Female chain bikini | EVE IN EDEN 2 | bdsm stories

Languid and lazy, Daphne seemed to have been softened by her thrashings, not exactly cowed, but not raising her eyes to Gordon and never challenging anything he said. A hint dropped here and there gave Eve the impression she was needing, and receiving, copious sexual attention from her lord and master. Something she could have done with herself, she caught herself thinking, and blushed at the thought, and that of the regular intimacies the two women now shared which gave the expression 'licking one's wounds' a whole new meaning.

What was happening to her? What mental derangement had led her, a modern liberated feminist, to accept a beating, and from the hand of a man at that! Had it been pique, perversity or some hidden flaw in her nature? It had not been coercion, she was honest enough to admit that. It, like much else she had already learnt in her short stay on this strange island, was most unsettling. It was all very confusing and she tried to put it to one side and relax. Daphne had taken to spending her time mainly by the pool, lying on her stomach or settling in a nest of soft cushions. Eve, with a posterior nearly as sore did not complain of neglect. They were far from lonely. Word seemed to have got about of Daphne's 'walk', and her monumentally bruised buttocks, and there were visitors aplenty, come to gossip, sympathise and sneak a peek at the multi-coloured

'sitzplas'. It wasn't long before word of her own introduction to the rod got out, and there were polite but insistent requests to view the damage. A visitor who waived her privileges to accept the kind of discipline the indigenous females were subject to was a curiosity indeed. Before long both women simply went without any covering to their rainbow-hued buttocks and left them on permanent display for all comers.

Eden seemed to have a frankness of its own in such matters and it seemed quite natural after a while for Eve to lie naked on her belly and be admired. Besides, it was a lot more comfortable not to have even the lightest bikini bottoms chafing her welts. The two 'stars' lay and chatted to a handful of women visitors, their chairs strategically disposed to watch the show, drinks in hand and tongues at the ready.

"I must say, I don't think I've seen such a well-beaten pair, since poor Sally got herself a double dozen two weeks running that summer there was all that trouble over the smoking ban," a tall blonde who had been introduced as Angela from the tennis club, remarked thoughtfully, "I wouldn't care to be in your pants right now."

While one of the women sniggered at some private interpretation of the idea, Eve felt almost relief at the acknowledgement of the exceptional nature of Daphne's thrashing. She had been beginning to wonder if the lash of the cane on bare buttocks wasn't going to be the constant background to her stay. She'd come to find peace, or at least some diversion from her failed relationship, but that would have been a diversion too far.

"Oh, there are worse things," Daphne replied, "A good beating's not the end of the world."

"Mmm," one of the other voyeurs agreed, "at least a beating's over and done with. It's the things that go on and on that get me."

"Go on and on?" Eve couldn't help asking.

Daphne turned her head to face her, but left her bottom comfortably in the air.

"Sometimes we get to endure some pretty uncomfortable adornments, and don't get to take them off for hours or even days. Not usually as painful as cane strokes

to start with, but they grow on you with time."

Eve looked as mystified as ever.

"Nipple clips for one," Angela offered, "I know I haven't got the largest boobs on the island, but what I lack in cup size I make up in the teat department, at least that husband of mine seems to think so."

Since like most of their other visitors, Angela had stripped off her top to sunbathe by the pool, the truth of her assertion was plain for all to see. Two small but nicely formed breasts, given maximum prominence by the well-developed pectorals of the serious tennis player, crowned by fat brown teats as large as a baby's toe,

"Dennis takes advantage of their tenderness to clamp me when I need disciplining, rather than get it over with quickly with a swift six to the backside. Nasty crocodile clips with teeth. Tits like mine are very tender and after a while I feel like howling. It's hell at the time, and I sometimes have to keep them on half a day, but the worst thing is knowing what happens when they come off. Sheer bloody murder for at least a minute while the blood comes back. The devil makes me stand with my hands at my sides until he's satisfied it's all over. In fact I'm not allowed to touch them for half an hour at least."

"That's terrible," Eve blurted out, forgetting her resolve not to question her hostess's way of life, "It's inhuman to treat a woman like that."

"Nipple clamps are bad," the woman who had complained of things that 'go on'

contributed, "but I'd rather an hour or two of that than the crotch strap."

"You know what, Penny darling," Angela said thoughtfully, "You said that with such feeling you make me think you might just be suffering from a cunt cutter right now."

"You know damn well, I am," Penny replied without bitterness, "since you watched me waddle across the lawn earlier. A girl can't easily disguise it. That's part of what makes it so humiliating."

Once more Eve had looked baffled but politely held her tongue. Daphne took pity on her curiosity.

"Come on Penny, the cat's out of the bag now, even if the chain's in your pussy.

Showtime for crotches. Let my friend see what gives."

Penny pouted but didn't protest. She rose stiffly to her feet and unwrapped the sarong-like garment that was all she wore. Eve gasped. Around the woman's waist a tight leather belt bit in deep, indicating it was cinched tight. From the front of it a short strap engaged a curious buckle level with her belly, from which, in turn, a shining metal chain ran down between the lips of the freshly shaven pussy. It was apparent that this chain was under considerable tension and, when Penny obligingly made a mannequin's pirouette to display her back and buttocks, Eve saw that it was pressed so hard between her bottom cheeks that it did not emerge until almost the top of her 'crack'. She did not care to think where and how that tension was pressing on the tender tissues of the feminine parts it crossed, or the vulnerable wrinkle of the anus. It only dawned on her at the last moment that the curious look of the chain was due to the fact that its links were square, the outer corners were not even rounded. The tension caused the links to interlock at their inner corners presenting, in effect, a series of right angle teeth to the crushed flesh beneath them. She gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.

"How long have you been wearing that?"

"Since first thing this morning," Penny responded with a grimace of distaste,

"Damn sore already, and it doesn't come off until tomorrow breakfast. It's a

twenty pounder and don't I know it."

"A twenty-pounder?" Eve's curiosity won out over manners. No contest!

Daphne explained.

"You see that buckle thing on the front, just above Penny's pussy, well that's got a built in indicator. You have to pull up on the strap until the coloured flap in the middle flips over, then you're up to tension. Hard luck if you've only just passed a hole in the strap. You have to go on to the next and that may be an even heavier loading."

"It must hurt horribly," Eve protested, "how can you let it happen to you?"

"It doesn't just hurt," Penny said ruefully, "It damn well humiliated a woman.

Have you any idea what it's like when you want to pee, with those horrible links pressing into your urethra? And when you need a shit!! Ugh. I can't bear to think about it."

"My man made me wear one for three weeks without a break," contributed a sophisticated looking brunette, the epitome of English aristocratic good looks,

"I was nearly in constant tears by the end. It hurt like hell. A caning you can cope with, after you've slept on it. just a twinge or two when you sit and a little humiliating when you wear a bikini or shorts, and he's cut you a bit low, but everyone here wears welts as a matter of course and thinks nothing about it.

But a Crotch strap! It just gets worse all the time. It cuts you more and more, until you could shriek at the soreness but the worst thing is the humiliation.

As Penny said, peeing's bad enough, but when you crap...."

She shuddered delicately and the other women made sympathetic gestures.

"You feel you're never quite clean and that everyone can smell you, however hard you try to wash yourself. There's no point in trying to hide it from the other women. For a start, after a few hours, there's no way you can walk properly, if it's been put on tight. You waddle like a duck, and everyone knows what's going on under there. That you've got a chain cutting your cunt, and savaging your bumhole. Ughh!

"I imagine you just have to take it easy and stay out of sight," Eve said sympathetically.

"If only it were that easy," Penny sighed. "You're expected to continue as if nothing had happened, social, sport, business the lot. I guess Frank made you do the same, Caroline."

"Yes, he made me go through my diary and show him how often I went walking, visited friends, rode horses or played tennis and made sure I kept up the schedule. And a bikini for the pool or beach. You can conceal nothing there; everyone can see the belt round your waist, and the chain running down your belly and up your bum, and be well aware of where it's been in between."

"You must have been in some trouble for Frank to give you such a hard time?"

Angela suggested.

"The usual thing. Been getting a bit lippy, tried to get my own way too often.

Even suggested that he didn't deserve me. Now I'm quite cured thank-you. There's nothing like three weeks with a chain in your cunt to break a woman's pride."

"There are worse things than crotch straps though," Daphne remarked darkly.

"Such as?"

"Well there's infantilism for a start."

"Oh God. That!" Caroline moaned, as if the very thought upset her. None of the others looked any happier, and a gloom seemed to descend on them all.

"Yeah that."

"What IS it?"

Once again Eve could not contain herself. Daphne explained.

"You won't want to know, but I'll tell you all the same. You should know the worst. You get fitted with a tube right up your anus, so your sphincter can't do its job. There's a flap to keep out infections and such, but you've no control whatever over your bowels. Then you get a catheter in your peehole, with the same result, besides being a trifle painful. You just can't help soiling yourself all the time. If you're lucky," she added gloomily, "you get to wear nappies and a monstrous pair of plastic pants, like a baby, hence the name. You change as often as you can, but you always believe you smell and everyone can smell you. Sometimes, just to make it extra humiliating, you have to ask a maid to change you."

"It's pure punishment," Angela confirmed. "There isn't a woman here who doesn't cringe at the thought of it. We'd all choose a beating, every time. Whippings are painful, and one howls and wishes it would end at the time but after -

usually one can rely on one's man servicing you comprehensively and it's twice as satisfactory. Some women even enjoy the whipping itself, but no-one wants to be put in diapers. Utmost humiliation and discomfort with not a scrap of sexual charge to compensate. Even the crotch strap has a sensual element to it, connects directly to the cunt in a way, even if not particularly comfortable, but nappies. Ugh!"

The subject seemed to have dampened spirits all round and Eve sought to turn the topic away from the humiliation of infantilism by enquiring after the males'

motives in disciplinary matters.

"Do they only beat you for specific offences?" she asked, "I get the impression that, cruel beasts that they are, they sometimes do it for no reason at all, other than that they enjoy it."

"Oh, they're not as bad as all that," Caroline protested. "They only beat us because they love us, even if they do get turned on by it. Sometimes I wonder if it doesn't hurt them almost as much as us, when you see how tight their pricks have got in their pants. They look about to burst."

"I wouldn't go as far as that," Penny chimed in, "But I think its very rare for them to just do it for pleasure. Sometimes though there's only the general statement that it is for our own good, or to liven us up. Sometimes I guess the punishment is undeserved, but no woman worth her salt would dishonour her man by complaining to him, let alone any one else, despite there being some ultimate legal safeguards. After all it would be very strange if there wasn't SOMETHING

that had gone unobserved, seeing what sort of creatures we women are. Nothing of course is ever let go unpunished but they can't be everywhere and, although we make a point of confessing our sins, we do sometimes forget. No, there's bound to be some good justification for a beating, even if it isn't the one stated."

"Don't they ever relent?" Eve asked, "what if a woman has been beaten several times recently? Your bottom's like raw meat what with you having to walk a pair after your liveners from Gordon, and the parking fine at the airport. Surely he wouldn't beat you again, just now, even if you did deserve it?"

"You don't have to spell it out," Daphne said with a mock shudder, "Christ am I ever sore. Still, it wouldn't make any difference if Gordon found me out in some other offence. Actually it's regarded as a sort of automatic regulation. If you have been beaten already it hurts more, and you deserve to be hurt more because you have been guilty of multiple offences. In fact it tends to work the other

way. If you've already got a sore bottom, and you still go astray, it's obvious the first dose isn't working, and you need an even more severe lesson than if you'd kept your nose clean recently, and you're quite likely to get some extra strokes on that account. For which reason, "she added with some feeling, "I would not at this moment say boo to a goose, and I treat my lord and master with one hundred and fifty percent of the respect I owe him. These," patting her livid buttocks very gingerly, "are staying out of trouble for a few weeks yet, if not months."

Her semi-comic gesture seemed to break the ice, and soon after the visitors departed, still admiring Daphne's awe-inspiring rump, and congratulating Eve on her own colourful introduction to the delights of Eden's discipline.

"It's still a month to Lady Day," Caroline said, on parting, "so you'll be fit for that, if you keep your butts out of trouble in the meantime."

Daphne stated very firmly that she had every intention of doing just that.

"I'm not courting a single whack I can avoid just now. A really good little girl, that's me. My Sunday school teacher would be proud of me."

"Remarkable what a few slices to a girl's bottom will do to her behaviour,"

Angela observed. "Just goes to show where we keep our higher senses."

As the last of the cars disappeared into the trees, Eve enquired about Lady Day.

"At home it was March 25th, but it seems to be summer here."

"Hmm, Lady Day when that poor little teenage virgin found she was up the spout.

Hadn't let a man lay a finger on her and there's this great big shiny person, with wings, comes and tells her she's got a babe in her belly. The poor girl must have wet her pants, except that they didn't wear them then. Well March 25

is a lady day here, but so are all the other ancient quarter days, Midsummer, Micklemas and Christmas. Big social occasions. All the girls dress up to the nines and congregate to pick holes in each other's outfits. You'll see, if you haven't decided you can't take it here and haul your ass back to Limeyland."

"What do you mean, can't take it," Eve retorted hotly, "I took Gordon's cuts didn't I? I'll be there."

It had been a good beating and sore for several days afterwards but, within twenty four hours Eve had started to feel that sense of pride that a woman feels for a beating taken well, and a well-marked bottom. Later still, shopping with an also recovering Daphne, she had an almost irresistible desire to run up to strangers in the street and spill out all the details of her caning, or lift her skirt and drop her drawers to display her colourful bum to the assistants in the stores they entered. Then shame would overcome her for her depraved desires and she would blush at the bizarre thoughts that kept flooding her brain. Daphne noted the flushes and correctly guessed what was happening, but let her get on with it at her own pace. Like all the other women on the island she'd find herself in time.

A few days of rest had done wonders for both, though each still favoured multiple soft cushions for sitting, and as often as not took their meals in buffet style, eating off a hand-held plate while standing. What had started as torture, with a bottom too tender to sit upon was rapidly becoming something to be tested and savoured, clenching her buttocks to provoke the throbbing ache, deliberately reminding herself of the pain of the caning, though she was not entirely conscious of what she was doing. After the fifth day this unconscious bravado led her to declare that it was time to take up Joyce's invitation to visit her on the estate where she lived.

"I thought I'd ride over. Joyce said the path was easy to follow and the views magnificent," she said to Daphne, as they lay by the pool, naked as usual.

Daphne looked across at the healing wounds on Eve's pert buttocks. She let her hand drop gently on the top of one shapely bare thigh.

"Hmm. You're coming along nicely, but you seem to be in a hurry to bounce that pretty painted butt on a saddle."

The fingers slipped as if unconsciously into the shadowy grotto. Eve squirmed slightly, and they disappeared from view.

"I've too much respect for my own ass at the moment to want to pound leather with it. I'll take a rain cheque on this one. Besides, it's Friday tomorrow. I have the health club. Good thing it is on a Friday" she mused, the hidden fingers playing absently with secret femininity, "I wouldn't have fancied it earlier in the week."

After the first wriggle of acceptance, Eve had not moved, but her breath had started to quicken.

"Don't tell me you're going all the way into town for a workout in your state?"

she said in amazement. "Surely you could miss once in a while?"

"I can see you're due for another lecture on the terrors of life in Eden,"

Daphne replied, her knowing fingers still steadily working the engorging clitoris she had discovered sheltering between the folded labia, suddenly laved in female juices. "It's a compulsory thing here. All women, regardless of the high degree of sports we enjoy, must spend a half day per week doing a vigorous workout under supervision. These same establishments also run 'penal' sessions, with much harder regimes, for women who let themselves go and are referred by their husbands, sons etc., or even by an unconnected male. If a man finds a woman's appearance offensive, and it's something she can improve, like her figure, he can make a complaint to a magistrate who will in turn issue an order.

Such things are of course very rare, but have been known to be used to wake up a too complaisant husband or guardian who's not being paying attention to his charges. In really bad cases the magistrate can order the chain gang. As you saw, it does wonders for the physique, but it's a bit hard on the complexion, so it's a last resort for really intractable cases."

"And I suppose I can take it there's no similar provision for the men?" Eve retorted bitterly, but the force of her protest was a little marred by her red flushed face and her panting breath. Those fingers were clever and she'd had no male service in months. Her body was desperate, even though her mind tried to deny it.

"Well, it's not nearly so necessary," Daphne answered, smiling to herself as she watched her friend sliding slowly but inevitably toward capitulation to the digital stimulation. "Let's face it; we women are just not put together to experience civilised living without taking a great deal of care."

"What do you mean?" Eve was still resentful at what she saw as discrimination against her sex, but there was something else against her sex, Daphne's clever fingers, and the words came out thick with lust. Daphne grinned and continued with both her projects.

"It's a matter of evolutionary adaptation, darling. During tens of thousands of generations the human female adapted to be able to eat almost unlimited amounts of food when it was plentiful and store it up round her hips and thighs, to say nothing of her belly, for a rainy day. After all, even in quite temperate climates there would be several months of near starvation before the new harvest was gathered. And it was kept in balance by being pregnant practically all the time, plus having a little sucker drawing off the fat through your teats. Any

surplus energy went into constant hard labour in the fields and in the home."

"Well that's certainly changed thank Goodness. Oh, don't stop," she breathed, as Daphne tested her resolve by letting her fingers fall still between the warm spread thighs, "I'm listening really I am."

The fingers moved again. Eve sighed and settled to hear the rest.

"Yes, things have changed, but women still eat everything they can get, when there's never any shortage all year round, and nobody drops a pup each spring, like they used to do. Even if they do, they seldom suckle it for long enough to make any difference. As to hard labour, we don't know we're born. Most of us have ever done enough to raise a sweat in all our lives."

"I grant you it's an easy life, here in Eden," Eve agreed, her hips bucking slightly now with the rhythm of her pleasuring.

"And in all the developed world. Oh, I grant you a lot of women have a lot to cope with, but it's boring or tedious or irritating, but not hard physically.

Women in the developed world all need to eat less, exercise more, to compensate for those missing annual belly swellings and teat tonguings, and back-breaking field work they are spared."

She paused and smiled at the heaving buttocks, with their still livid stripes.

She was well aware of Eve's need, and unashamedly capitalising on her vulnerability to get over a message that might, under less distracting circumstances, have evoked feminist protests from this liberated western female, now writhing and bucking with as much raw sexual need as any fertile female in the world.

"As I was saying, attendance is compulsory at one's scheduled weekly session.

Lateness or absence is punished in the usual manner, as I imagine you have already guessed. There's a sliding scale from two strokes for mere lateness with written excuse from your husband or guardian to a full eight stingers for absence with no 'chit'."

"That's terrible," Eve exclaimed, though her protest was a little slurred. "You mean you get punished, even if you are excused."

"Exactly. Cuts out all the frivolous excuses. The attendance record is exemplary. Only rivalled by that of the Girl's High School, and for much the same reason."

"Sounds all very regimented. Do you have a uniform?" Eve asked between gasps, her responses now becoming marked in their fervour.

"You might call it that," Daphne replied, recognising the telltale signs and stepping up the tempo of her frotting, "all exercise, normal or punitive is taken nude, although minimal knickers are allowed when menstruating. It helps to make the women more aware of their bodies."

"Oh. I'm aware of mine," Eve gasped. "Oh, more, more, darling. Ooooh, yes, yes, that's it. Ooooh, don't stop. Oooooh, Oooooh, Ooooooohhhhhhhhaarrrrrgh."

Daphne withdrew a tiring hand now soaked from wrist to fingertips in aromatic woman sap.

On the phone Joyce was delighted to hear from her and that she planned on visiting the next day.

"Lovely," she said, then added. "We always have family dinner on Fridays, so tell Daphne not to wait up. We'll send you back in the morning."

Eve wondered what the significance, if any, of Friday dinner was, but didn't bother to probe. She'd find out soon enough any way.

The ride over to Joyce's home, Ladyswood, was all she had promised it would be.

Eve found the trail clear and even, though it sometimes did wild and wonderful things among the rocks and trees as it climbed the ridge and crossed over into the next valley, where Joyce's family had their estate. True her bottom was still sore in the saddle, but a bearable soreness; in fact one that gave her a sense of perverse satisfaction and pride. She'd looked at herself in the mirror that morning as she'd dressed, and caressed her own flesh, gazing with pride at the nine dark spoor that crossed her lower buttocks true and parallel, mute if burning testimony to Gordon's skill with the rod. Although they touched in places, there was no room for nine such welts to be packed in anything but close on the taut and tender tush, each could be tracked and their count verified. For a moment she felt a twinge of revulsion, as well as soreness as she remembered, they had been applied by a man as part of the discriminatory female discipline that she so abhorred, but then she rationalised the event into a victory for feminism, a challenge accepted and met, a vindication of her independence and strength. Her ideology assuaged, she could continue to admire them for a minute before donning breeches and boots for the journey. Far from it being a purgatory, she found herself deliberately squeezing her buttocks as she lifted in the saddle as if to remind herself that her stripes were still there and still active.

"Lovely to see you," Joyce called from the terrace above the drive and came swiftly down to walk beside her to the stables.

"Mmm, nice cut," she murmured, admiring the fit of Daphne's borrowed breeches over Eve's pert round rump.

"They are indeed," Eve agreed, "and not just the Jodhpurs. You should see what's underneath."

"I already have, remember?" Joyce laughed, "Bet you were hot in the fork riding over."

Eve blushed at the memory of her un-feminist musings on the way over. Joyce took it for confirmation of her suspicions.

"It's just about perfect this far on, don't you think. All warm and yummy down there. Not quite the same for me the day we met, I'm afraid. Jane made me change into riding gear before she caned me. Afterwards I had to pull up my pants smartish, before the sting had reached its peak even, and get on that bally horse. Wow, was I ever sore. Anyway, time enough for that sort of talk later.

Come and meet everybody."

Sir William Boothing's estate was even larger and more spectacularly situated than the Borensons'. It looked out over a similar view of mountain, forest and plain, to the sparkle of salt water, perched on a ledge in the mountains where paddocks and plantations surrounded it on three sides. Sir William himself was away on some plantation business, and not expected until dinner, but his sister, and his rather younger wife, Lady Jane who had so unfeelingly scorched Joyce's seat and set her to pound it on an equally unfeeling saddle, were sitting together in an airy day room.

Lady Jane was younger and prettier than Eve had visualised, she had been expecting a middle-aged English aristocrat with horsy features and a loud voice.

Jane was aristocratic through and through, her breeding showing in the fine bones of her face and her elegant figure, but she was little more than her own age, perhaps just thirty, in the prime of her considerable beauty, and spoke softly, though with the confidence of command. Eve was very conscious of a brief but all encompassing inspection from the blue chip eyes as she entered. Why did she feel they lingered a little longer on her tightly enclosed rump than some

other parts of her body?

"Very nice to have you with us," she said in welcome. "Any friend of Daphne's is more than welcome here and it's nice that you could come for family dinner. I'm sure you'll find plenty of local colour to divert you during your stay."

