Golden Wrists

by F. E. Campbell

1

Mistress On a Chair

The manner of my coming is guesswork, I suspect I was drugged and wafted across the Atlantic as cargo. I may never see New York again.

In the first two days of my imprisonment, I lost the two companions who’s fate had been similar to mine. I mourned their passing and yearned for Ivory Blake with a terrible hunger of the heart. Ivory had become the core and center of my life but now was gone. I returned to the island of Plessious, along with the sweet but omnipotent Naomi Samis. They are gone, gone, gone. And I am here alone in the stone prison with its central column to which my neck is chained.

An iron collar is locked upon my throat. From it the chain to the stone column allows me to pace back and forth, a good deal of freedom but not enough to do me any good. I constantly plead for its removal but am only laughed at by those who attend my needs. Sometimes when no one sees. I shed my tears in the bitterness of defeat.

I was cruelly whipped on arrival, my introduction to the ancient house named Rockley. I was then sentenced to the condition in which I now am, for seven days, only four of which have gone. At the end of it I am to be whipped again. How wonderful is the omnipotence of this man I know as Andrew Everleigh.

He visits me each day and I have no choice but to stand naked beneath his venerable regard as we discuss the affairs of The Estate, and the disposition of my body. Andrew Everleigh may be old but he is very shrewd.

“That young upstart, Hugo Markham, will be missing you,” the man who holds me prisoner remarked. “He’d best give up his claim and with you gone, I expect he will.”

His regard of my nakedness, which never had been carnal, made me think he was faintly aware of me as a human being. “You’ve only three days to go before being whipped again. How do you feel about it?”

“It’s medieval, I can’t believe it will happen.”

“It will happen. Do you think the first one did you any good?” That’s a question I’ve asked myself again and again in my loneliness. Being whipped so terribly made me humble in a way to cause me shame. It is, of course, nothing more than a demonstration of how a man’s will and a man’s strength can rob a girl of pride and self-esteem. I had not previously concerned myself with breasts and pubes, but I’m now frighteningly aware of these female sexual attributes. I do not want to be hurt again, the pain is beyond bearing. I hear my voice and am mortified a thousand-fold. “I don’t want to be whipped again. Please, is there not something I can do or say? I am now obedient.”

Andrew Everleigh nodded absently as if my pleading might be taken for granted. “As you have been, Diane, you are too big for the role you have to play. Whipping will diminish you and make you submissive to my needs. Can you understand?”

“I will be obedient to you now. Please don’t have me whipped again.”

He goes away and I sink down upon the stone to lean whipped skin back against the pillar which holds my neck by a chain.

The next day was one more step towards a destination I could not see. Fingering the iron band around my neck, I once more stood before a male gaze in which there was neither lust nor an awareness of my breasts, Andrew Everleigh continued where he had left off the day before, “You are aware of the seven days you must serve, my girl,” he said as a preamble, “After that there will be an eighth day and a ninth. What say you then?”

“After you’ve whipped me again I thought you would set me free.”

His ascetic smile comes through thin lips. “You engage in wishful thinking, girl. But that is to be expected. I’ll not be sending you back to that plush New York office and those pampered clients. You are going to serve me here at Rockley instead.”

“As a naked slave? Is that what you want of me?” Andrew Everleigh does not answer, Instead he repeats the dry chuckled I can’t interrupt. He goes away. The door slams shut. I was alone with stone walls and a chain.

I ask of my jailers. I am sure they know something but they do not speak. They are polite with their Miss Durrant this and Miss Durrant that. I can tell from the way they look at me I have much to learn. They get pleasure from examining my nudity, perhaps planning where their whip or cane will cut in that time when I would scream again.

My lonely imprisonment would drag were it not for knowing what will be done to me on the seventh day. And the seventh day approached with a speed to make me shiver. I told Andrew Everleigh that he has already reduced me to a naked nothing, but with this he does not agree. He asked me slyly if I would have preferred to stay with Naomi in the whorehouse cage without his ransom. Casually he mentions the sum of money he paid for my release. I am appalled and envision myself being whipped forever to compensate him for so huge a sum. Everything said and done to me here points to my jailer’s whips as the only valid currency I have left.

Instinct and my lawyer’s training tells me of hope. Andrew Everleigh probably sees the second whipping as cutting me down to size, but if it is no more than that, there lays behind it a purpose, Andrew Everleigh will demand a service from the chained and naked woman he will make grovel at his feet. This pathetic hope is all I have in my impotence.

