“Why don’t you get back into your dress before we have you whipped,” suggested Harsh Martinet as he led me to the waiting whipping post. “But leave the top half down, please.”
“Why would I want to do that? What difference does it make?”
“Well, because in my opinion it’s so much more erotic to see a topless girl whipped than a naked one,” he replied.
“And what if I refuse?”
“We’ll double the number of lashes.”
“Oh ...”
So I retrieved my green sweater dress, hastily stepped into it and hitched it up so that it hung from my hips.
“Satisfied?”
“Oh yes, arms over head now please so we can secure you to the post.”
As they were binding me in place, facing the post, my ears were assaulted by the wild screams and moans coming from Kathy as she thrashed and bucked over the caning bench. Unlucky at dice, she had rolled two sixes, a five and a three ... twenty strokes in all, so many the guys had to line up to administer them so as not to tire aging arm muscles.
And, in the meantime, Rias was announcing the third winner ... well almost, that is ... for, encouraged by RacingRodent, she had decided to play it catty and toss out a hint rather than reading the name on the card.
But, even as the braided business-end of a whip slammed into my bared back for the first time, driving me into the post ... a long gasp escaping my mouth ... and my mind focused elsewhere ... it wasn’t hard to identify the third winner.
For, from somewhere deep in the room there was a veritable explosion of rapid-fire, highly excitable French ... the words I could not follow ... but the identity of the speaker was obvious enough, both to me and to the assembled throng ... Messaline!
“Why would I want to do that? What difference does it make?”
“Well, because in my opinion it’s so much more erotic to see a topless girl whipped than a naked one,” he replied.
“And what if I refuse?”
“We’ll double the number of lashes.”
“Oh ...”
So I retrieved my green sweater dress, hastily stepped into it and hitched it up so that it hung from my hips.
“Satisfied?”
“Oh yes, arms over head now please so we can secure you to the post.”
As they were binding me in place, facing the post, my ears were assaulted by the wild screams and moans coming from Kathy as she thrashed and bucked over the caning bench. Unlucky at dice, she had rolled two sixes, a five and a three ... twenty strokes in all, so many the guys had to line up to administer them so as not to tire aging arm muscles.
And, in the meantime, Rias was announcing the third winner ... well almost, that is ... for, encouraged by RacingRodent, she had decided to play it catty and toss out a hint rather than reading the name on the card.
But, even as the braided business-end of a whip slammed into my bared back for the first time, driving me into the post ... a long gasp escaping my mouth ... and my mind focused elsewhere ... it wasn’t hard to identify the third winner.
For, from somewhere deep in the room there was a veritable explosion of rapid-fire, highly excitable French ... the words I could not follow ... but the identity of the speaker was obvious enough, both to me and to the assembled throng ... Messaline!
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