A Baroness' Whip Lust Read online

  Before we got into the brocaded dresses left on our bed by a servant, we tumbled naked into the huge feather bed, giggling, knees and elbows akimbo. We could drink each other’s cunnies in the bright light of American electric lights, not the darkness of our rotting cabin.

  I concentrated on the sight of that beautiful curve of Phoebe's upper inner thigh, just as it met her little bum-cheek. Everything was so soft, so pink and perfect and pretty. I was just now getting a full look at her perfect body in bright light, and considered myself so lucky!

  We licked each other like we were both lapping-up the entire Atlantic Ocean. It took no more than three minutes for both of us to blast our goo into each other’s mouths. Our legs twitched, our fingers became nearly paralyzed as we surrendered our climaxes to each other. For a moment, my eyesight went as dim as it did as when I was whipped against the sail-rigging. I supposed that in both cases, it was a 'safety-valve' for my mind to keep me from feeling too much.

  We just held each other. For how long, I don't know. It must have been nearly a hour, because our hair was dry by then. We kept tugging at each other’s clitties and nipples and kissing each other. We inhaled and tasted each other’s scents and the scents of those wonderful soaps. We both released our orgasm at least three more times, just at the ends of our fingers.

  Then there was a rap on the door and a voice that said, “Ladies, the reception begins in five minutes.”

  We got into those beautiful dresses, dresses we could not have imagined ever wearing, and closed our door behind us. No more than a rod down the hall, we spotted the Baroness and Emily walking towards the ballroom. I rushed ahead of her to block her path and stared into her eyes, in the same way I did during my whipping.

  She was still, her eyes filled with fear. I said nothing at all. I smiled a wicked smile and slapped her face so hard that her neck almost broke with the recoil. My hand print was visible on her right cheek. Then I kissed Emily hard, with Phoebe's taste still on my lips and said, “That's what a pretty cunt tastes like”.

  Phoebe and I went ahead of them to the cocktail reception. We were greeted by the Duchess with wide smiles. I whispered my thanks for the exquisite dresses and asked, “We should return them at the end of the night, correct?”

  The lovely Duchess laughed and said, “No, keep them my dears.” It turned-out that these beautiful dresses were actually hers, and that she would replace them with new ones from New York.

  As we mingled with the guests in the grand ballroom of the Senator's home, I overheard a distinguished American gentleman with a well-trimmed beard and 'handlebar' mustache discussing firearms. I intently listened to his discussion. I learned that firearms in America were so much more advanced than they were in Europe. This was due to cartridge ammunition, developed by another American.

  I intruded into the conversation and said that I was a bit crestfallen to hear that British hand-made pistols were part of the ancient past.. I explained that I was a poor English girl, and that the only thing I had of value was a British twin barreled, muzzle loaded pistol. I said that I was hoping to sell it to finance my new business in America.

  The gentleman smiled and told me that such pistols still held value as 'trophies', due to their fine individual craftsmanship. He was a gun collector, and wanted to see the weapon after dinner.

  As Phoebe and I sipped brandy that we had never tasted before, along came the Baroness, my hand print now gone from her face. The Duchess smiled at the both of us, like we were both welcomed old friends. Phoebe and I settled into a dinner that we had never experienced before.

  The warmth and the effect of the brandy alone had me giddy. I clasped Phoebe's hand and beamed at her. She seemed even happier than I to be part of this overwhelming welcome to America. A delightful pink-orange soup was presented, and we were told it was called, 'Lobster Bisque'. This exotic shellfish was unknown to me, but was apparently common in America. The soup was presented in china that had come from England, and I was disappointed to hear that. Yet, I was delighted to hear that the beautiful silverware was made in Massachusetts.

  The mere name of the state was so exotic, so American! By now, I considered myself to be as American as Abraham Lincoln. Then came beef Wellington , no doubt in honor of the Duchess,. Then, a number of French pastries and American Walnuts and Pecans and coffee from Spain and Portugal's colonies in South America!

  I was entranced with the dinner, but I was beginning to doubt my ability to supply baked goods that would satisfy these new Emperors of Earth, the Americans. I mentioned this to Phoebe. She said, “Emma. there is nowhere in the world where everyone lives like this; you'll be fine, and so will I.”.

