EVE IN EDEN 6 | woman bdsm stories

"If you're really determined to become one of us, it's probably time you set about making a rod for your own backside," Gordon remarked.

It was a week since Eve had worn her amber, and demonstrated a further commitment to the Eden way.

"Past time, I'd say," Daphne agreed, "A woman needs her own rod above her bed to remind her of her status, lest she forgets what she is. She can't feel comfortable and wanted without one."

"Is that why you have a cane hung over your bed, Dee?" Eve asked cautiously.

"Just so. I made that rod myself before I came of age. Every girl does here.

Actually, I suppose, since you're what might be termed a 'mature student', it's not entirely necessary, but it would be nice to think you'd continued the tradition."

"And what does that imply?" Eve enquired with even more suspicion. She'd come to know, over the past few months, that the 'traditional' things were often the toughest in the long run.

"Nothing very difficult," Gordon informed her, "You just get a length of prime cane and treat it to add strength, weight and stiffness; bring it up to penal standard, in other words."

"And how does one prepare a cane, and where does one get the material in the first place?"

"Nothing simpler. There are several places in town that sell quality rattan. The treatment consists of sanding down, drying out, applying repeated and dipping in diluted varnish, to rack up the density and cutting power. By then it's up to full weight and strength, and ready for use."

"Sounds easy enough. What's the snag?"

Daphne laughed.

"You're becoming a right cynic in your old age," she grinned. "Actually there's nothing very great. First off there's a bit of a ritual involved. It takes at least a week to complete the process, and any time you're working on the rod you have to be buck naked. I mean really bare. No rings, no watch, no jewellery, not even a hair slide. A piece of string if, like you, your hair might get stuck in the varnish. No make up, scrubbed face and nail varnish removed. You even have to shave your pussy. The only time you can handle the rod with any covering at all is when you first buy it, when you can wear the minimum clothes that decency and the weather will allow, which can be very little out here, but no underwear and all the other provisions about make-up and so on apply."

"Thanks very much. It must be perfectly obvious to everyone you pass just what you're doing. How do you do the actual preparation?"

"First you buy a length of rattan, not less than thirty six inches long and half an inch in diameter. The store will make sure you have the right thing. They're used to women coming in and asking for material for a rod. You also need a can of varnish and a can of thinners. Don't worry about the things to put them in.

Gordon has plenty of trays to soak the rod in."

"And then?"

"Then you strip and sand down the rod, taking particular care to produce a nice smooth hemispherical end. It's in your own best interest to put some real care into that bit as anything less than perfectly rounded and smoothed and it could dig deeper into your flank than you'd really care to have it. Of course, a woman is not usually expected to do anything to mitigate her suffering under correction, but it can leave unsightly marks, and we don't want that, do we?"

"Ugh! No," Eve agreed emphatically." So what happens when it up to standard, shape wise?"

"First you dry it out for twenty four hours, in a cool oven," Gordon explained,

"then you start to soak it. Five days in a tray of thinned varnish, with a cover, so that the varnish doesn't set before it's soaked all the way in. You have to rock it backwards and forwards four times a day."

"And that means stripping and, later in the week, shaving, each time." Daphne reminded her, "Some girls just stay at home for the week, and never put on any clothes at all until the job's done."

"And that's it?"

"Oh no," Gordon continued. "At the end of five days you fish the rod out, and hang it by the end that is to be the handle. Most girls will have crocheted a string tube to put on at this point, so that the drying varnish attaches it permanently to the rod to give the user a good grip. The surplus varnish runs to the bottom, and it's allowed to dry. The surface will go quite nice and smooth and, with any luck, it will have formed a nice hard 'blob' on your carefully rounded end. When you come to taste it that blob will raise nice thick bruises on your flank, without drawing blood, so try to encourage it. Dry overnight, sand down lightly, apply a thin coat of undiluted varnish, sand again, apply two more coats at intervals of about six hours, with light sanding in between, making sure the blob is building up nicely, and then allow another day to harden."

"And the job's complete?"

"All but the testing."

"I knew it! There just had to be a testing, of course." Eve exclaimed, a slight acidity detectable in her tone, "where, and how many?"

