REGIME IMPERIA: COPYRIGHTED 2004

THE EVERETTS/ CHAPTER 1

“Donald… you asshole, where the fuck are you?  Get your ass in here right now?”

Seventeen-year-old Mary Everett was getting furious.  Was her stepfather being purposely stubborn?  Did he actually believe he could get away with such disobedience? 

       Finally, Donald Everett arrived at his stepdaughter’s bedroom.  He’d been down the hallway, in his own bathroom, trying to urinate through the tricky restrictive chastity device locked tightly onto his genitals.  When he heard Mary’s voice he regretfully interrupted the flow of his urine and quickly lifted the tight khaki shorts he was required to wear.  He hurried down the hallway.  When he stood in the girl’s doorway he seemed out of breath… and looked defeated.

       “Why are you still standing, shit face?  Get down on your fucking knees right now.”

       With a sigh of exasperation and futility, Donald slowly collapsed to the floor and dropped his head to his chest.  The regime of slavery was truly getting to him now.   It had been a difficult path he’d chosen, living as a slave to his wife these past ten years, but now that her two daughters had grown into teenagers the regime of slavery had turned drastically more intense.  Donald Everett, ex-CEO of a large aeronautics firm and onetime employer of thousands, was not only a virtual slave to his cruel wife now, but forced to obey her two young daughters as well, both of them budding sadists.

       “Get your fat ass down to the basement and find me my blue tee shirt.  The one with the ‘Girl Power’ thingy on it.”

       He rose to leave.

       “Wait,” she screamed at him, and rushed to the doorway.  Swiftly, she reached up and slapped his face hard.  “You say ‘yes Mistress Mary’ don’t you?  Well?”

       “Yes, Mistress Mary,” he responded, gritting his teeth from the utter humiliation.  Mary had just turned seventeen years old.

       “Now go.  And move that ass or I’ll blister it for you with one of Mom’s crops.”

       After slapping his face she thought about how her mother seemed to have it down perfectly, slapping him forehand and back, creating such a delicious sound and a look of terror on the old man’s face.  I’ve got to learn how to do that, she told herself. Maybe I’ll try it next time.

       He rushed down the stairs.  Already he was worried.  What was it she asked for again?  Oh, a tee shirt of some kind.  He hoped he’d have no problem finding it.  He hurried through the kitchen to the stairs to the basement.  Inside the door to the cellar several whips and canes hung upon some pegs.  It seemed as if every corner of this house contained a reminder of his utter slavery.  Reaching the basement, he turned to the right; the area that was the “normal” part of the basement; containing the washing machine and dryer, some tables for folding laundry, an ironing board, and such.  Off to the left stood an ominous wall, with a locked door in the middle.  The door let to the finished area of the basement… finished and converted into a torture chamber.

       He searched the washed laundry.  Found no blue tee shirt.  But a basket of unwashed laundry sat on the table.  Rummaging through that, he found a blue sweatshirt (not a tee shirt) and it said “Girl Power” on it.  Was this what she meant?  He’d better just bring it up to her.

       As he rushed up two flights of stairs, again he worried.  He was vulnerable, open to the capricious and vicious little bitch of a stepdaughter.  She could say, “That’s not it, asshole” or “Why is it still dirty?  Why didn’t you wash it?”  She could accuse him of any sort of shortcoming she’d like, and get away with it. Trying to reason with the tyrant was hopeless.  Fact was she got off on tormenting him. 

And he suffered another torment… one he’d hoped would remain secret.  It was a rather touchy dilemma: now, at age thirty-four, he found himself turned on by both of his stepdaughters, the two post-pubescent sisters.  There was the older daughter, Mary, just now seventeen.  Today—and most days—she dressed in tight, cut-off shorts, cut to reveal the orbs of her smooth pink ass cheeks.  For tops she wore either halter tops or hanky-sized, bare-belly tee shirts.  Of course, the minx went braless.  Each time she’d walk into a room Donald practically moaned in frustration.  Oh, why couldn’t she have a skinny or otherwise un-attractive body?  But no, she’d filled out in the last couple of years into an irresistibly succulent morsel, with defiant breasts threatening to burst her tiny tops, and long smooth legs that were constantly bared, right down to her dainty, painted toes (toes that Donald, in agony, often had to paint).  To Donald she was a dangerous and  untouchable tease, in and of herself a torturer. 

This torment was enhanced all the more by the implacable and restrictive chastity device locked onto his genitals; any slight rise in arousal and the device punished him cruelly.  Already tight upon him while flaccid, the device turned to sheer agony when he began to erect.  At an early stage of arousal, the slight pain was actually further arousing, making him erect even more.  But then the device paid its evil dividend… unable to easily reverse his rebellious erection, the pain increased until he was doubled over in pain.  Thus, his very thoughts were punished.

Then there was the younger sister, Celeste.  She’d just turned fifteen, and had small breasts yet, but she was tall and lissome, with golden blond hair that flowed down her back to just above her narrow waist.  Shamefully, Donald coveted Celeste as well; her narrow waist and hips caused him to recall Nabakov’s repulsive Humbert Humbert, and the nymph, Lolita, Humbert’s own stepdaughter.  Celeste hadn’t yet physically tormented Donald; hadn’t slapped him or ordered him around yet, but she was present at many of his humiliating punishments, when her mother would berate and whip her stepfather.  What troubled Donald was the laughing.  It seemed that the silly teen could not keep from giggling whenever she witnessed his debasing punishments.

Life had not always so bad for Donald.  Oh, his wife, Caroline, had been domineering from the day he’d met her.  That was no surprise for Donald, as he was already submissive by nature and searching for a dominant partner.  And so by courting and then marrying Caroline he’d had his dream fulfilled.  But she already had two young daughters, and that concerned him: after all, how do you carry on an effective s&m marriage with small kids around? 

“You leave that part up to me, darling,” she’d told him.  “There are ways to do this discretely.  I can always punish you in secret.  We have enough money, and we can always build a dungeon in a cellar.  Yes, we will have to be careful in most things, but I see no reason why my girls can’t witness me scolding you.  After all, I do plan to have them brought up properly, to become Dommes themselves eventually.”

“You want them to become dominant too?” Donald asked, almost incredulously.  “But starting when?  Surely you don’t intend to slap me in front of them?  Mary is only seven, and Celeste is just five.”

“Of course I intend to give you orders in front of them,” she sneered.  “They need to see a man being obedient starting immediately.  Why not?”

“But it might be too shocking to them.  And, Caroline, it’d be extremely embarrassing for me.  Not just that, but it seems they would lose respect for me, not take me seriously, as your equal partner.”

“I have to laugh.    Let’s get this straight… you have said yourself that you are a slave, that you are not equal to me!  So this life will be humiliating for the poor slave.  Tsk tsk!  Always thinking of yourself aren’t you?  I should beat you right now, you selfish dog.  This is for my daughter’s benefit.  They need to learn the proper way to put a man in his place.  Do you want to deprive them of such valuable knowledge?  So, they see you being slapped around?  They will become used to it.  And, in time, I will allow them to see you being whipped, and eventually allow them to whip you themselves.”

Donald was in a state of shock.  He’d married a tyrannical Mistress, and had expected to travel the route of marriage as her slave, but her revelation troubled him.  Well, he’d just have to wait to see.

Then, five years ago they’d moved into this community.  Caroline had kept in touch with some old girlfriends of hers, and it turned out they’d formed a sort of corporation or conglomerate.  The aim of it was to gather together a large group of highly successful women who were already “into the scene.”  Why not, they reasoned, gather their resources and create for the first time in the United States, a town or community that was operated solely by dominant women.  Ten “board members” met, and ironed out the parameters.  With a pace so rapid it surprised the founders, they’d found an area in the Midwest, across the river from a prosperous city.  They’d bought out a huge farm and virtually all of an adjoining town and surrounding countryside of 3000 acres.  The new town was to be called… Imperia. 

