EVE IN EDEN 3 | ladies bdsm stories

Unusually they were to go out for the evening without Gordon.

"Ladies' night is special," Daphne had warned her, "you'll need to wear your best bib and tucker."

Not quite sure of what that might signify but still not possessing anything in the way of underwear that could remotely be called glamorous, Eve paid another visit to Daphne's room to beg or borrow something sexy to put her most feminine portions in.

She found her seated at her dressing table, applying the finishing touches to her make-up. A blue silk sheath, whose simplicity shouted designer dollars, lay over a chair nearby as she sat in her underwear before the mirror. Six hawser taut suspenders hauled smoky nylons high up succulent white thighs, gold sandals encased her feet and curled their straps in a loving embrace around her ankles.

She wore no bra as yet, but it was not the luscious mammaries, with their thick succulent teats, displayed so proudly, that caught Eve's eye and interrupted her request for dainty underthings, but the sight of the tensioned spandex that covered the ample buttocks, compressing their twin and deeply riven halves into a single drum tight hemisphere, the twin globes seemingly welded into one.

"My God, darling," she blurted out," what are you wearing? I didn't think they made them like that anymore."

Daphne swivelled on the soft fur covering and followed her gaze down.

"Oh. I forgot. Ladies' night; full dress code. No bum cracks, no visible panty line, not a bra strap in sight. Everything all prim and proper. Hats and gloves too; the full Emily Post," she added, waving one hand vaguely towards a corner of the vanity where a pair of elbow length gloves and a neat cocktail hat lay waiting.

"Oh! You might have warned me."

"Didn't need to, darling," Daphne assured her, "I'll just explain that you're a visitor and my guest, and you're excused."

Eve looked away a moment, chewing it over in her mind then turned back to her friend.

"Look, I'm tired of being the odd one out, the curiosity from 'out there'. I'd much rather accept the dress code and be like everyone else. Only thing is, I don't have a girdle. Actually I thought they went out with the Ark."

"Well that at least is no problem," Daphne assured her. "We've always been the same size, and I've a spare pair in the drawer you can have; never been unwrapped. Better borrow a pair of French knickers to go with them too.

Remember, no visible panty line."

The box from a well-known New York store was unsealed and Daphne went back to her make-up while Eve threw off her wrapper and tried to get into the tough elastic tube.

"My God," she wailed, as it gripped her at the top of her thighs and refused to be tugged any further, "I must have put pounds on my bum. I can't get these anywhere near me."

Daphne turned and burst out laughing.

"I should have remembered that Englishwomen threw away their girdles in the swinging sixties together with their chastity," she chuckled. "It's quite obvious your mummy never taught you how to handle one of these. It's a roll-on darling, and that's just what you do. Roll down the top edge a few inches, then cross your legs to make yourself as small as possible. Pull it up as far as you can tug it, then unroll it the rest of the way."

After a couple of false starts the deed was done, and Eve stood panting regarding herself in the mirror. She was jammed, crammed, stuffed into the tightly gripping tube, which squeezed her arse cheeks so tight together they seemed as one. The front panel pressed on her belly and the top and bottom edges bit into her thighs and waist, the lower edge forming a pelmet over the tight curls of her bush, part concealing, part framing, that secret and alluring thicket. She felt in the grip of a remorseless force, part discomfort, part reassuring support, but totally and emphatically female.

"How's it feel?" Daphne asked, gently smearing eye shadow with the tip of one manicured finger.

"Tight but nice in a funny way," she replied. "Makes you feel secure and yet feminine, though it does squeeze your bum a bit, doesn't it."

"You wait until you've worn one over a good caning," Daphne warned, "Gets real hot and sore, I can tell you. Although even that's a comfort in a funny sort of way," she added in a dreamy sort of tone.

The nylons were a struggle. Eve hadn't worn fully fashioned with seams before and found them a totally different kettle of fish from the normal sheer seamless sheath she was used to. She sat herself on a stool and tried to draw them on as best she could, standing to apply three garter tabs on each thigh.

Daphne took one look and cried out in despair.

"Those'll never do," she exclaimed, looking at the twisted and strained stockings," Turn up at the Ladies circle looking like that and you'll be taking them down for a dozen with the strap on the back of each of those lovely thighs.