I hope I appear more courageous than I feel as the last day comes. No one mentions what would be done to me tomorrow but it hangs heavy over me. Even the old man who holds me captive does not speak of it. I shiver constantly but not with cold.

It will be done to me in Rockley’s great Hall, a frightening vastness of space in which I will stand alone beneath the cynical eyes of centuries of ghosts, Goodness knows what the immensity of stone may once have seen. Today it will behold a naked Miss Diane Durrant unkindly whipped at the orders of a man who, a month ago, I did not even know.

The collar I had worn for seven days is unlocked and taken from my neck. One of my jailers, Constance, assures me that everything will be okay and I’ll be all right but I don’t believe a word of it. I am led downstairs.

The stark immensity of it is awesome even if I were clothed. Naked, it diminishes me to a frightened little girl who’s pleas for forgiveness and mercy have echoed uselessly against the stone. Encouragingly, Constance and Betty tell me that I am to be made ready for the grand event but will have to wait a while for it to happen. Silently I reflect that if they think making me wait to be whipped is a kindness, they’re crazy.

The stop is shockingly dead center. From above hang the two ropes whose purpose I can guess. The wristlets are buckled tight, each with it’s metal ring. There is a heavy crate on which I am told to stand. There is room for Constance, too, as she raises my arms one at a time to the ropes she gathers from beyond arms length. When I step back upon the floor I am neither suspended or stretched as I had supposed but simply stand with hands and arms held high and far apart. As the crate is carried away I realize I have been fastened in a manner to allow me to jerks and twist and kick to my heart’s content as leather marks my skin. My two jailers now strew upon the stone floor a fine array of whips and canes and crops. They say nothing and, indeed, what need is there for words. Once more they tell me not to worry. They go away and leave me there to stand.

I am ten times more naked than I have ever been. The great hall has that effect. I see among the whips there is a gag and know I will scream.

I wonder if there is watcher in the wings but do not care. I manage to spend some time in an exploration of what the ropes permit. They prevent me leaving the stone on which I stand but allow a twisting of arms and legs, and a reaching with my hands to the wristlets and the heavy snaps anchoring their rings. It is quite hopeless, I cannot get my hands anywhere near each other even though I can tease myself by motions meaning nothing.

The voice of Andrew Everleigh sounds one more alarm as he circles the nakedness he appears to own, “I suppose you know you have a magnificent figure. Miss Durrant?”

It catches me off guard. I blush and hate myself for allowing this man to see pink cheeks and disarray. “It’s a pity you can’t enjoy it.” I clothed the words in frost.

“I have an artistic appreciation. I do not drool. You are exquisitely fastened.”

“You intend to be present when I’m whipped?”

“No. I would find no pleasure in such sport. Constance and Betty will deal with you. Afterwards we’ll talk.”

I twisted as I was meant to do against the tethers on my wrists.

“Can’t we talk now?”

“We could, but we won’t. I prefer the aftermath”

“You want me broken and in tears, is that it?”

Andrew Everleigh shrugged. “I expect you read that line in a novel. By the way, in case you’re interested, I’ve disbanded your office in New York, and after you’ve received the pain I’ve prescribed for your ill temper, I’ll offer you a position in my service.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “Executive rank, what else!”

Once more I was alone. It was a long time before my jailers returned to chose their whip.

I find myself not wanting to talk of this second whipping at Rockley. Pain is a bore and best ignored. I was relieved of the shame of screams by the offered gag which I opened my mouth for eagerly even though the strap and buckle hurt my lips and cheek For me a gag was merciful.

I was whipped with great competence and shrewd female knowledge of where it hurt the most. Constance gently informed my breasts were not required to kiss the thong. It was the master’s orders.

When a girl like me is whipped, she goes into another world. Maybe some other girl could have stood passively and accepted the pain, but I could not. It seemed a pity my audience was restricted to the two women who bestowed my pain for I put on quite a show of leaps and twists and turns and kicks at nothing. In an abstract way I knew what I was doing but could have cared less for I was encompassed by the anguish by which I would be made eligible to discuss my future with the man who held it in the palm of his hand, the man who had purchased me.

I had a great need to scream as the leather and cane cut but was ridiculously grateful the vocal expression of my anguish was limited to the disgusting small sounds vouchsafed by the gag. When Constance and Betty were done with me, I was unconscious but hung in limp desolation from tethered wrists, glistening with sweat and moaning my way back into the world. They left the gag sealing my lips and went away.

