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“Shush,” s
he says silently, putting her finger to her mouth like a child playing hide and go seek.
We sit on a packed dirt floor—I imagine getting terribly dirty in the process. But I can see by the excitement on Analise’s face that this is much too thrilling a sight to miss. We’re squashed in the corner, both trying to see through the scant opening. We take turns, though Analise seems content to let me have the best angle. I surmise that she has hidden here before, watching what takes place beyond.
The voices on the other side are difficult to hear until the women move directly in front of us, and in front of the stone table. Now their conversation carries well through our peek hole.
To my horror and amazement, I stare in rapt attention, as Tasia appears with Peach following close behind her. Two other women follow them like body guards. I see Peach’s muted passions written on her face, and in her brow. Beads of sweat appear on her neck and across her chest where her sundress is scooped out.
“Pull off the dress,” Tasia says.
Peach starts to comply as if the command was for her, letting a strap drop from her shoulder. She’s quickly stopped by two pairs of hands, lifting the shift from her body from behind. She stands naked for Tasia, wearing only a leather collar. I think of the ribbon so casually left in my room this morning; this more definitive piece replaces it with a glaringly obvious message of submission.
“You wish to redeem yourself?” Tasia asks Peach.
“For what?” Peach answers bewildered by the ordeal unfolding in her presence. I see her flushed flustered expression, knowing this is a surprise to her.
“For what? You think I don’t know everything that goes on in this house, even when I’m gone. A little lusty rendezvous with your whining weak-kneed lover. I would think you could be more inventive than to slip into bed at night for a stolen tryst.”
“How did you know?” Peach asks.
“Who cares how I know, my dear, would it really matter when the truth is written all over your face, when your eyes look too satisfied to have been without sex for an entire night? When you hardly have the energy to take care of my needs?” She adds with a vengeful twist.
Peach looks crestfallen.
“We have an agreement, Samantha Clarisse. I won’t let you break it. You owe me for this gross indiscretion.”
Peach flashes from resignation to defiance to resignation again, as if she’s too mixed up to know how to feel. “Yes, ma’am,” she says at last.
I’d charge right through this stone wall in her defense. Seeing her yield without any kind of fight makes me nauseous. That she’s become so weak-kneed makes me furious. I’d scold her myself now, if I could have her eye to eye. But despite my silent protests, I know she’s walking some mysterious path that I cannot see, even as I’ve tried to for the last three weeks.
Tasia turns in dramatic style with her black skirts swishing around her legs. Then turning back, her eyes light with some demonic fire and burn intently into Peach. “It’s probably just as well,” she says, “I haven’t yet whipped you thoroughly. Earning it the way you have, I’ll have no regrets, though I’m certain you will. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Say something! I scream to her silently.
But Peach waits just seconds, “No, ma’am.” Her voice is quiet, her eyes droop without even the slightest fire she had just minutes ago.
It’s this compliant woman I find so difficult to recognize. The emotions that normally burn so fiercely within her are not just subdued; she’s become an eerie calm monster, just a mere reflection of herself.
Tasia eyes her from head to toe and side to side, making a thorough examination as if there were important decisions to be made. Though I’ve ignored the baton in Tasia’s hand, I cannot now, as she taps on Peach’s inner thighs with sharp quick motions.
“Spread your legs,” she says, as Peach jerks, then obeys, even as she recoils in pain.
To my surprise, from my several feet away, I can see the dampness between Peach’s thighs. From this angle, the torch on the wall lends the perfect light, bouncing off my lover’s flesh and giving away her secrets.
“Here in the center. Spread her wide and tie her so she can’t move. She’s not yet earned the right to grace my table.” Tasia nods to the two women, who in ritualistic fashion, each take one of Peach’s limp arms. Tasia with her baton in hand pulls leather straps down from some hiding places in the ceiling, securing my lover’s arms above her head. The straps are fixed to pulleys, so that drawn up tightly, her smooth taut body seems horribly extended. The women affix manacles to Peach’s ankles, which are fastened to eye hooks in the stone floor. I’m surprised by these devices; I hadn’t seen them when I was here the day before.
My own anger quiets as I view this passive scene—apparently I’m the only one who finds it the abomination that it is. Even Analise strains to see, looking at the scene as if it’s some carnival sideshow. Yet for all my repugnance at this act, I cannot escape the strange beauty before me as Peach hangs waiting for what will be some further horror to commence. The muscles and curves I know so well look oddly different in bondage. I find myself wanting to get closer still, to touch her, to love her, to drop between her wide open legs and make a feast of her while she’s captive and unable to respond.
I gaze lustfully, as I feel Analise’s hand press against my cunt. “This excites you,” she whispers, “me too.”
“Shush,” I mouth to her, annoyed. I’m not amused by her naughty schoolgirl attitude. This seems far too significant a matter to giggle about.
Her hand remains at my cunt; though I might decry her silliness, I don’t suggest that she quit fondling me. I even rock lewdly against her fingering hand as the shame of getting off this way will wait for later. I know I could come in an instant.
Hearing the lash fall against Peach’s body, I wince and turn away. I start to cry, hearing her distressed whimpers. But too fascinated not to look, I peek excitedly, then back away again, and push Analise aside so that I finally watch in rapt attention.
The strap Tasia wields is frightening, though likely not more damaging than the belt Peach used on me. By the looks of its two inch width and three foot length, it appears to be a razor strop, no doubt of antique origin. What amazes me is the fury of the punishment, the strop falling with lightning speed again and again across Peach’s back side. The woman concentrates on the soft flesh of her bottom, but does not forget to wield the ugly thing against her shoulders at least a half dozen times. Later she aims low, at her thighs. The thighs will burn the most, I recall from my own recollections of such treatment. Peach concurs, as her distressed wails rise into the warm close air with a haunting sound I’ll not easily forget. My own tears and my lust both continue. My desire shames me, but I won’t give it up.
