whore’s tongue is. Get licking.”
Obediently Madeleine leaned forward, tongue at the ready, one hand on each slim bare thigh to support herself. The young Mrs. Helworthy slapped at her cheek with dizzying force.
“Get your filthy hands off me, bitch! You keep your hands behind your back, unless they’re required for whatever you’re ordered to do. You only need your tongue for this exercise.”
Madeleine clasped her hands behind her, and bent again to her task. It might have been not too distasteful under other circumstances, fresh sweet young woman flesh to tease into ecstasy, but this was rank. With a shudder of disgust, Madeleine realised that the woman was having her period, and, by the scent of her, had done nothing to freshen herself since morning. As with so many women, the last days of her menstruation were a time of easy arousal. No doubt her feelings had climbed steadily t
hroughout the waiting, and the mixture of female heat with stale menstrual blood gave rise to a foetid aroma, matched by an unpleasant taste on her tongue. Zena seemed to sense her disgust, for she grabbed an ear painfully in each hand, and drew her head more firmly into the evil smelling crotch.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, “never smelt a period before? Get your tongue moving, or I’ll give you some blood on your own cunt to make it even.”
She was obviously quite capable of carrying out her threat, indeed, looking for a pretext to do so, and the older woman buried her head hurriedly in the steaming space between the parted thighs, and set to work frantically, licking at the already aroused clitoris until it swelled into a tiny rigid stub, and its owner leaned back, her breath quickening, her belly quivering, until, with a cry of triumph, she climaxed, mashing her crotch against the face still captive in her hands, and now nearly suffocating, as the hot acrid flesh pressed over her mouth and nostrils.
“I really needed that,” she declared, pushing away the half choking woman at her feet, “I’ve been building up all evening, waiting for my ‘treat’. Now we’ve got that out of the way, we can settle down to a nice long playtime, though I don’t suppose I’ll get through the rest of the evening without needing relief a few more times. Not with all the lovely things I have in store for you. Now stop gasping like an asthmatic cow, and fetch my cane from the stand in the corner.”
Madeleine Page 12
