The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The following story is for adults only.

The Addicted Natural

Chapter 6 – Dee’s Diary – Old Scars

SATURDAY, MAY 5th (Continued)

Now, the events of the three nights and four days we were together were so numerous that I could easily fill the rest of this diary, but there’s no time for that, and really no reason. Therefore, please allow me to meander for couple of pages with a series of short facts surrounding my time with Jay. It’s necessary, I suppose, to explain this before relating “the event” which would ruin my life forever. I often think of those days, late at night when I’m all alone in my bed. They were the only days I’ve ever really been free. Totally free. And yet, I was tied up (or in some other way restrained) almost every minute of that time. Bound and free. Happy. Well, no probably not happy, but I kept telling myself I was.

I can’t tell you how many times I came. Dozens, at least.

Jay came seven times: once in my mouth, twice in my ass, and four times in my cunt, counting that last time in the car (which I’ll get to shortly).

I never came when his cock was inside my cunt. Not even once.

He preferred the cuffs with the long chain. I think that seeing my arms hanging submissively by my sides turned him on.

It turned me on, too.

On the first night, he bathed me, then he sat me on the edge of the tub and shaved all my pubic hair off. It felt SO strange.

Then he licked me, and I came very, very hard.

I was never able to take him very deeply into my mouth without gagging. This really disappointed him; and me too, of course.

The time he came in my mouth, he just made me suck on it while he rubbed himself with his hand. I didn’t like the taste, but I swallowed as much of it as I could.

There was a hook in the ceiling next to the sliding glass door in the living room (for a hanging plant, I guess), and he liked to tie my hands above my head attached to it. He liked it best when my toes would barely touch the floor.

The nipple clamps hurt like hell, but for some reason I’d always cum harder when I was wearing them. After awhile, I got used to them. I think I actually started to like the pain, though that doesn’t make sense, does it?

The nipple clamps with the extra chain had a clip that pinched one of the lips of my cunt. Once, he actually attached it directly to my clit. Oh God, it hurt! But when he took it off after an hour and rubbed me, I came so hard I couldn’t even stand up afterwards.

The ball with the strap was for putting in my mouth. It fastened around the back of my head, and I couldn’t utter a word when it was in. He’d put on the blindfold, too, and hang me from the hook and leave me for very long periods of time.

The frozen dinners were horrid, but I never complained, and even complimented him on his cooking skills.

I was naked all the time. You’d think I’d get used to that after awhile, but I didn’t. I felt like I was blushing continuously.

What if I was pregnant? The question squeezed into my mind whenever I let it. I tried desperately not to think about it.

On the afternoon of the second day, we had a very philosophical conversation (if you can call it a conversation, when I could only speak when asked a question). He explained that some women were just MEANT to be slaves, that it was their destiny, and that judging by my reaction to all of this, I was one of those women. I had to admit, it made sense.

He made a new rule. I would call him “Master.”

He worked the butt plug into me (using the lubricant) very, very slowly. It took him almost twenty minutes, using first his fingers, then the plug. He’d keep the plug in me for hours, sometimes. It’s hard to describe the feeling. I’ve never felt anything like it.

After he took out the butt plug, he would put his cock in there. I think he really liked it.

I liked it, too. (Oh Geeez, I can’t believe I just wrote that!)

Twice, he tied me up so that I couldn’t move at all, roped from shoulders to heels, like a mummy, and then he would sort of hold me on his lap the way he’d hold a rolled-up carpet, and we would watch the videos from the store. The Story of “O” was especially good.

Once, after dinner, he untied me except for one ankle cuffed to the leg of the couch Then he put his head in my lap and made me read an X-rated book to him. I especially liked doing that.

He would sometimes tie me spread eagle to the bed for long periods of time, blindfold and gag me, then he would unexpectedly touch my clit with one of the vibrators. I would always cum violently.

I quickly discovered that sex is sort of smelly, and VERY messy. When he came, it had the tendency to drip out of me and it just got everywhere. Sometimes, he would clean me up with tissues or a towel, but often I would hang from my hook and it would dribble all the way down my legs onto the floor.

On the second day, my cunt started smelling sort of funny. It was better after he bathed me (did I mention he bathed me while I was all tied up and helpless?), but the smell came back again on that last day. I’ll get to that.

I told him I love him two more times, and each time he reacted the same way, laughing nervously before telling me that he loved me, too.