  After dinner, we were all invited into a grand hall, where a chamber orchestra of 16 stringed instruments began playing beguiling German music called waltzes that I had never heard before. I had no idea how to dance to this wonderful music, but I loved watching the dancing. As I smiled watching, the American gun collector tapped my shoulder and asked again about my British pistol.

  I ran upstairs and grabbed it, worrying that it was basically in an old rag. I thought that would be preferable to re-entering the room with a loaded gun in my hand .I laughed to myself thinking that the Baroness would momentarily think her last day was at hand if I just held it in my hand.

  I returned to the ballroom and quietly slipped the wrapped gun into the fine gentleman's hand, whispering, “I thought it best not to be waving it in hand.”

  He laughed loudly. “Your judgment is quite refined”, he said. He looked-over the pistol and immediately recognized the maker.. He commented on the hand-chased silver relief work along the barrel and the twin hammers. He also noticed that the hand-stock was made of plum-wood. I wondered out-loud why anyone would cut-down a productive plum tree simply for the wood.

  He explained that nurserymen would sell aging trees, near the end of their fruitful life, at a high price to craftsmen. The trunks were small and not fit for makers of large furniture. Only the makers of fine figurines and firearms would purchase such wood at such a premium price.

  He asked, “Would you accept 60 dollars for it?” I was breathless. I knew that 60 American dollars would set Phoebe and I up with our own store and flat for two months. I could also buy some basic cast-iron baking tools and a small wood-fired oven, not to mention a foot-pedaled sewing machine and thread for Phoebe.

  “Sir, that would start my companion and I in business.” I said.

  He handed me three twenty-dollar American gold pieces, with twin American Eagles on the reverse side, and an allegorical image of “Liberty” on the front side. They shone brightly with the date, “1898” at the bottom. He explained that these were known as 'Double Eagles'. I stared at them and then smiled at him, as he tucked the pistol into his satin waistband.

  He motioned to the Senator who listened to this wonderful man say, “Senator, I think that you will find that you have two new very productive citizens here. Perhaps you could locate a place for their new business”.

  “Young women in their own business?”, said the Senator, who seemed slightly stunned. I thought for a moment that perhaps I was too optimistic about my future.

  “It will be a shock to some”, he said after a long pause. “But maybe an incentive for some of the doltish young men in this city to start their own business.”

  They both laughed as the Senator wrote several names and addresses on his own 'calling-card'. They were bankers, building owners and a restaurateur who might be in need of bakery. The Senator encouraged Phoebe and I to contact them tomorrow. We would have the transportation of the Senator's cab to ply along Fifth and Park Avenues!

  This was greater than I had ever dreamed! I was nearly grateful to the jealous Baroness for having me so unfairly whipped! None of this wonderful new life would lie ahead for Phoebe and I had I not suffered that brutal whipping while tied to the course rigging of our ship's sails.

  Phoebe and I said gracious good-byes to our benefactors, explaining that w
e had better get to bed early and greet our new day in New York. We then whisked across the room to the lovely Duchess. I curtsied and said, “You will never know the depth of our gratitude.”

  The Duchess gave us both a 'Royal hug', meaning that she just barely touched both of our shoulders. Yet, that was the outer limit of a Royal's display of affection, and Phoebe and I were thrilled..

  After spotting the Baroness, I even flashed her a weak smile. A far wider and wicked smile was reserved for Emily, who I had kissed so deeply two hours ago with Phoebe's girl-taste on my lips. Emily beamed at me,. I would hold fantasies about kissing her, and regrets that she would have live-out her life serving such a vile Mistress long into the future.

  Phoebe and I held hands, ascending the stairs to our room in the mansion, imagining our new life, and anticipating hours of love-making in this wonderful new place!

  For a complete catalogue of Erotic Fiction…

  write, email or call:

  Pink Flamingo Publications

  P.O. Box 632, Richland, MI 49083, 1-877-629-0051

  E-mail: [email protected]

  On-line:

  For Consensual BDSM, Spanking Fiction and General Erotica:

  http://www.pinkflamingo.com

  For our complete BDSM catalog:

  http://www.eroticbooknetwork.com