Donald cursed the day they’d moved to Imperia.  Within the year Caroline had increased her dominance over him, and turned into an implacable tyrant, almost as if the walled and gated community had given her license for unrestricted reign over him.

In a rare eye of the storm he’d gotten up the nerve to speak to her about her sudden, unreasonably imperious regime.  But she’d been drinking this night, and sometimes after a festive night out with her girlfriends she’d come home feeling… well, a bit edgy.

“…Um…uh, thank you for allowing me to speak, Mistress.  May I say that I am surprised at how you have changed since we’ve moved here?  Are you angry about something or disappointed with the move?  Is that why you are taking it out on me? I mean, you’ve never beat me so much until now.”

Naturally, he was naked and speaking from his knees.  They were in her bedroom, and Caroline sat upon the bed, her legs crossed, smoking a cigarette in a black cigarette holder.  She wore her favorite leather skirt, the one with the slit up the side.  When he had a rare opportunity to speak, he almost always found himself choked up and hardly able to gather the breath to expel the words.  It was even more difficult when he was forced to look up at her imperious form, sitting as she did with legs crossed and that look in her face that warned tacitly: “go ahead, fool… bury yourself!”

“Taking it out on you?  You?  That’s all you think about, isn’t it?  Is that what a slave is supposed to be concerned with, his own worthless ass?”

“…. Well, no Mistress.  It’s just…” His voice quavered now, as he became totally unsure of himself. 

“It’s just that you are an insufferable asshole.  A slave.  You don’t even deserve a reply to your stupid question.  But guess what… I am going to give it to you.  And here’s why… because I know that you will not like hearing it.”

Donald, the ex-CEO quivered in fear.  Even so, unable to control himself, he felt the stirring of an erection.  This was before the chastity device, and so his response would be evident to Caroline.  But he couldn’t help it: her imposing image and arrogant mien turned him on.  He’d long been conditioned… become aroused by female arrogance.

She continued, this time it was obvious the alcohol was loosening her tongue.  She began didactically: “This community is new, but growing rapidly.  I might as well explain some of it to you, the structure: the makeup.  The entire town—almost this whole county—is now ruled by women.  You already have met a few of our neighbors.  Next door are the Plums, my old friend Patricia.  Across the street lives Mrs. Karstensen.  She may be in her sixties, but still every inch a quirt-wielding bitch.  Every household is ruled by a member of our organization.  All coming together from across the country to avail themselves of this unique opportunity; a place where dominant women can live and thrive amongst others of our kind, and at the same time putting to full measure our use of slave husbands.

“And you—all of you—chose this life.  You, Donald, chose your life of slavery.  I didn’t come running after you.  You sought me out and courted me.  You made your way down to that bondage club.  You followed me around the place like a mindless fool, probably saying to yourself: ‘ooh… I just have to get up the courage to talk to that nasty-looking bitch.  I need to serve her.  I pray on my knees that she will consider me.’  You did that… didn’t you, you insignificant twerp?”

“…Y..Yes, Mistress…I confess I did.  You’re right.”

“You bet I’m right.  And now here you are, kneeling on the floor with a disgusting erection, and married to the evil bitch of your warped dreams.  Nothing could be more perfect for both of us.  I am just what you need, Donald, and there’s no changing that.  And it’s the same for the others, too.  This community is made up of Mistresses and slaves.  Every slave here has volunteered to enter.  Nobody has kidnapped you.  Nobody hypnotized you or drugged you.  Each and every one of you came crawling to us.  In addition to all that, in the five years of our establishment not one slave has left.  Now, you tell me why.  You know the answer.  Come on, admit it, slave, tell me why no slave has left!”

“Because… because we have a need to be enslaved, Mistress?”