On the third evening (the last), I had been tied spread eagle to the bed for at least an hour, when I heard him talking on the phone. He seemed patient but insistent with whoever he was talking to. I heard him more clearly as he walked into the bedroom, and he told whoever it was that he’d call right back. It was a cell phone, and he pressed a button to disconnect the call before walking over to the edge of the bed. For once, he hadn’t put the blindfold or gag on me, and for once, he engaged in no preliminaries at all. He just crawled into bed, positioned himself between my spread legs, stroked himself several times to make his cock hard, and then he stuffed it right into my cunt.

By this time, I had pretty much taken it for granted that our life together would be one of master and slave, and that I would always be open to him, always ready for him. Even so, the suddenness of this was surprising to me. He began thrusting into me almost frantically, and I remember thinking that something must have really turned him on. After a dozen or so thrusts, he sort of half rolled off of me, but kept himself buried deep in my cunt, and I watched, flabbergasted, as he reached for the cell phone and pushed a button. He listened for a moment, and spoke.

“Yes sir, sorry about that, I’m back now. No, I fully understand. No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Yes, yes, I’d be happy to see you then. Yes, certainly. Here she is.”

And without a single word of explanation, he pressed the phone into the pillow beneath my head so that it was cradled against my ear and mouth, then he let go of it and began fucking me again.

“Dee?”

Oh, my God! Oh no, please! “Daddy?”

I looked up at Jay questioningly, but he had his eyes closed as he pushed into me over and over again. I tried desperately not to pant or make any of the other telltale sounds that just seemed to slip out of me whenever Jay was having sex with me.

“Tell me you haven’t given him the strategy!” Daddy hissed at me. “So help me, if you’ve uttered one word of it to that asshole ….”

“Ugh!” I blurted. Jay was beginning to fuck me very hard now. He would be coming soon. “What?” It took my harried brain a few moments to understand exactly what Daddy was talking about.

Now, I’m not going to go into a lot of very mundane business stuff, especially when I’m describing the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me. But in a nutshell, the thing that makes a mutual fund tick is the fund manager’s strategy. That is what people ultimately are investing in. Really, it’s nothing more than a mathematical formula that is applied to variables that affect certain types of stocks. Daddy had invested a couple hundred mil into a new fund, and he’d established me as the manager. I’d come up with the strategy all on my own, I’d applied it and refined it and updated it daily, and it really seemed to be working. The fund had more than doubled in value in the last eight months and it was on several of Wall Street’s “most active” lists.

And so this was the situation: His only daughter had run away from home with a strange man and had been turned into a willing, panting sex slave. But now, after three whole days, when he finally got her on the phone, the only thing he wanted to know was “Did you give him the strategy?” What an asshole!

“No, Daddy! Ungh!” I stammered. Jay was really pounding me. “Daddy, I love him! Ugh!”

“Love him!? You fucking little bitch!” Daddy screamed.

Jay was coming. Hard. I think I made a sort of gurgling sound.

Daddy didn’t seem to notice. “Put the asshole back on! NOW!”

What I really, really WANTED to say was: “He can’t talk right now, Daddy. He’s just cum deep, deep inside me. Cum bucketfuls, Daddy. I can feel it all oozing out of my cunt onto the sheet.” But what I said instead was: “Just a minute Daddy. I’ll put him back on the phone.” I sounded just like I did when I always spoke to Daddy. Meek. Small.

Jay took his time catching his breath before picking the phone up again. “Yes, sir? Yes, yes, that would be fine. We’ll see you then.” He pressed the off button again.

I couldn’t help myself. “NO! No, please, Jay! Master. Please! We can’t! I just can’t go back there!”

He gave me a half-stern, half-understanding look, the way a parent looks at a rambunctious child in public. “I will not let the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with leave her family on an unpleasant note,” he said in a placating tone.

I looked up at him questioningly. Did he mean that? “Please!” I begged again, my voice a whisper. “I don’t ever want to see him again.”

“Not another word!” he said sternly. “You are my slave. I am the master in this relationship, and I will decide what you will and will not do! Do you trust me?”

I paused too long before whispering “Yes,” but he chose not to notice.

I don’t think I slept at all that night.

