"Margo" - читать интересную книгу автора (Campbell F E)

CHAPTER ONE
PAINFUL PENURY

By the time she had traversed the park and made her way around Franklin Square, Margo was breathless. In the crowded lobby of the Boulter Building, the rise and fall of her breasts was attracting male attention. It was nothing new. She was used to it. She was not a girl to hold it against men for acting like men. If nature had so endowed her, she felt only gratitude for her good fortune. Just as she felt it for her narrow waist and trim hips. Her bottom was a subject best ignored at this moment.

She entered the elevator positive she was late. Norma Boulter had kept the top floor for herself. Above it was the penthouse in which she lived. The panel beside the main entrance bore an impressively gilded reference to the many companies whose head offices were her own. Threading her way past the appraising eyes of the feminine staff, Margo was aware of measuring glances which centered on her frontal equipment. No doubt they were attributing it to falsies. Most girls did, but that did not matter either. What mattered was the mahogany doors just ahead. Bea Maxwell, the secretary, produced her usual smile and cocked an eyebrow at the clock.

"Hello, Miss Davis. Just one minute late today. You're doing better all the time."

Margo had once trembled at this point. But that was seven weeks ago, and she supposed with a shrug that the girl thought she was a supervisor. She pushed at the mahogany slab, which had probably cost a king's ransom, and entered the holy presence.

Norma Boulter was ageless. One was never quite sure if you caught her too early in the morning that she might be less than beautiful. Her hair and features were regimented. She kept control of them, allowing neither to show any feminine weakness. Margo was willing to believe there was no weakness behind the cold gray eyes. The head of Boulter Inc. pressed the button to kill the intercom, the phone, the Dictaphone, and the tape machine. She, too, looked at the clock before raising a languid regard upon her flushed visitor.

"One minute late, Margo." She shrugged. "I suppose that shouldn't bed too bad, all things considered."

"It's very difficult to arrive precisely at the right moment Miss Boulter. If you would give me a little more leeway?"

"It doesn't matter. It's your loss you know. I'd like to see you five minutes late each time. But anyway just one extra today."

Making herself bare for Miss Boulter's attention was still a thing of shame, particularly inasmuch as what they were about to do did not call for such total exposure. But Norma Boulter had been adamant.

Her terms were "naked or nothing".

Margo supposed it did not matter. For the occasions on which she visited Miss Boulter, she wore as little as possible so she could shrug out of the several trifles with ease and speed. She went to the second desk, which always had an air of waiting especially for her, and draped herself across its polished surface, its sharp edge indenting below her pubic bush. She held breathlessly still which Norma Boulter walked around to grasp a bare arm and handcuff its wrist with one of the severed handcuffs not normally in view. She repeated the process with Margo's other wrist, to leave the visiting girl with arms widespread and breasts thrust hard down upon the utilitarian wood. Miss Boulter then got the yellow cane and flexed it back and forth suggestively while she talked. It was an unnecessary and cruel little ritual she obviously enjoyed. It had not been included in their terms of reference, but since it did no more than add extra shame, Margo had not complained.

"Are you ready for your punishment, Miss Davis?"

"Yes, Miss Boulter, I'm ready."

"Do you deserve the thrashing I'm about to give you?"

"Yes, Miss Boulter, I deserve it. Please whip me hard."

This part of the ceremony never varied. Margo supposed it revived in Miss Boulter's mind some erotic memory of childhood. Perhaps she too had once been thus caned and punished. But Margo had not felt she knew Norma Boulter well enough to ask questions. After all, it was the check that counted.

"The usual ten, Miss Davis? And one extra for being one minute late. A total of eleven."

"That's right, Miss Boulter. I'll try not to make too much noise."

"You always say that, dear." The voice of Norma Boulter was becoming increasingly vibrant, her flexing of the cane ore emphatic. "Perhaps it's just as well you have never been ten minutes late. It would tax you sorely." The older woman's hands sought and caressed the tautly bent and stretched curves she was about to pain.