I wouldn't recommend it. Come and stand over here with your legs apart, and I'll do them for you."

Standing, feet apart as ordered, Eve felt Dee's fingers loosen the tabs, then gently stroke the nylon upwards, straightening the seams as she went, until her fingers reached the tabs where they lay against the sensitive white skin at their tops. The touch set off an instant warmth in her belly that spread quickly to her womb and brought glistening drops to the engorging labia. Suddenly she was overcome by a wave of lust. Her belly cramped with desire, but not this time for her feminine friend, whose gentle fingers strayed so near her aching female bud. This time only maleness would satisfy her. Reaction to the months of chastity she had endured since parting from the too sensitive and understanding Roger hit her like a blow in the solar plexus, a feeling of nausea and need that nearly overwhelmed her. What she needed now was not consideration but total savagery. Her mind saw a hot fleshy shaft ramming her to the gills, filling her belly, soaking her womb in fertile seed. As Dee finished her self-imposed maid's duty, Eve's belly gulped hungrily for male meat and she broke away and sought her own room in a turmoil of confusion. It was only when she reached its sanctuary that she remembered the French knickers that she had gone to borrow in the first place, before this alarming rush of lust had wiped her brain clean of any other thought. Sheepishly she crept back into Dee's room and retrieved them while her friend regarded her with a speculating look.

Ten minutes later, carefully made up, the lustful vulva decently covered in silken lingerie, the loosely fitting crotch gusset already well soaked in female dew, the rest of her body cased in a smart 'little black dress', the fashion-

conscious traveller's trusty friend, she returned to Dee's room to find her pinning on a smart little pillbox hat, complete with veil.

"A hat!" she exclaimed," I haven't worn a hat for years."

"You will this evening," Daphne assured her," unless you want to ensure yourself a hot buttock. Put this on," handing over a small straw designed to be worn over one eye," and these too."

'These' were a pair of elbow length white cotton gloves.

"You'd better not let them get soiled," Daphne warned her," Six on each palm with one of our whippy canes is not very comfortable, and the bruises mean you're sore for hours."

"Wow!" Eve looked herself over in a tall mirror. "What a get-up. I've never had so many details to get right, or so many things to look out for. And this girdle keeps you conscious of yourself every minute."

"Exactly so," Daphne agreed, "that's the whole point of course. All those points to score or have someone else score against you. You'll see."

"Actually, I think we look like a pair of thirties Hollywood movie Queens," Eve observed with a smile, "old fashioned but very smart. I kinda like it in a way."

"That's just how it's meant to be," Daphne explained, "we're very traditional here on the island, and this goes back to the foundation of the circle. Actually it started as the Emily Post society."

"Who she?" Eve demanded.

"Columnist and author who laid down the rules of dress and etiquette for American females between the wars. We still follow her rules and anyone who spots an infringement is entitled to deal out summary justice on the spot."

"By which, of course, you mean on the bum," Eve remarked.

"Not just the bum, darling," Daphne assured her. "Any place goes at the Ladies'

circle. Let your bra straps show, and your tits get it. Scuff your shoes and it's the strap across your soft white tootsies. Now let's get on or we'll start the evening baring our bums for lateness."

In the car, cruising decorously towards the Capital, Eve raised the object of the evening's expedition again, and in particular, the ultra-conservative nature of the dress code.

"Seems a bit odd when you consider the generally relaxed sexual mores here.

Rules like that generally go with Puritans."

"Well," Daphne explained," in the first place that relaxation is very much one for the men, we are expected to be obedient and accept whatever they give us, but not initiate affairs ourselves, but there are a couple of other reasons why this dress code persists. In the first place, it gives a wonderful opportunity to catch out a friend from time to time and ensure she gets a tight thrashing.

The dress code committee is very hot on any infringements referred to it, so there's little real scope for appeal, once someone 'calls you out', as it's known, although the theoretical right exists, of course, as it does for all discipline. It's just that one's very unlikely to succeed and there are severe penalties, usually a doubling of sentence for failed appeals. Besides, it's just not done, which is the greatest deterrent."

"You said there were a couple of reasons."

"Oh the men are the other, as usual, round here. Apart from the fact that most of them seem to like the idea of bums put into tight casings and hawser taut hose attached, they seem to think it's a good idea if welted bottoms are compressed in hot spandex, to ensure maximum soreness for the maximum time.