"A butcher's, what else for a new penal, and where do we women get it most, and get most benefit?" Daphne asked mockingly, "Give you three guesses."

"Where we keep our brains, I suppose; our ass, our fanny, our can or, in good plain English, our bum. I'm surprised there are any women on this awful island that can sit. We seem to be getting it day and night."

"Now, Darling, don't exaggerate. We only get it when we need it; or just possibly, if our man needs to relax, which comes to much the same thing.

Besides, if it's such an awful island, how come you're so keen to become one of us? No-one forced you."

"You win," Eve agreed, "After Denise's party, next week, I'll shave my pussy and go to town without my pants for the necessary."

"Good idea," Gordon agreed, "It'll give you something to keep you busy, while Daphne's away."

"Oh. What's up then?"

"I'm going to the mainland to see my gynnie," Daphne explained, "I'll do a bit of shopping while I'm there, so I'll be away about a week. I'll leave the honour of the house in your capable hands while I'm away."

"Nothing serious, I hope," Eve said, full of concern,. "You seemed in good fettle in that department, the last time I was there."

"Well, you made intimate enough contact to know," Daphne laughed. "No it's just routine. We work our pussies hard out here, so it seems a good idea to have an annual check-up"

"Well hurry on back, darling, I shall miss you. Preparing a rod for my backside, as you so elegantly put it, doesn't sound as if it will exactly fill every waking hour."

The visit to town to purchase the necessaries was as embarrassing as she had feared. Wearing just a short print dress, in honour of the mild sunny weather, bare foot and with scrubbed face, her errand was obvious to all the residents, from the parking attendant who took her fee, to the man behind the counter of the hardware shop, and several hundred passers-by she had met in the street.

Blushing furiously she had explained to the man what she needed.

"No problem," he assured her, "we have ladies like yourself in every day who are making their rods. I'll put up our standard pack."

As he handed over a long thin package, whose purpose and contents were the subject of knowing glances from several women making other purchases in the shop, the assistant remarked, "I'm sure you'll be very pleased with this rattan.

We only import the finest quality, and I think you'll find its penetrative power very satisfactory."

Eve wasn't sure if satisfactory was the best way to describe what her feelings might be on tasting this boasted power of penetration, but kept her thoughts to herself, escaping from the speculative gaze of the other women present as quickly as she could.

Back home, she completed her ritual stripping and purification, before starting on the limber length of quality rattan. Conscientiously she sanded, dried, soaked and turned, smoothed and drained, while the rod formed slowly under her care. She began to find that the process took on a fascination of its own, drawing her to work on the end blob, building up the coats until she had a significant bulb. Daphne had told her that this added mass, leant strength to each cut of the cane, increasing its power to bruise significantly, especially on the tortured flank, but she didn't stint her efforts to improve its size,

swept along by the urge to make the best, regardless of any future personal cost.

She was nearing the end of her task, the rod hanging vertically, a last coat of varnish draining to add itself to the mass of the bulb, when the phone rang.

Still in her scrubbed and naked state she picked it up to hear Gordon on the other end.

"Eve," he said, "I've a bit of a problem."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Perhaps. That's why I'm ringing."

There was a moment's hesitation, unusually for Gordon.

"May not be all that pleasant for you," he said.

"Go on. Fire away," Eve encouraged.

"It's like this. I double-parked this morning, thinking I'd be out again in seconds. Unfortunately some chap I couldn't put off held me up. By the time I got out they'd towed the Merc to the pound. I need someone to collect it for me."

"Oh."

Eve knew exactly what that meant. A man would merely have to hand over cash, but thanks to that infamous Traffic (Female offenders) Act 1970, that Daphne knew off by heart it seemed, a woman would be subject to the usual penalty.

"I would have asked Daphne to do it, of course," he assured her, "but she's not due back for three days, and the ticket has to be paid off within twenty-four hours."

"But I thought men were allowed to pay a fine," she protested.

"They are, but it's usual to send one of their women to pay, sort of point of honour, you know. No self-respecting woman would let down the honour of the house by buying off for cash."

"And Daphne said she was leaving the honour of the house in my hands, is that it?"