"You carry a few fading marks from week to week, dear. Be sure and tell me if you wish to move to another part of you. You are really still quite virgin."

Margo could guess where the other parts would be. She made one more good resolution to arrive punctually on time and thus extend the useful contribution of her derriere. Ten strokes were just beyond endurance but not enough to break her down totally. Both females understood this fine line and walked it cautiously.

"You may keep your legs close together this time, Margo," Margo Boulter said primly. "We experimented last time with having you open them wide for the cane to have entry. But you are fastened too close to the desk to make that practical. But it's something I will give some thought to. It is the obvious place to whip or cane a girl, fear more suitable than that portion of you I've caned so far. Now, are you ready?"

"Yes, Miss Boulter."

She would never be ready. No girl could ever be ready for the force of a blow with a cane across her bent-over buttocks from Miss Boulter's savage hand. It hurt like fury and every time Margo vowed she would never submit to this again. But she always did. Once again, it was the power of the check. Margo clenched her teeth and tried to match the rhythm of the fearful waves of pain.

Knowing the extent of her punishment always helped. Both she and Norma Boulter used that word in reference to what was actually an erotic enjoyment of the older woman's. Margo always supposed a girl did not have to do something bad in order to be punished. It was a most suitable word, and she always thought of what was done to her as exactly that. She tried hard not to listen to the snickering whir of the approaching impact. But it took several strokes before agony enveloped her so totally that she thought of nothing else.

When a girl is caned by Miss Boulter, she was caned but good. But Margo had no way of knowing or comparing the severity of what Miss Boulter did to her each week. The practice of punishing young females by corporal means had been discontinue by the time Margo went to school.

But she had heard of it, and older people sometimes referred to it, always jokingly. She doubted if any schoolgirl had ever had a creaking bottom caned with the severity Miss Boulter appeared to consider normal.

Margo Davis thrust hard against the sharp edge of the desk as it burrowed into the softness of her loins in order to ease the stress of her wrists. Each time Miss Boulter struck her bottom, there was an involuntary spasm of revolt with her hands against the steel biting her wrists and holding them widely apart. The magnificence of her breasts made them also vulnerable. Nothing would touch them. But they were thrust down hard upon the surface in a manner the owner would like to relieve but never could. The handcuffs were tremendously unkind, hot they held her safely and after the first arrangements had been made, she had decided against seeking any amelioration of her lot. In a way, she was glad about the handcuffs. She really did not wish to free herself of being punished. It would be an untidy act and stupid in that she had made a contract for exactly what she was receiving. But it would have been infinitely more comfortable if Miss Boulter had used straps upon her wrists. Margo presumed it unlikely that would happen.

"You do take a whipping marvelously well, my dear," Miss Boulter conceded generously. "Everything you do is in its proper context and adds enormously to the enjoyment. The motions of your feet, for instance. It would be a mistake to bind them. You use your feet most eloquently. And the raising and lowering of your head and those fearful glances back over your shoulder are quite exquisite. You have a positive gift for punishment Miss Davis I do regret your use of it is so limited."

With the skin of your bottom scalding and burning in a crying out pleading for surcease it was very hard to follow Miss Boulter's remarks. It appeared to be understood that they required no response other than a continuation of the carnal and sexual motions commented on. When the sixth slice seared the already tender seat, the fastened-down girl realized she had only passed the halfway mark, but it seemed a century. The cut just received could just as well have been the fiftieth as well as the fifth. Margo Davis moaned and shifted her hips against the cutting edge in a fruitless seeking of comfort. She was now self-conscious about the raising and lowering of her legs in response to pain. Sometimes she actually kicked back as though at some tangible object. Once her bare foot had inadvertently come into contact with Miss Boulter's shin and was rewarded with a sharp, vicious cut across its sole. Margo would always remember that single cut. When the bastinado was mentioned, she never failed to shudder.

"There we are, dear. No ten. I've spaced them well today. Be sure and examine yourself when you get home. The effect is quite gorgeous. Now you have only the last one left. The one you need not have had at all. Brace yourself."

Knowing it to be the last made it bearable. Margo was quite sure if it had been in the beginning, she would have relapsed into screaming right away. But as its bitter scald penetrated her sex in a cruel ecstasy, she was saying over and over to herself, "That's all, that's all."

Nothing mattered now. She could put up with anything.

"You are to remain as you are, for the usual thirty minutes, Margo." Miss Boulter was obviously feeling better. Her voice was noticeably warm, with almost a touch of humor as she spoke.

"I do think it's so good for a girl to remain fastened in the same manner as her punishment for a period in which she may quietly think upon her sins and contemplate her possible future punishments should she digress."

Margo wanted to report "up yours", but with Miss Boulter, a girl had best be circumspect. She had learned this when she had been an employee out there on the main floor with all the other girls. Being fired in disgrace from Boulter, Inc. was something very easy to achieve. It bad happened to her, and when two weeks later she came back, the faint hope of pleading for mercy and receiving it, that her present predicament had come about. It had all been remarkably matter of fact.

"You are the mainstay of your disabled parents, Miss Davis. Now you ask me for mercy?" The tone had been somewhat less cold than Margo had expected. "And this mortgage business you speak of would appear to me to require sums of money far beyond what you can earn on a monthly salary."

"What else can I do, Miss Boulter? I was happy here, and we were getting along fairly well, I thought until that silly mistake."

"Would you consider thrashing once a week for a larger sum, Miss Davis?"

It had been like a physical blow Margo had been uncertain of hearing right. She gazed across the desk before which she stood as a convicted culprit, dismayed and distraught. Miss Boulter had come to the rescue.

"I could have worked up to that more easily, Margo. But you and I are both adults, and I deplore euphemisms. If you desire this larger sum, you will be required to present yourself here once a week a precise moment in time. You will then strip naked and allow me to fasten you across the desk. I would then use a cane upon your bottom. Ten strokes is the minimum I would care to bargain for. But if you are so disposed, we could always discuss a larger sum or a more frequent punishment."

She had stood staring in shocked silence until Miss Boulter made the rationalizations which enabled Margo to evaluate the strangest offer of her life. She had accepted it and had so far survived. Now, chained down on the hard wood of the desk, she reflected and reviewed. In spite of her vows of abstinence, she was well aware she would return again and again. Norma Boulter had offered her a solution to all her financial affairs. After Margo had been whipped a number of times, the older woman had increased the weekly stipend. Margo simply told her parents of a new job and additional responsibilities. It had all been extremely simple.

"I was particularly pleased with you today, Margo," Miss Boulter enthused. For her, this was lavish praise. "There is a sensuousness, a sexuality about you that is quite unique. I suppose I don't have to tell you that you are a remarkably beautiful young woman. I'm surprised you have not been taken under some rich man's wing. For a girl of your quality, it is by far the best choice. Have you considered it?"

"I never meet any," Margo mourned as the handcuffs fell away from her chafed wrists. She stood, unconscious of her nakedness, while she massaged her semi-wounds and ran reassuring fingers across the raised welts left by the cane.

"I don't move in those circles. It's easy to say, and I expect it is easy for the right girl, but not for me. In any case, it's not something I'd want to do."

"Even for a great deal of money?"

There it was again: always the temptation of money. Margo shrugged and said, "Well, I suppose I could become a call girl and make a great deal of money." She looked at Norma Boulter and smiled deprecatingly.

"You've always been rich; you don't understand."

"Like hell I don't! Margo, if you only knew. I've used my sex, and I've used men for everything they've got. And everything I've got is the result. How serious are you about money?"

"There's never enough. I'm still trying to catch up on my mortgage. Then there's the hospital bill?"

