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

CHAPTER TWO
THRICE OWNED

Penny Pendleton supposed that if she had to be caned – and she undoubtedly did – she was lucky in the mistress delegated to the task.

Mistress Mary never whipped a girl too hard or too long, and she was very comforting afterwards. Penny did not expect to enjoy what she was about to receive, but she was well aware of other possibilities, all of them worse. Timidly, she knocked at the door.

"Ah, Penny. Dear child, I'm sorry to see you here again on such a mission."

Mistress Mary began all such interviews this way. She would have been equally sorry for Prudence or Nancy or Joan. Mistress Mary had a very kind heart.

Playing it for all she was worth, Penny said, "And I'm sorry to be here in this way, Mistress Mary. I'm sure I deserve to be punished. Would you like me to undress?"

"The right spirit. Penny, you are indeed a treasure. And, of course, I need you naked. You do understand the rules."

Penny did not object to being bare in front of Mistress Mary. With some of the other mistresses, it would have been different. They had eagle eyes that sought out portions of a girl a anatomy besides her twin cheeks beneath her panties.

"I was rude to Mrs. Drysdale in class today," Penny informed her solemnly. "I forget, is that ten or fifteen strokes I have to have?"

"Don't prevaricate, dear child," the mistress admonished gently.

"You know as well as I do it's fifteen. It is just as well you haven't been punished lately. Let me see your bottom."

Penny scrambled out of her school tunic. She did not wear a bra, but she made a big performance of removing her pink panties. She knew that Mistress Mary enjoyed this procedure and was quite willing to oblige. Penny wished she had the lovely bushes of pubic hair like some of the older girls, but being the youngest in school, she still had a way to go. She kicked off her shoes and then obediently turned and bent down to enable Mistress Mary to examine what she was about to cane. The adult fingers were pleasant on the young skin, and Penny drew in a deep breath in a sensory response.

"Again the wall, Mistress Mary?"

"No, dear, not against the wall. It enables you to flatten out and evade some of the impact. Our principal was talking to me about this the other day, and I think he is arranging for the wall straps to be removed. Kindly take up your position by the big chair."

The big chair was impressive. It was not so much designed to sit upon as it was to be a solid anchor for the two wristlets, one on either side of its massive back. Penny put each of her hands within one of the loops of a strap, and then, when Mistress Mary had buckled them tightly around her wrists, she stepped back to enable the forward bend so much to be desired. Penny stood, a slender naked nymph, her arms outstretched, her hands held fast. She had the feeling that everything that mattered was behind her. Mistress Mary selected the cane. There was a rack of them upon the wall, and the delinquent maiden noted with relief that the one chosen was by no means the most unkind. Penny Pendleton clenched her teeth.

The caning of the young bottom was a slow affair, interspersed with words of wisdom and loving admonition about future behavior. Penny did not hear much of what was said because her bottom was hurting so badly, and because she was busy kicking, raising her legs, lowering her legs, and weaving her hips back and forth. She did manage to contrive an occasional "Yes, Mistress Mary," which she delivered gaspingly. She did not want to seem indifferent to any possible benefit.

The young, round bottom accepted the scarlet lines Mistress Mary was planting upon its twin surfaces with skill and precision. Penny was generally referred to as "the youngest delinquent in the whole school", and was treated accordingly. Mistress Mary gazed affectionately upon the soft sheen of downy hair in the hollow of the narrow waist. The girl would be a beauty in a couple of years, and her sentence would certainly keep her long than that at the Rossland Academy for Young Women. The sentences imposed upon the young inmates of Rossland were contrived to cover that period of a girl's life when she was most to be desired by the main, from the age of nineteen up to twenty-five. After that, it was considered they would possibly have enough sense to survive without babies, at least long enough to get married. The parents were mostly extremely wealthy and lived abroad. They were all grateful to Rossland for relieving them of a painful responsibility. Penny Pendleton, at the age of sixteen, had started early in her delinquencies, and her parents, possessing an acquaintance with Henry Ross, had prevailed upon the institution to accept her at an earlier age. She had immediately become the school favorite – sort of a pet. Her feet had been chained for the regulation two weeks after her arrival, but she had never evidenced any wish to leave the premises. Penny was one of the minority who enjoyed the Rossland Academy for Young Women.

