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ointment from a small jar, so that they shone in the light that fell upon them. ‘There! That will save you from being cut, I hope.’ Her lovely face bent low, her lips brushed against the pale neck of the captive figure. ‘Take your punishment like a true Daughter,’ Magda murmured, with another light kiss. ‘And then you will be forgiven.’
    There was a sharp intake of breath and the muscles tensed in the girl’s long legs, which were spread wide apart to take the chastisement she knew was about to come.
    Magda produced a short-handled whip of black leather.
    It had many thin thongs. ‘Please, Grand Whore Master,’ she declared, passing the instrument to Lord Burnopside.
    He slipped the folds of the robe back from his shoulders in order that he might perform more freely. The iron-grey covering of hair at his chest and the thick hanging shape of his prick showed through the dark material. He stepped forward and measured his distance.
    The whip hissed as it curled through the air to strike with a satisfyingly sharp crack on the quivering flesh. The blow was a shade high, the thin red line appearing at the very top of the buttock divide. The slender back jerked, the play of the shoulders under the pale skin delightful. The bare feet lifted, did a little jig of agony before they settled again, and the figure waited, still, except for the involuntary trembling.
    They could hear her weeping, but she had not screamed. He struck again, aiming carefully, and there was a ripple of appreciative murmuring as the lashes fell squarely across the centre of the bottom, whose cleft was neatly bisected by the horizontal stripe of red. Soon others were crisscrossed over the writhing rounds, and the girl’s cries were more desperate, though he’d still failed to elicit the pure scream he’d hoped for. Like most of the other males present he could feel the rising and stiffening of his penis. He was breathing quite heavily. ‘Good girl!’ he growled, with reluctant admiration. He passed the whip to another male, a much shorter, plumper figure, who took it eagerly.
    He lashed with enthusiasm but with less skill, and the girl’s head moved wildly, lifting from the table, and her legs danced in wilder frenzy, for the blows fell indiscriminately across the backs of her thighs, leaving their crimson tracery of weals. Barbara was sobbing fiercely; gut wrenching sobs that shook her whole frame. But still she had not screamed at the fall of the blows.
    â€˜I’ll make the bitch sing!’ The speaker was a florid-faced individual, with a freckled bald head and professorial, silvery wings of hair at his temples. He seized the handle of the whip, which was now unpleasantly slippery with sweat, and flicked his wrist savagely. There was a muted gasp of collective sympathy from the watching girls, for the snaking black lashes fell above the scarlet pattern of the abused bottom, and landed on the lower back and the base of the spine. The unfortunate Barbara gave a smothered whimper and her hips writhed madly, her belly and her upper thighs grinding cruelly against the hard surface of the wood. He struck again in the same spot, and this time his victim could hold back no longer. Her shrill cry of torment rang out.
    Magda stepped in close to the tall man wielding the whip, so that he had no room to draw his arm back for a third time. ‘And so you have,’ she said evenly. She was even taller than he was, and her eyes met his and held his stare. ‘You made her sing. Congratulations.’ There was no doubt of the contempt and reproof in her rich voice. ‘I think she’s been more than adequately punished.’ She turned away from him and nodded at her waiting attendants. ‘Untie her.’
    Full of tenderness now, the naked figures unfastened her. Barbara wept convulsively, shaking, largely with relief, but her public ordeal was not quite over. She slumped in the