After a breakfast of toasted frozen waffles, he removed all of my restraints for the first time since we arrived and helped me dress in my blouse, skirt and sandals. I didn’t say anything as I stood meekly in the center of the room while he walked around the house gathering up all the things we’d gotten in the sex store, putting them back in the blue gym bag. I sat sadly in the seat of the car, the bag in my lap again, as we sped back toward the home I thought I had left forever. I paid no attention to where we were or what we passed.

Suddenly, he turned sharply down a narrow back road, then quickly again, and yet again, and parked in a small dirt area beside a country access road. He jerked his door open, crawled into the back seat, and I sat bewildered as he began tugging his pants down. “Get back here!” he ordered tersely.

I had to open my side door, put the seat forward, and crawl back to join him on the back seat of the convertible. He grabbed my waist with both hands and positioned me above his lap with my knees on either side of his hips. It took me a few seconds to figure out what he had planned, since we’d never done it this way before. My skirt was really getting in the way.

“Help me, damn it!” he hissed.

I wasn’t used to doing anything at all during sex. I was always tied up. I reached down between us, but my hand got tangled up in the skirt, as well. I finally got it free, found his prick, which was very hard (we hadn’t done it since last night when I’d talked on the phone), and somehow guided it to my opening. I was sore, but very wet and slippery. I hadn’t bathed since last night, either.

He began lifting me up and pulling me down with his hands, and once again it took me the better part of a minute to realize that what he really wanted was for ME to do all the work. I rose up and down, digging my knees into the rough leather seat and impaling myself on his stiff shaft. Once I established the rhythm to his liking, he just sat there, leaning his head back against the seat, his eyes closed. Fortunately, no cars came down that access road. I don’t know what I’d have done if one had. I could see the traffic flowing in both directions on the main highway, which was only thirty of forty yards away through the bushes. The sudden thought struck me that anybody who happened to be looking our way could see us. Certainly they would know what I was doing. There was probably no other action on earth that resembled sex between a man and a woman. I felt very ashamed. I also felt very turned on. I wished he would reach down and touch me there. It wouldn’t take much. I wanted it so badly. I leaned forward a little, trying to get the friction I needed, but I couldn’t quite make it work.

And then he stiffened, grabbed me by the waist again, slammed me all the way down, and bellowed like a bull as his prick twitched inside of me. I tentatively put my arms around his neck and held him as he panted into my hair. I stroked his head and told him how good he felt inside of me. But after another minute, he lifted me off, set me aside on the seat, and pulled up his underwear and pants.

Too soon, I was in the front seat and we were driving again. I felt his cum dripping out of me and soiling my skirt, but I chose not to mention it. Again, I smelled the funny odor I’d experienced that second day, and I reluctantly had to admit it was coming from between my legs. We were moving fast in the little car, but the smell followed me like a cloud.

And then, I suddenly realized that I knew where we were. We were almost there! He seemed to know the way, know the house and where to turn down the winding drive. He braked to a halt before the house, came around to open and hold my door, and to my amazement, he picked up the gym bag. He took my hand and led me to the front door.

“What are you going to do with THAT?” I asked, risking a rules violation.

“Don’t want to leave it in the car,” he said matter-of-factly. “Somebody might find it.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to argue, but one just didn’t do that with one’s master. He didn’t bother to knock, and I was very surprised to find that the front door was unlocked. We walked in, and I let him look around a little. This is the reaction many visitors have. Most people have driven by big, big homes and wished they could see inside, and I never begrudged anyone the opportunity to rubberneck a little once they get inside ours. Where were Martha and Ben, I wondered.

He stopped by the first door he came to and opened it. “What’s this,” he asked.

“The waiting room.”

“Waiting room?” He walked in and looked around, and I followed. I didn’t come in here very often.

“For guests,” I explained. “They wait here while our butler comes and announces them.”

He nodded, looked around a little more, then he pushed the gym bag under the settee beside the door. “We’ll just leave this here until we’re ready to leave,” he said, and I breathed a little sigh of relief.

Back in foyer, he told me to take him to my father, and I led him in the direction of the East Wing and then turned left down the Long Hall toward father’s library study, which is where he could usually be found this time of day.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I said in a small voice, pausing by the East Wing downstairs bath. I didn’t really have to, but Jay’s cum was dribbling down both of my inner thighs and the “smell” seemed to be getting stronger (though that may have been my imagination).

“Not now,” he said tersely. “We can stop here on the way out.”