"Actually, there's a slight complication. I've clocked up rather a lot of penalty points on my licence, and the car was parked on a spot reserved for official cars only, so I would very probably lose my licence if I were to admit I was driving. I can't afford to do that, so I'm afraid you're going to have to make out it was you that left it there."

"I don't seem to have much choice, do I? OK, I'll do it; for Daphne and the honour of the house."

Ten minutes later she was dressed as much as she thought necessary, in view of her imminent whipping, a bra, white blouse and short linen skirt. There really didn't seem any point in putting on underpants under the circumstances. She headed the little Renault down the gravel driveway towards the highway and the fate that awaited her in town.

She handed the Renault over to Gordon in exchange for the keys to the Merc, and set off to the Traffic Department offices.

The same female clerk was on the desk, and confirmed that she had come to the right place to recover the Merc. She inspected Eve's visitor's licence, filled

in details on a printed form, handed it over and told her to take a seat in the waiting-room.

"You'll be called when they're ready for you," she was informed.

Nothing had changed in the waiting room except the faces of the women seated in line on their pegs, although their expressions were exactly the same mixture of discomfort and apprehension she remembered. She had no doubt her own exactly matched theirs, as she settled herself reluctantly on a well-licked nozzle. This time, the discomfort in her rectum was aggravated by apprehension as to what came next. Other than an intimate examination of the sickening welts on Daphne's tortured bottom, she'd not extracted any details from her friend of exactly what had gone on behind that closed door, only that it had been painful, humiliating, and to be avoided at all costs. Now she was about to get first hand experience herself.

The waiting seemed interminable. There were only two other offenders ahead of her, but their processing seemed to take forever. When the second of them had staggered from the room, face beetroot red, body arched in pain, moaning through her teeth as she gripped her buttocks through the hastily donned skirt, Eve nearly wet herself with the strain of waiting for the command to enter.

"Next!" the voice called, and she levered herself carefully off her peg, mindful of the havoc she had wrought by her intemperate extraction previously. It wasn't exactly comfortable this time either, she still had to break the grip her sphincter had established on the inadequately lubricated rod, but at least she didn't tear her anus.

On legs of rubber she crossed the room, unminding of the pitying glances of the next women in line, and passed into the room beyond. It contained little more cheer than the bleak, forbidding chamber she had passed the last two hours in, just a small desk, a medical examination table and a straight-backed chair.

Besides the male whose head had rounded the door to summon each delinquent to her doom, a second male figure in a civilian suit, sat behind the desk.

"Papers!" it barked, and Eve fumbled in her haste to hand them over.

"First time?"

She admitted it was.

"Then we'll try and ensure you do not wish to return," the official promised.

"Take off your clothes and lie on the table there."

Not daring to hesitate, she stripped quickly, laying her clothes on the chair, while watched, apparently without interest, by the two men. It would seem they had seen too many female bodies stripped naked in this room, and no jutting buttock, swelling breast, or sweetly furred belly could rouse their interest anymore. It was all simply meat to be flogged and sent on its way, hopefully reformed, or at least, deterred from reoffending.

The suit approached the table and made a cursory examination of her naked body, ordering her to part her thighs to expose her vulva, and turn onto her front so that he could grip a cheek in each hand and stretch them apart after he'd palped her breasts. She could actually feel his breath on her inflamed anus. Finally he went back to the desk and wrote out some notes.

"You can get up now," he said without looking up from his work. "Leave your things where they are and go through there."

The uniform grasped her arm to reinforce the point and thrust her through another door, to confront another suit. Uniform passed him the first suit's notes, and the other papers.

"Seems you've been a naughty girl," he announced, after a brief perusal. "Double parked, and in an official area too. We can't have that sort of thing. The Medical examiner reports you're a strong healthy young woman, so there is no reason why you should not be made an example of. Six strokes for double parking and twelve for obstructing an area reserved for officials."

"Oh no! Please!" she burst out, as the awful tally sank into her consciousness.

"That's too many, just for a parking offence."

"Are you making an official appeal?" the suit wanted to know.

Eve checked herself. She had to be careful. She was appalled by the sentence, but she was on dangerous ground, appeals on this island were almost invariably unsuccessful and the price of that failure was normally a doubling of the sentence. Even if it didn't lead to the full potential of a thirty-six stroke flogging, it was not a gamble she dared to take.