“Bravo!  And another thing: it works.  It was a forgone conclusion for us to succeed.  And you know why?  Because for each female sadist there exists a hundred or more slavish fools like you who feel compelled to submit and become owned by us.  There are many many so-called subs out there, but very few who have true slave potential.  And yes, there are more slaves than dominant women—there’s no actual statistics on it yet, but potential slaves may outnumber Dommes by a factor of a hundred to one.  That’s what’s made our founder so wealthy, her factories run on slave labor. And with you, dear Donald, I’ve discovered a true slave.  You are a born slave, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress, I am a true slave.”  He replied, his voice now choked with emotion.  He felt shaken, facing the utter futility he felt under the weight of his bizarre compulsion. 

While naked and on his knees, Donald could never feel any different than slavish, and especially when Caroline put him to questions, using her superior tone of voice, he felt it impossible to disagree; and the fact was, there was no disagreement because, after all, she was right, she did measure him correctly, he was truly a born slave.

“And now, about your so-called recent harsh treatment,” she said, lifting her ever-present riding crop, and fondling it.  “Well, you haven’t seen anything yet, Donald.  This is just the tip of the iceberg of my dominance.  Just you wait until we get to mix with others.  Wait till we can avail ourselves of the full potential of the place.  And just wait until Mary and Celeste grow into the delicious bitches I know they will become.” 

I’m going to tell your father when he gets home: this has long been a threat wielded over children… but now, the reversal or perversion of that threat is what truly frightened Donald Everett.

“You better obey everything, asshole, or Mom is gonna hear about it,” she would tell the kneeling man.  And Mary was always quick to use this threat; it was always so effective.  She would see her stepfather pale, almost quiver in fear as she growled her warning to him.

“Now, I want my room straightened and cleaned immaculate.  That means the vacuum, dusting and the works.”

Mary loved this, to baby sit the old fool and order him around.  But she wanted more.  She wanted him to fear her directly, not just her Mom.  She wanted not only full reign over him, but the privilege to punish and torture him…they way her mother did.

She decided to ask her girlfriend Boola for advice. 

She invited the girl over for a pool party. The two teens would lounge by the pool this sunny afternoon, listen to music, eat some lunch and smoke cigarettes.  Then, they’d talk about boys… and plot juicy things.  Oh what lusty joy to be rich, young, female and powerful.

As they lounged in the sun beside the kidney-shaped pool, Donald stood in the cool kitchen looking out through the glass doors.  He was garbed, if you could call it such, in his usual humiliating slave’s outfit.  This consisted of a thick, black leather collar, fastened tightly about his neck and locked into place.  His torso was naked, and showed bruises near his nipples and other parts of his chest.  His back was striped by whip marks, and showed old bruises as well as fresh welts raised just that morning before Caroline Everett left for business.  Then came his shorts.  By all appearances they were like an outsider’s: khaki hiker shorts, loose, with pockets; quite comfortable looking.  But beneath this, Donald was locked into a tight and punishing chastity device.  It had a double cruelty to it in that not only did it prevent him from touching and pleasing himself, but any lustful thoughts brought an immediate punishing agony; as he hardened, and his confined, suffering penis sought room to grow, it met a series of angry spikes that dug into his sensitive flesh.  And so, sometimes, Donald was observed to be having a moment of introspection, bent slightly at the waist, seemingly trying to resolve some problem; but what he was doing was trying to cope with a painful torture while attempting to get his mind off whatever it was that turned him on in the first place.

“I know exactly how you feel,” Boola said, stretching her long tanned legs upon the chaise lounge.  The two teens sat out in the sun at poolside, turning now and then to get the most of their tans, now and then applying more coconut oil to each other’s body.  Boola’s tan was twice that of Mary’s thanks to Boola’s Greek heritage.  “My Mom has a new slave and I just die thinking of all the things I want to do to him.  But Mom says I better lay off.  And definitely no sex until I am eighteen.”

“Yeah,” said Mary, “It’s so fuckin’ frustrating.  I mean, I wouldn’t let the asshole fuck me anyway.  But what’s wrong with getting my pussy eaten.”