There were those who attributed this sentiment to her affection for Mistress Mary, but that was really beside the point. At this moment, Penny was wondering if she could take the full fifteen stripes on her bottom without making unseemly sounds. It was generally understood at Rossland that a girl should not scream unless she must. After all, they were from excellent families and were expected to maintain certain standards after leaving. It was a precept of the Academy that "cane builds character". It was a theory no one had yet disproved. When the cane had slyly cut at the young bottom for its eighth stroke, Penny timidly gasped, "Do you think we could stop for a little rest, Mistress Mary?"

"No, dear. Life teaches us that tribulations must be bravely borne. They rarely come with rest periods. You will benefit most from this painful infliction by enduring it in one steady application of the cane. I do hope you approve of my choice of the one with which to punish you."

Penny had discovered one of the nicest things about being whipped by Mistress Mary was that a girl could never be quite sure about the way the mistress would go about attending to her after the last stroke had left its scarlet line across the young bottom. There was always the question of who looked after who first, and Mistress Mary did not always claim the precedent due her office. In this particular instance, she lowered herself to the floor from behind and raised her hungry mouth up between the slender young legs, clutching the tenderized young bottom for stability and then biting Penny's pussy as though starving. Penny gasped, but she was firmly held by strapped wrists, so she could do no more than widen her legs sufficiently to accommodate the mistress who was busily employed. She kept on gasping for a long time and squealed several times when the clutching hands grasped handfuls of her whipped skin. But it was a highly pleasurable pain, an agony much to be desired. It was at this point in time that Penny decided beyond any doubt that being whipped was a small price to pay for such glory. Mistress Mary was highly skilled and made it last a long, long time before the eventual, inevitable explosion. When that had run its course, the young wrists were unstrapped from the chair back and the mistress and maiden enjoyed the brief respite essential to the drinking of a small glass of blackberry cordial, a beverage much favored by the Academy and concocted yearly by several of the mistresses who assured everyone that it was in no way intoxicating, but that it did provide the most pleasant euphoria. It heartened the ardors of beaten bottoms immensely.

Penny Pendleton hoped Mistress Mary would take off her own clothes for what they were about to do. She thought Mistress Mary was extremely beautiful. She had such simply gorgeous breasts and the loveliest patch of curly black fronds framing her lower lips. Penny had tasted quite a number of Academy females, but always vowed that none were as sweet as Mistress Mary. Having downed her cordial, she proceeded to once more prove this point. Mistress Mary chose to be seated on the edge of the chair, spreading herself in total availability for the kneeling girl. Everything was understood between them, penny always wished she could be whipped again and that they could start out fresh. But this never happened, and anyway, she was not certain that either she or Mistress Mary could bear such a crescendo of utter joy. Miss Mildred Harridance, like Norma Boulter, was ageless. The girls who were prisoners at the Rossland Academy for Young Women all supposed she had come with the premises sometime in the previous century. Probably she was a witch. None had seen her naked, but it was generally conceded that she was a beautiful woman who affected severity of hair styling and dress to supplement and sustain her position as headmistress, sometimes sarcastically referred to as head wardress or, more simply, the warden. Everyone but Penny was scared of her and treated her with immense respect. None came through the Academy with the respect already engendered. It was fostered in their first month of being chained, naked, and constantly punished. Newcomers were admonished about minding their Ps and Qs. In those first weeks, an inmate could be punished even for a raised eyebrow or a sniff. Thereafter, the slightest evidence of intent to escape or even a simple disobedience was instantly corrected by the wearing of leg irons and possibly cuffed wrists. These reminders of their captivity came in addition to corporal punishment, and certain other refinements the Academy provided as part of the curriculum. It was explained to the new girl on her arrival that tuition was achieved more effectively by the cane than by the pen. This was one more precept no one dared to dispute. Miss Harridance's study was an extremely pleasant room, in vivid contrast to the austerity of the accommodations provided the inmates. She had graced its luxury with a queenly presence behind her desk. She gazed across its shiny surface at a nervous young woman. Her voice was femininely fluid.

"You come highly recommended by Mr. Ross, Miss Davis. This ensures your entry. May I bid you welcome."

"Thank you. I – I'm afraid I'm not too well informed."

Mildred Harridance sighed. Henry Ross was up to his old tricks. But if he had chosen the girl, there must be something to her.

"Rossland Academy comes closer to being a prison than a school, my dear. Were you aware of this?"

"Well… in a way." Margo Davis fingered her bag and looked beseechingly for aid. "Mr. Ross told me I could come and talk to you today, and if our interview was unsatisfactory to either of us, I could simply go home and the whole matter would be forgotten." She paused diffidently. "But he also said that if I chose to stay, the decision would be binding for a period of years. I'm twenty-one. Mr. Ross said something about me staying here until I'm twenty-five."

Mildred Harridance nodded. "That's correct. You will make your choice today, and should you wish to come to us, you may return home to make your final arrangements it's up to you."

The shrewd, ageless eyes studied Henry Ross' choice. He ran true to form. There were few flat chests at Rossland, and absolutely no excess weight.

"I should explain the unusual nature of your circumstances here. Since we have pupils here to be taught, then obviously we must have those to teach. We contrive to have neat blend of both. Your duties would be primarily as a mistress. But every mistress is subject to the same disciplines as those beneath her. In short, you can either punish or be punished. There is one other most unusual facet of the establishment. I want you to consider it carefully. Everyone here, except myself, is the perquisite of Henry Ross. You will be totally available to him in all ways. He can punish you or make love to you." Mildred Harridance shrugged and permitted a small, quiet smile. "Usually he does both."

They sat in silence as the moments ticked by. Mildred Harridance understood the vital importance of the girl's decision. The girl herself was assessing the endurance of her flesh against the prudence of the check. She spoke hesitantly.

"I'd be a fraud, Miss Harridance. I have nothing to each of any value to girls the same age as myself. Would I not fit in better as a pupil? Mr. Ross told me that most of the girls here are at Rossland because of the wish of their parents. But are there others in the same class as I am in? Mr. Ross wants me here to amuse himself when the mood strikes him."

"That is correct, Miss Davis. I see your point. We can easily make you a pupil instead of a teacher. But I will warn you, as a pupil, you will be subject to more constant disciplines and a good deal of feminine jealousies and intrigues than you would have as a teacher. I suggest you try the teaching role first. It may surprise you. It has the virtue for Mr. Ross, upon his visits here, of you being demoted from your teacher status to become his plaything. Spiritually, Rossland belongs more in Victorian England than modern-day America."

Margo was still nagged by a seeming inconsistency. "But it would seem to me that the whole idea of the school is a waste. If Mr. Ross wishes to keep a girl like me as a prisoner for his amusement, why is this not then simply a prison? Why bother with the pupil-teacher relationship?"

Mildred Harridance laughed at the young naivet? "My dear, consider it a mansion full of females! Without the influence of the school and its teachers, the dear things would be bored stiff, subject to endless intrigues, animosities, plots, and illicit pleasures. As it is, we keep them occupied. We give them standards, and most sincerely teach them behavior and deportment. They emerge at the end of their sentence a far better personality than when they came."

Margo looked at the older woman, and momentarily she envisioned Norma Boulter. They were remarkably alike. She wished it was Norma Boulter who owned Rossland instead of that strange, austere man with whom she had had only a brief interview. But since she had found a rapport with one of these women, she could do so with the other.

Without more hesitation, she said with forthright resolution, "My affairs are already in order. I looked after that. I choose to stay here now."

Mildred Harridance smiled. She pressed a button on her desk.

"You need your head examined! Don't you realize you've sentenced yourself to four years in prison?"

The girl looked at Margo with a mixture of irritation and pity. She was entirely naked and unconscious of the fact as a nymph a woodlands scene. But she had taken possession of the new girl from Miss Harridance with total assurance. She laughed now at Margo's quite obvious perplexity, and then continued.

"Oh, you mean my not having any clothes on. You'll have to get used to these things, Margo. I'm a mistress, but I'm going to be punished later this evening. Girls who are sentenced to any punishment at all are instantly made nude." She laughed without bitterness.

"It sort of advertises to the school that if they haven't already been instructed to come and watch, they are at liberty to do so. My being naked says I am on exhibit." Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Are you here for money, or because you have no choice?"

"Money," Margo replied. "I thought you knew."

"I guessed. That's why I told you that you need your head examined. There isn't enough money in the world to pay a girl for being in here for four years." Then came a short, bitter laugh.

"I was sentenced to five years, and I've only done two. Welcome to the club."

"You told me to take my clothes off – must I really? I'm supposed to be a mistress."

"You'll be a mistress when you've done your thirty days. By that dine, you'll wish you'd never seen this place. Look, Margo, I'm terribly sorry, but I've got to put leg irons on you. That's the first thing."