"No Sir."

"A wise decision," the suit said dryly. "Carry on Officer."

Uniform turned her back, away from the desk, and her belly lurched as she took in the rest of the room. A bleak arrangement of bars occupied the centre of its stone-flagged width. She had seen the equivalent many times before in studies and basements in the homes she had visited with Daphne, standard female correctional equipment it seemed, though this particular example of the breed seemed just that little extra solid and intimidating. Two heavy cast iron uprights, seemingly cemented into the floor, four horizontal iron rails, one at crotch height, one to suit the knees, the other two spaced apart some six or eight inches horizontally, no more than four or five inches off the floor.

Altogether a bleak and uninviting object for a naked woman to place her body on.

She let herself be positioned with its top bar pressing against the furry triangle at the base of her belly then, on command, stepped inside the bottom rail, which ran across the back of her leg, a little way above the ankle.

Uniform pushed her feet apart with the toe of his boot, and dropped a plate across the lower bars to ensure she couldn't close them again.

"Over!" he ordered, and she bent from the waist over the top rail, reaching down for the lowest rail on that side. The last pressed against her shins, just below the knees, ensuring she could not bend her legs. There was a sensation of cold steel, and a click, and her wrists were handcuffed to the bar. Now she was quite immobilised. Her bare buttocks were bent and stretched at just the right height for a rod in a male hand to cut into the fatty under-sides, where it would bruise most, and leave the sufferer sore for the longest; right in the Sitzplas and with eighteen she'd be lucky to be able to take her weight on those butchered hams for a week. Her imagination raced. What did she look like back there to these taciturn men, going about their business, as if they were dipping sheep? With her legs spread like this, she was only too well aware of her pouting pussy grinning through her gapped thighs, its light covering of hairy tendrils insufficient to conceal its moist seam, above it the wrinkled crater of her anus shrinking into itself. She whimpered in sudden fear as she heard the rattle of a rod, as Uniform picked it up off the desk.

He must have looked at his superior for permission for Suit announced solemnly,

"you may proceed officer."

For an age nothing happened, then there was a thrrrrping sound behind her, a meaty sound as the rod impacted and then all hell broke loose in the hapless buttock flesh.

"Aarh!" she groaned as fire swept through her lacerated hinds, and hissed like a snake as she tried to master the rising tide that followed. Biting her lip she rode it out and braced herself for the second.

Again she grunted with pain, adding a long drawn out moan as she tried to ride it, then rocked under the third, which had her gasping and panting in its aftermath.

She had only had three and, already, she was sweating and clenching. It would do her no good, she knew, but it was impossible to let her stung buttocks fall limp.

The toll mounted inexorably. Four had her rising on her toes as far as the bars would allow, at five she tried to twist aside. The rod's tip was boring into her flank, and she thought she could feel a small trickle there already. At six the presiding Suit called a halt.

"Hold off a minute," he ordered," With a dozen and a half the woman sometimes goes off into a fog, and doesn't feel them all fully. Give her a short break, and she'll clear her head and get to savour them all through."

It was not really mercy but, at the time, it seemed a blessing beyond price. Eve hung over the heartless rigidity of the bars, drawing in deep breaths, trying to steady her racing pulse. All too soon, Suit called time.

"Next six, if you please. You should be able to make her feel them after your rest," he remarked.

Uniform was a professional. A stroke from a long penal, wrapping round the flank, biting in on the hip, raising thick plum coloured blobs on the tender sides, was always liable to break the skin and let the blood flow. With eighteen it was almost a certainty, given the relatively small area that had to sustain a dozen and a half agonising impacts. The artist in him deplored too heavy damage to such delicate flesh and he compensated for the severer sentences by deploying an ambidexterity developed by long practice into perfectly balanced correction.

The first stroke of her second tranche fell across Eve's cringing buttocks from right to left, sparing the martyred flesh, where six bluish black bruises graced her right hip, impacting instead on the hitherto unmarked left.