So I continued down the hall and hesitated outside the closed door. But Jay opened it without knocking (something no one was EVER allowed to do) and I found myself shuffling uncertainly after him.

Jay marched right up to Daddy, who was sitting behind the huge desk, and put out his hand in greeting. “Jay Johnston. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Daddy didn’t even look up, just kept writing on a yellow legal pad. After a few long seconds, Jay lowered his hand, but he kept that silly, patient smile pasted on his lips and didn’t move or say another word. I wondered who would blink first in this war of wills. To my astonishment, it was Daddy.

“Sit down,” he grumbled. I immediately went to the large sofa and sat in the center of it, giving Jay the opportunity to take either side he chose, but to my amazement, he walked to the big leather chair in front of the desk and sat there. He still didn’t say anything, and a very, very cold feeling began to creep all over me. Why didn’t Jay sit beside me? Why wasn’t he telling Daddy he loved me? Why wasn’t he telling Daddy that he was taking me away, and that all the money in the world didn’t matter? Why didn’t he say SOMETHING!?

Finally, Daddy looked up and locked eyes with him, but his most withering look didn’t seem to faze Jay, and I felt a small flash of pride. They just sat like that for the longest time. Then, slowly, Daddy looked back down, opened his bottom drawer, and my heart sank even lower when he took out the big leather checkbook. I might have made a little noise of surprised dismay, but if I did, neither of them seemed to notice. The atmosphere in the room was electric. I wished (oh, how I wished!) that Jay’s cum would stop dripping out of my cunt.

Daddy wrote out a check, tore it from the large volume, and laid it on the edge of the desk in front of him, and then he leaned back and glared at Jay.

No, Jay! Please, Jay! No! Please, no!

Jay got slowly out of the chair, walked forward, picked up the check, then backed up, always maintaining eye contact with Daddy, and sat down again. Suddenly, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I felt hollow. Artificial. I wasn’t real. Nothing was real anymore. The tears started then. Quiet tears. Silent tears. My “Daddy tears.”

Jay glanced down for a split second and right back up at Daddy again. The silence stretched on.

Finally, Jay said: “I will require one additional thing.”

“Not one cent!” Daddy screamed, spittle spraying across the desk, his face crimson. I’ve never seen Daddy that mad.

Jay acted as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “You, sir, have the power ruin any man you wish. I would need your word of honor that you would leave me and my affairs alone.”

Daddy suddenly calmed. He regarded this young adversary with sudden respect. “Done,” he said solemnly, “provided you never, ever invest, bargain for, or do business with any of my companies, holdings or financial instruments …” he paused “… including her.” He jerked a thumb in my direction without looking at me. I had become a financial instrument.

Jay nodded slowly. “Done,” he said clearly, then hoisted himself out of his chair and walked to the door.

“I’ve given the maid and butler the day off,” Daddy barked. “You found your way in, you can find your way out!”

Jay didn’t answer. He opened the door and walked out. He had never once looked at me or even acknowledged my existence since we had entered the room. The only thing I had left to remind me of him, at least for awhile, was the smell and feel of the sexual juices he had deposited in my body only 30 minutes before.

Daddy began writing on the legal pad again. I sat there. Something was going to happen. Something terrible. My tears continued without so much as a whimper.

Finally, he set the pad aside and stood up. He went to the door, then finally turned and motioned for me to come to him. I did so without question or hesitation. He grabbed my wrist and led me out into the hall and down toward the West Wing. I simply allowed myself to be led. Nothing seemed real.

He opened the door to the basement, flipped a switch, and led me down the steep stairs. There are several corridors down there, and more than a dozen rooms. I never showed any inclination to explore below the main floors as a child. I always thought it was spooky. Scary. I did know, somehow, that the door we finally stopped in front of was always kept locked. Sure enough, he took a small set of keys from his pocket, selected one, and opened it.

The room was totally bare except for a metal folding chair and a very strange sort of table in the center of the floor. The walls sported no pictures. A small fireplace was set into one corner, but there was no firewood and no ashes in the grate. It hadn’t been used for a very, very long time. The table appeared to be bolted to the floor on sturdy, oversized wooden legs that were both too far apart on one side and too close together on the other. It was very narrow in the center, and very wide at either end, and it faintly resembled a capital letter “X.” The only light in the room was provided by a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a hook on one wall, and from it, in a large coil, hung a very thick, very long, very mean-looking bullwhip.