The aftermath is wonderful, knowing the punishment is passed and release awaits somewhere up ahead. A girl does not struggle any more but accepts the status quo in gratitude. Hours later the man I had come to think of as ‘Uncle Andrew’ came to view his broken woman. I stiffened myself for what must now transpire but had the nerve to ask if he was satisfied with his ‘broken woman.’

“You’re not a broken woman, Miss Durrant, I never intended to have you broken, I want you intact. And you and I can view what has just happened as simple guidance.”

“It hurt me terribly. It’s still hurting.”

“Good. That is what I intended. I trust you approved of the gag?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Then may we advance to the next order of business?”

“I suppose so but I’d be a lot more receptive if I weren’t standing naked with my arms up in the air. Must you keep me like this?”

“Yes. I will give you rank but you will be always subject to my will. If I want you to stand on your head, you’ll do it.”

Wearily, I threw away my pride to say, “Very well. I’m defeated. What are the terms?”

Andrew Everleigh was slow in answering. As I hung without caring, listless against the ropes. I cared little for what he might propose. All I wanted was to get back to New York and pick up my life. But the way this man had me fixed it was pretty much like wanting the moon and the stars. I was still getting shivering spells from being whipped and was certain I was an unattractive sight for any male eye. Slowly I became aware of Andrew Everleigh’s scrutiny, seeing my woman’s nakedness for the first time for what it truly was. Having me whipped filled some egocentric purpose in his mind, no doubt a prelude to the incredible proposition he now offered.

Andrew Everleigh was not a beneficiary of The Estate but the whole damned family must have been money makers because I knew him to be wealthy in his own right. I suppose if you have enough money almost anything seems possible. As he spoke I found myself tensing to stand erect and once more take up the instinctive play of my wrists against their fastenings.

“Constance and Betty gave me this idea, Miss Durrant. I don’t suppose it’s one I would have thought up myself.” He paused, his eyes riveted on my pubic hair, which I felt positive he was not even seeing. He then struck off at a tangent, “I took a fancy to young Ivory - damned nice girl. Nothing like the little bitches of her age you meet these days.” He raised his fierce old eyes to mine. “Are you getting my drift?”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was driving at. All I wanted was to get my hands back and cover myself. But you don’t say quiet when Andrew Everleigh asks a question. Politely I asked, “Not really, but please continue.”

“I know a lot of people, and a lot of them have daughters. But I don’t know a single one where the girl isn’t a trial and tribulation to her family.” His focus was now on my breasts but he wasn’t seeing them, either. “I’ve got this great, big old house which I scarcely use so I’m turning Rockley into a place of training for the delinquent daughters of the rich. You’ve seen the headlines in the papers:

“‘Daughter of Duke’s Family Found in Bed with Butler!’” He snorted. “Or maybe the damned girl gets arrested when some lousy club in Soho gets raided. Or when she pilfers a scarf from a store because shoplifting is popular among our kids. Rockley is going to be a school for the little dears. Discipline and detention is what it’s really about. Do I interest you?”

“I’m sure it would never be issued a permit.”

“The law won’t have a thing to say about it. These people are rich or titled or both. What they do with their daughters the law couldn’t care less about. And won’t even know.” Once more he fixed me with a steely eye. “How’d you like to run the place?”

“It doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.”

“You’d be the Headmistress, or Mother Superior, or whatever other title you dream up. Constance and Betty will take their orders from you, so you’ll possess total authority. I’ll pay you more money than you’d ever make out of that lousy law practice in New York.”

“But you can’t possibly show a profit from a business like that!”

“Who said anything about profit? And I’m not sure you’re right about that. There’s fifty of these little tricks who’s parents can’t wait to ship them away. Don’t worry about the money”

“Sounds crazy to me. What will you do to me if I refuse?”

“You’ll go back to the room upstairs and sit on the floor with a collar and chain on your neck. No whip, no nothing, except a lot of time to think.”

He was a shrewd old bird and knew damned well that sitting chained in that horrible prison would drive me up the wall. Suddenly I found myself examining the prospect of more or less possessing fifty young women, who would have to do whatever I told them to. Fifty pert young bottom, one hundred youthful breasts, and fifty pussies! Uncle Andrew discerned my interest. “You’re something of a bitch yourself, Miss Durrant, you’re made to order for the job. Don’t tell me you’re going to quibble?”