They're right of course," she said ruefully. "Having your cheeks pressed together like this really does increase the soreness and keeps you hissing when you walk or bend for quite a while longer than if you were free to let them move in the open. Very good for the feminine soul which, as they are very fond of reminding us, is traditionally held to be housed in that part of our anatomy.

And, of course," she added," they are not averse to maintaining a system where sisters conspire to discipline each other. Saves them the bother, lazy beasts.!"

"Dee, isn't that high treason, or something like that?" Eve laughed.

"Well, perhaps. We don't really resent them you know. Taking the rough with the smooth we come out well in credit compared with poor benighted 'enlightened'

women in so-called civilised countries, and I don't think there's a woman here would change her lot for the discontented, depression laden, angst ridden, eating disordered existence of the mainlanders. Anyway, you weren't thinking of reporting me for the satisfaction of seeing these thrashed again, were you?" she grinned, slapping her ample spandex-wrapped posteriors.

"Well. it's a temptation," Eve admitted, with a matching grin. "Perhaps they might let me thrash them myself."

"Bravo!" Daphne cried, "You're beginning to get into the spirit of things.

You'll make an Eve in Eden yet. But be warned, the dress code covers literally everything you can think of, and more besides. You'll have to keep your wits about you, and your nose clean, if you want to escape with your bottom intact and, by the same token, look out for every detail, however small, if you've ambitions to have some other woman take down her pants for you. Look out for things like bra straps on view and inappropriate colour of underwear, especially if showing through. Grubby straps showing count as two violations, while offences based on bums, panty line, cracks visible and so on, are rewarded on buttocks, dirty bras are paid for on the boobs. Chipped nail polish has its place too, on the palms and scuffed shoes, etc. on soles of the feet. Worse than it sounds I do assure you. The last time I was caught out I went on my knees for days. Couldn't bear my soles on the ground."

"Sounds like you can never be free of danger," Eve remarked doubtfully.

"Yes, that's the joy of it."

"The joy!!"

"Of course. Just think of it," Daphne urged her," We have this privileged life here; no money worries, the men are all stinking rich, and provide all the luxuries a woman can decently ask for. We'd be bored stiff and committing murder or worse if that was all there was to it. But the constant uncertainty is what keeps us alive. You never know when one of your friends will spot a dingy bra strap and make you strip to the waist and hold your own nipples, while she cuts you in the fold with a whippy stick, or if one of your husband's friends he has given 'visiting rights' to, will turn up demanding head, or turn you over and bugger you."

Before Eve could think of some appropriate comment on this example of men disposing of their women's bodies in this cavalier manner, they pulled up in front of the club where the Ladies' night gathering was to be held It was just as Daphne had described it. a flower filled hall, a cloud of scented females sporting hats and gloves, heels and hose, not a panty line in sight, not a trace of bum cracks, every seam ruler straight. Over and above the genuine friendliness of their greetings there hung an air of expectation, a sense of some competition about to take place. Eyes darted critically here and there,

searching out each fellow female for signs of less-than-perfect dress.

"I don't understand it," Eve confided. "How can you all remain friends and yet be looking for any scrap of excuse to deal out punishment?"

"But that's the whole point darling," Daphne explained," It's in every females nature to be competitive about her appearance; it's only natural. The dangerous thing is for it to be suppressed and driven underground. We do things then we regret later, when we wake up and realise the hurt we've caused our friends.

This way is all out front, nothing hidden; all lusts displayed openly and given back with interest. You wait until you meet the crowd at the Club tomorrow, and for a month after that as well. Licking their lips like kittens after cream, and nothing but affection all round."

Eve's further doubts had to wait to be expressed. A large handsome woman, in immaculate crepe frock, and the obligatory hat and gloves came to the microphone to welcome them all to this gathering to celebrate the great Miss Post, and enjoined them to enjoy the evening in a spirit of give and take. After she had stepped down conversation became general and the guests began to circulate from group to group greeting acquaintances, exchanging news and gossip and darting piercing glances at each others' rig for signs of any departure from perfection that might give excuse to 'call someone out', as the expression was.