So this was to be my punishment. How Machiavellian. How gothic. I was to be reduced to a character in a cheap novel. But he couldn’t hurt me anymore. No suffering could surpass what I was feeling already.

He led me to the table and let go of my wrist to position it. The whole table twisted on some sort of hinge, and sure enough, when it was vertical, it looked exactly like a big “X.” There were leather buckles at each corner, and I passively let him fasten first one wrist, then the other to the uppermost portion of it. My breasts, unrestrained beneath my light blouse, ballooned slightly as they pressed into the rough wood of the thing. There was a cross-brace at the level of my face, and I turned my head and rested my cheek against it, watching, waiting. He knelt to remove my sandals before fastening my ankles to the lower portion, spreading my legs so that my feet no longer touched the ground. I felt more of the cum dribble down the insides of my legs. He must have smelt me. He was very close down there, and I could smell the odor.

He twisted the table again, swinging it forward, so that I was neither horizontal nor vertical. Then, with a savage movement, he grabbed handfuls of the back of my blouse and ripped it almost completely off of me. Small tatters of the garment were dangling from each arm, and he quickly tore those off as well. With a vicious yank, he pulled my skirt’s waistband so far asunder that it fell all the way to my widely spaced ankles. He left it there. The air was cool but dry in the basement, and with my whole backside exposed to the room, I shivered involuntarily.

Daddy walked to the wall and picked up the bullwhip almost reverently. I watched in fascination as he began doing something very strange. He started pick-pick-picking at something on the very end of the whip, and with all honesty, he reminded me of a monkey picking fleas. I simply couldn’t fathom the meaning of the ritual. He didn’t even glance at me for the longest time. I was completely naked, yet Daddy was much more interested in the whip than in the nude woman tied to the table in front of him. I had thought briefly that he might rape his only daughter, but he was much too focused on the task at hand to consider such a thing.

He walked behind me and I lost sight of him. I waited several long seconds before the first blow struck.

The fickle finger writ, Omar Khayyam once said, and having writ, moves on. History, once complete, cannot be undone. But, if I ever DID have the chance to relive that horrible event, I would have done it much, much differently. I would have screamed. I would have screamed loud and long and begged and cried and pleaded. But as it was, I did none of those things, except to continue to shed my silent “Daddy tears.” I never uttered a peep of protest. That’s why he didn’t stop, of course. He wasn’t going to stop until he had gotten some sort of response from me.

There is no sound on earth like that of a bullwhip striking flesh. Many have written about it, but they’ve obviously never seen it, and most certainly they’ve never experienced it. TV and movies don’t even come close. Try to imagine hitting a piece of raw meat with a dull butter knife hard enough to cut. That’s what the whip does. It strikes and grabs and digs in and rakes and tears and cuts, all in the span of a half-second. The first stroke hit with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. By the time the second struck, the pain from the first was just starting to build. And after the third, I quite frankly lost count. Silly for someone so proficient at math.

I’ve tried to count them once or twice. It just can’t be done. I stand, naked, in the bathroom with my back to the big mirror and look in a hand mirror back over my shoulder and try to figure it out, but it’s impossible. They get all jumbled. The scars, I mean. One ends where another begins. Were those two from the same blow? Surely not. They’re at slightly different angles. And that one’s too deep to be connected with that one. Unless two blows fell in exactly the same place. Thirty, at least. Fifty? Perhaps. Oh, God, the pain was terrible.

I suddenly couldn’t breath, and sputtering, realized that Daddy had thrown a glass of water in my face. Had I passed out? Where had the water come from? I looked over my left arm to watch him. Why was everything pink? No, not pink, really. There were little, tiny dots of red on everything, everywhere. Blood. My blood. Daddy stood in front of me, breathing hard, picking at the end of the whip again. Picking. Cleaning the end of the whip. Picking what? Bits of flesh. My flesh. And suddenly my heart sank even more. Oh, the horror of it! Whose flesh had he been picking from the whip before he struck ME?!?! There could be only one answer to that question, though my mind screamed and railed against the thought. Mommy. Oh, Mommy!

And then he was gone again. Out of my view again. And another blow, and another.

I sputtered and coughed on the water once more. I felt different. Sort of “floaty,” is how I’d describe it. The room was floating around me, or maybe I was floating around it. The pain was hot, but the room had suddenly turned very cold. Daddy had a funny expression on his face: sort of half triumph, half … what? Fear? But that was impossible for me to know, and I almost laughed. I’d never seen Daddy frightened of anything.

