Madeleine (13 page)

He let her savour her pain before lashing her again.
The extra wait, far from refreshing her, seemed to be unsettling, for she twisted to one side, groaning and seizing the opportunity to increase her suffering, he declared that she was not in position, that the stroke would not count.
She groaned, but did not protest his not altogether just decision, and forced her buttocks up, and her darkly marked thighs back to receive the seventh stroke, though it would only be scored as six.

To his surprise and chagrin, she took three more cuts without giving him any reasonable excuse to disqualify them, though she cried out at each in a strangled way, and her oohs had degenerated into muffled sobs.
Only one more to go.
He stood back, letting her absorb their bite to the full, and contemplated the ravaged flesh, wondering how best to employ the next stroke. In all honour it was all he had left, unless of course, he could force her to get up before ‘permission’.
Should he lash it into the blue-black welts on the back of the thighs, or risk bloodying her by cutting into the old swelling plum under her right buttock?
He watched the squirming flesh for a few seconds, as the cheeks clenched as far as the spraddled pose allowed, then made up his mind.

Stepping slightly to the side to shorten the reach of the rod, he swept it down and up again, to land exactly on the crease and rising, the shortened tip grazing the inside of the right thigh, and flashing in onto the plump lips, parted slightly by the spreading of her legs.
She screamed and her knees closed, as if she might yet squeeze out the terrible hurt to her innermost person.
Her hips swayed from side to side as she wrestled with her pain, her belly thumping up and down on the desk, but she clung desperately to the far edge, fearful of incurring another such stroke, if she was judged to have risen.

It took her several seconds to master the viper in her mound, but then she lay still, except for involuntary twitches, and the occasional sob.
Reluctantly he accepted her victory, and gave permission to rise.
He watched her as she recovered her knickers and, for the second time that evening, eased them, wincing all the while, up her lacerated thighs, and onto her sore and swollen bottom.
Well he’d not cut her after all, but he didn’t doubt that there’d be blood in her knickers by the time
his wife dismissed her.

“You’ll find Mrs. Helworthy on the next landing, second door on the left.
Hurry up.
She’ll be expecting you.”

Trying desperately to appear unaffected by her terrible ordeal, and the fires still burning in her pussy and thighs, Madeleine stepped into her shoes, smoothed down her rumpled skirt, and walked as steadily as her wounded thighs would allow towards the door.
She closed it behind her without a word, then grabbed her wounded hinds and tottered round the corner of the corridor, out of sight.
She leaned one shoulder against the wall, giving way to the dreadful pain behind her and beneath her, her body arched in a bow of agony, her hands plucking at her bottom, hissing through her teeth as the pain mounted to an unbearable summit, and hung there interminably before, reluctantly it seemed, subsiding to mere anguish. Her thighs and buttocks ached and throbbed, while her body felt as if it had been cut open, sending stabbing pains throughout her body.

She clung to the wall for a minute or more, sobbing and sniffing, then found a tissue from her sleeve and tried to clean up her face.
She had survived the husband, but now she had the wife to face, and most people agreed that the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
What sort of woman was Mrs. Helworthy?
No coward, that was for sure, she had accepted the Black Rod.
Madeleine had heard no talk of a wife during the approach by the headhunters, and supposed she must be a retiring woman of Maurice’s own age, content to let him keep his business and personal lives quite separate.
Well, she’d be expecting her now, and she’d better not delay further, or she’d likely incur worse punishment still.

She dragged herself off the wall and shuffled stiff-legged on account of the damage to her thighs and spraddled to ease her pussy wound.
The stairs were torture, as she ascended to the next floor and sought out Mrs. Helworthy’s room.
Outside the second door on the left she paused, and made what repairs she could to her hair and clothes, then drew a deep breath and tapped on the door.
Immediately a sharp female voice bade her enter.

