Excerpt from There's A Whip In My Valise

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Extrait de / Excerpt from : There's A Whip In My Valise.

He finished towelling himself and came close to her. He put his arms around her waist, his hands on her buttocks, and pulled her closely to him.

She felt his penis like a piece of wood against her mound. She began to feel very sexy. She wanted to be put down on the bed and used roughly. But, before that, she wanted to thrash him again — thrash him, this time, really hard. She wanted to lay her birch across his broad, muscular shoulders, and make him cry out. To make a man cry out under her cane or birch — or any other instrument — was a very great pleasure to her. She exulted in the feeling of power that such a cry proved she possessed — and she lashed harder in order to hear it repeated.

“Come on,” she said. “Come and be thrashed again.” She pulled herself away from him and turned into the bedroom. She went to the bed and looked at the car-cover. She ran her hand over its surface. “This’ll do beautifully,” she said. “You’d better keep it here permanently.”

“Shall I spread it over the bed?”

“I will.” She threw it open over the bed. It was very large and fell to the floor on all three sides. She draped some of it over the bed-head. “It may be a bit cold at first to lie on. I’ve put the rubber side upwards. It will be easier to wipe your blood off the rubber side.”

“Are you going to be as brutal as that?” He was well aware that this was a silly question, since he had brought the car-cover from the garage for that specific purpose. He simply wanted the thrill of hearing her answer.

She herself well understood why he had asked the silly question. She gave him the answer she knew he wanted to hear. “I’m going to thrash you into strips. I’m going to make your blood run like water.” She saw his eyes flash, and then half-close. I see, she said to herself. So, you’re more of a mental masochist than a physical one, are you? All right, I’ll play along with you as much as you like. But you’ll have to take a good deal of physical pain, too. I’m not a mental sadist — as you’ll very soon find out! Aloud, she said: “That’s another reason why you’ll want to sleep alone tonight.”

He opened his eyes. “Why?”

“You won’t be able to lie on your back. You’ll probably have a rather bad night — on your stomach. And you’ll want to feel free to fidget.”

He looked seriously at her and wondered whether things might go too far, after all. This preliminary excitement was very, very stimulating — but there seemed to be no doubt that she would do what she said she was going to do. Her delivery of six strokes downstairs, immediately after he had been drained of sex, proved it conclusively. He knew, however, that no power on earth could now stop him; no fear, however great, could prevent him from going forward. He would submit to whatever pain she had to give him — and the knowledge that, as a sadist, she had to give the pain increased his own present mental excitement. He would submit to it willingly, if not gladly, in order to relive it in his mind after it was over, to luxuriate in the pain of sitting down — and to dream of it happening again.

“You frighten me quite a lot,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, I know. And you are right to be frightened. I am a person to be frightened of — when I have a cane in my hand. Or a birch or a switch. I’m going to buy a switch tomorrow", as I said. I can’t have that German girl giving me competition.”

“She doesn’t, you know,” he said at once.

She moved closer to him and took his great penis in her hands. “She’d better not!” she murmured. “But seriously, I’d like to thrash you with a switch. A very swishy cutting one with whalebone inside it. It could be better even than Peter the Punisher. It would cut more.”

He caught his breath. “I am afraid of you!”

“And I think,” she went on slowly, “that I’ll buy a whip too. What was it that you said downstairs? ‘There’s something clean and almost poetic about a whip.’ Wasn’t that it?”

“It was. But I wonder whether I meant it.”

“I’ll give you an opportunity of finding out. I’ll make you dance around your study like a performing bear. And I’ll make you do all sorts of humiliating things — and if you hesitate as much as a second, I’ll flog you till you’re unconscious.”

He drew her close to him. His heart was beating hard. “What sort of humiliating things?”

“I’ll make you wear my underclothes. I’ll make you put on my stockings and panties. And I’ll make you put on a sanitary towel and pretend you’re a woman with a period.”

“Go on.”

"And I’ll put a padded brassiere on you — one of the things the Americans call falsies.”

“What else?” He was straining against her; his whole being quivering with longing.

“I’ll paint your lips and your eyes. And I’ll rouge your cheeks. And — and I’ll do all sorts of awful things to you. And when you’re like that — in that humiliated condition, I mean — I’ll thrash you till you can’t stand, never mind sit. You’ll wish you’d never met me.”

“Oooh!” He drew a great breath and quivered again from head to foot.

She drew away from him. “It’s time to give you another thrashing now. Lie down on the bed.” She released his penis and gave him a small push.

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