Though conscious of the mercy shown, when contemplating her wounds later, at the time she could only think of the searing pain of the stroke itself. She had collected her resources in the brief interval allowed her, and gave only an agonised grunt of pain as it struck, a sharp intake of breath a second later as the full measure of the hurt chimed in. To brace herself against the new angle of attack, she pressed her belly against the unyielding iron of the top bar, biting her lower lip, gripping the lowest bar in front as if to save herself from drowning.

Eight bit in deep, sending her writhing sideways again, nine had her rising and falling on her toes, her knees scraping on the rough metal of the bar that prevented her from trying to get relief by bending them.

Ten caught her much lower than to date, Exactly on the boundary between thigh and buttock swell. She mewled with the pain of being cut in such a tender spot.

Uniform methodically completed the dozen with two more precisely on the line, leaving her whimpering and whining as she took the half minute break awarded her to enable her to appreciate the full measure of her punishment.

Uniform resumed where he had left off, though with the right hand again, precisely in the crease or, as Daphne was wont to put it, right behind the cunt.

Two sizzling cuts to the line of raised bruise there and she yelped shrilly at each, her anguish heightened by fear that he would cut short and find the pouting vulva that would be menaced if the tip of the rod was allowed to enter the valley between the spread thighs and seek it out.

She had gone fourteen so far, and now sweated freely, her face a mask of pain and mucus from snorting nostrils and gaping mouth. Her lower lip was swollen to twice its normal size, where she had bitten on it as she awaited each stroke.

She was sure she could taste blood. With four more to come, she was beginning to feel despair, as if she would never survive this awful martyrdom of her spread naked buttocks. Fourteen aching lines of blood filled welts stretched across them now. How in Eden's name could she endure the last quartet?

In fact, of course, she could do nothing but endure them. A woman, stripped naked, hung over those effectively constraining bars, cuffed to the rail in front, her feet trapped behind, was just so much meat behind, over which she had no control, merely slabs of flesh, which could feel but not resist. She must hang there and howl, if she could not suffer in silence.

Four more times the rod whirred and thumped, four times she went rigid, relaxed, howled her distress and outrage, slumped until the rod stiffened her again. When the final stroke had fallen she could only hang over the top rail and sob.

Released, she was forbidden, under threat of a return visit to the bars, to touch her blistered, bloated bottom. So sore she could hardly move her legs, she shuffled to the wall and stood, hands on head, her raw beaten buttocks to the room, facing into a corner for five minutes by the clock.

Finally released, told to get dressed, exit and be quick about it, she almost scampered to the next room in her haste to obey, pulling on her clothes as best she could, careless of her appearance, only wanting out of there. She made her own version of the unnerving entrance that all of her predecessors, and all of her successors made and would make; the rigid arching as she pulled open the stiffly sprung door, the rictus of pain on her face as she stood in the doorway getting her breath back to cross the waiting room under the gaze of those still to have their turn under the rod, the limping passage past the secretary's desk, and the hit of daylight after the dimness of the correctional establishment. She paused on the top of the steps, dimly conscious that the crowd in the street would all be aware of what she had been there for, and, no doubt, all imagining what lay beneath her hastily fastened skirt; the women with mixed sympathy and lust, the men with dry amusement and a certain satisfaction that a proper justice had been done. She was still blushing when she limped into Gordon's office. At his suggestion they garaged the Renault for the night and he drove her home in the Mercedes. It had the advantage that there was room for her to kneel across the back seat.

By the time Daphne got back, she was getting over the worst, though her bottom was still a disaster area, and she took care to position a soft cushion before she sat. Looking at the rainbow-hued welts, at four days old ripened into tight finger-thick ropes, hot heavy, still inflamed and too sore for comfort, Daphne was all concern.

"What rotten luck," she sympathised, "Of course I would have had to take them if I'd been here, for the honour of the house, you know, but it was damned brave of you to do it."

"But I had to," Eve explained, "You left the honour of the house in my charge, remember?"

Nothing more was said but, at breakfast the next morning, Daphne's reluctance to commit her buttocks to even the softest of cushions was more eloquent than words.

"For the honour of the house?" Eve enquired, settling herself just as carefully.

"Mmm," Daphne agreed, shifting uneasily in her seat, "Couldn't shirk my responsibility, y'know."

"You didn't have to."