Margo drew a deep breath. This was the beginning. She already knew about the leg irons, so it was no great shock. She removed her clothes under her companion's watchful eye, folded them neatly in a pile, and put them where she was directed. Even undressing in front of this girl was embarrassing, and she could see that she was trembling slightly as she extended on bare foot.

Dully, she conceded, "Yes, I know about the leg irons. I've been told. But if it's only for the first two weeks?"

"By the way, this is the armory. It's where we keep the stuff. If you look around the walls, you'll see it's a real cringe-crinkler. Oh, and I'm Jean Evans." She let out another bitter laugh. "They haven't gotten around to giving us numbers yet. Look, I really am sorry about this leg-iron business. They're not the kind the police use, or the kind you buy in stores. They are especially made for the Academy. The metal bands are wider and the links heavier. Miss Harridance says they have an aesthetic quality – maybe she's right. All I know is that when they're locked on your ankles, you don't moved around very fast, and they make the most embarrassing noises at the wrong moments. I suppose you do realize a girl can get them put on herself at any time if she does something to warrant it. It's not just for the first two weeks."

In wonder, Margo looked down and watched the shiny metal anklet clasp tight on her flesh. Jean had tried two other pairs first, but one was too large and the other too small. It was explained that girls' ankles varied enormously and that the Academy stocked shackles for every size. The pair now chosen was snug and tight, and heavy enough not to be easily forgotten. First one leg and then the other. The naked girl shackled for the first time in her life took a tentative step, then another. She looked at her companion in dismay.

"But, Jean, I'm… I'm hobbled!"

"That's the general idea, sweetheart. You know you can't run away. You also walk damn good and slow. By the way, watch out for swear words. You can get punished for them."

Jean gestured cheerfully. "Go ahead. Walk around the room. You're going to have to get used to them sometime. It's best to do it when you're not in a hurry."

Margo obeyed. It was the strangest feeling, and when she stumbled, they both laughed. But she completed the circle and did another. This time more gracefully. But the paramount message of the metal on her feet told her she was captive. The Rossland Academy for Young Women held her tightly in its grip.

"And now these." Jean was offering more shining chrome. Margo viewed it in surprise.

"Must I? It seems so silly."

"You must, and it's not silly. They get you accustomed to not being a person any more. With these on, you're just a girl with two breasts, a patch of pubic hair, and a pussy." Jean held out the handcuffs and said once more, "I'm sorry."

It was one more first. True, there had been the cuffs in Miss Boulter's office, but these were the real things, distinctively different. Sensations flooded as each metal circlet was fitted and clicked tightly around her wrists. It was like the closing of a dungeon door and the turn of a key. Jean watched in sly amusement.

"Make you feel horny?"

Margo looked up, startled. "Should it? Do handcuffs do that to a girl?"

"Well, you should know. I just put them on you. How does your cat feel about it?"

"Well I'm not sure."

Margo felt the blush coming back as she stood still in a shaming realization of some truth in what Jean suggested. There was a small but definite heat. "Yes, I suppose you're right," she admitted slowly, still testing her response. "I bet it's not the handcuffs, though. It's probably the girl who puts them on you. I'm just relating to you."

Jean laughed. "You'll find out about all sorts of things, honey. One of the first discoveries here is that we are all lesbians. We may not have been when we cairn, but we are now." Once more came the sharp, bitter laugh. "Henry Ross can't be expected to look after all of us, you know. He's instituted a standard penalty for any girls caught nibbling one another. It's fifty lashes. But we do it anyway. Of course, the mistresses do it too. We don't often get caught and sentenced, though. The next thing is the band around your tummy."

"Is that what you're wearing? What's it for?"

"It tells the world you're a mistress. Not that it does you any good – you get punished anyway – but when you haven't got any clothes on, it's the only distinction there is. Look at me now. I'm sure I wouldn't look the least bit like a mistress if it weren't for this band around my middle. It locks just tight enough for us not to forget."

"Look, there isn't a collar or something… all this stuff you're locking on me?"

Margo raised her arms to allow the fitting of the band. "Leg irons, handcuffs, and now a belt around my middle. Good God, you'd think I was a convict!"

"You are, dear – in a way." There came the most audible of clicks, and the neat silver band found its resting place nestling into the softness of Margo's middle.

"It sets you off beautifully. It's one thing I never complain about myself. The belts are immensely becoming to a girl with a narrow waist, and that's the only kind of waist Rossland accepts. And you were right about the collar – it comes next."