At first things moved rather slowly. The first sign of things to come was when a rather flustered blonde entered the hall, full of apologies for lateness and telling anyone who cared to hear how her car had let h7er down. She might have saved her breath. The club secretary, guarding the doors with eagle eye, swept her into the cloakroom, leaving the door ajar. From it came the now familiar sounds of whippy rod striking elastic woman meat. Six sizzling cracks later, each accompanied by a gasping whine, and the blonde, now red-faced and sweating, shuffled out of the cloakroom to join her sisters, walking with that unmistakable gait that speaks as clearly as if broadcast on air, of hot aching lines across sore swollen buttocks.

The incident seemed to break some invisible restraint and all over the room women began to point out those little errors of deportment and dress code that needed rigorous and immediate correction. Next to where Eve was standing, a hawk-eyed female accused another of having more than the conventional two buttons of her elbow length gloves undone. Wincing painfully with every cut, grunting and whining, she was made to strip each glove in turn and hold out her hand, palm upwards to take six slashing cuts across it, before exposing the other hand for its own ration of misery. As the rod rose each time, she was seen to flinch and several times had to be reminded to hold her hand out properly or receive extra strokes. After the first cut or two, she was reduced to holding up one hand with the other to force it to stay in place. It was quite clear that it was taking all her willpower to raise each pink palm for torture after the first stroke had reminded her of just how painful this form of punishment was, not to speak of the humiliation of being beaten as a child might be at school. The weals rose thick and red across her palm and the whole hand seemed swollen and inflamed. Eve wondered if she'd even be able to hold a consolatory glass afterwards. By the time it was over she was weeping unrestrainedly, burying her wounded paws in her armpits for comfort. Nevertheless, Eve noted, she had no hesitation afterwards in kissing the rod that had cut her so cruelly, nor in thanking her accuser and executioner for pointing out the error of her ways.

No sooner had the woman expressed her gratitude for her correction, than Daphne pounced.

"Lillian, would you mind turning towards the door darling. Ah, just as I thought. Do you know that your zipper pull it sticking out?"

The redhead's fingers went instinctively to where the seam of her skirt ran up the invisible divide of her rear to the small of her elegant back, finding the

metal tag protruding from the pleat.

"Oh damn you, Dee. Trust you to spot it. OK. What's the score?"

"Six of the veriest, of course darling," Daphne purred, and Eve could have sworn she licked her lips as she said it. "Just ask at the door for a penal will you, then come here and bare your bum."

Lillian was well constructed, Eve thought, beginning to find her own tongue inexplicably starting to wander across carefully painted lips. With the skirt removed, and the knickers lowered to the knees, she displayed a generous bum encased in drum tight spandex.

"You can keep that on for three extra," Daphne offered generously. "There's plenty of room for me to work your thighs below the belt, as it were."

It was hardly an inviting offer under the circumstances, and Lillian wisely, Eve thought, elected to snap open the garter tabs on each white thigh and roll the belt up to the fullest part of her pneumatic posterior, hoping no doubt that Daphne would be attracted by the generous expanse of buttock flesh and spare the tender thighs. Again Eve wished her luck. In the mood that was beginning to overtake her friend, and indeed all the women in the room, mercy was the least likely consideration.

"Grip those ankles tight and don't let go," Dee commanded and stood back to watch with satisfaction, the stretching of the ivory globes, now partially restored to their individual rotundity from the solid hemispherical mass confined within the elastic girdle.

The flesh was white but firm, elastic and smooth, just crying out for the cut of cane. Despite her reservations about this fearsome feminine festival, Eve found herself wishing it was her that gripped the solid length of yellow rattan that Daphne was flexing absent-mindedly as she waited for her victim to get into the desired position. Desired by all but the victim herself of course. Lillian quite obviously had no wish to be bent and bared like this, anticipating the bite of the rod into her sensitive buttocks.