"Oh yes I did. Besides, Gordon couldn't very well send me to the gynie with a bottom like a ploughed field. Didn't lay a rod on me for days beforehand and, by

the time I got back, I'd been a month without a thrashing worth the name. A girl can't get by if she's neglected for so long."

Time passed. Nothing had been said about Eve's projected application for citizenship for a month. By now she had healed, save a few discolorations on her hip, that might well leave some small scars for a long while yet, and she'd recovered her normal good spirits, after a period of relatively muted behaviour.

"I imagine you've had enough of our ways," Daphne said one evening, as they lay in front of a wood fire, lit to cheer the coolness of some of the island nights,

"What do you plan to do when you get back to the UK?"

"I'm not going back," Eve said, "I still want to put in my papers. I needed time to get over that beating I took, but it hasn't changed anything."

Daphne looked thoughtful, but let it drop for the moment. The next day, though, she cornered Eve after breakfast, and told her to sit down and listen carefully.

"Gordon and I both love you dearly, and we're concerned that you may not know what you're letting yourself in for," she began. "If you put your papers in, he's only prepared to countersign them if you pass some preliminary tests first.

Since a woman understands another woman much better than a man, he's turned that part over to me.".

"I would have thought the men round here know all about thrashing a woman.

Anyway, haven't I survived enough beatings to convince you yet?" Eve asked acidly.

"Ah but the physical discipline is only one part of it, and in some ways the easiest to bear," Daphne assured her, "though you might not think so under the rod or the lash. but the course at the Initiation Centre is designed specifically to humiliate and break a woman's pride so that she can be remade as a suitable companion for men. We are anxious that you don't bite off more than you bargained for, and have to pull out. You'd never get over it, knowing you."

"So what has Gordon got in store for me?" Eve asked doubtfully.

"He's left the details to me; as I said, he believes quite rightly, that only a woman can get completely under another woman's skin, and really make her writhe.

Here's what you'll have to do to get your application countersigned. First off, for two weeks, you don't get out of those clothes you're wearing right now."

"You mean I have to put on the same things every day?"

"No, I mean you don't get to take them off for a fortnight. You keep them on day and night."

"Ouch! I see what you mean by the female angle on this. A man would never think what that would do for a woman. Never mind," she said, pointing her chin determinedly, "I'll do it. I'll have to take them off when I shower, of course."

"No showers darling, no baths, in fact you'll not touch soap and water for a fortnight and that make-up stays put, just where it is, until it wears off too.

And no brush, no comb and not even a toothbrush, until your time is up. Oh, and one more thing," looking at Eve's sleeveless blouse, "No razor. You should have some nicely ragged tufts under there in two weeks, not to speak of a powerful perfume."

"I suppose I'll be allowed to take my pants down when I use the john," Eve said caustically.

Daphne seemed to consider the request, as if doubtful it could be granted.

"You can take your pants down, but no toilet paper. You'll be pretty ripe in this climate by the time you finish."

"You bitch! You really do know how to get a woman where it hurts, don't you?"

"See what I mean? You may be able to take a beating, darling, but a little humiliation and you fold like a wilting flower."

"Who said I'm wilting," Eve exclaimed indignantly, "OK, I'll do it, though I don't think I'll be leaving my room much of the time."

"You don't learn do you," Daphne reproached her. "Surely you remember the golden rule. Didn't you understand that here every woman must always continue with her normal social life after punishment, as if nothing had happened? You'll go to town with your clothes sticking to your back, and mix with the others at parties stinking to high heaven, and, just to encourage you, I'm going to cane you every morning before breakfast. Time that new rod of yours got an airing."

"I can't do it," Eve wailed, "you can't ask that of me! Not the beating, I don't mean that. I'll take three thrashing a day, if that's what you say, but I can't go out to your friends, looking like an alcoholic slag, and stinking like the public sewer."

"I told you, you wouldn't be able to take it," Daphne replied, sadly, "Better you admit it now, and not have to be rescued from the Centre with a nervous breakdown. They'll put you through worse than that in there."

Eve drew herself up very straight, and set her jaw.

"I can and I will," she declared, "I'll show you I can do it. When do I start?"