Was that a fleeting smile that crossed Joyce's face at Lady Jane's remark? Her hostess introduced her sister-in-law, the Hon. Mrs Pamela Harringer, a large handsome lady, who must have been a beauty in her own right when younger and now, at nearly fifty, still retained a fine complexion and a shapely figure of Junoesque proportions.

The tour, like the introductions, proved extensive. The magnificent conservatory, that served as an orchid house for Sir William's prize collection, yielded a lady in the prime of life, who Joyce introduced as Mrs Trevelyan, a widow who lived with her son, recently come of age, on a neighbouring estate, and had come over especially for Friday dinner. Though polite she seemed a little preoccupied and they moved quickly on.

The great library, with its long shelves of leather bound volumes, and comfortable leather chairs, proved to be a male preserve at this time of day.

Sir William's brother-in-law, Percy Harringer, a large florid man, who looked as if he might be 'something in the city' was discussing horse-flesh with another man, introduced as Paul Bolton, another neighbour, and Roger Bellamy, a youth of seventeen. Eve found his manner a trifle uncouth, and his gaze at her figure and her blouse, which the heat had encouraged her to unbutton rather lower than modesty usually permitted, irksome. She was glad when Joyce led her away, although not before he had remarked that he would look forward to seeing more of her after dinner.

"Not if I can help it," Eve murmured to her new friend as they made their escape.

In the long high-ceilinged hallway leading to the front door, they ran into a military looking gentleman, with a younger woman on his arm.

"Afternoon, Major," Joyce greeted him. "Meet my friend Eve. She's come over for dinner. Eve, this is Major and Mrs Nicholls, Dolly to her friends."

"Which I hope you will be," the rather languid blonde said with a warmer smile than her seemingly blase appearance might suggest.

"Damn fine filly," the Major harrumphed, Eve could almost feel the heat of his eyes boring through the fabric of her Jodhpurs; the males of this island, and those of the Ladyswood estate in particular, seemed to be almost exclusively aficionados of the female rump rather than their embonpoint. "Nice haunches too.

Respond well if hard ridden I'd say. Look forward to seeing her put through her paces."

"Now, now Major," Joyce rebuked him, "You mustn't use such language in front of my friend. Eve is a guest here, and a visitor to the island. She's come over to collect some local colour."

The Major guffawed and smacked his wife smartly on the seat.

"Well she's come to the right place," he exclaimed, as Dolly clung affectionately to his arm with both hands. "There'll be plenty of local colour round here. Sent in a ticket for Dolly. Recommended a public. Thought it might boost her self-confidence a touch; show what she was made of you know. Sporting girl my Dolly."

The blonde winced at his touch and a hot blush spread up her neck, but otherwise seemed unfazed by his remarks, seemingly taking whatever he had planned for her

in her stride and wishing Eve well in her explorations.

Having exhausted the main rooms of the house they went out onto the terrace that overlooked the pool. This was where the younger element seemed to have congregated or, at least, the female part of it. Some half a dozen bikini-clad young women were lying in the sun displaying their not inconsiderable charms.

From where she stood, Eve was aware that the standards of female face and figure in this Eden seemed uniformly high.

"Do they all live here?" she asked in astonishment.

"Oh no. Couldn't stand that amount of competition everyday," Joyce laughed, "the tall girl in the yellow bikini is my sister Bettina, and the blonde with green spots is my cousin Fleur; you met her brother Roger in the library, but the others all live on estates in the neighbourhood. They've been sent over for the Friday dinner."

"Sent over? Who by?"

"Oh their men, of course," Joyce said, a little surprised. "You know about that I'm sure. We all have a father, husband, brother, who is in charge."

"I still don't understand. What do you mean 'sent over'? What for?"

Joyce looked disconcerted for a moment.

"You mean to say Daphne didn't explain about Friday dinners here?"

Eve shook her head.

"Oh!" Joyce hesitated a moment, then seemed to come to a decision.

"I just sort of assumed she'd tell you all about it," she said. "Seeing as you're here to see something of our ways."

"Actually I came to get over a divorce," Eve corrected her.

"It may well amount to the same thing," Joyce countered Delphically. "This island does have certain effects on women like yourself. Anyway, Friday dinner is a great tradition here. First Friday in every month all the female residents have to account for their behaviour over the previous month and receive appropriate recompense."

"I think I can guess the currency in which it's paid, and the ledger where its written," Eve replied darkly, "Everywhere I look a cane is landing on a female bum."

"Partly right, the tariff almost certainly includes the pounding of the posterior but there are some interesting additional forfeits that you may find add to your understanding of our way of life."

"Perhaps. But what about all these other girls who aren't residents?"

"Well you can imagine that a tradition like this is well known in the neighbourhood, and some of the houses in the district have taken to sending their wives, daughters, even mothers, to be corrected at the session, especially since Sir William gave up correcting the women himself, and delegated the job to Lady Jane. She is a natural hitter with the rod, as you saw on my poor rump the other day."

"You said mothers," Eve reminded her.

"Oh yes. We've got one tonight, Mary Trevelyan. You met her in the Orchid house, looking a bit pensive, and I don't blame her," Joyce said sympathetically. "Her

son turned eighteen last year, and has seen to her correction ever since, but this is the first time he's sent her here. He must have denounced her for something pretty serious and she'll be well aware that Aunt Jane will deal out justice in proportion. I shouldn't like to be in her knickers tonight, and it almost certainly won't end with just a beating."

"That's dreadful. Only nineteen and able to have his mother punished."

"It's the norm here, for widows. All the women are used to seeing it going on around them and accept it if the cards fall that way. Mary married very young, she's still well under forty, and she had the comfort of an older experienced man to rule her, but she must have known there was a real risk she'd be passed to her son's care."

She hesitated a moment, then continued.

"We've another young man about to come into his inheritance. Fleur is twenty-two, and nominally in Sir William's charge, though Aunt Jane does the actual sentencing and execution, but Roger is seventeen, eighteen in three months, and will become responsible for her discipline from then on, as her nearest male relative. Of course, he may decide to leave it to Lady Jane, but I suspect she'll have to bare and bend for him from time to time as well."

"That's disgusting," Eve protested, her feminist hackles roused from their apparent slumber by the thought of that uncouth youth lashing the pretty hinds of the composed and beautiful young Fleur.

"Perhaps," Joyce said gently, "but look at it this way. Fleur has everything, money, intelligence, looks, and the awesome power of just being a woman. Such a dangerous combination needs to have checks; I'd almost say cries out for and is unhappy without them. And what about Roger? His rude nature is partly inspired by an equal awareness of the feminine power, especially in younger women. If he can get it out of his system, and realise what a responsibility he has, and there are plenty of older people, who will in various degrees of forcefulness advise him if he abuses his position too much, he might just turn out a man yet.

He has the physique for it," she added with almost a giggle, and had the grace to blush. Eve could not help wondering if Joyce had already taken a hand at his transformation into manhood.

"Let's join the girls by the pool," Joyce suggested, "plenty of time before dinner and you can get to meet the younger set."

"Lovely," Eve replied, "but what about these?"

She stroked her hands down the tight cavalry twill breeches that fitted like a second skin, "hardly beach wear."

"Of course not silly. We'll go and change in my room. I've lots of nice tangas and things you can wear to show off your stripes."

Eve wasn't sure she saw it quite that way but raised no complaint as they headed back into the house. Joyce's well filled closets yielded a stunning collection of beach wear for Eve to select from. She was picking up a rather conservatively cut bikini with a deep bottom half that would have covered most of her rump when Joyce stopped her.

"Oh come on," she said, "Don't let me down by wearing those frumpy old things.

You're my guest, and they will expect you to turn out real cool. Besides you've got a lovely set on your seat. Don't deny them the chance to ogle a well-whipped visitor's posterior. How about these?"

'These' were two postage stamps' worth of glistening fabric that might just about cover her nipples, if adjusted carefully, and a tanga type bottom, with a triangle of matching fabric, barely sufficient to conceal her lush labia which

seemed to be almost permanently engorged these days she noticed, before disappearing into her arse crack for most of its length.

"Er, I'm not sure about the top," she said doubtfully, "my nipples are quite large and I doubt if those scraps will cover the circles round them."

"Well, it won't matter much," Joyce reassured her. "You probably noticed everybody had got their tops off by the pool anyway. These are just for protection from the likes of the Galloping Major, if we meet him on the way down."

"Some protection," Eve muttered, but gave in to Joyce's urgings. It was easier than arguing the toss about what was obviously considered quite unexceptional round these parts.

While they had been talking Joyce had stripped totally and was selecting her own swimwear.

"Come on," she urged, "get those hot things off and let's see you."

Eve blushed at her directness but was soon as bare as her new friend. Joyce stopped, one foot through the leg hole of a minuscule bikini.

"Oh my! You're delicious," she breathed, "and you're right about your nips.

Lovely. Can I chew a little?" and without giving Eve time to reply, her hot lips were on the rapidly engorging stubs, pearly teeth nipping gently at the sensitive points.

"Yum yum!" she sighed as she disengaged from a panting Eve, "and the rest is lovely too," she declared stroking a hand over Eve's taut tiger-striped hinds, and letting it wander innocently round her hip to follow the crease of her delta into the thicket of tight curls, "I'll have a better look later. Right now we ought to get down the the pool while the sun's still up."

Eve relaxed the thighs she had instinctively clenched and drew in a rather ragged breath. The atmosphere on this island seemed to make her very easily aroused she thought, as she fastened the tanga, 'good thing there's adequate padding in the gusset, but I hope Joyce doesn't inspect it before it goes in the wash. I'm oozing already.'

The poolside encounter was a further step in Eve's educational process. Though all these girls were here to attend the monthly disciplinary session, none seemed terribly anxious. True there was an intermittent exchange of banter about their forthcoming ordeals, in the course of which there were some bitten lips and quivering backsides, but nothing of the traumatic or cowed behaviour, while the appearance of the newcomers was the occasion for a comparison of stripes, a process made all the easier by the fact that none of them wore more than a titular cunt covering which left their buttocks quite bare. Eve was interested to note that several wore fading spoor from past inflictions, some just possibly the marks of the last Friday dinner, but none so vivid and fresh as those she and Joyce displayed

The gluteal inspections were mutual. Eve was conscious of hot and interested gazes fixed on those well warmed cheeks, as she was welcomed into the bevy of nubile sinners, including Joyce's sister, Bettina, and Fleur, the twenty-two year old sister of the spotty Roger they had met in the library.

"Have you come to be disciplined too?" one asked nonchalantly

"Eh no. Not today," Eve replied. "Perhaps another time."

What on earth had possessed her to say that she thought in confusion, a blush spreading hotly on her neck. She was saved from further folly by Joyce's timely

intervention.

"Eve's a guest. She's a visitor to the island, staying with the Borensons."

"Mmm, been doing a little more than sightseeing, I see," contributed another condemned near-naked nymph. She looked pointedly at Eve's rainbow hued hinds.

"Now then Bett," Joyce admonished her, "try to remember our island courtesy.

You're in enough trouble tonight already, without adding rudeness to guests to your tally."

"Oh come on, Joy. You wouldn't shop your own sister, would you?" Bettina protested.

"Just you try me," Joyce threatened, but her eyes were laughing rather than menacing and the whole group soon relaxed into their usual good humour.

Chapter 4: Dinner At Ladyswood...

The sun sank quickly and early in the near-tropical latitude, the sudden cool around the pool sending the bare skinned belles in doors to dress for the fabled Friday dinner. Joyce had promised to pick something suitable from her own extensive wardrobe for Eve to wear and the visitor soon knocked on her door and entered to find her new friend, nude as a slug from her shower, contemplating the long lines of dresses in a walk-in closet that looked as long as a railroad car.