Suddenly, he was gone. I thought maybe he was behind me again, ready to strike the next blow. But it never came. Where could he be? And what was that strange noise? At first, I thought it might be a loud clock … tick, tick, tick. But I finally realized that that wasn’t the sound at all. Drip, drip, drip. I forced my arm so that I could look beneath it at the floor. Where had all the blood come from? Surely not just me … there was too much of it. No one could possibly lose that much blood and survive. It stood in a huge, spreading puddle, and it looked … deep. Drip, drip, drip.

Scream. It exploded into the room and bounced around the walls, and suddenly Mommy was there, holding my head and looking at me in abject horror.

“Call an ambulance!” she screeched at my father, who was standing at the small doorway. He held an armload of bath towels.

“No,” he said flatly.

Mommy spun to face him and talked frantically, waving her arm in my direction. “She has to get to a hospital, Robert! She desperately needs a doctor! You can see the bones laid bare in her back! Look at all the blood!”

“No ambulance,” Daddy said calmly. “No hospital. No doctor.”

To my astonishment, Mommy knelt in the spreading puddle of blood and looked up at him. “Please, Master,” she implored. “Please! She’s going to die!”

(Master?)

Daddy tossed the stack of towels onto my back as if I were the piece of furniture itself, then reached down, grasped Mommy by her shoulders and hoisted her to her feet. He looked her steadily in the eye.

“If she dies, you and I will bury her body in the woods and we’ll tell everyone that she never came back. We’ll tell them that we’ve disowned her and we don’t care where she is. No one will ever know. If you can save her somehow, I’ll put her back to work. Either – Or. I really don’t care which.”

And he turned on his heel and was gone.

Mommy spun around and looked at me, big silent tears flowing freely down both cheeks, and I thought “She cries like I do.” And then a look of stoic determination I’d never witnessed set her features and she picked up the stack of towels, gasping at what she saw beneath, set them on the folding chair, took the top one and pressed it into my back hard. That should have really hurt, but I found the pain somehow oddly decreasing. I tried to say something, but my lips didn’t seem to be responding to my brain. I jerked awake as she removed the towel and threw it onto the floor, where it quickly became sodden with blood; then she grabbed the next towel from the stack and pressed it in a slightly different place, pushing hard with both hands. This went on for some time.

My mind seemed to fade in and out more frequently, as she worked, pressing, changing positions, changing towels, pushing some more. Finally, I seemed to wake a little more than usual, and she smiled down at me. “I think it’s stopping, Dee! You’re going to be all right! You are! Let me do this just a little more, then I’ll untie you. Okay?”

In a sudden burst of clarity, I found my voice. There was one thing I desperately wanted more than anything, but when I spoke, it was in a whisper so faint I had to repeat it for her. “Please … please clean me. Please.”

“What? Where?”

“Between my legs. Please.”

She paused and I could see her look down, see the shock on her face. “Oh.” I could only imagine what it must look like; Jay’s cum mixing with all the blood. I could still feel it. I could still smell it. “Did your … did your father do this to you?”

“No …. Jay.”

“Jay? Was he the boy you ran away with?”

I couldn’t find my voice again, but I think I managed a small nod.

She stopped pressing on the latest compress and reached for the next towel, moistening it in a small bucket of water I hadn’t noticed before. I felt its coolness as she began cleaning the cum from my inner thighs, moving up toward my cunt. “I wish so much you hadn’t come back,” Mommy was saying, pushing the tip of the towel inside my gaping opening, cleansing me of Jay’s slimy deposit. It felt good. Good to be clean. Then she inadvertently scraped the rough material across my clit.

I hadn’t uttered a peep during the beating, but I did now. I screamed a weak “Ahhhhh!” as I came and came and came. My body jerked inconsequentially against my bonds and the orgasm just seemed to drain the last teeny bit of strength from my body. Mommy didn’t seem to notice at all, just went back to the job of staunching the blood flow from my back as I lay quivering from the ecstasy that had washed through me.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured meekly.

“Don’t worry about it at all,” Mommy said. “I think it’s perfectly natural. The whip always leaves me that way, too.”

“He whips you,” I whispered, fresh tears on my cheeks. I was about to pass out. I don’t know how I knew it, but somehow I did.