The collar was bronze. There was nothing light about it, but the metal was flat and it nestled snugly around a maiden's neck. From the back dangled a single link of chain, its purpose all too obvious. The girl who wore such a collar could be handily leashed. When it was secure on her throat, the newly captive girl raised exploratory fingers to its unfamiliar surface. Everything felt strange and a little frightening.

"That's it for now," Jean reassured her. "Come along, I'll find a mirror for you. You absolutely must see yourself. You're quite ravishing. That's one thing about this place: the girls look a lot better without their clothes. I often think the only reason they get those tunics is to have something to take off when they wish to shame and punish us. The tunic is all any girl gets to wear. You now get the fifty-cent tour."

"But, Jean, I can't – I'm naked! I can't wander around with everybody looking at me like this."

"Why not?"

Jean cocked an amused eyebrow. "I'm naked too. I don't mind people seeing me. You get used to it, you know. You've got to get used to it too. And if we meet a few of the other girls, they will be the same. Just forget it."

It was not an easy thing to forget. The customs of a lifetime die hard.

As they set out on their tour, Margo wondered if her blush reached her breasts. When they found a mirror, she was surprised that it did not. But she forgot the blush in an immediate absorption in herself. She voiced her immediate reaction in a thoughtless exclamation.

"I'm beautiful! Oh, Jean!"

"What did I tell you." Her mentor chuckled at her confusion. "That's another of Miss Harridance's precepts – simply that a naked girl is doubly beautiful in chains." Jean shrugged. "I suppose it's like exotic lingerie. You cover the good bits up so people want to look. Chains evoke even more questions. Why are we wearing them? Who put us in chains? What happened to us? A chained girl is a delight to everyone except maybe herself!"

The tour was unavoidable, something she knew she had to do. Already, Margo was feeling the weight of authority, not only in the metal locked around her wrists, neck, and ankles, but in Jean Evans herself. She realized her companion could do anything she wished with her. At the moment, she was simply a mentor and a guide. But suppose she became something more than that! It was not impossible. There was also the sexuality of the two nudities. It was impossible to avoid some vibrations in connection with the girl at her side. Jean had spoken flippantly of making love. But it was quite possible eventually. What concerned her now as the appropriate words to utter to those she met.

But she need not have worried. They made the decisions for her. When they discovered she was, as it were, a volunteer, they assured her cheerily that she must have holes in her head or be completely nuts. Those who had been sentenced by parental will to Rossland kissed her in sympathy and told her she would from now on live only for release. They were girls in limbo, robbed of normalcy. But as she spoke to them, Margo realized how little real unhappiness she encountered. They were, in fact, a cheerful collection of young women. Most of them wore the school tunic. The mistresses, in addition, wore a belt, an innocent replica of the one embedded in their flesh underneath their tunics. Most girls were without restraint. But some wore handcuffs and Margo's were not the only hobbled feet. One and all commiserated with the new recruit on her first thirty days which she now faced. They explained it as being like boot camp in the army. They said after you had endured it, everything else was bearable by comparison. Young women at the Academy exhibited their own brand of cynical humor.

They actually discovered a class in progress.

It appeared that any girl labeled mistress could search her mind for subjects on which she might be proficient, and that was what she taught. It was done without planning or advance notice. The pupils assembled and listened to what she had to say. In a sense, it was a lecture. But they all joined in offering their own points of view. It was borne upon the naked, chained Margo that there was an actual value in these exchanges. The girls were all involved. They were animated. Some were quite obviously extremely interested in the subjects they were talking about. Each day, one of the mistresses directed a number of inmates to a class. Every class was run on the same lines as the one Margo witnessed. With typical Rossland cynicism, Jean Evans explained that a girl always had a choice. She could go to class, or if she chase to refuse, she would be immediately whipped. But Margo realized there was more to it than that. These girls went first to counteract boredom and secondly for the human communion the classes gave. If they learned something, that was a bonus. She knew that if she were left alone to wonder, these huge halls of the ancient mansion by herself she would quickly seek entry to one of the seminars.

She was then shown the doors and windows. They were heavily locked, and where the need was obvious, they were also barred.

Imprisonment was implicit. She could understand that after awhile all thoughts of escape would vanish from a girl's mind. It would become simply a wasting of her time.

"I may as well show you a punishment. It's not all gravy here. I think there's a girl downstairs in one of the punishment rooms. Come along."

