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Captives of the Cane


Tale of women subjugated through service. A "hired-as-a-tutor," kind of thing, but comes into its own via its island setting and later nod to Pleasure Bound (after all, you've gotta get new recruits from somewhere.)

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Captives of the Cane
Eric Tieflund
This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.
The golden brown body of the girl tensed against th e whipping post and she threw one fearful glance back over her shoulder; the supp le muscles of her bare back rippling, the hot sun making the smooth, satin skin glisten w ith a fine film of sweat. She had been stripped to the waist, the thin, flowered dres s pulled down low enough to show the flare of her hips below the slim waist. Her arms we re stretched high, wrists securely fastened with leather thongs, as were her ankles. “Begin!” A woman's clear precise voice rang out. As in the old naval days of flogging, drums began t o roll as a stocky negro uncoiled a black bull-whip and moved in behind and to one si de of the unfortunate woman about to be punished. The girl shut her eyes tightly and turned her head away. Mrs. Julia Dawson stood amongst the small group of whites that formed part of the semi-circle round the whipping post seeing but not quite believing. She looked round quickly half expecting to find her self in a cinema watching some bizarre film of bygone era. But no, the heat and th e dust and the discomfort of the clothes sticking to her perspiring body told her di fferently. She watched the black, muscular arm lift, the wicke d-looking whip flick back, pause, then flash forward with a high-pitched zipping soun d, ending with a crack and a choked gasp of pain from the half-naked young woman, as a dark weal appeared instantly on the smooth back. Julia Dawson winced and bit her lip as she watched the girl's body jerk, her back arching, wrists tugging at the thongs that bound th em. The stripe had been laid diagonally just below the shoulder-blades, the high est point curling round to disappear below the armpit. The sharp vicious crack of the whip momentarily hal ted the writhing and the shapely body went rigid for an instant Then she was jerking madly again with a hoarse shout of pain as another weal appeared about an inch below the first. The negro's face was impassive as he administered t he flogging; it was as though he couldn't hear the pitiful cries of pain nor see the damage he was inflicting on the tender skin of the helpless woman. And all the time the drums rolled mutedly; an accom paniment to the measured crack of leather against soft flesh and the sharp cries o f the girl at the whipping post, as the whip worked down her back. Julia gasped and turned her head quickly away, as s he saw the tip of the lash flick round the side of the girl's body and bite into the underside of one shuddering breast. “Exciting, isn't it?” She looked with horror at the seventeen-year-old gi rl standing at her side, the face tense, eyes shining with excitement. She gave her a look of disgust and started to walk away, her hands going to her ears to shut out the s ound of the drums, the cries of the woman under punishment, the zip and crack of that v icious whip. A hand closed over her arm halting her.
“Mummy wouldn't like it if you didn't stay until it was over,” whispered Jane Briggs. Julia looked at the pretty face, noticing for the f irst time the hard, cruel tightness about the mouth. She looked around the small circle of onlookers; th ey all had the same expression— they were casually enjoying the whole brutal scene. The ones at the side were moving their heads as tho ugh they were at a tennis match, from the suffering girl's bared, striped bac k, to the negro who flogged her, and back to the girl again. She saw one little group in a tight bunch, however, who did not appear to share the same feelings as the rest. They were the women—the natives, as Mrs. Cynthia Briggs called them. Their faces were tense, but not with excitement; th ey were worried and obviously present against their will. One of them wept openly, her hands over her face. A ll were young—about the same age as the girl who was being whipped—between the a ges of twenty and twenty-five. All were pretty, Julia noted, with lush figures. The girl had been sentenced to ten lashes for tryin g to steal one of the small rowing boats and escape from the island. This worried Juli a as she watched the eighth stroke curl about the slim waist. She had thought she was merely taking on an ordinary job as private tutor to the son and daughter of a normal woman, but this was more l ike a prison camp. Then her mind came back to the present, as Mrs. Bri ggs, standing near the tortured girl, but out of range of the swinging lash, sudden ly held up her hand and stepped onto the low platform on which the whipping-post had bee n erected. Julia thought at first she was showing pity, but sh e realized she was wrong, when she saw her pushing at the dress