"Okay then, come twice a week. We'll alternate between your bottom, your back, your breasts, and between your legs. I'll double the ante."

"I couldn't take that. Not on my breasts. I'm sorry, Miss Boulter, but even if I thought I could bear the pain, I don't think I'd want them spoiled. Whipping a girl's breasts can't possibly do them nay good."

"Horseshit! They thrive on it."

"I'm terribly sorry." Margo knew she sounded as though she really was sorry and would have performed the service if she possibly could. She accepted the check Miss Boulter now handed her and knew the usual thrill of accomplishment. What did pain matter in the face of this all-encompassing power money gave a girl? She found herself not wanting to disappoint Norma Boulter. Today, more than ever, she had felt closer to this strange woman with her strange compulsion.

"I think if you'd just forget about my breasts and concentrate on the other places, I could probably manage something. Would that please you, Miss Boulter?"

"Oh, sure." Margo shrugged and managed a wan smile. "My trouble is I never get the right one. They want to maul these breasts that you want to whip, and a few other places too. They don't seem to offer any future at all."

"How would you like to meet a man who enjoys what I like doing?" Increased vibrancy was once again notable in the quiet voice. "Don't ever knock men," Norma Boulter laughed dryly. "Some of them even have more money than I've got. Grab yourself one."

It sounded so easy. But Margo knew it was something she would never do. She supposed Norma Boulter was paying her handsomely for the pain she bore each week from these visits, but she could not even be sure of that. She had no comparisons. And she certainly was not going to seek them. When she had finished putting on her shoes and had straightened up, Norma handed her a business card.

"Go and see this man. He could do a lot for you, and he's into this up to his neck. He's also extremely charming and most imminently eligible. If I didn't have so much money, I'd marry him myself. But it's a great mistake for a woman to have it all and a man a lesser amount. Not that's broke – far from it. Go ahead, you'll like him."

Margo looked down at the severely expensive card. It bore a name and a telephone number. Nothing more. The name was Henry Ross. She put it into her bag, along with the check. She supposed she could call it a successful day. When they parted, Norma kissed her goodbye, reminding her when they would next meet.

When Margo walked past the cute secretary, she knew something had changed. But she did not know what.

"He'd make a catch for any girl," the henna-rinsed female stated with fervent conviction. "But he's out of my class, and he's probably out of yours too. Henry Ross puts on a damn good party, but as for the rest, you can stop drooling."

"The most elusive and eligible bachelor in town," the bleach blond sighed. "Every time he looks at me, I cream my panties."

The girl with the natural hair color laughed at her companions. "Let's be grateful to him for his parties. God knows there are men enough around. Surely we aren't short of men. And as for Henry Ross," she said, her voice lowering dramatically, "I wish I had the nerve to ask him if he keeps little naked girls in cages in his cellar."

The subject of their conversation slipped quietly and unobtrusively from the big room. Henry Ross well knew his parties sustained themselves. All they needed was his presence to get them going, and this one was certainly well under way. He had an errand. It would not occupy him for the whole evening, but it would be from time to time a demanding compulsion. Swiftly, he went downstairs.

The naked girl he was concerned about rekindled her hopes at his appearance. She had been moaning softly in solitude. But with the offer of her travail in the room, there was always the chance that he would be prevailed upon… Her greeting was simple.

"Mr. Ross, I'm terribly sorry, but I can't stand this. I just can't. It's way too much."

The sybarite fondly examined the author of the plaint. He was fond of his girls, never failing to appreciate the sacrifices they made for him. The fact that some were paid and some were not in no way affected their qualities. This one had promise. She was sitting astride a bar, her feet out to either side and anchored loosely to the floor, her hands bound behind her back. She was totally naked and quite obviously terribly conscious of this condition. She voice her next concern.

