F. Campbell - Slave Girl and the lash

I can't explain me. I don't want to. Explanations savor of apology. I am not making one. I like me the way I am. I wouldn't change me even if I could. Yolanda would not change me. Yolanda paid a great deal of money for me. I feel guilty sometimes about how much. But she just laughs and says it makes my belonging to her legal. I don't suppose it does, but the psychological effect on me has been total, far more real than a chain on my wrist or my ankle or my neck. But the chain is there too. While I'm thinking about how I'll write this and what I'll say, I'm being punished. Nothing very terrible, but enough to impress me that a slave girl does not talk back. I'm not exactly in a dungeon and not quite in a cell. We call it 'Turpitude Tower', Instead of going downstairs to the dark and scary places I get put in sometimes, we go up. It's still all stone and a bit grim, but castles are like that, even small ones. The Tower room is circular and has a stone pillar in the center. The door is thick and heavy and closes with a spine crinkling thud and it's got big bolts on the outside that thunk into their sockets so that the girl inside positively curls up at the edges at the sound. There is a lovely window and a view, but it has lovely bars that even a very slender naked girl can't begin to wiggle through. I'm naked. Right now, for me, the door and the window are symbolic. I can't get near either. I have to stand against the pillar because there is a metal collar locked round my throat and it's attached to a ring in the stone at the level of my neck. The chain is only a foot long. Figure it out for yourself; I'm not going anywhere. I just stand. Yolanda thinks it's a big giggle. I can even laugh about my plight when she's here, but when she goes away on the other side of the thud and the thunks and I'm all alone, and naked, and chained, my fingers fly to my collar and tug and twist and then explore the chain and the ringbolt as though making sure they are real. I always do this. I know I can't free myself, but the frustration is so great I have to do something. So much held by so little that's me! I suppose if you're to understand the cloak and dagger and the screams and the terror and the well, never mind, you'll have to understand me. None of it could have happened if I didn't adore being captive. I love being tied, tight, tight, tight! I love being chained. I can't wait to get incarcerated in dungeons and cells and this lovely 'Turpitude Tower'. I cannot envisage life without being owned. I mean it! Enslaved! The way Yolanda owns me. I even cherish being whipped up to a point! You are thinking up the names, aren't you! I know! I know them all. Keep 'em, they are not for me. All I know is a dream of beauty. It has always been there. It is the most permanent, real and vital thing in my psyche. It is a forest glade dappled with the misty sun of a June morn. It is a Grecian temple by a Lake. It is the ocean surf glinting and frothing as it spends itself upon a sandy beach. In each scene I am tied to a tree, chained to a column, or fettered to a rock to await the Sea Monster as was Andromeda long ago And, of course, Yolanda. Take it or leave it. I squirmed, now, in pure sensual enjoyment of my punishment. Yola had not handcuffed my wrists behind my back the way she usually does so as to stop me from playing with my puss. My fingers were half way there when I remembered the Reception. She'd have to let me loose in time. Five, at the latest six p.m. I let my arm fall, I'd keep all my eroticism for the evening. I adored playing second hostess and watching the startled eyes focusing on my chained wrists. But that was hours away. I guessed the time as about an hour past noon. I would stand against my pillar a dreary span. I wished my chain was long enough so I could sit on the floor, but it wasn't, so that was that! Idly, I allowed my fingers to instinctively friction across my nipples, both at once. But it was too wickedly arousing, so I stopped that too. I could imagine Yolanda laughing Yola is clever with me. She knows exactly where my adoration of the rope and of the whip dissolves into distress. She can detect the difference between my moans of joy and my moans of anguish. When she punishes me she simply uses excess. I am like a tennis player who finds zest in three hard sets, but make it six, then nine, then twelve, and you just can't take it. Right now; against my column, I am tingling with what I secretly call my 'nice feeling'. It will last an hour, perhaps two. But then I'll get tired and lonely and begin to wonder how long it will last. By the time another hour has gone I will be wishing I'd been a good girl.

"Oozing virtue and good intentions, I hope?" It is Yola at last. I must try and hide my relief. My column and I seem to have been together for ages. I have learned not to be flip at such moments. A witty bit of bravado can get me left here for the evening and maybe even the night. It's easy for me to smile in gratitude at her arrival. Even if her coming meant trouble I'd still be glad to see her. I always am and she knows it. So I smile brightly and exclaim: "I'll be ever such a good girl, darling, I promise." It sounds a bit trite, I know. I don't suppose I will be a good girl all that long. I am not reformed, just chastened. We both know this. But the niceties of our relationship have been observed, I will not go to the reception with a smarting bottom.

"You don't deserve to be let loose, Phemie. Just a bare four hours " We both ignore the pun. We have discovered it's impossible to say much about me that does not have a bit of the risque surfacing somewhere. Incidentally, my name is Euphemia Carstairs. But after all! There are limits, aren't there. I make a very nice Phemie. We're both pleased with it.

"It's seemed the longest time."

"Don't try and con me. You know you're getting off easy. I shall expect some proper behavior this evening. Tease all you like, tell nothing."

"Yes, Mistress." I am sweetly demure.

"Save the Mistress bit 'till later. And I didn't like the way you said that, you're being sarky. You do ask for it, y'know."

"Yes, darling." Butter would not melt in my mouth. Yolanda loves it. It is a game we play. A Russian roulette of repartee with an unknown punishment for me instead of the bullet. It is gorgeously cunt warming because I am forever on a brink. Only Yolanda knows where the precipice is. By the time I have located it I may have stepped over too far and collected half a dozen nice scarlet stripes. I'm terribly lucky.

"If it wasn't for your entertainment value I'd leave you locked here," Yola threatens as she inserts the key. I step away from the pillar, for which I now feel an absurd affection. I rub my chafed neck and savor freedom. In a genuine rush of feeling I sink to my knees and clasp the beloved legs and rub my cheek against them hungrily. But when I raise her skirt and lift my lips, Yola slaps away my hands, laughing.

"No. There isn't time. We now make ourselves incredibly beautiful and decide how much of maiden charm we're going to cover, especially yours." We both know how lucky we are about breasts and tummies and mounds and curves. Ours are so very right! We are breathtakingly in love with each other's body, and with each other. We assuage our hunger in ways and times Yolanda chooses. If I am to be punished, mine is not assuaged at all. I am left with my fire burning in my sex so that I am almost consumed by its heat. As I said, I'm lucky.

"The silver lame's for you, with the matching wrist chains and the emeralds." Yola examines my bathed and perfumed nakedness with a professional eye. "You'll keep every man rigid all evening. I don't know how they keep their hands off you."

"They don't!"

"Watch it! If I catch you leaving the room except for the loo it means a hundred strokes and a week in the dungeon." My heart misses a beat. She means it, every word. Yola is beautifully jealous and protective. But what she orders isn't all that easy. I will indeed watch it. I don't want those hundred marks or that dark chained week any more than any other girl would. But men are so persistent and some of them are nice. "I can't help it if they paw me," I defend myself without sulkiness. Slave girls have to be awfully careful about the sulky bit and keep it for just the right moments.