"Right here and now darling. You can go and get that lovely new cane of yours, and I'll give it a test run before you bring it to me again before breakfast.

Then it's bed on a burning bottom."

By the second week, Eve was as pungent as Daphne had promised. Even at the beginning, social life was a torment, and it didn't get better. Any benefit she found from familiarity with the situation was easily outweighed by the rapid worsening of her hygiene. One evening, as she set her crumpled and soiled once-white skirt moving and followed Daphne to the waiting car, the waft of thick body odour was so strong it hit her like a blow. Her underarms itched from their rapidly rising growth of scratchy stubble and contributed its own rich perfume to the stench emanating from her crotch. Try as she might to accustom herself to these shaming effluvia, not to speak of the dry skin and rubbed mascara, the worn and smudged lipstick, the dirty nails, with their chipped polish, she was never for a minute unaware of her condition and, much worse, that all those she came in contact with were just as aware.

Her bottom was sore and burning with the steadily rising collection of welts, old and new, that Daphne laid on in the chilly hour before breakfast.

Religiously she unhooked her personal rod, and carried it in to Daphne's room, as soon as she heard Gordon making his early morning start to the office.

Saturday and Sunday she had to take her stripes in front of him. She felt peculiarly humiliated to submit to another woman in front of him, and even more so when she had to peel off the stinking panties, with their disgusting streaks of excrement, and the acrid fumes of stale urine. She would have much preferred to take twice the strokes from his own hand instead.

And then the blessed morning came. She had taken her rod in to Daphne as usual, handed it over without a word, and bent and touched her toes. Daphne had laid them on with a particular emphasis that morning, and the tears welled in her eyes. When it was over, she lifted her up and held her close.

"That was lovely," she declared, "I enjoyed that one more than any other beating I've given you this last fortnight. Can you guess why?"

Eve could only shake her head against the full soft breasts it was pressed into.

Daphne's nightwear, like that of most of the women of Eden consisted of a little perfume dabbed behind the ears.

"Because darling it was not part of your trial. You've become so intoxicated by your own stench you haven't been keeping count. Your fortnight was up last night. That beating was purely for pleasure. Mine that is," she added hastily,

"I hope you found it extraordinarily painful. How would you feel about a bath?"

"You bitch!" Eve exclaimed, "You lovely bitch! I don't care, though. If I can just soak all morning in hot suds I'll forgive you anything."

That night, still glowing in the euphoria brought on by a hot tub, and fresh underwear, she was summoned to Gordon's study. She found him sitting at his desk. With a hand gesture he directed her to the traditional spot on the mat in front of it. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl in the Head's office. Perhaps he intended to cane her too. She didn't care; nothing mattered now. Besides, she was beginning to find a caning from a man part of the natural order of things; evolution's plan for stable relationships between the sexes.

"Daphne tells me you came through her test with flying colours, not to speak of a colourful bottom. It must have needed some grit, judging by the whiffs I caught from time to time."

"Frankly," Eve declared with feeling," I'd rather you had strung me up on a triangle and given me a bloody back, than go through that again."

"Hmm! You may well be getting that as well," he remarked grimly, picking up a sheaf of papers from the desk. "After what you've been through, are you quite sure you wish to go carry on with these?" he asked. Eve recognised her immigration application forms.

"Quite sure," she declared firmly, "the more so just because of what I've been through."

"You realise it will mean doing a spell in a Female Initiation Centre? They're not exactly renowned for their gentleness."

"So I've heard but I understand all the women here go through it, so it seems only fair that I should too."

"You've got the right spirit," Gordon conceded, "but don't forget, they've been bred to it from childhood. Watched their cousins and aunts and elder sisters go through it. It's second nature to them. Do you have any idea what to expect?"

"Oh Daphne has been giving me some lurid accounts," Eve replied," and what she didn't mention the other girls made sure was filled in in graphic detail."

"You know that at some point you can look forward to being flogged to the blood at the triangle, as you were suggesting in jest a moment ago?"

"I wasn't jesting. I'd rather that than go another fortnight without soap or clean knickers."

"Well, if you're so determined, who am I to stand in your way? I'll sign."

"Oh thank you Gordon. May I kiss you now please?"

