‘Ten,’ managed Helen through gritted teeth.
‘Ten?’ asked Carla as if savouring the number on her palate. ‘Plus an allowance of, shall we say, five for your unfortunate lapse into enforced fellatio? Would you think that fair?’
With a flare of spirited defiance Helen snapped back, ‘You’re going to do it anyway so why don’t you just get on with it?’
Delighted, and after a carefully judged intimidatory pause, Carla asked, ‘How many does that make in total?’
The tension on Helen’s expectant body caused a shuddering rebellion to sweep through her and, setting her teeth, she gave no reply. ‘Well,’ Carla sighed. ‘If you’re not prepared to help me with the calculations I shall just have to guess when to stop.’ Pausing again as if waiting for an answer which, defiantly, never came, Carla went on. ‘I intend that you shall have your punishment in groups of five. After each group there will be a pause during which you may recover and then, after thanking me for my indulgence, ask me to proceed. Do you understand?’
With Carla’s hand lovingly caressing her buttocks and her entire body visibly shaking, Helen could not force any reply from between her tight-set teeth.
‘I’m waiting,’ murmured Carla.
With flaring anger at this torment, Helen spat out, ‘For what?’
‘Your permission to begin, of course!’
Her voice wild, Helen snarled: ‘Bitch!’ only to hear the cry becoming a wailing scream as, without pause or pity, the lash descended. The first five strokes were so swiftly given that they overwhelmed her, taking away Helen’s power to voice her indignation. As the heat spread across her buttocks, Carla’s cooling hand, placed caressingly on her, felt like a benevolence.
Head bent, each sobbing breath drawn noisily through flaring nostrils, Helen fought for control as her brain raced to rationalise what was being done to her. Yes, she had behaved foolishly towards Jeffrey and welcomed his punishment as a purging of sin. But what of Carla? What hurt had she inflicted on her? So why then should she submit to this punishment? The only possible answer was in Carla’s pleasure. For some reason this sent Helen’s daunted spirits flying. She had wanted Qito’s pleasure for his fame and to make a memory. She was astonished to find she wanted Carla’s pain for the same reason.
‘Well?’ insisted Carla.
Raising her fallen head from her chest Helen took a deep breath and knew the response expected of her. ‘I thank you for your indulgence and am ready to receive more.’
‘Well said!’ called a delighted Carla and, into the grim and painful interval that followed, she allowed only Helen’s anguished voice to be heard.
Once more bowed into recovery Helen was startled to hear Carla speak. ‘Ah! I see we have attracted an audience.’
Helen turned to see that Jeffrey, surrounded by the ludicrous ‘Carmen Miranda’ figure and Martinez, had, drinks in hand, come to see the show. Only Qito was absent.
Deluged with humiliation, Helen sought out Jeffrey’s eyes. Smiling, he came forward and, taking her chin delicately in his hand, placed a light kiss on her lips. ‘Be brave, my darling,’ he told her before turning away from the plea in her eyes.
From behind the assembled group came Tsai, eyes on Helen before turning to Carla. ‘Let me take her punishment,’ said the girl.
‘How delightful!’ cried Carla. ‘That you should, on so short an acquaintance, be willing to sacrifice yourself.’ Carla paused. ‘I leave the decision to you all,’ she said. ‘Shall Tsai be whipped in Helen’s place?’
The first to answer was Helen. ‘No!’ she screamed.
Carla’s surprised eyes rounded on her. ‘What do we have here? Can this truly be love at first sight? What more has a woman to give than that she should be whipped in another’s place? Such nobility deserves reward.’ Carla paused as if searching her mind for the one touch that would exquisitely fit the moment. Her eyes falling on the ‘French maid’, she beckoned Martinez forward. ‘You may serve our noble friend with the sweetness of your tongue. On your knees before her!’
Martinez scrambled down onto his knees and worked his way through Helen’s legs to kneel up, and like an excited puppy, reach with his fingers to spread Helen’s labia and wait on Carla’s orders.