"Now what shall we put you in?" Joyce mused. "Something elegant, but not too dull. A little gold on black might suit you very well. How about this one. Not disgustingly low in front, but the men will be assured your boobs are your own, and the bias-cut crepe will show off your lovely bottom just right."

"I thought that pinafores were the dress of the day," Eve said, "I passed at least three women wearing them as I came down the corridor. Shouldn't we all be wearing them?"

Joyce laughed.

"Not unless you're desperate to have those tiger stripes added to," she said.

"That's the delinquent's uniform. Anyone you saw wearing one is due for execution at Aunt Jane's knowing hand tonight."

"But one of them was Mrs Harringer!"

"So? You don't think she escapes having her meaty mounds roasted just because she's Sir William's sister do you? Actually I believe she may have quite a tight time tonight. There's a rumour going round that she has been getting above herself and that neither her husband or Uncle William are too pleased. I suspect Aunty Pam may not be sitting comfortably for a while"

"Anyway," she continued, "No pinafore for you, darling, unless you're about to confess some terrible sins, and you haven't been here long enough to have committed any that I know of. Now get that robe off, and let's have a look at you."

The request in London would have had her protesting indignantly; here in Eden it seemed totally natural and she slipped off the bathrobe she'd donned on leaving the shower to stand quietly under the younger girl's inspection.

"Lovely," Joyce exclaimed in frank admiration of the slim nude before her, "but get those knickers off. You can't wear them with crepe, they'd show a panty line

for sure."

Eve slipped off the offending underwear without protest, then donned the garter belt and stockings that Joyce laid out for her.

"You won't need a bra either," she was assured," Quite apart from the fact that you've got nice firm tits, the dress has a boned bodice which will hold you nicely, and leave a generous cleavage on view."

Joyce finished off the outfit with a pair of high heeled pumps, a touch higher than Eve was used to. By the time they'd helped each other with their make-up and hair the gong sounded for dinner.

"Come along," Joyce urged. "This is one meal just everyone is on time for. The men can't wait to gloat over us, knowing most are going to get hot arses, that they can take advantage of later, and the women - well you can guess why they are not anxious to be late."

As Joyce had predicted, the entire house party arrived at once in the dining room. As the men ran their eyes unashamedly over the newcomer's delightful figure, only partly covered by the minimal clothing Joyce had chosen for her, Eve was suddenly conscious of how little protected her from their hot gazes. In particular she was very aware of her lack of panties, brought home to her each time she moved by the cool air circulating around her exposed sex, a sensation enhanced by the sudden rush of moist arousal that flooded her loins at their attention. She was glad when their host and hostess arrived and all were seated, although she then faced the new threat that her gushing sex, unguarded by panty gusset, might result in an embarrassing wet patch on the seat of her dress. Ah well, time enough to worry about that when the time came to get up from table, for the moment she was protected below the waist by polished mahogany, even if the eyes still continued to feast on her well displayed cleavage. Somehow it didn't seem to be so difficult to bear out here. In fact her embarrassment had been replaced by pride in her womanhood and her power to attract the attention of these males, who were by no stretch of the imagination, starved of female attractions to gaze upon.

Dinner was surprisingly lively, considering what lay before these nubile young, and not so young, women. There might have been a touch of reserve, a certain introspection, at first, as many of them considered that they were another step nearer to that painful end that inevitably awaited them but, being female, their tongues could not long remain still and, once the ice was broken, the chatter became general, even the doomed Pamela managing to keep up. If there was one more reserved than most it was Mrs Trevelyan, the handsome widow whose son had sent her for correction. She seemed to be brooding on something too deep to be cast aside, even for conversation.

After the dessert Lady Jane rose from her seat.

"The ladies will take coffee in the drawing-room," she announced, "Perhaps you gentlemen will care to join us after a suitable interval," she suggested.

There were a number of enthusiastic affirmatives, and Roger put out his hand to pat the pert taffeta covered rump of his sister Fleur as she passed his chair.

"Getting butterflies sis?" he suggested. "Looking forward to a hot arse? Just you wait until I'm eighteen next year. I'll deal with you myself."

Fleur pouted but did not reply except to toss her head disdainfully, but Eve could see she did not relish the idea of having to bare her bottom before her younger brother, and take his cuts.

In the drawing room the promised coffee only postponed justice by a few minutes, then Lady Jane rapped on a chair back to gain their attention. She got it, at once, not least, Eve supposed, because she had rapped for silence with a wicked

length of thick springy yellow rattan; the dreaded 'penal'. Suddenly the atmosphere changed. The gallows humour could not survive the execution's presence. Even though she was in no danger herself, Eve could feel the tightening of her belly, the tensing of the muscles in her bottom, feeling even more vulnerable and unclad in her knickerless condition.

"Time we got started or the gentlemen will be joining us before we've completed our business. They're never shy of watching a bare bottom whipped, and they're eager to make our acquaintance again tonight, so let's have no time wasting.

We've a few sins to confess and penance to do before they come. Bettina, you're first."

Joyce's elder sister moved smartly to the front and stood to attention before the mistress of the house, who turned to consult a large black ledger on the stand beside her, although Eve was pretty certain she knew exactly what the score was for each and every one of the half dozen penitents in pinafores now standing in an uncomfortable line at one side of the room. Only Joyce and herself were seemingly immune and free to sit together on one of the sumptuous sofas. No doubt this soft deep sensuous upholstery would be much in demand in the not too distant future when anything but the gentlest of seats would be unbearable to whipped sitters.

"Bettina Boothing," Lady Jane read out, "Late for meals, repeated offences despite warnings. Also rooms in a disgraceful state in the morning. How do you plead?"

Eyes fixed straight ahead, voice controlled, Bettina admitted her offence.

"Guilty as charged, Ma'am,"

"Anything to say for yourself?"

"Eh. Well. That is, my room was still a mess because I was late down for breakfast and didn't tidy up before I left."

"Which only compounds the offence," Lady Jane observed, "You may remember I saw it for myself. A sweaty bed, clothes all over the place, and last night's knickers left on the floor where you'd dropped them. By the way, I forgot to ask you. Whose sticky matter was it on the gusset? I've seldom seen a riper pair or a more generous libation. You must have dripped for hours to get your underwear in that disgusting condition."

Bettina blushed and gagged on her reply.

"Come on girl. Out with it. What stallion pumped you so full you soaked your pants?"

"Eh, well, you see.... Well it wasn't just one."

"How many, slut?"

Bettina blushed even deeper, and held up three fingers.

Lady Jane burst into laughter.

"You girls! I might have known you'd get multiple lays. Well that's your privilege, but I won't accept it as an excuse for late rising or septic knickers left lying around. It may be the maid's job to do the cleaning, but she shouldn't have to be party to your sexual secretions. Eight stingers for you, and try and remember to put your dirty underwear away next time, to say noting of getting up in time to tidy your room and come down to breakfast at a civilised hour. As an aid to memory, and to keep your greedy twat empty for a while, you can also wear a ten pounder for a week."

"What's that?" Eve asked in a whisper.

"Crotch strap," Joyce explained. "Tell you later," and returned her avid attention to her lissom sister.

"Frame please," Lady Jane ordered, gesturing with her rod towards the fireplace.

Bettina moved over to the great, carved stone mantelpiece. Eve followed every move with her eyes, as the girl undid snap fasteners at the hem of her calf length pinafore revealing that it was slit up both sides almost to the hip. With the poppers popped it could be drawn up behind and refastened to leave her buttocks quite bare. Eve realised that with the possible exception of Joyce and Lady Jane, she was in good company with her pantiless hinds.

At the fireplace she stopped with her feet against the fender. Suddenly it occurred to Eve that this was no ordinary fireguard, if it served that purpose at all. At the base were two parallel brass rails, which were not out of the ordinary but the further two rails, set vertically above each other, one about a foot, the other more like two and a half, above the floor, were unusual to say the least. A towel rail, Eve thought, but what was a towel rail doing in a lady's drawing room?

If Eve was puzzled by the odd bars, Bettina seemed well acquainted with the burnished brass rails and their purpose. She stepped between the two lower bars, placing her feet outside the two ornate ferrules that bridged them, making her legs open a little, then bent over and grasped the further of the two lower bars on the far side. Immediately her knees were braced back by the first of the upper bars, while the top bar ensured that, so long as she grasped the lower bar, she could move neither backwards nor forwards, her buttocks bent and stretched, the under-sides lifted, and perfectly presented for the cane to place the coming welts directly in that area of the female anatomy known colloquially as the 'sit-upon', for the wearer's better remembrance later, when she came to sit upon it. As Eve gazed mesmerised at the lovely heart shaped hinds so blatantly displayed, even the plump shaved fig clearly seen where it pouted through the gap at the top of the slightly parted thighs, she could see the faint discolorations of Bettina's last visit to this seat of learning and correction. From their faintness it would seem she had managed to steer clear of trouble until this moment. A pity for her that she'd let unregulated lust carry her away to the point of exhaustion with subsequent lateness and lack of hygiene.

Though she must have been familiar with this particular set of female glutei Lady Jane observed the full protocol of testing their resilience and thickness by palpation of the lower folds and a gently prodding with the stick. Tradition satisfied, she withdrew a pace and kicked off her heels, to stand in stocking feet. A moment's contemplation of the bent buttock, waiting patiently for chastisement, letting her eye select the spot for the first ringing slice and then she was stepping forward onto her left foot, her right arm and wrist sending the cane thrumming into the bent hinds right in the sucual fold. Eve gasped almost as much as the bent girl. It would have been a formidable stroke half way through a beating. For an opener it was devastatingly hard and accurate.

Bettina for one seemed to find it so. She let out a short strangled "yow!" and her buttocks leapt as much as her posture would allow. As the inevitable and educationally efficient after-agony flooded through her hinds, and the thick welt made its first appearance, she groaned at the realisation of Lady Jane's fine cut. She was obviously on form tonight, a point not lost on the remaining defaulters who variously tensed, paled or bit their lips as the mood took them.

Still, their pain was yet to come; Bettina's was immediate and incisive. With due delay to let her savour the full bite of the first, Lady Jane measured the target with an unerring eye and took a half step forward to unleash the next. It fell a finger's breadth below the first and seemed to occasion Bettina as much

trouble in containing it as the first. She gasped and squirmed for a second before she could regain her composure and set herself for the next in the required stoic manner.

As the count slowly rose, too slowly for the writhing girl in the frame, Eve found herself fascinated by the way her haunches seemed to turn in on themselves, as if trying to squeeze out the pain, then open like a blossoming flower, as if she might spit it out like a pip from an olive, the ripe split fruit of her vulva winking in the diamond gap at the top of the thighs. The sight of the plump plum recalled her suddenly to her own and she realised to her shame and shock that she was reacting to this scene with wet arousal.

Bettina had reached six by now, six dark bars packed tightly in beneath her widest part, reaching down to the division of thigh and buttock, the portion of her anatomy on which she would have to put her weight to sit. Eve thought this punishment, was intended to be felt and learnt from long after the stick ceased to fall. At seven Bettina's gasps changed to a shrill yelp of agony. She seemed about to rise, her fingers fluttering on the bottom rail, her feet stamping as much as their confined position would allow, her hips twisted tightly to the right as if to try and escape the extra bite to her flank, where the tip of the rod achieved its highest penetration, leaving purple blotches. For a moment it appeared she might lose her battle with her rebellious body, which had had enough of the cruel cane, but she rallied and straightened, though her panting breath was almost a sob.