"Please, Mr. Ross, cover me up. At least that much – you know." She dropped the shameful subject and reverted to her main distress. "And please get me off this thing. It's far worse than you can realize." "On the other hand, my dear, it is nowhere near as bad you suppose. The object you are sitting on is, in principle, what used to be called the horse. It's a punishment that has been used on both sexes throughout the ages. However, you are getting off lightly. That bar you're sitting on is the dimension that will not cause you too deep – and I do mean deep – distress. I would judge that at the worst you are simply uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable!" The girl made the word sound obscene. "I'm dying. You're making me sit on – well, you know what I'm sitting on!"

"May I simply call it a cunt? It's as good a word as any, and better than most. I'm sure it's more descriptive than one of the euphemism that you were about to use." Henry Ross chuckled. "You are supposing this asset of yours is totally ruined by a bit of friction on a pole. You're quite wrong. It may even improve some of its qualities. You should stop worrying. The party is about halfway through. When the last guest has gone, you will be released."

The nude beauty astride the pole wriggled ineffectually and cast a reproachful gaze at the man who was responsible for her plight. She tried again.

"Look, Mr. Ross, never mind the money. Keep it. Just let me off this thing and let me go home. Please?"

"My dear, you are forgetting – we made a contract."

"Ohhhh, please! I can't help any contract. All I want is off." The lovely body made one more futile struggle. The girl's eyes beseeching the man who was here only hope of rescue. "Please, Mr. Ross. What good does it do me to have me down here like this when you've got a party going on upstairs? You've had to leave your guests to come down here now."

The man made a leisurely circle around the captive girl. He tested the bound hands, their wrists crossed and tied behind the virgin back. He tested the shackles on the slender ankles. Neither of them taut enough to impose an additional burden on sex beyond that of the weight of its owner. He bent to look at the sex itself below the pubic patch, now swollen slightly from the stress under which it sat.

He shrugged and said, "Everything is in order, Margo. One day you'll realize how easy I'm being on you this first time. If I ever sit you upon the sharp edge of a real horse, you won't be half as calm and collected as now, believe me." He turned and left.

The girl stared after him in a measure of despair. Yet strangely, Henry Ross' assurances of her well being had in some way eased the anxiety and fear. She moaned again, but this was in contemplation of the hours still to pass.

Margo Davis looked around at luxury and stammered, "Mr. Ross, I'm afraid I've picked the wrong time. You've got a party going. I could have made it another time."

"My parties rarely miss me, Miss Davis. Norma phoned me about you. You come with the highest praise."

"Miss Boulter has been terribly kind. We are… we are friends." The man nodded. Assessing his visitor with an amused but searching gaze, he said, "I had better tell you at the start, Miss Davis: I have had you checked out. I find you do not have the invalid parents. Both your parents are deceased and that you have neither house or a mortgage." He made an airy gesture with a careless hand as the girl blushed and started to rise.

"I doubt, with your talents, if you had any need of this fabrication with Norma Boulter. You have no need of it with me, I assure you. I admire any girl who is out to make herself independent, so long as she yields value for what she gets."

Conscious of her blush, Margo tried again. "I don't even know if I can please you, Mr. Ross. I'm not even sure what you want, although naturally I've got an idea."

The man nodded. "It would have been very easy, Margo, for me to take you downstairs where I now have a naked girl enduring what she considers the torments of the damned. Actually, it's a minor discomfort only, but this is her first evening. On the basis that one picture tells a hundred stories perhaps I should do this on the other hand, it could be a waste of time. You may be well ahead of phase one. What I require of you goes beyond that, however. I will not take you down to one of the rooms and suspend you by your wrists, seat you on the horse, whip your back, or cane your bottom. I will do none of those things. Is that a disappointment?"

"Not a disappointment – a surprise. Please don't overrate my capacity. I'm not at all sure I'm ready for your phase two, whatever it may be."

Henry Ross smiled. He was pleased with what he saw. There was a demure charm about this girl, which he judged to overlay character. This girl would not panic. She would not scream. Gazing upon her unquestioned beauty, he saw visions. Quietly, he asked, "How would you like to go to school?"