It came as a shock that Maurice’s wife was little more than a girl, at least six or seven years younger than herself.
Moreover she knew her!
How could she have missed hearing of her marriage to so celebrated an advertising mogul?
The name should have told her, Zena is not that common, and she should have thought at once of Zena Forbes, the poison tongued young witch of the advertising world, who’d clawed her way to the top via sundry backstabbings and half a dozen hot beds.
So now she was warming Maurice’s, though it seemed she had to pay with her arse for the privilege.
She closed the door behind her and faced the sharp featured little blonde seated on a couch across the room.

“You’re late.
Helworthy phoned ages ago to say you were on your way.
What’ve you been doing all this time, having a quick wank to ease your greedy cunt, or just lost your bottle?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, but gestured to the rug in front of the couch.
“Come and let’s have a look at you.
Hm, that suit’s got a look of Paris about it.
Too good for a whore, even one as expensive as you come.
Helworthy paid out a lot for you, I understand.
Quite right too, he owed me a good treat after making me take the Black Rod.
Anyway, I intend to see you give good money’s worth,” she said in a cold voice, “and you can start by getting those rags off.”

Obediently Madeleine took off the jacket, and unzipped the skirt, folding them and laying them on a chair nearby.

“And the blouse, let’s see what your dugs are like.” The blouse and bra joined the suit. “Not bad for a woman of your age, I suppose,” was the disparaging comment.
Madeleine felt a rush of colour behind her ears at the reference to ages, and the damning with faint praise of firm breasts that would be a credit to a teenager.

“OK, get your knickers off.
I understand Helworthy warmed you up for me a little.
Let’s have a look at the damage.”

Wincing at even the touch of the flimsy material of her briefs as she slid them over the bruises on her buttocks and the backs of her thighs, she bared her bottom to the sneering gaze of the young vixen, into whose hands she had now been given.

“Well, well, Helworthy has certainly marked your fat arse for you.
The black Rod, I assume from the look of those lovely blueberry marks.
Tell me, did he whip in?”

“Yes, just the last stroke.”

“Yes MADAM,” snapped the younger woman, “and just answer the question, when you’re spoken too.
I’ll ask, if I want to know more.”

Madeleine swallowed.
This was going to be a difficult evening, she could see. “Yes.
Madam,” she said, submissively.

“That’s better.
You’re a whore, and a servant, and don’t you forget it.
I’m going to make you wish you hadn’t an arse, or several other parts of your anatomy before you leave, but there’s always room for more.” She pointed to the carpeting beside the couch.
“On your knees, bitch.”

As Madeleine dropped to her knees and approached the couch, her sore thighs protesting at the movement, and the cut to her mound reacting to the rubbing, Zena swung her feet onto the ground and drew up her short skirt, spreading her thighs widely, revealing thick blonde curls, and an absence of underwear. “We’ll start by seeing how good your whore’s tongue is.
Get licking.”

Obediently Madeleine leaned forward, tongue at the ready, one hand on each slim bare thigh to support herself.
The young Mrs. Helworthy slapped at her cheek with dizzying force.

“Get your filthy hands off me, bitch!
You keep your hands behind your back, unless they’re required for whatever you’re ordered to do.
You only need your tongue for this exercise.”

Madeleine clasped her hands behind her, and bent again to her task.
It might have been not too distasteful under other circumstances, fresh sweet young woman flesh to tease into ecstasy, but this was rank.
With a shudder of disgust, Madeleine realised that the woman was having her period, and, by the scent of her, had done nothing to freshen herself since morning.
As with so many women, the last days of her menstruation were a time of easy arousal. No doubt her feelings had climbed steadily throughout the waiting, and the mixture of female heat with stale menstrual blood gave rise to a foetid aroma, matched by an unpleasant taste on her tongue.
Zena seemed to sense her disgust, for she grabbed an ear painfully in each hand, and drew her head more firmly into the evil smelling crotch.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, “never smelt a period before?
Get your tongue moving, or I’ll give you some blood on your own cunt to make it even.”