Lady Jane was impervious to her distress. With careful concentration she set herself a trifle further back from the weeping buttock and pranced forward a full stride to deliver the coup de grace, sending the whippy rod into the mass of bruised flesh that had resulted from the seven previous measured strokes. It parted the air with an appreciably higher note, that sent shivers down Eve's spine, and probably all the other female backbones save, perhaps Lady Jane herself, then impacted with an awesome 'sluck' into the flinching buttocks held helpless by the rigidity of the frame over which they were bent. Bettina 's body shook with the blow, her buttocks clenched and unclenched like a pair of grotesque lips gulping air, the fatty pout of the vulva beneath mouthing its own protest. She gave out a long groaning howl of pain, then her body shook with a deep sob, as she clung to the frame, for support now, not restraint, as the remaining delinquents stood in shocked silence. Bettina was no stranger to the rod, and a strong healthy girl besides, and her reaction confirmed that Lady Jane was indeed on form tonight and their own prospects correspondingly dismal.

"OK, you may rise," Lady Jane pronounced, "I trust you felt those adequately."

Bettina straightened slowly, her fingers now seemingly reluctant to leave the bar she had had so much difficulty in holding onto during her chastisement.

"Intensely, Ma'am," she acknowledged, as she rocked her hips from side to side, her hands fisted in front of her. One did not rub ones welts in public in this house, Eve understood.

"Now for your forfeit."

Lady Jane was holding out a matter of steel links and buckled leather. Bettina looked at it without enthusiasm but took it from her, and fastened a band tightly around her hips, until it sank into her waist snugly. She parted her legs with a groan and reached for the chain that dangled down the divide of her hot and throbbing buttocks. With the unfeeling links lodged in her weeping slit, she threaded the strap that hung on her belly through the curiously shaped buckle and drew up on it, sucking in her breath as the cruel metal bit into her tender female parts.

"Tighter than that, girl," Lady Jane commanded, "I want to see it in deep. Up another notch. The ten pound flag isn't showing yet."

Bettina groaned and pulled up again, almost yanking the chain into herself.

Something flashed in the centre of the buckle and the centre disc turned red.

"Good," her Ladyship commented. "Now I hope I may expect you to put your disgusting underwear out of sight in future, and get yourself to breakfast before noon."

"Yes, Ma'am," the red-faced young woman replied emphatically, as she wiped a tear from one eye and waddled painfully across the room to stand face to the wall where the remaining offenders could contemplate her ravaged buttocks as they awaited their own turn to be called to judgement.

One of the naked nymphs from the pool was called next, a lovely girl of nineteen, whose reckless driving had left the family Mercedes scored from hood to trunk, with an ugly scratch along one side that would need a near complete respray. She had been confined to barracks for the next month, with a weekly dose of stick to improve her driving. She had already swallowed two such prescriptions, which were writ in her pert pale mounds, six angry looking stripes from the previous week, six fainter, but distinguishable tracks from the week before. Undoubtedly someone wielded a searching rod in her home, but now it was the first Friday of the month and it was thought that the trip over to Ladyswood, and anticipation of Jane's expert correction, would do the young tearaway's body and soul a power of good, and Lady Jane did not disappoint her.

The half-dozen cuts that the young person received had her whining and panting as she bent over the bar, then hopping from foot to foot as she tried to control herself on her way to join Bettina and display the thick throbbing results of Lady Jane's imposition to the remaining accused. It seemed to do little to cheer them but, once again, Eve felt a surge of inner warmth as she contemplated the rich soft feminine flesh, so blatantly marked by suffering.

The widow, the subject of such filial devotion, was next to come to judgement.

The pangs a son can cause his mother are many and various but, Eve thought, few as various as those her offspring was about to deal out to the still elegant and desirable widow Trevelyan.

Called out by Jane and made to confess her reason for being present to all the females, young and mature, in the room, her humiliation was intense. Her son might be young, but in Eden young men learnt quickly from their elders the finer points of the management of women, be they sisters, wives or mothers.

A hot flush of embarrassment flooding her neck and cheeks, she murmured in a low voice that her son had sent her to be punished for going against his instructions.

"Speak up woman," Lady Jane admonished. "Let everyone hear what you've been up to. What did you refuse him?"

Looking even more humiliated, Mary announced in a firm voice, "He wants me to allow Peter Manners to sleep with me."

"Very interesting," Lady Jane observed, "and does he have any particular reason for that?"

Despite her confusion the widow managed a spark of indignation.

"As everybody knows," she said, "Peter and he are good friends and he says he owes it to their friendship."

"Is that all? I think there is more."

Mrs Trevelyan hesitated before answering.

"He has had his eye on Helen Manners for some time. She's much older than him, nearly my age, but she's a very attractive woman still and I believe they have a bargain, that he will have Helen when I agree to sleep with Peter."

"Don't you fancy him then?"

This time both her confusion and her colour reached new heights.

"Well, yes, but...."

"But what?" Lady Jane urged, as each ear in the room waited eagerly to catch her reply.

A hot silence followed.

"There's something you've kept back isn't there?" Lady Jane said accusingly,

"Come on, out with it."

"John wants me to have a child," the writhing widow blurted in a rush of words,

"He insists that I have unprotected sex when I sleep with Peter."

Lady Jane raised one of her elegantly plucked eyebrows, although Eve felt sure she must have known all along what lay behind the committal.

"And how does Peter feel about that?" she inquired.

"I believe he was the one who suggested it; he rather fancies the idea of having a mistress and baby tucked away, now that his own children are grown up and Helen does not want any more herself."

Now the cat was out of the bag, the words came fast and indignant.

"But I think, as well, John has always resented being an only child and wants to have me give up my career and have a baby sister for him, to compensate for what he regards as my selfishness."

"Didn't you and Frank want any more children then?"

"Well, I suppose Frank would have liked a large family," Mary conceded, "but I wasn't prepared to give up my career and I kept putting it off until he dropped the subject."

"Hmm. It seems to me," said her judge after a moment's consideration, " that you have no objections in principle to sleeping with Peter and that your reluctance is a combination of resentment of men's authority to dispose of you sexually as they think fit, and dereliction of duty in not providing them with a child, when it is their express wish that you produce one. In view of the seriousness of these offences I cannot award you less than ten cuts of the cane for each, a total of twenty strokes."

Mary Trevelyan opened her mouth as if to protest, then thought better of it and remained silent as Lady Jane continued.

"As you will be aware, we like to reinforce the efficacy of punishment by some little keepsake or reminder, just in case the lesson should be lost once the sting fades. Your son has very kindly sent over this nice tight chain cincher,"

she held up a band of interwoven steel links some three inches wide, equipped with a formidable and complicated form of fastener, "which you will wear continuously night and day until such time as your pregnancy test comes up positive. Now bare yourself and get over the bars."

As the reluctant mother pinned up her pinny, revealing a succulent pair of tight round buttocks, seemingly unaffected by maternity, Eve again sought Joyce's ear.

"How does that contraption work?"

"Goes round your middle and pulls it in four inches," came the whispered reply,

" you sure know it's there every time you move, but it doesn't get in the way of sex, like Bettina's crotch-strap," Joyce added. "My slag of a sister is going to have to do without the delights of the prick for a while, which won't please her, but Mary Trevelyan will be able to take the cock that swells her belly, until she's confirmed in pod."

The widow Trevelyan had now taken up her position, her firm buttock cheeks spread and tautened by her bent posture, hands gripping the rail in front. Lady Jane repeated her performance, striking hard and accurately into the creamy meat, each cut seemingly directly behind the cunt, though she was too just a judge to take advantage and strike short, letting the tip 'whip in' and catch the delicate vulnerable tissues of the vulva. Perhaps if there had been some element of sexual betrayal involved she might have given this extreme unction, a girl caught deliberately trying to 'steal' another girl's man, or having sex with another man without her sponsor's permission, but Mary Trevelyan's case fell short of such treachery and her sex was spared.

But nothing else. Stroke after stroke, the rod bit into the soft yielding flesh of the bared buttock, lacing it with hot dark welts that rapidly filled and thickened until they stood out proud, finger thick and purple hued. Eve marvelled at the woman's stoicism as she absorbed each fearful lick with no more than grunts and gasps, the occasional groan forced from her in the intervals allowed for the pain to rise to its maximum before the next was delivered.

She marvelled too, at her own reactions.

Funny, Joyce had made some remark about a lovely pair to whip, in a tone that implied she'd love to be the one to whip them, and Daphne had hinted at similar reactions to bent beaten buttocks; now she was feeling an unfamiliar desire herself. It was all wrong of course, how could she look on a female being chastised in this way? A male perhaps, just recompense for millennia of oppression of the superior sex, but the thought of the rod on hard hirsute haunches held no appeal. It was these bared female buttocks that seized her attention, smooth, elastic, spread wide but not flabby, the compulsion of weekly work-outs seemed to have ensured that even these mature and pampered hinds kept their shape and did not offend the eye. More than that, they positively cried out to be whipped. Eve caught herself longing to seize the rod herself and feel the shock of the strokes vibrate back up her arm at each cut into the slabby mounds. She wanted to break this proud female, to make her scream and promise to let her lover impregnate her, to hear her pain. My God, she thought, what is happening to me? On this strange, disturbing, magical island for little more than a week and already succumbing to its ethos, its perverse practices. She shook her head to clear it of the raw sexuality of her thoughts but they refused to go away. She moved uncomfortably as she felt wet warmth suffusing her crotch.

Ten strokes delivered, ten scorching bands of anguish written across the straining hinds, and the woman was allowed to straighten and get her breath. The tight bending position was enough in itself to leave the victim panting; with a double handful of agonising cuts it would have been unnecessarily cruel to have held her there any longer.

It was a mixed blessing, though. Once relaxed, it was all the harder for Mary to rebuild her mental defence against the atrocious assault on her ravaged posterior. She was noticeably reluctant to go down again, when time was called, no more defiant dignity now, and soon she was puffing and blowing again, as the cane descended into her tender wounded flesh. No more than three were enough to break down her resistance. As the fourth stroke of her second tranche whickered in, slicing into an already angry weal, she gave a short shrill cry, then sobbed in shame at her weakness. Broken now, she cried out at each of her remaining dole, her shoulders heaving with sobs, her face streaked with tears and mucus

from her dripping nostrils; a well-beaten female at the last.

At the first cry, Eve's belly had leapt, almost in spasm. She pressed her thighs together as the wetness oozed from her. Part of her mind tried to stop the thoughts that flooded in, part watched excitedly the writhing flesh bent over the brass rails, a secret hidden place in her brain imagined her own buttocks spread like that, her sex open to the eyes of all, the rod searing her flesh.

She shook her head to drive away the thought.

Allowed to rise, the well-beaten widow and mother was made to don the steel linked girdle, with its strict, relentless fastening. The belt, adjusted, round her waist until it fitted, snugly the catches were thrown. Mary gasped involuntarily, then stood panting as she adjusted to her new stern regime, which squeezed her middle until her breath was curtailed.

"Hmm!" Lady Jane remarked with satisfaction, "You won't forget that in a hurry.

My advice to you is to get Peter to stuff your belly instantly. Better a baby than that friendly hug I'd say."

Mary gave no answer but shuffled off to display her wounds alongside the others who had already been dealt with. There was a growing line now of tiger-striped bottoms on display, a sight Eve was finding increasingly, and ambiguously, disturbing.

Dolly Nicholls was next to come to judgement. The Major's svelte wife had been

'put on a charge', as he expressed it, for 'conduct unbecoming a lady' and a general need for a 'livener'. Eve remarked to her friend that 'liveners' seemed to be a regular fact of female life in these parts, and was assured, in reply, that she was only too right, the men of the island being somehow convinced that an occasional dose of stick, for no particular reason, was an excellent way of keeping a girl on her toes.