“No, not for a long time now,” she said. “And never like this. Never, ever like this.”

That comforted me, strangely. And yet my uppermost feeling was shame. My mother had made me cum. And it wasn’t a little one, either. I was still tingling.

That was the last time. I haven’t had an orgasm since. Not one in more than two years.

I woke to find myself in a very strange position. My bare breasts were pressed against the smooth fabric of the back of Mommy’s dress. She had a firm grip on each of my wrists, and she was carrying me on her back, like a donkey with a heavy burden, slowly, one step at a time up the stairs. She’ll never make it, I thought. She’s smaller than I am and she has too far to go. But when I opened my eyes again, I was on my own bed, lying nude on my stomach, and she was rubbing something on my butt.

There was something I HAD to do before I lost consciousness again. “Please!” I croaked.

“What is it, dear,” she said, coming close to my lips to hear my whispered plea.

“In the waiting room. Blue bag. Under the settee.”

“You want it? I can have Martha get it for you.”

“NO!” I murmured urgently. “No one must see. Please get it! Get rid of it!”

“Yes, dear. I promise,” she said, and began swabbing my butt again. My mind drifted away.

I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I lived. My recovery and convalescence took almost two months, and in a way, they were the best of my entire life. I wasn’t pregnant with Jay’s child (or if I was, it wasn’t for long). My period started almost two weeks early, possible from the loss of blood. I was extremely ill for awhile.

I got to know my mother, and oddly, she became a friend. At times, Daddy would come for her, demand her presence, and she would never hesitate to leave me and serve him. But he allowed her to return to me when he was finished with her, and for the entire period, Daddy never spoke a word to me; which, I thought, only added to pleasantness of those eight weeks. She read to me as I lay there, my wounds open to the air, slowly healing. Book after book, she read, and I loved it. Loved her, the way every daughter wants to love a mother. When I was strong enough to sit, I would read to her while she sewed patches for her quilts. It was a magic time.

But it ended. One day, Daddy came to me and ordered me downstairs to the main office. It took me almost a week to figure out what had happened with the mutual fund. Daddy had taken over its administration, and quite frankly, he had bungled it badly. My formula was in tatters. Once some erroneous variable has been added to a complex equation, the permutations compound at an incredible rate. It took me almost two more months to set it back on the track to profitability. I worked feverishly, sometimes fourteen hours a day, but the work was all I had. Mommy went back to her quilting room upstairs. Our dysfunctional world was back in order.

Five months ago, Daddy took Mommy with him to a speaking engagement in Manhattan. He evidently decided to walk to a little-known gourmet establishment in the Restaurant District off of 7th Avenue, somewhere in the 50’s. After they caught the guy that did it, the police said that the mugger had demanded Mommy’s diamond necklace, and she’d given it to him immediately; but Daddy had refused to give up his wallet. The guy shot them each in the head. It probably would have been the trial of the century, but I threatened the New York Prosecutor’s office with revealing certain “possible contributing factors” if they didn’t cut a deal with the guy. There was no trial, and now he’s serving a life sentence on Riker’s Island.

As soon as I heard the news, I made Ben get an axe and knock open the door of the little room in the basement. Then I made him leave me, and I used that axe to pound the “X” table into splinters, which I burned in the little fireplace. Leather is a funny material. It took that bullwhip almost two hours to burn entirely, but I sat watching and poking at it until it was finally only ashes. I will never again experience the companionship of a man because of that bullwhip. I am hideously disfigured! And in the end, I could only find the strength to take out my frustrations on the implement rather than the man who used it.

I had our family lawyer fly to New York and apply “pressure” to the coroner’s office. While, by law, an autopsy was required in a homicide, Mommy’s records were to remain sealed and the Chief Coroner was the only one to see her body. He seemed sympathetic, and no one ever knew about her scars.

No one has ever seen mine, either. No one until Brenda, that is. And of course, I have never breathed a word of this to any person on earth. Not until Brenda.

The story left me exhausted, teary-eyed, and strangely light-headed, but of course, the four glasses of Dom might have had something to do with that. Brenda had tears, too, and she had snuffled frequently into her napkin during the hour-long baring of my soul. I really DID feel better telling someone about it, but I still had serious doubts whether I’d done the right thing. We were both silent for a long time, and she seemed to want to say something, but was reluctant. I just waited. I’d done enough talking.