"Hold your horses. Much as I'd enjoy such intimacy, we've a few more points to settle yet. Amongst other things I have to give my opinion on your suitability for treatment, your capacity for endurance, and the strength of your will. These

will be taken into consideration in determining how long you will spend in the freezer, and the regime to which you will be subjected."

"The freezer?"

"The Female Reconstruction and Educational Establishment, but that's too much of a mouthful. You'll find the women round here all refer to it as the freezer.

They've all been through it of course, though most will have done the minimum stretch. I can't guarantee what sort of stretch you'll have to serve."

"So it's not a standard course than?"

"Far from it. Well, there's not much variation in the treatment of youngsters who come to it at eighteen or nineteen. For them it's mostly a standard term, just like going to college, no more than a month unless their families have particular reason to suggest they require special treatment. That doesn't happen often here, given the healthy social climate young women grow up in, but sometimes a girl gets infected by pernicious feminist tosh and takes a little longer than usual to be shown the error of her ways. With mature students, as it were, things are different. They're much more likely to have picked up unfortunate habits in the outside world, or developed an assertiveness that needs straightening out, and their treatment is carefully configured to meet their individual needs."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the course may be made harsher to compensate for soft living before they were brought to the island, or longer as well as harsher, if they show evidence of being particularly strong willed or used to getting their own way. Sometimes the standard course is inadequate for that kind of woman, and she needs to serve an extra novitiate, so to speak, before she is fit to take her vows."

"Are you two going to take all night to sign a piece of paper? I'm dying for a drink."

Gordon shot a bleak look at his wife's head, where it craned round his study door.

"Charmingly put, my dear," he remarked, "remind me to thank you for your timely intervention in a tangible way, once I have dealt with Eve's problem. In the meantime I suggest you take a seat, while you still can in any comfort, and bring your woman's view to bear on the matter."

"What's the problem, then?" Daphne asked, settling her splendid haunches onto the leather of one of his armchairs, apparently unmoved by the thrashing that Gordon intended for them.

"Would you say Eve would be adequately covered by the standard course, or should I recommend an extended treatment? Is she strong-willed beyond the average and too used to having her own way, instead of deferring to men, would you say?"

Daphne contemplated her friend thoughtfully, as she stood at attention on the mat.

"Why don't you ask Eve?" she suggested, finally.

"Maybe I might just forgive your interruption," Gordon said admiringly. "A suggestion like that deserves some reward."

"Thank you, Sir," she replied without sarcasm. "Though I probably still have need of a thrashing."

Gordon smiled lovingly at his wife and turned to Eve.

"Well, what do you think? How would you rate your own character? I see you as a young woman who sees herself better than most."

Eve let her eyes drop for a second, as she gathered her thoughts.

"You're right of course," she said finally, "I am strong willed, and I have been used to having my own way too long. Of course, you can't run a successful business in today's world without it, but it plays havoc with feminine nature."

"That's pretty definite," Gordon accepted. "How about your treatment? Should I recommend the standard course, which means you'd be out in a month, or do you think you'd need something more? I have to warn you, you could be held for up to twice the normal stretch, with or without a spell on a chain-gang."

This was getting serious. Bad enough to have to spend two months living under the conditions Daphne and, especially her young friends, had recited with such obvious relish for her discomfiture and, she had noticed, little shadows of fear in their own eyes at their recollections of the experience. What about the chain-gang though!? None of the girls had been on one, so there were no first hand descriptions, but they weren't needed. She'd seen them for herself several times, since that first startling eye-opener on the day Daphne had collected her from the airport.

This won't do, she reproached herself, you were asked if you needed more than the normal ration of discipline to make you worthy to join the other women in Eden, and here you are already thinking about whether you could take it, not whether you need it, which is what you were asked.

Aloud she said, "I think you should recommend additional treatment."

"Oh Darling, I'm so proud of you," Daphne cried, rising from her chair and throwing her arms around her friend, "That was really honest and brave."

"I agree," her husband echoed, writing something on the forms in front of him, then signing it with a flourish. "Now, while Eve just countersigns here, accepting my recommendations, you may remove your knickers and fetch me one of those canes you love so much from the closet over there."

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