"And who's to say they're wrong?" she finished. In the interests of diplomacy, Eve bit down the angry retort that sprang to her lips and turned her attention to the details of Dolly's failings. As Lady Jane recited the charges from her black book, Eve could almost hear the Major's booming voice.

"The little lady's been getting a bit above herself, don'tcher'know. Nothing specific a bit frisky, feeling her oats. Needs a good livener to bring her back in hand. One thing you could look at. Her gait's gone to the devil. Strides around like a ploughman. Filly should trot dainty, what! See what you can do."

What Lady Jane could do was award a dozen stingers that had the vivacious Dolly reduced to tears as she stood with bunched hands, willing herself not to add to her disgrace by grasping her burning buns and squeezing the blazing agony from the brands burnt into them by the stick. She looked anything but lively, but no doubt that would come later when the first fires had subsided. Eve had already seen enough of local behaviour to know that, once the shock of a thrashing had passed, the women and girls of Eden seemed truly to be invigorated and 'livened'

by the experience.

As Dolly stood with tear-streaked face, her make-up failing to match up to its claim of being waterproof, Lady Jane addressed the Major's other request.

"What's all this about galumphing about like a stable boy?" she demanded in a loose translation of the Major's words, "what have you been up to."

With a sniff of her weeping nostrils and a most unladylike wipe with the back of her hand, Dolly explained. "He doesn't like to see me striding out in flatties,"

she said, between sniffs. "If he had his way, I'd wear heels at all times, and four inch ones in the evening."

"And why don't you?"

"They're so damned uncomfortable," Dolly burst out, with a return of some of her usual spirit, "My toes ache after a while and flat sandals are much more comfortable"

"But your husband wants it, and what a husband wants, he should get. You'll wear hose and heels at all times until the next monthly meeting, in bed as well unless Harry objects, and somehow I don't think that's likely. Just don't put a stiletto in his scrotum, or your next visit here won't be as easy as tonight's little tickle. Moreover, you'll put a teaspoon of baked rice in each stocking, just to remind you why you're wearing them."

Dolly groaned on hearing her fate, but nodded her head in acceptance and was dismissed to add her own blazing buttocks to the expanding row of well-marked bottoms lined up along the wall.

Another girl from a neighbouring estate was next, a little overweight and pudgy and accused of greed and failure to diet. Since parental admonitions had failed to curb her appetite and indolence, she had been sent to Ladyswood for expert diagnosis and treatment of her condition. Apart from the inevitable dose of stick, a stinging sixer for a soft young bottom, Lady Jane prescribed some treatment to be applied more directly to the seat of her problem than the seat of her pants. Released from the bars, the girl was made to lie on her back on a long padded bench, while Fleur and Pamela Harringer, still awaiting their own judgement, were deputed to hold her wrists and ankles. Stretched supine, her flabby stomach upwards, the girl received her six all over again, but this time with a wide leather strap, that had her howling and writhing as her pale white belly turned to fiery red. Released at last she half crouched over her aching bulge while Lady Jane added to her prescription a diet of bread and water for the next month, and ordered her to request her parents to have her fitted with a training corset. Once more Joyce enlightened her new friend's ignorance.

"Beastly tight, but nothing like as bad as a cunt cutter or even the widow's cincher. Solid steel boning from your tits to your thighs, back and front.

Double laces that pull you in and keep you tight. That girl will find dieting easy once she's knotted into those stays. The way they press on your chest and belly you don't have room for more than a nibble at the best of times."

Fleur was next in for the 'house'. Her Aunt looked up from her redundant scrutiny of the black ledger to observe that she had missed her weekly appointment at the health club a fortnight previously. Fleur agreed that she had, but pointed out that she had already received the statutory penalty on her next visit, and still wore the stripes.

"That may be so," Lady Jane observed, "but we have a rule here, as you very well know, that all punishments earned outside the house are reviewed and repeated, to make sure the lesson is driven well home, not to speak of the affront to the dignity of the house that such public misdemeanours cause. How many did you get?"

"Six, Ma'am," Fleur advised her, "They accepted that I had tried to attend, but that I couldn't find transport."

"Because you had put your car in for service and forgotten to ask if you could borrow one of the others," her Aunt reminded her, "an excuse not acceptable here. You'll get your six strokes again and, for the next week, you'll run to the flagstaff and back every morning at dawn, buck naked, bare-arsed; barefooted too."

The mention of cuts had not caused any change in the girl's expression. Clearly they were expected and a sixer was a routine occurrence in this household, not to speak of in the island as a whole, but the imposition of a morning run seemed to dismay the nubile young woman disproportionately.

"She doesn't seem keen on early morning exercise," Eve remarked quietly to her neighbour.

Joyce gave a little hollow laugh.

"I should think not. Damn chilly in the dawn, in your birthday suit, and the flagstaff is over a mile away, up hill and along a main road where the early motorists will have fun watching her flash her cunt and bounce her boobs. But that's not the half of it. It's a half mile down the drive, and a half mile back. Any idea what those chippings feel like under bare feet?"

Eve winced at the thought. Young Fleur was going to be real sore when she came to breakfast.

Execution was swift and, to Fleur's credit, well taken. The young lady was as Eve suspected, experienced in these matters and as nearly took it in her stride as one might hope, given she had to take six biting slices from an Aunt on peak form. When she took her place in the display line, the welts stood out clear and angry against the fading tracks of her earlier correction at the club.

Chapter 5: ...And Dessert

The original half dozen delinquents had been reduced to just one, the rest now lined up in hot arsed display along the wall. Lady Jane had reserved her sister-in-law's case for last, to give it the attention she thought its seriousness deserved, for Pamela Harringer had protested at her new sister-in-law being given charge of female discipline, which, before her arrival, Pamela had dispensed herself. It was a hardy perennial and she had recently renewed her complaint, arguing that she, at least, should be exempt. Sir William and her husband had been unreceptive and had jointly committed her to Lady Jane's justice with a recommendation that, since she was so fond of all things

'horsey', a riding crop might be the best implement to mete it out., and a public chastisement might 'encourage les autres'. Lady Jane called on her sister-in-law to stand forth. Reluctance showing in every movement Pamela complied.

"Mrs Harringer has been adjudged not only to have mutinied against legitimate, that is to say male, authority, but in so doing, to have brought this house into disrepute. For each offence she is sentenced to a dozen strokes across her bared buttocks and, by special recommendation of those males most qualified to know her physical capacities, these to be delivered with the same crop she is so fond of exercising on her mounts.

"The affront to the house," Lady Jane continued, as the Junoesque figure of her sister-in-law quivered in shame and mortification before her, "may be regarded as an internal matter, to be settled here and now, and you will bare your bottom at once for your first dozen at my hand. The question of mutiny is a different matter altogether and I propose that you join the others in displaying your stripes, until the men rejoin us, when you will take your second dozen in public. Moreover, since you are having difficulty with accepting their disposal of you, I shall also recommend that the dozen should be dispensed by one of the men, to be chosen by them as the most suitable for your case."

Smiling cat-like at the obvious dismay on the older woman's beetroot hued face, she went on.

"Taking all considerations into account, my own suggestion, for what it is worth, would be that your pride would be best served by putting the crop into young Roger's hand. My only reservation is that he may not have the skill and experience to wield it to its maximum effect, when my choice would fall on the Major. Either way you may look forward to a hot time underneath."

Mrs Harringer still showed a spark of mutiny, despite her dire fate, and snorted in defiance at her sister-in-laws remarks.

"Still stiff necked, Pam? We must see what we can do about that. Ah I have it. A soda enema. That should take some of the stuffing out of you."

Where threats of crop and welts by the dozen had failed to move the proud maturity, this last broke down her defences.

"You can't do that Jane," she cried, "It's too much."

"You'll address me as Ma'am when I'm exercising my official duties," Lady Jane said sternly, but her joy at her victory belied her strict expression, "anymore protests from you and you'll be given your flushing in front of the men. As it is you'll have to hold it until they join us, or take another. Now be quiet, and put that big rump of yours over the bars."

Pamela pursed her lips tightly and reached to pin up her dress. The buttock she displayed would not have disgraced one of her own mares. Eve felt a resurgence of her earlier strange responses to bare female flesh, about to be thrashed.

Moving with dignity the woman advanced to the bars and draped herself over them.

The movement spread the broad haunches even wider, great slabs of saddle-exercised meat, though far from obese. The thighs were still firm enough for a thick black mat of wiry hair to protrude, not quite concealing the fatty lips of a notable vulva. Before this display of formidable female portions Eve had entertained some lingering doubts about the severity of the punishment prescribed. A crop seemed a trifle harsh for mere girl flesh, but this was prime mutton, not lamb, generous in its proportions and fully adequate to sustain even a riding whip, such as Lady Jane now produced.

"Recognise it, Pam?" she taunted waving it before the bent woman's eyes, "Percy picked it out specially as your favourite. Let's see if you're still as fond of it after you've had a taste."

Allowance made for the amplitude, the sheer mass, of the great buttock it was a severe and searching ordeal for the gasping grunting woman, as the crop bit deep, again and again, into her slabby cheeks. Eve gazed fascinated as she watched the ridges rise where each stroke had fallen, awesome purple welts with, on the sorry right flank where the tip bit deepest, inky blobs that threatened to burst, so tight and plum dark were they with trapped blood. Pamela was tough and sustained by pride and hatred of her sister-in-law's hold on her but even these defences could not hold out for ever. After the ninth stroke had whunked its way into her hot and swollen cheeks, she howled in simple agony, and her sobs continued until the next stroke sent her whining and mewling again. She kept up the musical accompaniment through the remaining strokes of her private punishment.

"Thirteen down and a butchers to come," Lady Jane pronounced with undisguised relish, Eve had long learnt that a dozen in these parts was always a butchers,

"you can take a break until the men join us. No!" she cried, as the unfortunate sister-in-law let go of the bar, and made as if to lever herself upright, "Soda water wash for you, before you join the line."

The bent woman sobbed in humiliation as a maid was sent to bring the necessary apparatus; enema bag and bardex nozzle, and a litre of chilled soda water fresh from the refrigerator.

Without ceremony the nozzle was stuffed unlubricated, through the shrinking sphincter, drawing another whine of protest, and then pumped up hard, so that its inner bulb restrained it immovably in the reluctant rectum. The bag was filled, the clip released, and the cold aerated fluid flooded into the unhappy woman's quivering bowel. At first she merely sobbed in her shame but then she began to groan and gasp. Spasms could be seen working her belly and she shifted her considerable weight from one muscular leg to the other, her buttocks moving

like a trotting mare as the cramps began in her aching bowel. All at once she straightened and stood, mouth gaping and hands clasped to her belly, which could be seen working. Incoherent sounds came from her mouth; they finally resolved themselves into cries of, "No more! That's enough! Oh God, my guts!"

"Hold still," Lady Jane barked, "You'll take it down to the last drop."

Her aching belly visibly clenching, Pamela had no choice but to obey, until the bag showed slack and empty, its bulging outline transferred to the wretched woman's straining stomach.

"I'll just seal you off," her sister-in-law announced, as she detached the trailing tube, "Now you can join the others in the chorus line."

When she was finally allowed to rise she presented a face so twisted with the pain still at its peak in her hinds, and the cramps that wrenched her belly, and so blotted with tears and the runs from her nostrils as to be unrecognisable as the proud and haughty aristocrat who had first bent over the hated bars. She waddled over to join the rest, holding her belly in both hands, the perfect picture of female penitent, and it was there that the gentlemen found her when, two minutes later, they filed into the room. Their timing was not as perfectly coincidental as Eve supposed, aided as it was by a discreet message Lady Jane had sent to her husband via a maid.