‘His pleasure combining with my pain – sweet and sour!’ cried a delighted Carla, addressing herself to the anxious Tsai. ‘Fitting, don’t you think?’
Helen, once more facing forward, heard what sounded suspiciously like a sob from Tsai and, in confusion, wondered what was in the Chinese girl’s mind. There was little time for further thought as Carla’s voice rapped an order to Martinez. ‘You may begin,’ she told the kneeling man.
Helen flinched as his searching tongue probed deeply into her but, even as the pleasure began, she felt the barrage of five swift strokes scorch into her. Her knees giving way under her she, simultaneously, found a steadying grip between her legs from Martinez who still fervently delved for pleasure, while she felt hands softer than Carla’s, caress and soothe the fiery pain that marked her flesh. Realising the soothing hands must belong to Tsai she leant forward and, giving herself up to the pleasure-sparks being struck at her, decided to get the remaining five strokes done with as soon as possible.
‘Thank you, Carla, for your indulgences and I am now ready for more,’ but even as she braced herself against the coming pain she heard Jeffrey intervene.
‘How much has she had already?’ he asked.
‘Ten of fifteen.’ Carla’s voice was challenging.
Helen heard a slight shuffle of feet as people repositioned themselves. She wondered what was going on as she felt Jeffrey’s hand on her, examining the site of the thrashing. If Helen had hoped Jeffrey might be about to intervene his next words dashed all such hopes. ‘You haven’t cut her skin,’ he said as if surprised. ‘Truly an expert.’
‘I aim to give satisfaction.’ Carla’s voice was filled with amusement. ‘May I continue?’
Helen, strained for the sound of Jeffrey’s voice. Remembering she had already recited her designated chant, she braced herself and cursed the pain that was her due until her eye caught something that, in that moment of trauma, seemed magical. Far out in the silvered night she saw a bright light bobbing on the water! For a moment she fantasised her beach lover sailing to her rescue but, as she strained to make out the boat marked by the light, she saw others appear, bobbing like so many fireflies on the swelling ocean. An armada coming to her rescue? Realising her mind was racing towards the fanciful she was brought abruptly back to the present by the smarting of the riding stick. Her voice raised in vain protest she found her eyes were staying open despite the pain, and fixed on those bobbing lights which seemed to be speeding closer. So intense was her concentration that she absorbed this final beating with ease.
Feeling the heat was soothed from her by Tsai’s soft hands she became aware once more of the compensatory pleasures being fired by Martinez’s tongue as he continued to work doggedly, even frenziedly, between her thighs.
Carla’s voice jolted her back to the present. ‘Well?’ she demanded.
Ignoring her, Helen kept her eyes on the fishing boats which, for a moment, seemed to be speeding towards them side on, until she rationalised the distance between them was being closed not by their motion but the speed of the yacht. Would they pass between them, she wondered. Would fishermen have binoculars or telescopes which, even now, might be fixed on her? Memories of her adolescent Peeping Tom flooded in on her as she pulled her torso upright and prepared herself for the combination of whatever was to come next.
Jimmy’s voice screeched out in sudden surprise. ‘Hey, look! There’s a fishing fleet out there! We’re going right through them!’
Helen smiled to herself as she imagined her own recent thoughts now flooding through Jeffrey’s mind. ‘Well?’ she demanded over her shoulder. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Her defiance received quick answer as she heard Jeffrey demand that he be given the riding crop. ‘Turn h
er!’ he snapped and it was Jimmy, having discarded his ludicrous fruit bowl headdress, that came forward with the key to the handcuffs and, leaning over the rail, unlocked them.
Turned, Helen found herself looking directly into Jeffrey’s livid face and had no doubt about his intention as he murmured an angry: ‘Bitch!’ into her boldly challenging face. ‘Hands on your head,’ he told her.
With as much dignity as she could muster Helen slowly raised her hands and, with infinite care, placed them on her head while at the same time impudently thrusting her breasts forward from the waist so that they reached to the tip of the stick. Her eyes alight, she made plain that she was daring him to do his worst.
