Portrait of a Lady - 3
Recollections of the whip:
I got home on the Monday morning and caught up with a few household chores, then repaired to my studio to work on a piece that I'd rather neglected. Harriet was away on some sort of 'fact-finding' mission, a jolly in other words, and would be away for a little while. I wasn't upset by that since I had a lot to do and she was a wonderful distraction.
I thought about her a lot though. We had had a long walk after the picnic, my thighs reminding me with every step, of that beastly, delightful tawse. It was a few hours later that we got back to her house, and she led me straight down to the cellar.
She went to what she called her 'tool cupboard' and selected something that looked like an old-fashioned tea caddy spoon, a round, slightly bowled piece of silver about two inches or so in diameter, with a sort of bar across one quadrant, long, wide red ribbons hanging from either end.
"I love this, a friend made it. It's clever."
"What is it?"
"I'll show you." She moved behind me. "Lean your head back and open your mouth." I did that and she gently eased the disc into my mouth. "The more I tighten the ribbon, the more it depresses your tongue. It doesn't stop you making a noise but," she chuckled, "wait until I tell you say something to me."
She tightened the ribbon at the back of my head and I felt the light piece of metal press my tongue down. "There. Now say 'Little Jack Horner.'"
It wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before. My tongue was effectively immobilised. I tried to speak the words but it was impossible and all that came out was an incomprehensible gurgle. She put one end of the ribbon in my hand. "You wont be able to tell me to stop, so, if you get into trouble just pull this and it will undo the bow and you can speak. Got that?" I nodded. "Undo my jeans."
I was reliving this moment, almost writing it in my mind as I am here when the phone rang. I picked up.
"Ms Noakes?"
"Yes."
"Hi, I'm Samantha Ross, from the Art Foundation." I knew of Sam Ross. She was the chair of the foundation, a sculptor and a big player in the local art scene. "Are you coming to the exhibition and awards ceremony on Saturday?" I said I intended to, yes, that I'd had my invitation. "Well, that's great. We, the board, would like you to join us for dinner at the Mallory (a fine local hotel) after. We're inviting all those who've been nominated for an award." I had no idea I'd been nominated. "It'll mean a posh frock, of course. I hope that won't be difficult? If you're anything like most of us, we don't earn enough to buy an evening dress, let alone have opportunities to wear one. The Chairman of the Arts Council is coming to present the awards and so we're entertaining him along with all the nominees."
I said I was sure I had something that would do.
"Do you have a plus one?" Sadly not. "Oh, well, I'll make sure to sit you next to someone entertaining."
I sat down when the call ended. I was stunned. I'd known my portrait of the Bishop was going into the exhibition but had never dreamt it would be nominated. The ceremony, at the Foundation's lovely Georgian home in the centre of town, wasn't a national thing but it had kudos and just being nominated would raise my profile.
The portrait of the Bishop was bought by the Friends of the Diocese to honour his tenth year as incumbent and would eventually be hung in the Palace itself. I'd posed him by the bell beside the bridge over the brook that runs past the gate. The bell calls the swans to be fed. His hand held the bell rope and a swan was gliding in a stately manner towards him.
I was, I admit, in a bit of a daze. We all say that we do our work for love, and it's true, but we need to live, and awards increase our earning potential so, to hell with not wanting them! 'Ars Gratia Artis'? Bugger that.
I poured myself a stiff gin and thought about what I'd wear. My mate, Melissa, ran a charity shop so I gave her a call and, a few days later, she'd come up with a long, gunmetal grey dress with a deep V neck, edged with purple lace. The dress was close-fitting and had a slit up to mid-thigh so I could walk. A pair of decent grey heels to match, expensive but to hell with it, and I was good to go. Bless you, Mel.
So, let me continue with that Sunday afternoon, after our picnic and walk. The 'gag-spoon' as she called it firmly in place and with my hand on the ribbon, I undid her jeans and she wriggled out of them. "I like to be less constrained when things get interesting. Now, lets get your clothes off." She helped me to undress and, when I was naked, she told me to stand still and put my hands behind my head. She went back to her tool cupboard and selected a chain with clamps at either end. She rolled each of my nipples between her finger and thumb. "Let's get them nice and hard, these will bite better then." She was obviously enjoying herself.. As each went on, tightly gripping, they made my nipples hurt. "It'll become a dull ache soon, but, as I think you know, when they come off, it'll be wonderful."
For you, maybe, I thought.
"Now, Lauren, go to the chair and hold the lower rings, have your feet at least shoulder-width apart. Don't let go of the ribbon."
I did as she instructed and waited, no restraints this time I noticed. It was by now about 4 hours since she had whipped my thighs and they were much easier, less acutely painful. That was when I felt the touch of a cane at the top of my left leg.
"The tawse marks are so visible, they make a nice target." She came close to my ear and whispered. "We're going for what I call a build up. I want to get your body hurting slowly, in my experience that works best sometimes. Scared?"
I nodded.
"Exquisite."
The first strokes were light, barely painful in themselves but accurately placed on the marks on my thighs as they were, brought alive that tender skin. Her finger ran between my cunt lips, stroking the moist flesh before she resumed with more, slightly harder strokes. The pain was building to a sort of crescendo when she stopped again.
She came to stand beside me and, reaching under me, pulled the chain that dangled between my nipples. The dull ache she'd predicted had set in but was replaced by a hard biting sensation that made me squeal through the gag-spoon. She took my right hand from the ring and guided it to her cunt. She was wet and she pushed my finger inside her.
"See what you do for me." Her obvious arousal fed my own.
Gently, she replaced my hand on the ring and walked away. She returned where I could see her, and now she was carrying a whip, the whip that she'd left on my bed that first time I'd come to her house. The little twitch at the end of the flail was far more threatening now. I was shaking, just as much as my cunt was leaking, i could feel slick juice on my thigh.
Her finger traced the line of juice back to my cunt. "It's such a contradiction, isn't it? So much pain, so much arousal. This whip is very accurate in the right hands, very precise. Its impact is tightly focussed. If your thighs were hurting before, they will be in agony soon but, and it's a big but, you will be somewhere else. I will take us there together. Do you trust me?" I nodded. "We wont start on the thighs. We'll save that." Her finger was in me, working deep. I was feeling the onset of that floating that comes with the mix of erotic pain and stimulation. I knew she was aroused, and it made all the difference. Her finger left me. Then it stroked my arse. "Not just yet. We want to build, don't we? Hold the upper rings."
And then it started. That twitch, biting like a mosquito on my buttock. My new body position was, as she had told me, incredibly convenient for her and she worked the whip from my buttocks up to my shoulders, not agonising individually, but cumulatively devastating. I was crying now, tears from the pain, tears from the joy. It stopped. Suddenly, unexpectedly. I waited, my heart thumping in my chest and I knew some sort of culmination had arrived. I couldn't see to hear her. I waited and waited.
And then, dear God and then. The whip struck my right thigh, deadly accurate. Her finger stroked my clit and then another on the other thigh. Her finger again and I was keening, wet faced, my clitoris sang. The next blow was, once again on my right and I stared to lose it, my mind floating away. I cursed her, pleaded for more but no words were intelligible. I was suddenly conscious of a fire on my nipples. And that was when, with a roar, I went over the edge into the abyss of an amazingly powerful orgasm. I could hear myself screaming, but it was not the agony, it was the utter sexual release. It was mind-bending, transformative, hallucinogenic.
I didn't pass out but I was gone, somewhere far away. A sort of mental paradise.
When I was truly aware again, I was in her arms on the couch. She was stroking my face, kissing my now empty mouth, holding me.
"Ah, there you are. You were away! How do you feel?"
