'Oh yes, Buttercup,' she hissed, her voice dropping lower as she stepped closer, 'you'll be stretched so far a man will get more satisfaction from a cow, but then that's really all you are, isn't it? You're a scheming little cow, Buttercup, and from now on that's how you'll be treated.'
She turned away and seemed on the point of leaving, but then she paused, hesitating over some deliberation or other and eventually turned to Erik.
'I want her whipped every half hour,' she instructed. 'Use a light crop on her, twelve strokes each time, or more if needed.'
Erik looked slightly confused. 'More than twelve needing for what?' he asked.
Meg grinned. 'To make the little whore come, of course,' she said. 'Take her thrashing nice and easy, make her dance on her little perch. The cock inside her will do the rest. Meantime, I must find the smithy and see if he's finished with her new ornaments.'
15.
Fiendish is a word I've come to think of as overused, but it was certainly appropriate in describing both Meg and the little torture refinements her dark mind seemed constantly to be working on. However, before she returned I had to endure the small matter of my first whipping astride the post and Polly remained behind to witness it and to attest to Erik's efficiency.
If I was harbouring any thoughts that my earlier intimate exertions with Erik had already begun to build some sort of bond of sympathy between us, what now followed was as clear an indication to the contrary as I could have ever hoped to receive, although, in my confused and dazed head a little later I did wonder how much more terrible my ordeal might have been without that close contact having been established.
The trouble was, I thought as I sobbed myself to sleep eventually, desperate to be able to reach and soothe my poor throbbing sex, that I really had no way of knowing. All I could do was guess and perhaps console myself with the hope that something was going on inside that Nordic mind that I might be able to take advantage of eventually.
Erik retreated inside the building and emerged again carrying a slender and whippy crop, which he flexed several times between his hands, as much for dramatic effect, I guessed, as for any practical purposes of testing it. One look at the tightly braided and well oiled instrument was enough for anyone to be able to have confidence in it as a means of inflicting pain and I gritted my teeth as he approached me.
Polly, who I was sure knew the taste of more than one whip herself, stood quietly to one side observing, her eyes huge and rounded and I noticed that whilst she seemed to be standing with her hands held demurely together in front of her, she was actually pressing against her groin through the folds of her skirt. I glared at her, my anger disguised by my mask, disgusted that the stupid ginger-haired little bitch could find my impending torture a matter of stimulation; ah, how naive I was back then!
Erik moved unhurriedly, walking around to take up a stance behind me and to my left. I craned my neck, trying to follow him, unwilling to be surprised by the first cut from that crop, but the high collar was more cunningly cut than I had originally realised and I found I was unable to turn my head more than a few degrees.
The sharp hissing sound was therefore the only warning I received, and it was not enough to enable me to tense against the impact. The oiled leather cut across my exposed buttocks, instantly re-inflaming the remains of my earlier thrashing and sending a searing, flaming sensation straight up my spine. Instantly my muscles contracted and reacted completely automatically and, even through that first agony, I understood the sheer evil ingenuity of the position in which I had been placed.
Despite the straps holding me at thigh and ankle my entire body seemed to rise up: in truth, I doubt whether it was more than an inch or so, but it was more than enough. Not only did I lift myself up the length of the dildo shaft, but the seam of the leather covering, which was at the front and which I had previously not considered, formed a ridged and dimpled edge which vibrated against my clitoris.
Fiery pain was enjoined by a totally different sensation and, as I settled squarely back down onto my perch again, I was totally aghast as I realised what was happening. This dainty, doll-like body into which I had been transported was once again at it, responding to stimuli in a way I was certain my own body never could and, as Erik progressed with my punishment it was going to sail blithely into another ravaging orgasm and take me - or my mind, at least - along with it!
Another hiss, another sharp crack and another involuntary rising and falling. I yelled, and another spasm of sexual responding overrode the initial agony, the body's reaction marginally more marked than the first time.