As the gentlemen entered the room, glasses in hand, they directed admiring comments at their women folk, lined up, bare and hot of arse, facing the wall, their still raised attire exposing their numerous and varied stripes for inspection by experienced male eyes.

They were regaled by the sight of six hotly decorated female posteriors lined against the wall, from the simple six of the impetuous young motorist, to the blazing butcher's of Pamela's writhing rump.

"By George, Dolly!" the Major exclaimed, looking fondly on his bride's well striped bottom, "Jane has toasted your bottom. Done you to a turn, what. Feeling more inclined to pace like a thoroughbred are we?"

It was clear that Dolly would have preferred to remain silent, but duty, not to speak of a desire to avoid any more of that biting rod on her still-sore arse, dictated she make at least a token reply, and she admitted she was.

Meanwhile Roger was stroking his sister's brightly burning buns.

"Must say sis," he declared, as she vainly tried to twist out of his touch,

"Lady Jane has done you proud, but I'll enjoy it even more when I can lay them on myself, and watch you jump about."

Fleur made no reply, but bit her lip in mortification.

Meanwhile the Major had moved over to join Sir William and Percy Harringer as they contemplated the once arrogant jut of Pamela's well-fleshed mounds, now writhing helplessly under the influence of the icy aerated belly filling that cramped her bowels and forced groans from her lips.

"Jove, Percy," he brayed, "You're a lucky beggar. What a pair. Not that my little woman hasn't a nice round bottom, but your missus must be a great ride.

And you'll find the saddle even softer tonight, I'll wager."

Lady Jane addressed her line of hot bottomed penitents.

"At ease girls," she said, "drop your skirts and tidy up. You can put that colonic down the pan now Pam, but I want you all back in ten minutes."

"Since you admire Pam's rump so much, Major, you must have a try some day,"

Percy offered generously, "though I think I'll reserve her for myself this evening. She'll be hot to trot. Jane, you've done us proud."

"Not done yet, Percy," Lady Jane informed him, "The Hon. Pam has still to get her second dose," and, as the subdued, but not cowed, females drifted back from their ablutions she explained the nature of his wife's sentence, and her suggestion that it be completed by the men in a public session.

"My dilemma was to choose between youthful enthusiasm and the Major's military muscle. I leave it to your judgement."

Her husband did not hesitate. "A little of both, will have double the benefit,"

Sir William declared," but of course the choice must be yours Percy. She may live under my roof, but she's your woman, so you shall decide."

"Nothing simpler," Percy replied, "six from young Roger, here and seven from the Major."

The judgement was greeted with enthusiastic approval, not least by young Roger and Major Nicholls.

Pamela looked to her brother and husband for some hope of reprieve but found only an eager gleam of anticipation in each. As her brother moved his head slowly from side to side in a definitive negative, she gathered what dignity she could and moved to stand to the whipping frame.

"Bare and bend," Jane commanded and Pamela obeyed. With her feet set carefully in the lower slots she bent over the top rail and reached behind to lift the back flap of the penitent's pinafore onto her back. With an absence of underwear she was almost ready, needing only to reach down and grip the lower bar in front for her great mare's buttocks to be spread and lifted for the rod.

Before handing over the crop to the spotty Roger, Jane let the Honourable Pam display her rump for a moment longer, to please the men and add to her discomfiture. Truly a magnificent pair of buttocks, worthy of a mare, and one in training for the track, for they were as firm and muscled as they were large.

Roger's assault, when it came suggested he had been receiving some coaching in the gentle art of female correction for his youthful zest did not dissipate itself in wild inaccuracy but beat a natural rhythm on the already sore and seared rump meat. In a last desperate effort to salvage some dignity from the humiliation of submitting to this callow youth, Pam had set herself to endure without crying out, a defiance that cost her all her remaining strength, as she groaned and gasped, puffed and whined through a half dozen biting cuts of the crop, each adding its own distinct and burning track to the already furrowed and swollen buttock. Though he had not extracted a real cry from her, Roger seemed well pleased when he finally stood back and passed the whip to the Major.

This was mature male muscle at work, and it showed. Pamela could no longer hold out. Her groans became howls, her gasps yelps of pain. She suffered and writhed under seven lashes of the crop as hard as any she had received, and this on already tenderised flesh. At the end of this monumental cropping even the massive buttocks deployed by the Hon. Pamela were showing considerable signs of wear and tear, several little trickles of red showing where the skin had parted under the vicious tongue on her flank.

Given that she already knew about the code by which women had to conduct themselves after a beating as if nothing had happened to disturb their usual routine, Eve concluded that Mrs Harringer could look forward to many days of groaning equestrianism, and to a whole new meaning for the term saddle-sore. For the moment though, her husband required her saddle for more sporting activities and Eve was beginning to understand the ways of this strange place enough to know that she would, far from resenting the use of her hot and sensitised body,

welcome the attention, which would ease her own sexual needs, and that her marital relations might well be repaired by the experience.

The others seemed equally keen to find their beds although, since the younger ones went off in pairs ostensibly to help with the application of soothing creams, it seemed equally probable that their immediate plans did not lack a sensual element as well.

In her own lonely bed Eve found that the excitement of the day had left her exhausted, languid but troubled. As she lay half sleeping, one hand straying unconsciously to lightly stroke the swelling pearl at the top of a warm moist crease, the images of bent and squirming buttocks swirled in and out of her half conscious mind, partly in remembrance of those hot lustful yearnings to seize a rod and lay into soft girl flesh but, more disturbingly still, an ache to spread her own bare buttocks over the brass rails and feel the clean hard bite of rattan in her own tender flesh. Washed over by thoughts of strokes delivered and received, flooded by hot waves of sexuality from her crafty fingers pursuing their way of their own volition it seemed, she let the mounting tide wash over her until her belly spasmed, the contractions of her oozing vagina squeezed sticky libations onto her hand and she drifted off into sleep.

Not far from where Eve thought her troubled thoughts, a singular scene was taking place. In her luxurious bedroom, Lady Jane, no longer the elegant hostess, and ice cool dispenser of justice, bent bare as a slug over an identical set of bars to those in the drawing room, while her lord and master addressed her, rod in hand.

"An amusing evening," he pronounced, "but now we must come to reckon how far you have maintained the discipline of the house. We can disregard the girls sent in by our neighbours, they are hardly your responsibility, but Pamela and Bettina certainly qualify and the Major has been our house guest for so long that I think you must consider Dolly as under your wing as well. Together with Fleur that makes a tidy total, what! Good for a dozen do you think?"

"I think that's fair," the bent bare beauty replied, her voice somewhat muffled from her head down position, "Do you wish me to pay any form of forfeit as well?"

"Hmm. Apart from the obvious," and here Sir William slid the tip of the rod between the spread white thighs to nudge the pouting labia, with their glistening beads of honeydew "I think twenty-four hours in a cunt cutter, a fifteen pounder, might not come amiss, but that can wait until I've taken my personal fee. Brace yourself, my love; I am about to begin."

The fine white buttock halves clenched involuntarily, then sheer strength of will forced them to relax to receive the burning kiss of the cane. The execution was slow, steady and very thorough. By its end the proud aristocrat was panting and writhing as hopelessly as any girl she had thrashed that night, her shoulders heaving from time to time when a strangled sob escaped beyond her control. Before the hot surges of rising anguish in her riven hinds had passed their peak even, Sir William's trousers had hit the floor and his engorged and mighty member had thrust deep into the wet and willing slot the bending woman's posture offered so conveniently.

Conscious of her needs, he thrust deep and rhythmically into her clenching tunnel, sometimes straight as a die, sometimes varying his stroke to slide along one wall or the other, to probe the roof of the slippery tube, or plough its floor. Holding back on his own rising lava flow he waited until he could feel the first spasms of her orgasm then let all go, his belly slapping against the raw welts on her splayed buttocks, ignored by both in their mutual ecstasy. As the flood of his seed pumped into her belly he collapsed onto her back, his arms around her, his hands cupping her dangling breasts with their turgid rock hard teats.

For several minutes they lay like this in the warm companionable after glow of sex, his softening penis still embedded deep and making little affectionate nudges with its last fading strength, pressures answered by equally friendly squeezes of the now satisfied female muscles. Slowly the shrinking member, but a shadow of its former glory, slipped from its cosy bed until, with an audible

'shluck', followed a second later by a humiliatingly flatulent 'parp' from the pumped up sexual tract, it fell free to let a dribble of their combined ooze fall to the carpet between her feet, a complement to the sticky secretions already running down the insides of her thighs.

Sir William slapped his wife's well-welted rump affectionately as he stood.

"Don't forget the fifteen pounder," he admonished as he pulled up his pants and left the room.

Dawn came sudden and late in this latitude and Eve woke still restless and found her way down to a deserted breakfast room. As she waited for a maid to bring fresh coffee, she took in the ravishing view of park and curving drive, the hills beyond, crowned with the skeleton finger of a flagstaff on the crest of the right hand peak, the sea glinting in the first fingers of the sun in the U

shaped hollow of the hills. as she watched a tiny figure appear from where the carriage drive disappeared in the trees. It was running, but with a ragged and interrupted gait. As it drew nearer Eve recognised Fleur, quite naked, her bare skin rosy with the effort of her run and the nip of the pre-dawn air. She moved purposefully but painfully along the stone chippings of the driveway, stumbling slightly at every second step, when some particularly sharp and vicious stone found a tender spot under her bare pink toes, causing her heavy naked breasts to bounce wildly on her chest. Eve could feel the girl's relief as a physical thing, as she left the cruel chips at last and ran more comfortably on the smooth kindly flags that passed outside the breakfast room window. As Eve looked after the retreating figure she was able to admire Lady Jane's handiwork; eight ruler straight livid welts, still hot and dark against her pale hide, placed true and parallel right under the nubile jut.

As she turned away from the tasty sight, Lady Jane joined her, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and greeted her warmly and hoped she had found the previous evening educational. As she talked, Lady Jane brought her orange juice over to join her at the table, and Eve was startled to see her make a characteristic

'moue' of pain as she settled her denim covered rear on the straight wooden chair. Surely it couldn't be? But she was beginning to learn about these things and that seemed the unmistakable act of a woman whose bottom had recently received whip, rod or strap, and was treating her wounds with the respect their tender state deserved. Suppressing the urge to comment, she took refuge in the subject of the previous night's activities and, especially, the case of Mrs Trevelyan.

"Surely," she protested, "It's not appropriate for a nineteen year old boy to insist his mother becomes pregnant. I mean forcing your own mother to have unprotected sex, that's got to be going too far."

"Well, you heard some of the background last night; how John has always resented having no brother or sister. Then there's the fact that Mary is leading a rather rackety life, besides not giving up her career, which John would rather like at this stage. Then there's Peter Manners," Lady Jane went on, "he'd very much like a mistress and a baby, and John would get to sleep with Helen Manners, so one way and another it would be very handy all round."

"Not for Mary Manners," Eve put in indignantly.

"Oh I don't know. Surely you realise it's very good for a woman to surrender herself completely, and what could be more complete than that; to have an inexorable seed take over your body and run its course regardless? You've been going through a bad time yourself I understand," Lady Jane observed thoughtfully. "Perhaps the inability to surrender yourself might be part of your

problem, as well as offering a way out of it."

"I really don't think so," Eve replied hurriedly," I'm just not made that way."

"Really? Well we shall see. It's amazing what women find in themselves on this island. Their true natures have a chance to blossom here."