“You just know that the outside girls are doing all kinds of shit with boys.  And here we are with slaves right in our own houses and we can’t get our pussies licked.”

Mary folded her towel for a pillow and turned over.

“At least if I could beat Donald, and torture him some, that’d give me a thrill.”

“So, what’s stopping you?  You mean you don’t get to beat him?
       “Shit,” Mary said, “all I get to do is slap his face now and then.”

Boola snickered, faced Mary.  “Well, I beat the shit out of all Mom’s slaves.  Wanna hear how?”

“God, Bool, you get away with that?  Yeah, gimme, gimme.”

After Boola left, Mary went back into the house and called out for Donald.  When he didn’t come running or, even respond, she began to seethe.  That ridiculous creature was just asking for it now. 

She was pissed at him anyway, as she was certain she’d caught him gaping at her and Boola’s bikini-clad bodies.  Actually, she liked the idea of him suffering in frustration as he tried to disguise his craving while serving drinks to them at poolside.  It was fun knowing how your mere presence could torment someone so.  But it was an affront nevertheless, and he should be punished further for ogling them. 

They were sprawled there in the briefest of bikinis, Mary’s her bra covering little more than her pink nipples; and so for the most part her perfect body taunted the hungry Donald, who hadn’t been permitted a cum for over a month.  Mary knew it, and flaunted herself, calling him out for the slightest thing, like to light their cigarettes.

But now she couldn’t find him.  She yelled again, as she walked though the ground floor, going from kitchen to den to washroom.  Finally, as she reached the stairway, he was coming down, no sign of rush in him.  Oh, he is going to get it for this, she thought.

“I was calling you, asshole.  You got some pair of balls ignoring me.”

He opened his mouth to respond… but…

“First, what the fuck you standing there for?  Up above me like that?”  As he scrambled to pass to a step below her she continued.  “I been calling you.  When I call you, you better fuckin’ turn into a rocket.”

“But…”

He never finished. Her right arm flashed and she slapped him hard across the face.  He wanted to tell her he’d been vacuuming.  He’d been doing just what she’d ordered, and that’s why he couldn’t hear her calling.  This is what galled him most, the constant vulnerability to injustices; guilt declared and punishment delivered before a word of defense could be uttered. 

“I was vacuuming…” he managed to whisper, his head lowered in shame and pain.   He just had to get that out somehow.

“Okay, stupid.  Who gives a fuck anyway.  Get on your fuckin’ knees and listen to this.  You been asking for it for a long time now, and from now on I’m gonna give you what you need.  You been staring at my tits and legs and butt too much lately, and your ass is gonna pay.  Now, crawl down this hallway and wait for me in Mom’s den.  Don’t look at me like that.  I said, Mom’s den.”

As Donald Everett knelt in the middle of the luxurious paneled den, he sighed in frustration.  His fate had been sealed long ago when he’d realized his sexuality was bound up in the bizarre province of s&m.  Just as homosexuals are drawn inexplicably to other men and not other women, Donald found himself drawn to the idea of submitting to a cruel woman.  And now he was getting his reward.  But why did he hate it so?  Why abhor the very pain and humiliation he sought?  The confusion of his masochism astounded him; everything about it was paradoxical.

The leather in the room reeked.  Like doses of an aphrodisiac, the aroma of leather wafted from every corner: the sofa, Caroline’s chair, even the leather cuffs affixed to Caroline’s favorite wooden cross that stood bolted to both floor and ceiling.

Suddenly, Donald heard high heels in the hallway.  Oh God… no!  Was Caroline home already?  Brought home early by one of Mary’s bogus complaints?  But it was Mary herself who swept into the room, towering atop impossibly high spike heels, and platforms three inches thick.  She was dressed in her usual cut off shorts and open-belly tee shirt, a constant uniform that Donald both loved and despised.  What agony, to have that perfectly nubile flesh parading about all day and night.

Donald dared not to look up, keeping his eyes at about the level of her… crotch.  But, what’s this?  Why is she carrying Caroline’s favorite crop and her rawhide quirt?

“Get out of those shorts, slave,” she ordered with confidence…

“But, Mary… Mistress Mary… I …”

“What, asshole?”

“Please… but I don’t think you have permission.  I mean… and I am not allowed to be naked in front of you.  Your mother…”

“You’re not naked, stupid.  You still have your skivvy’s on, and that’s covering over your privates and that thing that’s locked onto you.  So don’t give me that shit.  You’re not naked.  With every second you hesitate it’s only gonna get worse for you.  I am already pissed off, and I am ready to tear your miserable ass to shreds.  You better fuckin’ obey me or else.”

So conditioned, so used to obeying, Donald dropped his shorts and stood there wearing just the chastity device. 

“Move your ass to the cross, bitch.”

Slowly, with heart thudding against his ribs, he stepped to the wooden cross.  He was almost faint with fear.  First, there was the evident beating he had to somehow endure from this ferocious young beast, and then there were the unknown consequences he had to face when Caroline arrived home.  How would he explain all this; yielding to a beating from his stepdaughter after undressing nude?

Mary came forward.  “Get those arms up,” she growled.  And she reached to attach his wrists to the leather cuffs already attached at his corresponding height, spreading his arms high and wide apart. 

But as she went about binding him, she sometimes pressed against his back, or brushed against his ass.  This proximity and the delicious smell of her bath salts aroused Donald.  And his confined penis sought room.  Immediately, the pain arrived.  Oh, God… this was an extra cruelty; and Caroline always kept him long between relief, two weeks at this latest drought.  And so Donald was frantic to get at his urgent hardon and pump out the pent-up semen.

She buckled the straps tight upon his wrists and then squatted to bind his ankles to the spread legs of the St. Andrew’s cross. 

“Okay, bitch… now get ready.  I think it’s gonna be super hard for you, since I don’t have the technique down yet, but I believe with practice I can get you evenly worked over the way Mom does.”

“But… Mary… I want to…”

The first blow felt wrong.  She’d used the crop, but it didn’t land across either of his ass cheeks as he’d expected.  Didn’t the little fool know that you don’t use a crop on the back?… where the muscles and sinew lay?  And it landed askew, so that the tab hit, but little else.  He almost felt compelled to instruct her.

Again she hit, this time making a flush lash across his shoulder blades.  He screamed out.  He didn’t want to make any sound; didn’t want to encourage her.  But that’s just what that scream did. And she lashed again even harder.

But the crop is supposed to be used on the ass only; he wanted to tell her.  But then he didn’t want to say anything that might make things worse.  After all, even the few blows he’d received were nowhere near as harsh as the measured, expert lashes his wife could deliver.

He felt the crop on his ass now.  Again, she was inept, standing too far behind him and directly behind him.  If she wanted the crop to land properly, she’d have stood to the side, where the stiff crop could reach across his ass cheeks.  She seemed to notice something wrong too, as she was not getting the right sound out of it.  And so she switched to the quirt.

This seemed to work a little better for her.  The braided leather handle had a good flexibility to it, and the following dual lashes followed the aim of her swing, lashing harshly across Donald’s upper back.  And she got the idea to lash him forehand and back.  This worked perfectly for her, and she was much more satisfied.

As she saw his back reddening and the outline of the leather straps embossed on his flesh, she cried out, “This is what you deserve, mutt.  This is what you get for being the lecherous sneaky fuck you are.  This… LASH!   Is… LASH!  What… LASH!  You… LASH!  Get, motherfucker!”

Donald was throwing his head back now in agony.  The little bitch was getting the hang of it, and the quirt was smacking loudly against his flesh.  Of course, his back still bore the evidence of previous beatings from his wife, and these prior wounds left his body sore and still tender.  And so, even the less-effectual lashing by the evil teenager became extremely painful.

Mary stepped to maneuver to another spot, and suddenly Donald heard, “What the fuck is this?”