A flush of feverish red creeping up Daphne's neck spoke volumes about the lust to punish the pale meat that coursed through her veins, but she was not going to spoil a second of it by rushing the process. She measured off her position by a light tap of the rod on the right cheek, just below the widest part, and drew several deep breaths to steady herself, breaths echoed by the bending victim as she waited for the first cut. The rod hissed, flesh leapt in elastic reaction, and a whiter line, rapidly filled with red, seared the stretched skin. As it darkened and the weal began to rise, Lillian let out a long groan, followed by a hissing through her clenched teeth. Eve knew enough about the timing of such a stroke, and its aftermath, to know that the woman was now feeling the true agony of the cut. When it first impacted, the nerves were temporarily numbed by the shock, a mercy that lasted no more than milliseconds. After that came a swift and steady rise, each second passing adding its dole to the searing hurt, until the owner of the abused flesh could not believe it could get worse. After which inevitably it did. Lillian's knuckles whitened as she gripped her slim, strapped ankles and tried to ride out the pain. As she seemed to relax a little, holding the pain in check for now, Daphne wound up the spring of her body and unleashed another scorcher a hair's-breadth below the first.

Again the woman rode it out, rocking backwards and forwards a little as if to try and balance herself against the terrible forces working their evil in her behind. Daphne waited until she stilled and drove in another. This time she dropped her aim and found the slight crease between buttock and thigh. Eve watching with mounting arousal had marked this spot out for herself, mentally willing her friend to drive the rod into that soft succulent spot. With the pressure of the rolled up girdle above, the lower buttock halves were pushed firmly down and accentuated this crucial divide, and the rod sank almost out of

sight into the soft sensitive mass, springing free after seeming to cling and burrow into the white meat. Lilliam visibly shook, and a small howl of distress escaped her lips.

"Felt that did we darling?" Daphne asked unnecessarily. "Then I think we'll work that spot some more, shall we?"

Lillian was too engaged in coping with the raging fire still rising to a climax in her beaten tush to make any answer and Daphne seemed to assume she had her agreement as the next stroke fell directly into that same scorched suculus.

Lillian howled again. Four down and two to go. Eve caught herself wishing it was a dozen, as she watched the half imprisoned hinds work and writhe together as Lillian shifted her weight from toe to toe to try and ease her agony. Five fell, as Eve had half foreseen, on the resilient, but less generously covered, thighs, fully an inch below the tortured trench of the buttock crease. If Lillian was grateful for the removal to a distant clime she did not show it. Her head came back and she mewled like a cat.

"You might at least cane my bottom," she protested. "That was half way to my knees."

"Patience, patience, lovely Lily," Daphne purred, more cat-like than ever, "you shall have your wish," and lashed the last stroke with her full weight behind it into the now ripening spoor of the first strokes, swollen and hot, raised a finger thick above the smoothness of the rest of the alabaster bum flesh, and tender as all hell.

When Lillian had regained a little of her composure, together with her knickers and, of course, the girdle hoisted tightly over the burning welts, the garter snaps once more tight and true, she kissed the rod Daphne offered her, and offered thanks for her correction in tones that Eve could have sworn were almost sincere.

"Now that's what I call a well cut bottom," Daphne remarked in tones of considerable satisfaction as she watched the tearful Lillian shuffle off to seek what comfort she could in the powder room, "I doubt there's any woman in the room who could have caused more grief with just six strokes."

"You certainly hurt her," Eve agreed. "Did you see how she jerked at the last? I rather thought she might have broken position at that one."

"So did I darling, so did I, but we must all face disappointments from time to time."

"You'd better take care to stay out of her way the rest of the evening," Eve warned," she'll be hot for revenge after what you did to her."

Daphne looked genuinely shocked.

"Oh darling," she said," I thought you understood. There's nothing like that about it. No one harbours thoughts like that here. It's a kind of sport. Like tennis you know, or golf. A battle of wits and mind over matter. Besides," she added," it would be against the rules. You can't call out someone who's already beaten you. Mind you, Lillian would do well to make sure she's A1 before she ventures out of the ladies' room again. She's still fair game and I fancy another dose on top of my handiwork might be a tad uncomfortable. They should be ripening to their best about now. I bet she's locked in a stall, gripping her bum and hopping from leg to leg."

"Hi Daphne who's your friend?"

While they had been discussing the state of the unfortunate Lillian's burning backside, a small blonde girl, with a dainty, but athletic build and an angelic

expression; had come over to join them.

"Oh Hi Denise. This is my old college friend, Eve. She's staying with us to mend a broken heart and see how we live here. Eve meet Denise Smiley."