'You great hulking bastard!' I screeched. Through mist-filled eyes I saw Polly, her fist thrust even deeper into the folds of her skirt, her huge eyes seemed to have taken on a light of their own and I wondered whether she might not even beat me to the intended climax. 'Fuck you!' I shrieked. I wanted them to gag me - not for the added humiliation, oh no, but for far more practical purposes. Already I could taste what I was sure was blood in my mouth and knew I could easily end up biting clear through my lips. Erik, however, seemed oblivious to this possibility.
He took his time, waiting several long seconds between each delivery. The third stroke finally cut through the air after what seemed like an hour and again I rose and fell, an awful squeal tearing itself from somewhere deep inside my throat, to be replaced by a sound I can barely describe as my throbbing clit, writhing against the virtually serrated leather edge, transmitted its eagerness to every nerve-ending in my body.
It was at this point that Erik seemed to realise what Polly was up to, for suddenly he appeared back in my field of vision, pointing the crop at her.
'Ha!' he exclaimed. Polly looked embarrassed and scared at the same time. Erik stepped closer to her and jabbed the crop into her skirt. 'Remove!' he ordered. She looked confused and he jabbed at her again.
'Take off!' he roared. 'Skirt to take off and drawers also. Frig yourself you may, but watching Erik will be. Ha-ha!' The prospect seemed to amuse him greatly, while poor old me, left stuck atop my bizarre stand, pussy throbbing with its own private agenda, was momentarily forgotten. However, the sight before me was so unbelievably absorbing.
Slowly, Polly managed to loosen the fastenings about the waistband of her skirt, which tumbled about her ankles to form a small pool of black, from which the tops of her button boots were just visible. Beneath the skirt she wore no petticoats, her modesty protected by a voluminous pair of drawers, which quickly followed to the ground, revealing an angrily pouting pair of labial lips, above which sprouted a wispy ginger pubic thatch.
Even from my position and even with my vision impaired by the residual tears, I could see the glistening signs of her arousal and so, too, could Erik. He lifted the tip of the crop and prodded it against the errant little slit, drawing a squeak of fright from its owner.
'Fingers you use now,' Erik grunted. 'Frig self as Buttercup I am whipping, but come not to before does she, or Erik a taste of this will give you also!' The maid seemed confused as well as scared and Erik had to repeat himself before the penny finally dropped, but to me it was plain enough. He expected her to masturbate as he whipped me and, if she climaxed before I did he was going to give her a thrashing too. Whether or not he had the authority to do so I had not the slightest idea, but the threat certainly seemed to carry some weight with Polly, who nodded, dumb faced, and slowly lowered her right hand, one finger extended.
'Good!' Erik exclaimed. 'You good girl will be and Erik fucking you may also be later.' This 'promise' elicited no additional response from Polly and I wondered if she could have any idea of exactly what that meant. I decided not: after all, any woman once impaled upon Erik's gigantic shaft could hardly remain unmoved by the prospect of a repeat performance.
Erik returned at last to me, and the fourth stroke of the crop across my burning buttocks. The short delay had given my treacherous clitoris a breathing space, so it was almost a case of back to square one, but by the time the seventh stroke wa
s delivered my body was hot and writhing once again.
The pain from the crop seemed to diminish with every stroke now and it was almost as if my bottom was seeking that hide kiss, welcoming it and transporting it, together with the other sensations, to some deep-rooted seat hidden within my brain, which craved everything that was now bombarding it.
And then, unbelievably, a part of my mind seemed to detach itself from the main mayhem and I was so coolly aware of the heights to which I was rising - so aware, in fact, that I could now see Polly clearly, two fingers delving deeply within her, rubbing against the engorged clitoris that emerged from between the tops of her pussy lips, her juices seemingly bubbling between her fingers in slow motion.
I saw her face, a glazed mask of concentration and her eyes never leaving me, but trying to avert their gaze when she saw me looking back at her. No you don't, you ginger bitch! It was as if she heard my thoughts, for immediately she looked up again and I held her gaze in a grip as firm as any engineering vice. Moreover, it was now as if it was she who was the captive, not me, for I rode upon my throne, my proud charger, bound and naked and gloriously free.