Quibbling seemed less and less sensible. I was still bound and naked and would quite probably be whipped again if I said the wrong word. On top of this, there was also the prison upstairs with its pillar and its chain. Conceding the disadvantages of my situation, I was finding Uncle Andrew’s proposition more and more attractive, It was utterly bizarre and could only happen with a man like him. He had the facilities in Rockley and the money to make it happen.

“You mean I get to wear clothes and won’t be chained?” I asked doubtfully.

“That’s right, Miss Durrant, and if you’re considering the possibility of running away and returning to that city you so adore. I must remind you of the ease with which you may be apprehended and returned here for a punishment you’ll remember all your life. Surely I don’t have to tell you of the ease of kidnappings?”

The old bastard, he’d do it too! New York faded to be replaced in my visions by fifty young damsels I could personally whip into obedience, respect, and goodness knows what else! Grudgingly, I conceded. “I don’t have much choice, do I! Okay, I’ll say yes.”

I got the brief of nods before Andrew Everleigh turned to leave.

Feeling cheated of detail and longing for release, I demanded loudly, “Aren’t you going to set me free?”

Uncle Andrew turned to retrace a couple of steps. The tone of his voice left me in no doubt of where I was at. “You have been demanding and disrespectful, Miss Durrant. Constance will attend you with cane and whip.” He turned again towards the door and I knew unhappily that next time I would treat the Master of Rockley with all possible respect.

I went crazy and almost wrenched my arms from the sockets as I tugged and heaved against the leather wristlets and ropes. It was quite useless and by the time Constance arrived I was close to tears.

“I’m sorry about this, Miss Durrant,” she said with seeming sincerity. “I have orders to whip you again ... I had hoped we were through.”

I was frantic at the thought of going through all that agony again.

I made a mistake. “Please don’t whip me, Constance.” I pleaded like a child. “In fact, don’t whip me at all. I’ve got so many marks on me now, Mr. Everleigh will never know the difference if we don’t tell him.”

“I will tell him of this thought, Miss Durrant. He said you would undoubtedly make this suggestion. It earns you an extra infliction of five across each breast.”

“What!” I almost scream in dismay. “You mustn’t whip my breasts. He didn’t tell you to whip my breasts, did he?”

“I fear so, Miss Durrant. With the extra you have just earned, they are now to received ten strokes each. I really am terribly sorry.”

“Damn your sorry, it’s me who has to feel sorry.” I absolutely forbid you to whip any part of me. I absolutely forbid you to use any of those beastly instruments to mark me up any more than I am now. And, certainly not upon my breasts! Not my breasts!”

It was as though I had not said a word. Miss Constance’s voice sought to be soothing, “Mr. Everleigh insists upon your breasts. Miss Durrant. And he instructed me to have you spread your legs apart so I might pay attention to that area. I will begin now, Please feel free to scream.”

The women who was to whip me had no need to order me to open my thighs. In my leaping and contortions against agony I served her purpose all too well, and she used my movements to score several good hits on my so tender part. I could not hold my legs together, the pain when the thong stuck my ass or breasts was just too great. Each fresh blow set me jerking against the straps upon my wrists. As my breasts were cut again and again, even without blood. I vowed I would never cross Andrew Everleigh’s will again. Somewhere along the way Constance paused for breath to ask sweetly, “Have you a message for The Master?”

“Tell him I will obey. I will obey every word.” I rushed out the words as I heaved with pain.

“I will deliver your message. Miss Durrant. I now continue.”

It went on and on. Perhaps the leather thongs invading the privacy of my sex or impacting across the softness of my breasts were not as hard as that which had marked my back but the pain generated by them was certainly as great or more so. As far as I was concerned, this punishment was worse than the one administered so short a time before. When Constance was satisfied she had done her duty, she freed my wrists, patted my bare bottom with the assurance that all was going to be all right, then went upon her way.

I wept in a desolation of lonely pain. I cared for nothing any more except the terrible sensations recorded by my flesh. I lay upon the floor in naked misery until I heard the voice of the man I must now call Master.

“I am glad to see you a free woman. Miss Durrant. Miss Constance is an artist, is she not?”

“Am I really free? Is it all over?”

“Indeed, yes, but I expect acknowledgment.”

“I will obey you. I will do anything you wish. I will go to bed with you, should it give you pleasure.”

“Thirty years ago perhaps ... Not now.”

Male gaze prompted me to sit up and dry my tears. I was wonderful to have hands. In an excess of submission I mumbled. “Thank you for having me whipped, Mr. Everleigh. I’m sorry I deserved it and I’ll try never to deserve it again.”