Jeffrey seemed to hesitate. ‘Those boats are very close now,’ he murmured. ‘So you suppose “he” is out there and can see you?’
‘I hope so,’ Helen replied, her defiant spirit soaring.
‘Hold her upright!’ Jeffrey ordered, and Helen felt Martinez rising from his kneeling position to take her about the waist and pull her hard against his own body. She had barely time to register that Martinez was pressing his own full arousal against her before all such thoughts were driven away by the resulting four stripes of the crop. Summoning every last ounce of will that could be scavenged from her outraged body, she raised her head. As Martinez’s hold on her relaxed, she smiled directly into Jeffrey’s dumbfounded face. ‘Thank you,’ she said, keeping her voice firm and managed.
Jeffrey hesitated a moment, seemingly disconcerted by her response, before reaching forward to catch her, lifting her into his arms and carrying her like a bride swiftly from the scene.
Down through the boat and directly into the stateroom Helen found herself being unceremoniously dumped on the bed. Resentfully she tried getting up into a sitting position, her bottom still on fire. ‘Bastard!’ she screamed at him.
Jeffrey, his ‘pirate’ costume thrown to the four corners of the cabin, advanced on her, furiously aroused. ‘Slut!’ he seethed as he caught her up, spread her and penetrated her as she continued to scream protest while pummelling the solidity of his heaving body with her closed fists.
Silencing her with a hand across her mouth, Jeffrey spat his words into her face. ‘I’ve marked you! You’re mine! Understand? Nobody else’s!’
Despite her rising orgasm Helen managed to keep her anger going even when it was obvious to them both that it had been reduced to pretence. Rising to meet his every cruel thrust, she greeted his aggression just as she had welcomed the expiation of Carla’s whip. Nothing mattered but the combustion at their thighs. When Jeffrey explosively exhausted himself she moaned in protest. The fires dampened, they lay in each other’s arms, recovering their breath and knowing that they had in each other a relationship fired in the kiln of forgiveness.
They lay in astonished silence for some moments, listening to each other’s breathing, until, driven by an urgent need for full confession Helen thought of the inflight episode of which she had yet to tell Jeffrey.
‘There’s something more you have to know before you forgive me …’
Jeffrey raised himself slightly on the bed and looked tenderly down into her widened, apprehensive eyes. ‘There’s nothing more I need to know,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing! Except …’
‘What?’
‘Do you want to be with me?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Permanently?’ he insisted.
‘Yes.’
19
A BLAST FROM a car horn half roused Helen from a deep velvety sleep and, annoyed at the intrusion of traffic, she had turned over to return to it when realisation dawned. A car horn? In the middle of the ocean?
Instantly alert she sat up, noted Jeffrey’s absence, and went to the long side window to open the slatted blinds. She found herself looking at the feet of people passing along a quayside. They were in harbour!
Excited to know just where they might have fetched up she would have hurried on deck to find out, but first there were urgent preliminaries to be taken care of in the bathroom.
It was there she caught a vision of herself in the mirror.
The sight of her battle ‘honours’ brought about an ineffable surge of energy. Filled with the need to share her excitement with Jeffrey she positively raced into the shower then dried herself, wincing as the towel passed over her bruised buttocks, brushed out her hair, grabbed up a sarong and was in the act of reaching for the stateroom door when it startled her by opening, seemingly, of its own will.
Looking up she saw a beaming Jeffrey standing. ‘Great news,’ he told her.
Feeling her entire body alive and open to experience she reacted sourly to his obvious excitement. ‘Don’t I get a good morning kiss?’ she asked.
Smiling broadly he caught her up and their kiss added further fuel to the smoulder in her belly. Overwhelmed with an urgent need she took his hand, intending to lead him to the bed, but he, infuriating her, pulled himself free. ‘Don’t you want to hear my news?’
‘Can’t I hear it later?’
‘No. Now. We have to pack.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Los Angeles,’ he said, his excitement bursting forth. ‘One of the investigators I hired has turned up a witness there.’