She was obviously quite capable of carrying out her threat, indeed, looking for a pretext to do so, and the older woman buried her head hurriedly in the steaming space between the parted thighs, and set to work frantically, licking at the already aroused clitoris until it swelled into a tiny rigid stub, and its owner leaned back, her breath quickening, her belly quivering, until, with a cry of triumph, she climaxed, mashing her crotch against the face still captive in her hands, and now nearly suffocating, as the hot acrid flesh pressed over her mouth and nostrils.

“I really needed that,” she declared, pushing away the half choking woman at her feet, “I’ve been building up all evening, waiting for my ‘treat’.
Now we’ve got that out of the way, we can settle down to a nice long playtime, though I don’t suppose I’ll get through the rest of the evening without needing relief a few more times.
Not with all the lovely things I have in store for you.
Now stop gasping like an asthmatic cow, and fetch my cane from the stand in the corner.”

The stand proved to be an elegant little carved ebony rack, very obviously designed specifically for the purpose, with small female nudes cradling the lean yellow length in their outstretched arms.
Madeleine wondered if this elaborate ritual object was ‘my’ cane because it belonged to her, or because it was used on her.
Probably both she decided, remembering that Zena submitted to punishment too, up to, and including, Black Rod itself.
Well, this was no black rod, thank God, but it was going to be a problem, nevertheless, if this diminutive vixen decided to work the bruises left by her husband, and she was certainly capable of such calculated cruelty.

Shuffling back on stiffening legs, limping slightly as her bruised hamstrings protested at having to work in their inflamed condition, she dropped on one knee, with an extra twinge, and presented the whippy stick.

“The cane, Madam,” she said, as she laid it on her temporary mistress’s knees.

“Good, you’re learning fast,” she was told, “now turn around and let me see your meat.”

More twinges as she rose and turned to display her beaten behind, and again as she was made to bend and display her decorations more fully, stretching the already blistered skin, under pressure as it was from the swelling bruises beneath the surface.

“Well, well, My dear husband certainly worked your best pieces.
He said you were ripe to burst, and he wasn’t wrong.
Still,” she mused, “it would be a pity to do it straight away.
Don’t you think it’s always nicest when one makes oneself wait for one’s little treats?”

Madeleine thought that a reply was not called for and help her peace, trying to control the shuddering caused by the thought of this vicious girl/woman splitting open her swollen welts, and then cutting into raw flesh.

“No, I think we’ll have a much better time if I spin it out a little, so we’ll leave those lovely plummy stripes for later.
Just now we’ll have you sitting on the bench, please.”

She was made to sit on a plain low wooden bench, rather out of keeping with the rest of the Whore’s Boudoir furnishings.
With her hands on the top of her head, she winced as her welts made contact with the hard wooden surface, stirring them into further agonised protest. She was made to put her bottom overhanging the edge of the bench, and lean forward, so that her buttocks protruded into fresh air behind her.
Zena took up position to one side.

“I’m going to cut down, so as to save your plums for afters, so keep leaning forward, and stick your bum right out.
You’re going to get a dozen to start with and, if you flinch, I’ll give you an extra.
I want it where I can carve it like bacon.” And carve it she did.

The first stroke whirred through the air. This woman had an arm and a wrist that must be tempered by exercise, Madeleine thought, listening to the pitch of the parting air, then the thought was driven from her mind by the impact of the cane.
It was unspeakably painful.
Quite different from the strokes she was used to, this blow, cutting her on the top centre of her buttock cheeks seemed, as Zena had promised, to carve her open.
It probably wouldn’t bruise so much in the long run, but that was small comfort now, and the glancing cut seemed to tear every nerve end in the pale skin the covered the crowning curves of her rounded bottom.
The pain was atrocious, and her body jerked upwards but, terrified of incurring extra cuts like that, she bent forward at once, presenting her haunches for the next slice, and emitting a series of sharp oohs to mark her distress.