It was not his wife’s voice, but that of Celeste, the younger daughter.  She stood in the doorway of the den.  She wore the standard high school garb, battered jeans and a striped tee shirt.  Her golden hair was in a ponytail. 

Mary, caught a bit out of breath from exertion, turned to answer her sister.  “This ain’t none of your fuckin’ business.  I’m punishing the bastard.  He’s had it coming to him for a long time.”

“You talk to Mom?  She said go ahead and whip him?”

“I did not talk to Mom.  I’m doing this on my own.  He needs this and I want to do it.  It’s about time I got to take care of this shithead?”

“Holy shit, Mary.  So, what’d he do?  Feel you up?”

“No.  But he did a lot of staring.  He’s a slimy prick.”

“Cool,” said Celeste.  “I know you’re right.  I see him peeking at me too.”  She saw the riding crop sitting on the edge of her mother’s desk.  The slim little blond dropped her schoolbooks and walked over to the desk on chunky cork platforms.  She picked up the crop and waved it in front of her eyes. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Mary warned. 

“Oh yes I do,” Celeste laughed evilly.  If what Mary had started was taboo and would bring down the wrath of their mother, then there’d be little risk to herself if she joined in.  Mary would no doubt take the brunt of Caroline’s anger.  And if there was no repercussion facing them, then this was just perfect.  After all, Celeste did not want to be the only female in the house not permitted to torture the man.

Celeste stepped behind her stepfather and to the side.  “Okay, asshole, now you gonna get it from daughter number two.”  She began to lash him. 

Both Donald and Mary were surprised by the kid’s technique.  She’d gotten it down from the first stroke.  She was at the correct angle; off to the side.  And so the riding crop landed flush upon both ass cheeks.  Mary did not compliment her younger sister, but observed enough to see where she herself got it wrong.  Donald, meanwhile, was both hurting and impressed at the kid’s adroit handling of the crop.  Damn… she is a natural!

The kid kept at it.  WHAACK!  WHAACK!  THWAACK!  Ten lashes, then twenty.  God, Donald thought, when will this little bitch stop?

Not until she finds she’s having an effect: this is what he finally figured out, and he began moaning and then begging.  If he didn’t show it was hurting she might go on with youthful exuberance, whipping for an hour.

“Please….please, Celeste…”

“Shut up!”

THWAACK!  THWAAACK!...

Meanwhile, Mary took a cigarette from her mother’s humidor and lit it.  She sat behind the large desk and watched her sister beating away. 

Celeste stopped for a moment.  “Boy, you are really looking for it,” she giggled.  “Smoking Mom’s cigarettes?  Whipping her husband?  Wow!”

Mary blew a puff into the air.  “Yeah, might as well go for it.  But you better not start smoking now.”

“Let me try this other thing,” Celeste said, gesturing to the quirt hanging by its loop from her sister’s slim wrist.

“It’s a quirt.  It’s good on his back,” Mary said, handing it over.

Celeste knew right off that the flexibility demanded a different handling.  She installed it onto her wrist as she’d seen Mary had done, loved the idea that she could carry this around without having to grasp it constantly.  Grabbing the handle, she turned and lashed the leather couch.  It was a practice lash.  The sound came like a pistol shot and startled Donald.

Speaking for the first time, he turned his head over his shoulder.  “Celeste, Mary… listen, please.  You might get into trouble for this… I don’t know.  But if you stop now, I promise I won’t say anything to your mother about it.  Please, think about this.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Mary screamed at him.  “Don’t listen Celeste.  He’s just trying to get off being beat.  Punish the motherfucker more now… just for that load of bullshit.”

Celeste went over to him, close.  She grabbed his hair and pulled his head back.  “Fucking low life,” she growled and spit full into his face.  Mary had taken a drag on the cigarette and now coughed as she laughed at Celeste’s antic.

Donald was shocked.  This was getting worse and worse.  Now, all he could rely on—if that—would be a rescue by Caroline.  But then again, there’s a chance she might encourage these two demons.

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