The girl was most definitely there. Punishment was simple and ingenious. Its severity depended on the length of time it was imposed.

In the center of a large room, a cloth had been laid, and from it protruded innumerable spikes, all pointing up, all close enough together to prohibit the placement of a foot. A naked girl stood upon widely separated concrete blocks. They were not fastened, but were free to do their owner's bidding. The owner herself was naked and half suspended by her wrists above her head, but not tightly enough to rob her of an awful choice. She could stand as she was in the atrociously tiring widely spread pose or she could step from the concrete blocks. But what awaited her bare feet below made the choice an impossible one to make. The delinquent maiden was obviously weary. Her head bent forward as she supported her weight from the strapped wrists above. Jean treated the introduction as normal.

"Alice, this is the new girl. Her name is Margo Davis. I'm giving her the tour."

Tired eyes raised and focused. A tired voice said, "Hello, Margo. I'm sorry you've caught me like this. Maybe tomorrow I'll be back to normal – I hope."

Their conversation did not matter. The punished girl was breathing heavily. Her thoughts and efforts obviously aligned to her predicament.

Her pubic hair and the plump lips of her sex were obscenely thrust into prominence by her wide spread legs. She could do nothing to hide any part of herself. Margo shrank from the through she herself might someday stand like this, available to anyone who wished to look. Rossland left a girl nothing to call her own.

"Damn it, Margo, I hate to be forever apologizing, but there's something else – I have to whip you."

Jean sounded genuinely sorry, as though contemplating au unpleasant duty, which perhaps it was. They had left the punished maiden in her wide spread pose, her gasping and laboring and the contemplation of the spikes so close to her bare feet. They now stood in the hall beyond the door. Jean's announcement heralded their next move.

"Whip me!" Margo was incredulous. "I haven't done anything. Why on earth would you whip me?"

"Remember the thirty days, honey. Every girl gets whipped on the first day and quite often during the time period. But most certainly today. I warned you you wouldn't like it."

"But I thought it was Henry Ross who whipped the girls. I didn't realize we whipped each other. It seems such a waste I'm not going to get anything out of it, and I don't see what you get either. Does Miss Harridance get it on the act?"

"Just you and me, honey. But there's something else you'll learn. You say I don't get anything out of it, but there you're wrong. I suppose it is deplorable, but we're all the same. After awhile we all get so we love to whip another girl. It doesn't matter which girl it is – there's no animosity involved. It's just the beautiful sound of the leather of girl flesh."

Jean paused. "I'm terribly sorry."

Margo was instantly thankful for Norma Boulter. The older woman's caning of her youthful bottom had removed most of the terrible fear a girl might normally experience when confronted by what most evidently confronted her now. Woefully, she gazed at Jean.

"There's no way I can talk myself out of this?"

"You know there isn't, dear. There never is. Once a girl is sentenced, things happen. Look, I can fasten you well enough the way you're chained. There no sense in taking things off. I've just locked them on you. Come this way."

It was unreal and unbelievable. But Margo knew it would happen. When they reached the appointed room, there were several girls leaning against the walls, obviously waiting. She turned to Jean in dismay.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's their privilege. Any of us can watch a punishment if we want. There will be a few more drifting in before I get you fixed."

Fixed! Watch while she was whipped! Margo understood the sympathetic glances and the blunt enquiries about holes in her head.

The metal she wore certainly weighed a ton.

It was very simple – exactly as Jean had promised. It required no freedom from her metal bonds. A hook snared the link in her cuffed hands and rose gently above until she stood almost on tiptoe, thus tautly stretched so she could do nothing. Her whole body was naked and vulnerable to the whip. An involuntary moan of disenchantment escaped her lips. But she clinched them tight to stem whatever else may have lurked in her protesting mind. Instead, she looked around. It was as though the trapped girl sought escape or aid or the assurance of a friend. But it was all impersonal. The number of her audience had increased, and others were still arriving. From comments she could hear, she gathered the behavior of new girls was often a matter of interest. They did not all accept the whip in precisely the same manner. Their responses ran all the way from the stoic down to mindless screaming. Margo hoped she could keep her own somewhere safely in between.

There was, in her mind, no single thought of reprieve. She thought this strange, but Rossland had put its first finger on her mind.

It was an actual whip. It wasn't a cane or a crop – it was a whip. Margo was no expert, but assessed it as being neither good nor bad.