Finally, she looked at me and said “But that’s not why, is it? It’s sad, but it’s not the real reason.”

For a second my blood ran cold. I had a very funny feeling that there was considerably more to this young woman than meets the eye. I remembered how she’d looked at me in the shower. Could she really see inside me? “The reason for what?” I asked, holding my breath.

She was silent for a long second. “You’re going to commit suicide, aren’t you, Dee?”

I glared at her, unbelieving, and I opened my mouth to answer, shut it again, then reached for my glass and knocked it over. Across the room, a waiter saw me and came hurrying our way, but I waved him back, and he changed direction and rushed into the kitchen, instead. What could I say? I could lie. I could tell her to go to hell.

“How ….”

“You look like someone I used to know,” Brenda said calmly. “My freshman year. She lived in my dorm, on the same floor. She was quiet, kind of a loner, but I think we were friends.” Another tear slid down her cheek. “At least, I think we were. Second semester, she started getting a funny look in her eye. Something … I don’t know … hard to describe. But then, after another week or so, she changed again; like she’d made up her mind. She seemed more at peace, I suppose, like she was glad the decision had been made. She looked like …. She looked … like you do. The same sort of expression. A few days later, she threw herself off the roof. It was twenty floors ….”

“And now you wish you’d been able to talk her out of it,” I said, my voice dead.

“No,” Brenda replied quietly. “I don’t think I’d have been able to do that.” She paused again. “I just wish I’d been able to tell her good-bye.”

I stared at her. I was afraid to say a word.

“Please, Dee,” she said, staring pleadingly into my eyes. “Don’t do it without telling me good-bye. Come to me and tell me before it happens.”

I don’t know why I said what I did next. I guess I did it out of some sort of survival instinct (which is especially funny for someone about to do what I’m going to). When trapped, animals lash out. Humans turn to mean-spirited words instead.

“Very nice,” I hissed at her. “It would make a GREAT magazine article! ‘How I Saved the Poor Little Rich Girl!’”

If I had struck her in the face, I couldn’t have injured her more. Her eyes widened in utter shock, she opened her mouth to say something, shut it again, and her face dissolved in total despair and sadness. She raised a hand to her mouth and sobbed, stood rapidly, overturning her chair, and turned to flee.

I reached out with both hands and grabbed her right arm. “Brenda ... Brenda, I’m sorry. Please, sit down. I didn’t mean that. Please!” At least three waiters, scurrying around the periphery of the room, setting tables for the evening service, had frozen in their tracks and were staring at us, wondering whether to help or keep away.

Brenda looked back at me, her hand still to her mouth, and she tried to talk through her sobs. “Did … did you … did you really think I ….”

“NO!” I implored. “Please forget I said that. I … You … you just really surprised me, that’s all. I didn’t know how to react. Please sit back down! I’m so sorry!”

Slowly, she sat, and I did, too. The waiters began scurrying again. I didn’t know what to say, and it was evident she was afraid to say anything. She took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose, then sat silent, miserable.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked her quietly.

She looked up again, a glimmer of something … hope? … in her eyes. “Promise you’ll tell me before it happens,” she implored. “You have to tell me personally, to my face. I promise I won’t try to talk you out of it, though I want to, of course. But it would be unbearable if you didn’t tell me good-bye.”

I regarded her silently for a long minute. “And you won’t tell anyone?” I asked, guardedly. “How about Fred?”

She looked agitated for a moment. “I can’t keep anything from him if he asks me,” she said earnestly. “When he hypnotizes me I have no secrets from him at all. But how could he possibly know? It’s not the sort of thing one thinks to ask about. If he never asks, I’ll never have to tell him. Your secret’s safe, I’m sure!”

I regarded her silently. What a strange sort of pact!

“I promise,” I said.

And then, due to some odd, unspoken agreement, we changed the subject entirely and didn’t speak of it again. After awhile, we even laughed a little about mundane things. Fred was coming back from his camping trip this evening, and I asked her to bring him to dinner tomorrow night. She readily agreed. I gave her directions to the lake house. It’s a little less pretentious there, and believe it or not, I’ve still never told her my last name, though I’m sure she knows who I am. She must.

Alphonse called us two cabs, since neither one of us was in much shape to drive after the champagne (but she only had one glass!), and I paid her cabby in advance before she could protest.

I’m really looking forward to tomorrow night. One last nice evening.