draped about the g irl's hips. She was pushing it lower to bare more of her body to the whip. When she moved away, Julia saw that the dress had n ow been pushed half-way down the girl's buttocks, showing the full flare of the hips and a more than generous portion of the plump, thrusting, deeply-creased bottom-cheeks. The woman nodded to the negro and pointed to the gi rl's bottom, once again, the whip lifted, to come whistling down with a vicious crack across the top of the soft buttocks. It brought a sharp scream as hips and bottom twiste d madly from side to side, leaving a long welt that ran across the jutting glo bes and up over one hip. The negro's powerful shoulder muscles rippled as he raised the whip for the final stroke, bringing it sizzling down across the golden , all but naked buttocks, ending the flogging. Her punishment over the girl sagged against the whi pping post, sweat running down her striped back, her body shaking weakly with sobs . Mrs. Briggs walked over and examined the punishment stripes running a hand callously down the wealed back and buttocks. As she stepped back, two of the women detached them selves from the small group of golden females and went to the girl, untying the thongs that bound her wrists and ankles to the post. Even as she was released, her legs gave way and she would have fallen but for the ready arms of the two girls. As the girl was helped away, exhausted after the pu nishment, the rest began to split up. The negro who had administered the flogging cea sed to have any further interest in
the girl, coiling his whip and pulling on his shirt , before hurrying to join the half-dozen other negroes. Cynthia came across to Julia, with h er son and daughter, flicking the whip lightly against one knee-length boot. She was actually smiling. “That made her jump about a bit!” grinned her son P eter. Julia gave the sixteen-year-old lad a look of disgu st and walked away towards the big, one-storeyed ranch type house. She wanted to get to her room and be alone for a wh ile to think things out. There were so many things she did not understand. She had only been on the island for just over a week, but every day she had noticed little t hings that didn't add up—felt the indefinable strangeness. The blonde Cynthia Briggs had seemed an ordinary, f airly good-looking woman of thirty-seven when Julia had first arrived; the two teenagers had looked the same as teenagers anywhere else. But gradually, Julia had b egun to notice things; the tense jumpiness of the women, all of whom had the golden skins and blue-black hair of South Sea Islanders. The men—all African negroes—appeared to do little o r nothing about the pearl fishing Mrs. Briggs had told her was a source of in come to her. Tomatoes and sponge fishing, too, were supposed to be exports which helped fill the Briggs' coffers but the only tomatoes Julia had seen were on the table or in a sparse patch at the back of the house, and the only sponge s were in the bathroom! Altogether, she had seen perhaps twenty or so Afric ans and twelve or fifteen of the golden skinned women, whose main job apart from the domestic work they did, seemed to be to keep the Africans happy. She let herself into her room and sat down on the b ed to think, questions crowding her brain. There was that ocean-going yacht moored in the tiny bay of this remote island of the Bahamas which had picked her up and brought her here from New Providence. On two different occasions, she had woken in the mi ddle of the night and looked out and the yacht had not been there. Then, too, she ha d watched that unfortunate girl being flogged for trying to escape. ESCAPE! She thought about that for a while. ESCAPE. Why had the girl tired to escape? If she wanted to go back home why hadn't sh e said so and left in the normal way, being taken to the nearest point from where sh e could pick up transport to wherever she wanted to go? And why had she been flo gged for it? It was not for the worth of the rowing-boat—that hadn't even been ment ioned. ESCAPE. That was the word that had been repeated over and over. ESCAPE. She had seen the cruel streak in Cynthia Briggs sev eral days before, now she had seen it in her children—they had actually delighted in watching the pain and humiliation of the young woman being whipped. Apart from herself, Cynthia and her two children, t here were three other whites—a woman about her own age—twenty-seven—and two men, b oth somewhere in their thirties. The men were both hard-looking characters and wore pistols attached to Sam Browne blets about their waists. The woman acted as a sort of personal maid to Cynth ia Briggs, and, now that she thought of it, Julia realized that she, too, had th at tight-lipped tenseness about her that the other woman had. Something was wrong about the whole place and the p eople in it, terribly wrong. What had seemed to her an island paradise on arriva l, now took on the aspect of a
prison island. That had been her first sight of the whipping post, and she hoped fervently never to see it again.