Greetings exchanged, the conversation returned to the burning issue of the moment, to wit, Lillian's hard hewn buns.

"Great show," Denise congratulated her friend, "I don't think I've seen a better sixer at one of these catfights."

Daphne acknowledged the praise almost coyly.

"Thanks. I did put in my best effort."

"Oh, I can see that," Denise replied sweetly. "In fact you put so much effort behind it I do believe your bra strap has come adrift."

Eve's eyes flew to Daphne's generous cleavage. A telltale sliver of white bra strap just barely showed against the blue of her dress.

"Oh damn," Daphne said, without any great concern. "You would spot that. Okay I suppose you want my pants off for a sixer."

Clearly she didn't rate the diminutive Denise's prowess with the cane as anything more than a minor infliction which her meaty and well practised buttocks could accommodate without undue distress.

"A sixer, yes," Denise agreed, "but you can keep your panties. Prayer time for you darling."

A shadow of fear passed over the culprit's face. "Oh no, Denny. you wouldn't do that to me. Or would you?" she finished doubtfully.

"Just watch me. Untidy bra means bruised boobs. You know the rules," Denise said without a change of tone. "Now stop wasting time and let's adjourn to the oratory."

The oratory proved to be an alcove, furnished with a 'prie dieu', one of those combined kneeling stools and bookrests on which devout ladies of times past knelt to say their prayers and bring their bulging bosoms to a level where their swains, or their confessors, if they were not the same, might look deep into the cleavage and if heaven were with them, just glimpse the edge of a brown areola, or the pinkness of a tender dug. From a padded base to soften the pressure on delicate knees, the carved wood stand rose to breast height but, instead of the sloping rest, on which a pious lady might lay her breviary, the top was horizontal, though its front edge still carried a serrated raised ridge like that provided to hold a book from slipping.

Daphne stood in front of it with little enthusiasm evident.

"Alright, Dee. Get your top stuff off and assume the position. You know what to do."

Daphne lowered the zip between her shoulders and peeled down the top of her dress, then unhooked and removed the offending bra. Her slightly pendulous mammaries jounced softly on her chest as she dropped to her knees on the 'prayer desk'. As she did so, the full implication of what was happening finally came home to the watching Eve. This 'prayer stool' was designed for the support, not of holy text, but very carnal breast meat, which would then be thrashed excruciatingly.

"Okay. Lay them out," Denise ordered rather more forcefully than usual, her voice thickened a trifle by a lust that Eve found infectious and crotch

kindling.

Dee put a hand under each heavy dug and lifted them onto the shelf of the prayer stand, sliding her hands out from under the luscious mounds which lay on the shelf like stranded sea creatures on a rocky ledge. They flattened slightly under their own considerable weight, causing the fat teats to thrust even more emphatically forward. Eve noticed with surprise that, despite Dee's obvious apprehension, and the warmth of the room, the teats were stiff and engorged, and the areolae that surrounded them were puckered and swollen, and darker than she recalled during their hours of amorous play, as if the blood had built up in them.

Denise came round behind the kneeling penitent and took hold of a heavy leather strap attached to the top edge, pulling it tight behind Dee's back.

"Breathe in," she commanded and yanked the buckle up another couple of notches until Daphne's chest was crushed hard against the curve of the carved timber top, making it impossible for her to withdraw even a fraction; her quivering dugs effectively anchored in position, however much she might wish to remove them from danger later.

With both women panting from the effects of this last effort, Denise was still not finished.

"I'd better cuff your hands behind you," she said, "I'm going to really hurt you this time, and I don't think you'll be able to keep your hands from straying to these luscious boobs without a little help. It'll only cost you a couple extra."

"I can take it," Daphne retorted quickly. "Six will be quite enough, thank you."

"Have it your own way, then," Denise replied, and reached into the inside of the prayer stand to come out with a length of clear plastic tubing.

"Oh God! Denny! No!" Dee burst out at the sight of it. "Not that, please."

Up to this point she had seemed to has faced her coming ordeal with relative equanimity but the sight of the slightly yellowish hose, swinging loosely in Denise's tiny grip seemed to have unnerved her. She was almost whimpering as she pleaded with her tormentor.

"Oh please, Denny, you don't know how that hurts," she begged. "Not the hose, please. Use the strap. I can take that."