It was just a whip, designed to hurt girls. It would not cut her flesh raw and bloody, but that was its only consolation.

Casually, Jean said, "You're not supposed to know what you're going to get. It could be five or fifty. Are you ready?"

It was utterly different from the yellow cane across her bottom cheeks.

She remembered Norma Boulter's suggestion of a graduation to her virgin back. This was it. The single thong sliced her skin crosswise from shoulder to shoulder. She bit off an involuntary scream, and found herself kicking in futile anger and frustration at chained feet. The act made a fine sound of clashing links, but that was all. The pain seeped once more into every crevice of the girl named Margo Davis.

"I'll start at the top and work down. But I'll break the pattern often enough to keep you off guard. There's no use in my apologizing. It's standard procedure."

Margo started to reply, but her voice trailed away into another flash of flaming anguish. The tip of the thong bit sneakily into the armpit of the raised limb. She handled it with no more than a squeal of combined anger and agony which slowly turned into a low moan. In the pause before the next lash, the helpless girl gazed around at the considerable array of faces watching avidly what was being doe to her. None were cruel or flushed with pleasure. She saw sympathy there, but for most she was just "the new girl" getting her first taste of the whip. They had seen it all before. Margo closed her eyes for the third stroke. It was generally conceded she had done well. Few new girls did better. It now transpired that she had been sentenced to twenty strokes, this being the standard initiation. And when the last of them had cut her innocence, she was warmly kissed and embraced by a great many young women she had never previously seen. Her whipping had sparked a memory in all of them. Some laughingly flipped their skirts for her to observe the same scarlet lines upon their own flesh. They were a sisterhood of pain.

Margo would have liked to reciprocate the ardent arms. She managed very well with the hot, moist lips, but it would have been nice at that moment to have put her bare arms around another girl and find comfort in the act. But this was not to be. One by one, the inmates left the room until only Jean was left. She too kissed her and hugged her tightly, assuring her she had done well and said perhaps Margo would not be too unhappy at Rossland. She ran her fingers up and down the weals she herself had made on the innocent back.

"My, I did knock you beautifully," Jean said. "Please forgive me. And please forgive me for the other things I'll due in the future. Now you have to stand for awhile."

It could be the severest test of all – to stand naked with her hands fastened above her head, the belt constricting her waist, the collar hot upon her neck. Once more, Margo kicked her feet. First one, then the other, as though to reassure herself of being chained. Perhaps it was in disbelief. But she could well believe this simple standing with her scorched, seared flesh still protesting could be the worst punishment of all. She did not know when it would bend. She may have to stand thus for a very long time. She could not get free. Probably she would never be free again.

Margo was puzzled by the behavior of her nipples. They should have vanished from sight, perhaps actually been inverted. Instead, they stood erect, fruity hard and larger than she remembered. They were arrogant and joyous in this painful captivity. It was as though they had a life of their own and laughed at she who was bound and could find no freedom. Perched upon her breasts, they were always free and could demonstrate their feelings as they pleased. She had no control over them. It was a fresh discovery.

Standing in dejected nudity, the neophyte realized she was already at that predicted point of cruel regret. How wonderful life might have been if she had not chosen the check! Margo knew for sure if she could get free and go back home, she would so so, regardless of the poverty which would be her lot. But she would not go home. She would stand thus and bear her chains in somber knowledge of having sold a portion of her life. There would be no men in it. No love, no babies, no nothing – except Henry Ross. And she could not be sure of him even.

Perhaps all he would vouchsafe her would be brief carnal moments of attention. Most assuredly he would never marry her. The only future she could attain from Henry Ross was the check, and that would take four years to earn. In the meantime, she could be assured only of whipped nakedness and the fruitless orgasms of girls.

Jean Evans gave Margo back her hands at bedtime. There was also a cup of coffee and a cookie, presumably all a whipped girl would desire.

She was led to a bare, austere dormitory in which the inmates slept on narrow cots. Each one of the uncomfortable structures was well anchored to the floor. Bolted to the floor beside each was a chain and shackle, but since she was already hobbled and handcuffed, they were of no use. Jean held the bedclothes high for her to enter and then tucked her in. Her last act was the most significant of all. It was to pluck the dangling length of chain from the wall at the headboard of the cot and padlock it to the link hanging from Margo's collar.

"It will not stop you from sleeping," she said gently. "It is the rule." Once more the captive maiden, on her first day at Rossland, was left alone in the darkness.