The arrival of more early risers cut short the conversation, much to Eve's relief, for Lady Jane's observations had produced a most uncomfortable feeling.

Dolly Nicholls came in on her husband's arm as he offered her a considerate support for her high-heeled, stocking clad walk. It was clear not only that she was obeying her instructions from the first moment, but that baked rice had been procured already. Each mincing step was obviously painful, even at this early stage. Bitter rice indeed; a few hours of this granule plagued pedestrianism and she'd feel as if she was walking on nails. Eve could only hope her feet would become hardened rapidly. Her obvious discomfort though, could not totally disguise her other feelings. She had that look that Eve was beginning to recognise; the well-serviced look of a whipped woman whose husband had done his duty by her, to soothe her stripes.

The younger element seemed quite recovered from their ordeals of the night before. Well not quite ALL their ordeals. Puffy smudges under eyes, and that included Joyce, who had not been on the receiving end this time around, suggested that the buttock creaming sessions had indeed progressed to certain girlish practices designed to relieve frayed nerves and stressed limbs. Well she could scarcely blame them for that. She would have liked some friendly tongue or fingers herself in the night, rather than her solitary frotting, but their need was obviously greater than hers and she did not grudge them their little indulgences.

Mrs Trevelyan looked thoughtful, but unworried. Perhaps Lady Jane was right, and she only wanted to have the responsibility for her fate taken from her to accept it without resentment, or even welcome it.

Even Pamela Harringer, who had taken the severest beating, not to mention her ice cold belly cramping enema and the humiliation of being thrashed in public by a boy of seventeen, seemed almost serene. It was clear that she had benefited from her husband's admiration for her rosy rear cheeks, and she bore all the marks of a woman who had been well serviced by a vigorous mate. As the now docile wife and sister placed those meaty buns on her chair, she too could not quite suppress the same comical twist of the lips that had betrayed each of her sisters in tribulation as they had sat at the table. Eve wondered how she would react during her morning ride, and found herself making excuses to herself for wishing to be present when the lady returned.

At Joyce's urging, Eve stayed on. After the first evening, and breakfast the next morning when duty insisted that all those disciplined the night before must attend on time and be on their best behaviour, the only reference to the condign corrections was that written in the barely clad bikini bottoms that continued to lie around the pool, play tennis on Sir William's carefully tended courts or, for those whose normal life-style included frequent horse-riding, the somewhat vocal mounting and exercising of their favourite mares.

A less public but equally valid recognition took place in honeyed bedrooms, where nubile nymphs assuaged each other's bruises with soft touches of cooling creams and hot licks of eager tongues in healthy juice laden vulvas, where teeth nibbled gently on swollen clitoral buds to bring that easing of soreness that led to innocent slumber, all guilt for past crimes paid for in full in pained buttock flesh.

Eve enjoyed her stay and it was by mutual consent extended to a week, a time in which she consolidated her friendship with Joyce and became more intimately acquainted with many of the other girls.

During the week a docile Mary Trevelyan returned to her son, presumably to open her bed and her womb to her progeny-seeking lover, thus earning John the delights that a well preserved and sexually talented older woman can bring to an enthusiastic but untried youth.

The plump dieter went to taste bread and water for a month, and the impetuous motorist to count the days until the next six stinging cuts would be laid across her tenderised young rear. Once Bettina had been permitted to remove the cruel chain that cut so savagely into her crotch, bruising delicate clit, tender perineum and shrinking anus alike in its horrid traverse of her pudenda, she had resumed her normal graceful gait and sought solace in the arms of various willing male helpers, though Eve rather fancied she'd exercise a little more discretion in that direction for a while, and make sure the sludgy evidence in her underwear was not conspicuously displayed. Aunt Jane might prove even less gentle on a return visit.

Dolly Nicholls, of course, still limped on nylon clad toes tormented by the fiendishly hard grains of rice, that now felt like tacks driven into her feet, but discipline was winning out, and she was beginning to control herself to the point where she could walk with some dignity, to her husband's great satisfaction.

Fleur's dawn pink body, lush scarlet nippled breasts bouncing wildly, still stumbled up the chippings of the drive each early morn, on bare feet, and passed, all rosy from her exertions, below the breakfast-room windows, and Pamela still gave the odd betraying groan as she sat.

Still these were the only signs of the mayhem wrought among the females of the house, and the rest of the week passed in an atmosphere of peace and relaxation, only broken for Eve by a series of strange disturbing dreams, recalling variations of the scenes in the drawing-room, sometimes with herself as a protagonist about to lay the rod into anonymous disembodied buttocks bent over the bars, sometimes bent herself, her nates spread for correction, displaying her fatty vulva through her gapped thighs. Each time she woke, with a sense of loss, before her arm could fall, or the rod bite her own cheeks.

As she dressed for the ride back to the Borenson estate, she paused to look over her shoulder and contemplate her bare buttocks in the mirror, gently smoothing a hand over the fading lines. It was almost with a sense of loss she realised she would not have the excitement they had caused her on the way over, when she had deliberately squeezed her cheeks together to feel the soft sore glow of the stripes.

With so much to do, and so many congenial companions, Eve had little time for introspection and analysis of all she had observed during her stay. The solitary ride home was another matter entirely. She had time to think and to try to make sense, not only of the ostensibly barbarous treatment of women here in Eden, but also of her ambivalent feelings when forced to watch. Why was she more aroused than outraged? Why did she watch fascinated the play of flayed buttocks, writhing under the rod, instead of protesting or, if her status as a guest precluded that, at least turning her head to look elsewhere, instead of letting her eyes rest of the squirming victim in excited interest?

So much lush female flesh, such pretty pouting pudenda winking in the gaps of creamy thighs, such incoherent gasps and moans of pain, indistinguishable from the sounds of passion, had left her wet and trembling. Unable to reconcile her thoughts she took refuge in conjuring up a surge of forgotten feminist outrage, and arrived at Daphne's home convinced that she had been truly disapproving all through her stay, and only silent out of courtesy to her hostess.

"It was monstrous," she declared to an amused and tolerant Daphne. "You just can't treat women like that in the twentieth century. It's quite unthinkable that men should oppress us like that."

"Oppress us did you say darling? Did Sir William order you stripped and thrashed then? Were you seized by the spotty Roger and put over his knee, your panties ripped off and your bottom spanked until you howled? Oh how horrid for you."

"Oh do be serious Dee, of course not. I wouldn't have allowed it," came the instant indignant reply.

"But those women you called abused and oppressed allowed it didn't they? Perhaps they connived in their own discipline, knowing it was for their own good."

"I don't believe it," Eve retorted vehemently, "No woman in her senses would."

"Are you saying those women were all out of their minds, then?"

"Er. Well perhaps not entirely, but they must have been conditioned to think that way."

"You don't think that perhaps you have been conditioned to think the way you do?

Feminist dogma, political correctness and all the rest of the mantra?" Daphne asked innocently.

"Of course not. That's acquiring awareness," Eve replied.

"Perhaps those women are more aware than you realise," Daphne suggested. "They accept the occasional excess as going with the territory, just a minor part of an overall scheme of things that supports and sustains them rather better than a feminist wonderland."

"But you can't believe that," Eve exclaimed, "you're an educated modern woman."

"Educated means taught how to think," Daphne said firmly, "and we women here know which side our bread is buttered. We have it damned easy, really. We get everything we want, except the trappings of power. You don't think the men are so stupid that they would go so far as to make our lives a misery do you? We're the most valuable thing they have, and they know it. It's just that they are still taught how to ensure that the relations between the sexes are brought into balance; male mastery against female mystery. The balance of nature."

"I really don't see it. What about spotty Roger? Do you really think it's right that he should get to have Fleur bare her bottom whenever he orders it, and take a thrashing from a callow youth five years younger than her?"

"Not just any youth. He's her brother and head of that branch of the family. Of course he's a pain, young men often are at that age, but he'll grow out of it.

Remember, girls mature much earlier than boys, and they've a lot of catching up to do. If the girls are left to exercise their female power unchecked it can be highly detrimental to their male siblings. Admittedly Roger is rather an extreme case, and Fleur is not likely to enjoy the next year or so, but he'll learn and there will be plenty of older men looking over his shoulder, and not just to enjoy the delights of Fleur's ripe young bottom under the rod. They know that the happiness and stability of society here depends on women continuing to accept the bargain, and they'll make quite sure he doesn't go too far before he comes to his senses. Meanwhile Fleur will just have to console herself for the raw state of her bottom by the knowledge she is having it skinned in a good cause."

Eve tried another tack.

"Alright, so Fleur has to take her welts in the name of education. What about Mrs Trevelyan? It's not even her brother that has control over her; it's her son. She's not only old enough to be his mother. She is his mother."

"Ah yes, very interesting," Daphne agreed, "But, again, you haven't got the whole picture. Neither John nor Peter would push her this far if they didn't

think she wanted to be. Well, perhaps they might just go this far, but no further. Get her a good beating to soothe their male feathers, after all an extra judicial thrashing once in a while never did any woman any harm, but they wouldn't push it to the limit if they didn't believe that, deep down, she wanted to be pushed that way."

"I can't see how you can say that," Eve burst out, "anyone with half an eye can see she's terrified of having this baby they are going to thrash her into bearing."

"Really? You know her that well?" Daphne inquired.

"Well, er not that well, of course, but it's obvious."

"You think so? Let me tell you, Mary Trevelyan has been agonising for years over having another baby before the biological clock ticks on too far, but she's always shrunk from giving up her career, and the status she thinks it gives her.

Those who really know her, and that includes her son and her married lover, know that what she wants, deep down, rather than what she says aloud, is for the decision to be taken out of her hands. To be stuffed, plugged, spermed, without benefit of rubber or pills, until her belly is bulging beyond recall and she can lie back and enjoy it."

Eve gave up.

"OK, let's forget about women's rights and wrongs for now," she said. "How have you been getting along. Bottom all healed up by now I hope."

"Since you ask, very nicely thank you. Just some colourful decorations, but the bruising has all gone down, as you may see for yourself at bedtime, if my lord and master doesn't insist on keeping me in his bed all night. Actually he's far too considerate of me, and fond of you, not to allow us a little reunion tonight."

Eve had the grace to blush but didn't reject the implied invitation.

"Besides," Daphne continued with a grin, "he'll want to start conserving his strength for when his mistress arrives."

Eve gaped at her and Daphne laughed. "Yes, he's taking Daisy, my sister to his bed. And frankly I can't think of anyone I'd rather share him with. She's lovely."

Eve could simply think of nothing to say in the face of Daphne's calm acceptance of this display of absolute male dominion. Daphne seemed to realise that maybe she'd gone too far too quickly and steered the conversation onwards quickly.

"Now, much as I agree with you on the desirability of keeping my arse out of reach of rods and their like, I may not be so lucky," she told Eve, "Ladies'

night on Saturday. You just came home in time."

Like the local rainy season, the reunion was hot, wet and intense and served to make Eve forget her friend's earlier, astounding revelation. Gordon was generous as usual, and sent Daphne off to Eve's room as soon as she had drawn breath again, after a panting writhing orgasm. A minute or two were devoted to mutual inspections of colourful but fading spoor from beatings nearly two weeks old; visual checks that soon led to a more hands on approach which, in turn, inevitably spread its sensuous tentacles to other, more sensitive parts. Much play of tongue and touch brought healthy young bodies to a fine arousal that only repeated convulsions could assuage. Dawn found their naked sweaty bodies locked together in sticky slumbering embrace. And Gordon laughed aloud at the smudged eyes and swollen lips that faced him across the breakfast table, when he stuck his head in to say goodbye, before leaving for the office.

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