"Ah but I do know," her fair haired executioner replied, "I got it with this several years back now, but I still remember it as if it were just last week.

You don't forget this in a hurry."

Eve looked with renewed interest at the diminutive blonde. Beneath the soft material of her dress two compact, but significant cones strained to push the thin silk aside, nicely separated globes that didn't appear to have the benefit of a bra. She tried to picture them bare with the hose snaking across them.

"I ached for days afterwards," Denise assured her captive audience," and so will you. I told you I was going to hurt you, and the beauty of it is, I'll know exactly what you'll be feeling. And not just tonight either. I'll think of you nursing your aching boobs as I have breakfast in the morning. Come to that at tea and dinner too. You won't spend a minute without being conscious of your bruises for the best part of a week, I promise you."

Daphne made a brave effort to tough it out, which deceived nobody.

"I can take it," she ground out between gritted teeth, and grasped one wrist with her other hand in a vice-like grip behind her back. Eve knew enough about local conditions to guess that to bring one's hands to one's wounded teats would

at best invalidate the stroke, at worst lead to having to take the whole punishment over.

Denise draped the clinging length of flexible plastic lightly on the slumberous flesh laid out so invitingly. As she lifted it Daphne turned her head away and squeezed her eyes closed.

"Oh no you don't," Denise called sharply," chin up and face the front, and don't you dare close your eyes again."

With a small moan of defeat she faced forward again, and lifted her chin high to clear the hose, when, as it inevitably would, it cracked across her tender bubs.

"That's right darling," Denise murmured, reverting to her normal sweetness, lust temporarily in hand, if not entirely stifled, and brought the stinging length of piping cracking down onto the soft white globes laid out like a sacrifice before her.

Daphne's head jerked back violently and her mouth gaped in a silent scream. For a split second she hung in rigid silence, then from her throat came a long low mewling sound.

On the altar-like shelf in front of her, the soft sensitive flesh of her breasts had nowhere to go. Held up firmly by the unyielding wood, it had to accept the full passion of the hose's kiss, bruising it to the core. As the narrow tubing bounced back, the pale groove of its impact rapidly darkened to a blood red.

Daphne's breath returned in a hissing intake and the hose lifted again.

Daphne snorted and moaned, hissed and whined, but held to her task. Though her upper body writhed in pain, her breasts never actually left the shelf on which they were laid for their terrible immolation, and her hands stayed clasped together as if welded tight. Thirty agonising seconds later, three throbbing stripes lay across the blazing boobs, close packed and parallel, nearly touching Daphne's heaving chest. Denise may have seemed too slight to have inflicted real damage to her backside but she was accuracy incarnate when it came to breasts, and wristy with it, causing serious havoc to the tender boobs from the first.

Four was a beast. It fell exactly across each teat, where it stood out like a baby's thumb from its swollen and inflamed dug. Daphne shrieked at the unexpected change of direction and her hands shot forward as if to clutch and protect the tender points. Just in time she checked and fought a savage battle with herself, her fists bunched and quivering by her ears, her riven nipples screaming for ease, while that part of her mind still rational amid the pain was shouting equally loudly not to touch at any price or there would be even more of the same. Prudence won out in the end, but it cost her dear, and she was sweating freely before her hands eventually went back behind her back.

"A wise decision," Denise commended her, and cracked the hose across the bursting bulbs in exactly the same place.

This time Daphne just plain howled. It was almost too much. Again her hands came free and she fought the battle all over again, emitting strange honking noises from the depth of her throat as she tried to keep her hands from the aching orbs. The teats were now as hard and round as Morrello cherries and about the same colour. As her struggles and cries subsided Denise remarked in her sweetest tones," have you finished darling. Ready?"

Too overcome to speak, Daphne nodded dumbly, her lips peeled back from her teeth in a rictus of pain. Snot and tears ran down her cheeks, and her body shook from time to time with the effort of keeping her hands from her ravaged breasts lying on the shelf below that hideous length of pipe. The sullen looking heaps of beaten flesh lay quivering gently for the last. Eve waited tensed for it to crack across the bulging nipples once more, wondering if they might not split.

It was almost with a sense of disappointment that she watched the hose flash

down again to meet the leaden lumps of breast meat across their fullest width.

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