Helen became almost angry to have this reminder of her guilt thrust at her. Since meeting Jeffrey, especially since Paris, she had concentrated her anger and then guilt on him and their relationship. To be reminded of her previous, greater guilt in the context of her lustful mood was devastating. ‘Must you bring that up now?’ she wailed sitting heavily on the bed and mourning the loss of her earlier mood.
‘Absolutely!’ cried Jeffrey. ‘If half what my man reported is true it will change everything.’
Helen looked up at Jeffrey and felt a great gulf opening between them, just as she had over dinner that night in Paris. ‘Do you want everything to change?’ she asked.
‘Not between us – of course not. What I want is to lift this burden of guilt from you.’
‘And how will you do that?’
‘By going to Los Angeles and talking to this man. He’s a student at UCLA.’
‘And what does he know about anything?’
‘That’s what I want you to hear. First hand. From him.’ Taking her by the arm Jeffrey insisted she stand up. ‘We haven’t much time. I’ve chartered a private jet that’ll have us there in six hours. We’re three hours ahead of them in time zone terms so, if you hurry, we’ll be there in time to talk to him tonight.’
Looking at him Helen felt a sense of foreboding. Life had already cruelly demonstrated how one cruel trick of Nature could destroy an apparently seamless happiness and she feared any new intrusive element coming between her and Jeffrey. ‘Do you think this really is a good idea?’ she asked plaintively.
Normally excited by surprise, Helen, instead, felt sulkily depressed by this abrupt change of pace. Their goodbyes to those left behind on the yacht had been warm enough but Helen felt a deep sense of loss at leaving Qito and Carla and also the tearful Tsai. The luxuriously appointed interior of the aircraft had eight armchairs – they were far too grand to be described as ‘seats’ – grouped in two facing sets of four which the stewardess, not without a sly smile, indicated could be converted into two huge king-sized beds, then turned to demonstrate the video and music as if they were to be grouped, along with the beds, as further potentials for in-flight entertainment. After telling them they were cleared for immediate take-off she made a discreet withdrawal.
‘Pretty girl,’ commented Jeffrey as the twin engines rose to screaming pitch and the extravagant machine began to move.
Helen’s tone was more acid than she had intended as she answered, ‘No doubt she would happily demonstrate the beds for you.’
‘Something wrong?’ asked Jeffrey with much injured innocence in his voice.
‘Nothing,’ said Helen shortly and turned to stare out of the window as the jet raced along the tarmac and lifted into the skies.
&
nbsp; Shutting Jeffrey out by feigning sleep she cursed her present mood. She was in flight with a man who had declared his love for her and wanted nothing more than to bring her peace of mind and she couldn’t understand why she resented him as if he were an intrusive stranger. Finally, just before genuine sleep overtook her, she understood. He was wrenching her from the refuge of forgetfulness that had made these past weeks possible and was now forcing her to face the root of her guilt.
Fearful of what might come from such a confrontation she knew for certain that, whatever the outcome, nothing would ever be the same again.
True to Jeffrey’s prediction the plane made it to Los Angeles by 4 pm local time, landing not in the sprawl of LA International but at Burbank in the San Fernando Valley. As they transferred, with very little formality, from the jet to the long black limousine waiting for them, Jeffrey explained that the traffic in Los Angeles was chaotic and made Burbank handier to the UCLA campus at Westwood, than the downtown LAX.
Wesley Pike was a rangy young man, standing six feet four and blinking at Helen through pebble glasses that made his eyes look as if they were in a permanent state of surprise. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ he asked as they met in the discreetly quiet Boulevard Café in Westwood.
Shaking her head Helen sat in the offered chair and felt a bewildering unreality settle about her. That morning she had woken on a yacht alongside the quay in Guadeloupe; nine or so hours later she had been transported across a continent and felt her mind had been lost somewhere in transit.
‘I was one of the dive leaders that day,’ Wesley was saying. ‘Jesus – what a day! The worst of my life.’ Helen watched the raw-boned young man shifting his gaze randomly between herself and Jeffrey before addressing her directly. ‘They lied to you,’ he said.
The Gift of Shame Page 24