'Yes!' I cried, and the first tremors of orgasm proper started up from somewhere in my toes, joining the radiations from within and welling up through my upright body, until I thought my nipples would explode along with my head, and yet throughout I retained a surreal control.
'Yes,' I cried again, only this time in a rounder, softer tone. The leather of the mask beneath my mouth was soaked with spittle and between my legs was a hot pool of my own desire and... I cared not one iota. 'Oh yes,' I groaned again, as wave after wave of orgasm crashed over the rocks of my soul.
I saw Polly's open mouth trying to form something, but if she spoke, or even cried out, no sound penetrated my ears. Only the stupidly crazed expression, the dully shining eyes that were now focusing on a spot far, far behind me, only the sagging of her knees and their eventual capitulation so that she fell forward onto them, her head banging onto the earth before her and only the final surrender, the pitifully crumpled body, feet and ankles still entangled in her skirt and drawers, only these things told me that Polly, too, had reached a shattering climax and now, despite the repeated rise, fall and hiss of the crop, it was over for me and I was cast off into an oblivion from which I cared not if I never returned.
16.
What is reality? Well, that's a question bandied about by philosophers and would-be philosophers since the dawn of intelligent thought, I suppose, and there are probably as many definitions as there have been parties to the discussion, but I wonder whether any of those so-called worthies might not have changed their standpoints if they ever had the chance to bob about in time the way I have.
For instance, try this one on for size: sixty seconds equals one minute and sixty minutes equals one hour and, whilst there are different time zones around the globe, depending upon the relative positions to the sun at any given time, whilst an hour passes in, say, new York, the same hour passes in, say, London. Okay, that hour may start and finish five hours difference according to the local clocks, but it's still the same hour, when all's said and done, and bugger whether a butterfly flaps its wings in a rain forest in some place I'm never likely to visit anyway.
Meanwhile over in, say Tokyo, the same hour passes, the world spins slowly around on its axis and although we all have bedtimes that are different, we all get twenty-four hours in our day and grow a little older with every sleeping and waking. Get the picture? One hour is an hour long, wherever you are in the world and thus a week is a week and a month is a month. That's a reality for you, if ever there was one. Live a week, lose a week, for the week you've just lived is over and gone forever and only the memories and the scars remain.
Oh yeah? Well, read on...
I came round slowly, voices somewhere in the background, my head feeling muzzy as hell and the bones of my corset digging into every soft piece of flesh they could find.
Corset?
I opened my eyes and looked down. A moment later I sat up, too abruptly as it happened, as whalebone stays jabbed me from every which way bar none.
'Bugger me!' I exclaimed. The voices continued in the distance and I realised it was the radio through in the kitchen, at about the same time that I realised I was now once more fully dressed, back in the outfit I had taken from the trunk and sitting on the old sofa in my recently acquired cottage haven.
I was back - back in my own time. Slowly I exhaled a sigh, partly of relief, partly of wonderment, partly because I was so confused I didn't think I was quite up to doing anything too much just then and sighing seemed a fairly safe way of using up a few seconds while I tried to get my scrambled eggs back into brain format.
Gingerly I reached around behind me and pressed my hand against my bottom. Even through the various Victorian layers I would be able to feel the evidence of my torments, but no, nothing felt tender, nothing felt warm.
Of course it didn't, I told myself. After all, this was now my body I was in and it was Angelina's body that had been whipped, abused, tormented and finally thrown through some sort of almost metaphysical barrier, at the same time, it would seem, parting company with my astral self, soul, call it what you will and sending me back to my own time.
Time! I jumped up with a start and wished I hadn't. Muttering curses at whichever masculine nastiness had contrived the design of this corset (it had to be masculine, surely) I staggered across and peered at the old clock. For several seconds the numbers and the hands refused to solidify, but when they did I saw it was just before nine-thirty.
The curtains were drawn still, but even before I stumbled across and peeped out I sensed it was evening, for not even the smallest chink of light penetrated their thick folds. I turned back into the room, doing mental calculations at a rate of knots.
I'd been back in that body for days; quite how many I had no real way of telling, but it was a lot, that much I knew. So what had been happening to this body, my body, in the interim? I peered down at myself, but the corset and everything else made it impossible to tell if I'd lost weight, so I found the mirror once more and examined my face as best I could, given the appalling light level.
Everything seemed okay. I looked healthy enough, under all that curious make-up, with no signs of bags under the eyes, sunken cheeks, or whatever else one might expect to find from a starvation diet. So, had my body been working on some sort of autopilot during my mind's absence? Obviously no one else had been involved in whatever survival process had taken place, for there was no way they would have just left me there on the sofa, still trussed up in all that whalebone and stuff, was there?
I sat down again and tried to recall where I had been just before the 'jump'. Bedroom? Down here in the lounge? I furrowed my brow, trying to concentrate and slowly it began to come back.
I had definitely been upstairs in the bedroom, for that was when I tried on the locket. My hand went instinctively to my throat and closed around the warm metal. The locket was still there and I was back here, though somehow I'd managed to shift my physical form down a flight of stairs at some time.
Time! Ye Gods! My parents would be going spare, but then... this was puzzling: why hadn't they tried to contact me, to find out why they hadn't heard anything from me for so long? And why hadn't they ultimately just forced the door and discovered my unconscious body? Or had I somehow managed to function in a normal enough way meantime and no one noticed the difference?
Never take mobile phones for granted, please. In fact, don't take any sort of phone for granted. Nowadays we have so many things made easy for us and, I suppose, even back in the mid-seventies things were pretty easy as well, so not having a phone in the cottage was one mighty drawback as far as I was concerned, especially as I was now faced with two alternatives - spend half an hour getting changed back into my normal clothes, or else risk walking several hundred yards to the nearest phone box dressed as I was.
I opted for the latter. After all, it
was dark outside and I had a cape I could throw over my dress and what if anyone did see me? They'd probably assume I was on my way to or from a fancy-dress party; either that or they'd think I was some kind of ghostly apparition. Either way, that would be their problem, not mine.
As it turned out I encountered nary a soul on the way and at this outer edge of the village the street lighting, such as it was, was dim and next to useless, so I would have had to almost bump into someone for them to be able to see how I looked.
My dad answered the phone and I could tell immediately that he'd had a couple of drinks in front of the telly, which was probably just as well, for the ensuing conversation was odd to say the least and the less switched on he was, the fewer awkward questions I might have to field.
'Teen? Wassamatter love?'
'Oh, nothing dad.'
'Getting lonely already? Missing your ole dad, are you?'
'Yeah, course I am,' I said, smiling in the dim light inside the phone box and watching my distorted reflection in the mirror-backed thingy behind the important phone numbers panel.
'Is it a bit scary over there on your own?'
Scary? Scary isn't even in it, I thought. 'N-no, it's okay,' I said. 'Bit weird without a telly, but that'll be sorted soon. I just... well, I know this'll sound daft, but I was... well, I was writing a letter and I suddenly couldn't remember the exact date. You know how it is, what with all the excitement of moving and I don't even have a newspaper here to check.'
'You're as daft as your mum,' he chuckled, and told me the date, asked me if I'd remembered to put my head on before coming out to the phone and then we exchanged a few more jocular pleasantries, most of which I could barely give any real attention to before the pips went and I was able to excuse myself by saying I had no more change.
After the line went dead I stood there, phone still clutched in my hand, staring at nothing in particular, my brain whirring like a dervish trying to make some sense of things, which sounds really wet considering I had the problem of time-hopping to make sense of to begin with. However, this latest information possibly put a completely different complexion on the situation. Finally I replaced the receiver, pushed my way out of the phone box and set off back towards the cottage.
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