Julia Dawson had been divorced for several months w hen she read the advertisement in a London paper. Though she had bee n the injured party, she had refused an allowance from her ex-husband and her re sources were becoming strained. As she had been a teacher before marriage, the offe r in the ad had seemed ideal. Private tutor to two teen-age children, it had stat ed; good salary plus full accommodation on an island in the Bahamas. A box number had been given, but stipulating that a pplicants should be unattached and female, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Julia had written off and immediately and had been given an appointment to meet Cynthia Briggs at a West End hotel. There, she had been entertained to lunch and had thought the woman charming. All the usual questions had been asked and answered apparently satisfactorily, for she was given the job. She remembered how insistent the woman had been on her having no ties in England but had thought nothing o f it. Two days later, she had received an air ticket to N assau and a sum of money, with a short note saying she would be met at the airport. There, she had been met by Mrs. Briggs and one of the two white men on the island, a thickset, fair-haired German of about forty, by t he name of Fritz Shroeder, who spoke little, but whose eyes seemed to strip her naked ev ery time he looked at her. That had been the only time she had not seen him armed. She had been given the contract to sign as soon as they boarded the yacht, the “Lady Jane”—named after the daughter—and then had b een left to enjoy the trip out to the little island. For the first couple of days, she had noticed nothi ng unusual except that she found the two children strangely backward for their ages. It had been explained that they had gone to school in England for only a few years until they were eleven, then they had had a gap of a year, while a tutor was found. Julia discovered that they had had four different women a t odd intervals, all of whom had left after a short time. During the following days, she thought she understood why. First, she had begun to notice the peculiar air of tenseness about the women who lived in huts several hundreds yards from the main house. Then there were the Africans she had spotted several times at dusk patrolling th e beach with rifles slung over their shoulders. There were the mysterious disappearances of he yacht at night, to be anchored back in the bay when she woke the followin g morning. Then had come her first really big shock. The canin gs. It was her fifth day on the island and she had been for a walk down to the beach after lunch. When she got back to the house, she ha d heard cries coming from the kitchen, thinking someone was hurt. She was right, they were, but not quite in the way she had anticipated. She burst open the door, and then stood stock still, unable to believe what she saw. One of the girls was bent over the table, her skirt thrown up over her waist, her knickers down about her knees, tanned bottom bare a nd jutting. Another girl, her face averted, was holding her dow n by leaning on her back, while Cynthia Briggs laid into the plump buttocks with a thin bamboo cane. Julia shivered as she watched one stroke whistle do wn to crack loudly across the
soft flesh making the twin spheres wobble with the force of the blow and raising a darkening line to match the three or four others. Not knowing what to think, Julia decided the best thing she could do was to back out quietly. “Don't go, Mrs. Dawson!” Cynthia Briggs had paused in her sadistic treatment of the lovely naked bottom before her to look round and sm ile at Julia. “I should like you to witness this. These people ar e lazy creatures—shiftless and insolent. This is the way to treat them—show them w ho's master. It's the only way we ever get anything done around here—the only thing t hat gets through to them. Take it out on their flesh!” Julia had looked at the humiliating position of the girl, at the stripes on her bare bottom, and thought that no matter what she might o r might not have done, no woman should receive that kind of treatment. She glanced at the girl holding her down and saw by her face that she was not enjoying it one little bit. The cane was lifting and Julia's fascinated eyes we nt to the girl's naked buttocks again. The weals already inflicted had a deep purpl ish tinge and looked very painful. There was a low hum, followed by a sharp splatt! Ju lia saw the girl's whole body jerk, the buttocks clench tightly for a moment then came the squeal of pain and her friend had to throw all her weight onto the straining back to keep her down over the table. Again the cane rose and fell, painting another purp le line of agony across the soft, rounded mounds of flesh. The cry of pain was more desperate, the shapely leg s kicked, the thighs splaying apart to reveal the soft, downy preserves of Venus, nestling snugly below the crease of the buttocks. Julia stood watching, sick with pity and embarrassm ent for the young woman undergoing such a shameful punishment. The flimsy k nickers had slipped down to her ankles and once the dress fell back over her bottom with her wild movements. With the point of the cane, Cynthia Briggs had flic ked it up again and ordered the other girl to hold it well up. The girl's lips were trembling as she hauled the dr ess higher up her friend's back and held it there while the sadistic woman continue d to cane the helpless backside. Julia was just beginning to wonder how long this hu miliating chastisement of a grown woman was going to go on and seriously consid ering doing something about stopping it before some permanent damage was caused when Mrs. Briggs rapped the cane sharply across the side of one bare thigh. “All right, get up—you have work to do!” Julia heaved a sigh of relief as the gin straighten ed her body ever so slowly, her shoulders heaving. Her friend came round as she swa yed on her feet and held her tightly for a moment. “Come on—you don't have time for touching little sc enes! Help her get her drawers up, then wake up the rest of the kitchen staff and start doing something about clearing this place up.” The caned woman was unable to bend and her friend h ad to pull her knickers up for her. She eased them over the sore bottom, and it wa s as she dropped the skirt into place that Mrs. Briggs had suddenly taken hold of them and rudely lifted it again. “What have you been told about underwear? Why have you no stockings or suspender-belt?” “She—she left them off to make it easier for you to cane her, Mrs. Briggs,” the friend
put in quickly, in the sing-song Americanized accen t of the English-speaking South Sea Islanders, that yet had a haunting tang of Welsh ab out it. “And what about you—or have you got one of your sav ages' loin cloths, or whatever it is you wear? Let me see!” The girl's face had darkened under the golden tan, but she had thrown a shy glance at Julia and then slowly lifted her dress above her hips, to display nylons held taut by a slim white suspender-belt, which stood out sharply against the golden-fleshed thighs; above that, she wore snugly-fitting white panties, through which could be clearly seen the dark bulge of her public mound. Julia had been present a day later to witness the p unishment of another of the unfortunate South Seas women. This had disgusted her even more than the caning sh e had watched in the kitchen. They were still sitting at table after dinner, whic h Julia took with Cynthia Briggs, her two children, Fritz Schroeder and the other white— an Englishman named George Westley. The American personal maid—Sylvia Carter—t ook all her meals in her own room. Cynthia Briggs looked round the long, Jacobean-type table and smiled—especially at George Westley. “A little extra dessert, tonight,” she said, clappi ng her hands. “Send Lala in now,” she told one of the girls who had been serving at table then looked back at George Westley. “You've been saying for a long time that this one o ught to be brought in line. I suspect it's only because you want to see that plum p behind of hers, but...” “Will you excuse me?” All eyes swiveled to Julia as she rose from the table, guessing what was to come next and wanting no part of it. “Nonsense, Mrs. Dawson! I told you yesterday I want ed you to learn how these people should be treated. This is something you mus t get used to. Eventually, I shall expect you to treat them as the rest of us do—there are plenty of canes lying around!” There was an authoritative edge to her voice and Ju lia sat down as Lala came in. Julia looked at Jane and Peter Briggs, expecting th em to leave the room, but they sat tight, looking rudely at the well-built woman walki ng towards their mother at the head of the table. She was somewhere in the region of twenty-five, wid e-hipped and full-breasted, with her blue-black hair slick and shiny and drawn up. H er large brown eyes flitting nervously from one to the other of the seated Europeans. She stopped at the head of the table, facing Mrs. Briggs. “Well, don't stand there looking at me—you know wha t you've come here for.” Her eyes flicked down to the woman's hips. “Skirt up pa nts down!” Julia watched the woman bare the necessary parts, w ondering why she exposed such intimate parts for such a painful and humiliat ing treatment without one protest or plea. She bad heard and read enough about such thin gs to know that Mrs. Briggs was a fetishist, the way she insisted on the girls wearin g high-heeled shoes and the flimsiest European underthings. Knew, too, that she had a fondness for flagellation for its own sake, but could not understand why it was accepted or why the women con tinued to work for her. Lala, obviously shamed and hating every minute of t he ordeal, turned her back to the table and pulled her dress right up, tucking it in about her waist. Julia saw the two men lick their lips at the sight of the amply, thrusting buttocks, straining the tight silk panties almost to the poin t of ripping; the full-fleshed, suspendered thighs, a little lighter than the tops of the stockings.
She slipped her thumbs into the waist of her pantie s, hesitated, obviously steeling herself for the final exposure, then the flimsy kni ckers were moving down, down, more and more of the plump deep-clefted...


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