Caning Lady Cynthia
When last we checked in with the eponymous heroine of F.E. Campbell’s book Jewel, our captive was getting a caning to introduce her to her slavery. Much has transpired, emotionally speaking, betwixt that scene and this one. Jewel got a taste of freedom, which she liked rather less than her beloved Vivian, and now she’s back in his chains by her own free choice. A new character, Lady Cynthia, who has in her time been very cruel to Jewel, now finds herself getting the “welcome to slavery” treatment, and at least so far, it’s not very much to her taste:
The room was so familiar. I was tremendously pleased that I had made my hobbled way to it with much more grace than my fellow captive had contrived. Cynthia was new to chained ankles and bound hands. She was also in a welter of apprehension and resentment. She viewed the place of her morning’s agony without enthusiasm.
But darling Viv had a surprise. He untied her hands, pulled a heavy narrow bench from against the wall, and motioned, “Lay down. On your tummy.”
Lady Cynthia obeyed with alacrity. There was something about Vivian’s voice. She and I watched in fascination as she was bound tight with cord, arms down the sides toward the floor, waist cinched down with cruel bands so that her lovely round rump rose up invitingly. That was all. He was going to let her kick her legs and toss her head. I guessed he was going to cane her bottom. She could not move that. It was going to be fun to watch. Or was it? I could tell from my Master’s manner there was something in store for me too.
He pushed a stool against the wall. “Up you go.”
Gingerly I mounted. Then I saw the straps and knew. I was sick with disappointment and chagrin. For Cynthia to see me as I was going to be!
I loathed the thought, and I loathed the pain I knew was waiting. I did not have to be told. I turned my back to the wall and stretched my arms up and out. I just managed to fit my wrists into where I least wanted them to go. Vivian pulled the leather bands tight and took away my stool. I hung, suspended like a picture against the stone, my questing toes unable to find the floor. I hurt.
Each of us girls had a front seat view of the other’s suffering. Knowing her eyes upon me I said “thank you, lord!” brightly as though I was enjoying every moment, then settled myself in my pain to watch Cynthia get her bottom caned.
For the first little while she joined me in an interest in our Master’s actions, sparing a pleased glance now and then for my own predicament which, I am sure, gave her much satisfaction. I managed not to catch her eye. Vivian selected his cane with care and deliberate intent to heighten his victim’s suspense. Cynthia had given up complaining. I suppose she did not want to add to her score. I wondered if she had any idea how bad the cane would be. It was easy to see she was expecting it to be kinder than the whip.
“Twenty-five, wasn’t it, darling,” said Vivian cheerily. “Anything you wish to say before I start?”
“If I say anything it will go up to thirty,” Lady Cynthia Ramsden said bitterly.
“Let us consider it said, dear girl. Thirty makes a nice round figure. Fifteen for each cheek, we might say. Since the total is a bit stiff for one female bottom, I’ll give you half now and half later. Give you time to meditate a bit in between. You know, wisdom of a civil tongue and all that.”
The girl tied to the bench looked up at her master without affection. The cane sped swiftly in its are. She closed her eyes and turned away.
I have to admit I watched avidly. It had happened to me. Now it was happening to another girl. You can’t really see yourself being caned. No matter how you twist, the blow eludes you. But now I could see it all. Viv made certain I should see it. No doubt I would be caned often enough in the future. This was how I would look.
It is both terrible and beautiful to see the weal spring up upon the flesh, an indelible imprint of the cane, a brand, a signature, a token of punishment. Poor Cynthie! She had not expected such agony. After the first blows she tried to look up and back to convey the awfulness of what was happening to her. To impart knowledge that others did not know. But when she realized she was the only one surprised she let her screams take over and kicked her legs in frantic agony. She tore desperately at her cords but did not move them. Her punished bottom reared as though to meet each sweeping cut. She was still crying out and moaning after our Master had gone.
The only virtue of my position was that I was divorced from act or decision. I hung limp and forlorn. I couldn’t even think of anything worthwhile to say. A girl who has just received fifteen cuts of a cane across her bottom does not want to hear something fatuous like: “Does it hurt terribly, darling?” I kept quiet.
See Also:
