Whips, Incorporated

By Angela Pearson

To the uninitiated reader it must be admitted at once that the ecstasy of the whip is experienced mainly by the one who uses it... It is not by any means uncommon, however, for the victim to rise above his agony, as it were, and soar up into a similar ecstasy. --ANGELA PEARSON.
A lost classic from Olympia's most popular author. Whips Incorporated is the story of women taking control of men... and boys. First published 1960 by the Ophelia Press.

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Dec 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781608728282

Book preview

M

CHAPTER ONE. THE ACQUISITION OF POWER

Your glass is empty, said Lord John Maidwell. May I fill it?

Madeleine St. Clair glanced at her watch. I don’t think so, thank you. It’s after midnight. I really ought to go.

Just a small one. And then perhaps you’ll let me run you home?

That would be very nice of you. All right, just a small one.

She watched the man as he threaded his way through the crush at the Chelsea supper-party. He’s very attractive, she thought. And he certainly finds me attractive. He’s trying his best to work up to an improper proposal. But he’s crashingly shy, poor dear. It’ll be interesting to see what happens on the way home.

Thank you, she said, as he returned and gave her her glass. That’s quite a big one.

An uncooperative barman. I told him a small one. Tell me, do you know these people well?

This crowd?

Yes.

Not really. I’ve been abroad for some years. But I was at school with our hostess.

The lovely Audrey.

Yes. She is lovely, isn’t she? And here, in fact, she comes.

The Hon. Audrey Morphy came up to them. It is wonderful to see you back, Madeleine darling. So you two know each other? Good.

I’ve been wondering, said John Maidwell, why I haven’t met Miss St. Clair before. But now I learn that she’s been abroad I don’t blame myself so much.

Audrey Morphy put her hand on her friend’s arm. Darling. I have an idea. Are you free this week-end?

Yes, said Madeleine St. Clair. Why?

I’m going down Friday-to-Tuesday to some cousins in Hampshire. Do come with me, and then we’ll have time to talk and talk.

Well—

Do, darling. It’ll be a quiet week-end. He’s the vicar of a village down there, and he has a dozen or so boys whom he crams for Common Entrance. But we shan’t see anything of them, and there’s no wife. Only a daughter, sixteen years old and ravishingly Beautiful, as well as clever. We’ll have a wonderful time.

Madeleine smiled. I’d love to. It sounds just the sort of week-end I need.

Good. We’ll be driving down. Come and have lunch here on Friday, and bring your bags with you. And now, do excuse me. I must go and look after the people I don’t know so well.

We’re just off, anyway. Thank you for a lovely party.

John shook hands with his hostess. Yes. Thank you so much. He looked round the room. Where is your husband?

Over there by the door.

Oh yes.

He steered Madeleine St. Clair towards the door at which their host was standing. They thanked him, said goodnight, and went into the hall. The front door was opened for them by a beautiful redheaded maid. They made their way to the cars parked opposite the house.

It’s quite amazing, said Madeleine as the man opened the door of his big black Mercedes for her, how Audrey has managed to find such good-looking maids.

It’s amazing that she’s found any maids at all, he replied. And that one at the door was a beauty, I agree.

And she has two others—equally beautiful.

Good God!

He manoeuvred his way out of his parking position, and increased speed. Where to? I hope it’s nice and far.

Richmond Park. I’ll show you where, when we get there.

Right. He fumbled for his cigarette case and offered it. Did you notice our host’s wrists? he said, as he lit her cigarette.

Peter’s wrists? No. Why?

Well, I should say one of his wrists. When he shook hands. I didn’t see the other.

No, I didn’t notice anything. What about it?

Damn great rope marks. His cuff slid up when he shook hands with me. He’s been tied up somewhere.

Tied up? Surely not. Peter? Why ever would he have been tied up?

Goodness knows. But they were rope marks all right. No mistaking them.

How very curious.

There was little traffic at that hour, once they had left the Chelsea district, but John drove slowly. He realised that he had had a lot to drink. He wondered how far he would be able to go that night with his companion. She did not seem the sort of person who would take kindly to any advances at love-making in a parked car, but he decided to see how things were going when he reached the relative darkness of Richmond Common. If they were going well enough he might stop at the side of the road and offer her another drink from the portable bar in the boot of the car. After that, things could take their course. He would be very careful, though. He had a terror of being snubbed.

What do you do? asked Madeleine.

Foreign Office.

Home or overseas?

Overseas.

She turned her head and regarded him. Yes, it fits. The younger diplomat.

He laughed. Thank you kindly. I hope Lord Curie has the same opinion.

Audrey’s father? Why?

He’s the man who really says yes or no to diplomatic appointments now.

Does he? I didn’t know that.

And what, if anything, do you do?

I’m ashamed to say I do nothing. Except travel.

That’s nice. Ah, here’s the beginning of the common. I’ll open up a bit.

The car increased speed, and swept smoothly along the empty, unlighted road. In the beam of the headlights they saw a man half a mile in front of them. He began to wave his arms. He moved into the middle of the road.

He looks a bit unsteady on his feet, said Madeleine.

Yes, he’s quite drunk, said John, and blew his horn. We won’t stop, of course. But I wish he’d move out of the middle of the road. He blew the horn again. He put his foot lightly on the brake.

The man moved a yard or so nearer to the edge of the road. He shook his fist at the oncoming car. Then he waved his arms again. He swayed from side to side.

Do be careful, said Madeleine. He might fall under your wheels.

As the car came up to the man, and he realised finally that it was not going to stop, he raised both fists, shook them violently, and lurched forward into the middle of the road again. He stumbled and fell flat on his face in the path of the wheels.

John swung his steering-wheel and put down his brake hard. He felt a crunch as his off-side front wheel lifted itself over something.

Oh, my God! breathed Madeleine.

John opened his door and ran round the front of the car. He knelt and looked at the man. His heart seemed to stop beating as he saw that the wheel had passed over the head, and had broken the neck. He put his hand to the man’s heart. He slowly straightened himself. He looked at the girl.

He’s dead.

My God! she said again. Are you sure?

Quite sure, I’m afraid.

Oh. What a stupid thing to do. I mean him. It was’ his own fault.

Yes. But that doesn’t help matters. I’ve been drinking quite heavily. They’ll find that out at once. They have tests, you know. He looked down again at the man in the road.

What are you going to do?

He shrugged. Find a phone and ring the police. Nothing eke to do.

What good will that do?

He looked up at her slowly. What do you mean?

You’re absolutely sure he’s dead?

Good God, yes! His neck is broken. And his heart’s stopped, anyway.

Come on, then. Let’s go.

What do you mean?

I mean it would be stupid to call the police. It won’t bring him back to life, will it? And it was completely his fault. Why should you wreck your career? Come on.

He stared at her without speaking, his thoughts racing.

And, she went on, nobody has seen us. The road is completely empty. For the moment. It won’t remain so. Come on! Don’t be a sentimental idiot. You can’t do anything for him.

He frowned for a moment and made up his mind. All right. You’re probably right. Let’s go—quickly. He stooped and pulled the body out of the path of the rear wheel, and ran round to his seat. He found that he had left the engine running. He drove quickly away.

She lit a cigarette and put it between his lips. Don’t fret. It was not your fault, and this is the only sensible thing to do.

He nodded but did not reply. They drove in silence for some minutes. Then she began to give him directions. At length they pulled up in front of her house.

Don’t fret, she said again. Don’t be silly and sentimental.

He smiled at her ruefully. All right.

Nobody but us two will ever know.

He smiled again. This puts me completely in your power, doesn’t it?

It does, doesn’t it? she said lightly. Then she turned and faced him, thoughtfully. Yes, it does, indeed! I hadn’t thought of that.

CHAPTER TWO. FLAGELLATION IN THE VICARAGE

Pauline Heathcote entered her father’s study and found it empty. She went to a bookcase and began to study the tides of some of the books there. After a moment she reached up on tip-toe to look at the books on a higher shelf. She was a lovely girl of sixteen-and-a-half years, with long shapely legs, a very small waist, and a well-developed bosom. She was wearing a simple yellow linen frock. Her legs were bare.

She looked round as she heard a howl of pain. She went to the open window and looked out.

In the orchard, a hundred yards away, a number of her father’s pupils were amusing themselves by whipping a new boy of about thirteen years of age.

Most of the boys were between thirteen and fourteen years of age, and were resident at the Vicarage while being prepared by the Reverend Hugh Heathcote for the Common Entrance Examination to various public schools. An exception was a boy of about fifteen who had failed the last examination, and was doing the year again. This boy was now leaning against a tree in the orchard, absently watching, and directing, the whipping.

The new boy was running as fast as he could up and down a gauntlet. Each wall of the gauntlet was formed by five boys, standing two yards apart from each other. The victim had his wrists bound in front of him. He was wearing only a short football shirt and running shoes. The boys who formed the walls of the gauntlet had long, thin willow-switches in their hands. They lashed the victim hard across his naked bottom each time he passed them. The victim was trying his best not to cry out, but from time to time a howl of pain involuntarily escaped him.

Pauline moistened her lips. I’ll-treatment of new boys was standard practice, but this was the first time she had witnessed a whipping in the gauntlet. She bit her lower lip and watched it with interest and a mounting, tingling excitement. She wished she could be there, a switch in her hand, lashing the naked bottom herself. She put her hands to her breasts and squeezed them.

In a bedroom in the east wing of the Vicarage, Madeleine St. Clair said: Mind if I open the window?

Oh, do, please, said Audrey Morphy. It’s a bit stuffy.

Madeleine went to the window, opened it, and looked out. She gave an exclamation. Come and look at this!

Audrey went to the window. Good God! she said.

That poor boy!

Probably a new boy being broken in.

But surely this sort of breaking in doesn’t happen these days. It went out with Tom Brown.

I don’t think so. Not in crammeries like this. And it doesn’t seem to have gone out with Tom Brown.

Madeleine frowned. It certainly doesn’t. What horrible little brutes boys of that age are.

Audrey nodded. Yes. But they’ve probably all had it done to them. They must pass it on. And it does toughen them up, you know. A good thrashing never did anyone any real harm.

But doesn’t the Vicar stop it? Do you mean he’s just taking no notice?

He’s not in the Vicarage, darling. He’s in church, conducting the evening service. He’s where we ought to be.

I hope he won’t be upset that we’re not.

I don’t think so. He’s rather liberal-minded.. But I don’t think he’d be liberal-minded about this. He does a good deal of thrashing himself, I hear—but I don’t think he’d approve of his pupils doing it for him.

The boy in the gauntlet stumbled and fell. He was whipped to his feet again. The older boy who was standing against the tree said something, and the beating stopped. He held out a hand. One of the boys handed him a switch. He said something else. The victim walked hesitantly up to him, turned sideways, and bent his body. The older boy raised the switch and brought it down hard across the centre of the lacerated bottom. He repeated this five times. When he had finished, the victim fell to the ground, writhing with pain.

I should very much like, said Madeleine, to thrash that boy myself—that older one.

So should I, darling, said Audrey, slowly. I should like it very much indeed.

At the study window below, Pauline called into the orchard. Gateson! Gateson! The older boy looked round.

Come here, said the girl. Come here into the study. The boy walked towards the house. Pauline moved away from the window. She went to a cupboard and opened it. She took out a birch of thin whalebone strips. She ran it through her fingers, lightly, caressingly. She swished it through the air. It gave a soft hissing sound.

The door opened, and the older boy entered the study. Don’t you knock, said Pauline, when you come into my father’s study?

Your father’s not here, said the boy, eyeing the birch in her hand. He’s in church.

That’s why you were whipping Tomlinson? Behind my father’s back?

The boy snorted. Of course behind his back! What do you think? That we’d do it in front of him? He eyed the birch again. You’re not going to be beastly about this, I hope. He’s a new boy.

The girl looked at the birch in her hand. Then she raised it above her head. She held it there for a moment, looking the boy in the eyes. She brought it downwards, hissingly, with all her force. The boy winced. So? she said.

The boy wetted his lips. Everybody has to go through it, when he’s a new boy. Docs my father agree?"

He probably does—in theory, at least.

Does he in practice? The boy was silent.

Does he? She lashed the birch through the air again. Answer me.

No.

And he would thrash you, as the senior boy, for allowing it to happen. Wouldn’t he?

I suppose so.

So I shall thrash you myself—under the usual arrangement.

Oh, no! That’s not fair, Pauline. He’s a new boy.

Let’s not go over all that again. You’re going to get twelve.

Twelve! But six is the usual thing from you. Twelve isn’t fair.

It is. My father would have given you twelve for allowing it to happen, and another twelve for beating the boy yourself. Twenty-four. Therefore I give you twelve. The half, as usual.

No! You can’t give twelve. It isn’t the arrangement. It’s not fair.

Pauline raised her eyebrows. So you want me to report you to my father, do you?

The boy swallowed. Oh, all right. Have it your own way.

She smiled sweetly, and swished her birch through the air again. That’s better. Go over to the block and take your trousers down.

The block, to which the boy now reluctantly went, was a copy of the Eton Whipping Block. It stood in a corner of the study, with its straps dangling from its sides. It was like a chunky letter T, turned upside down. Victims were required to kneel, lay their stomachs over the two-foot-high centre column, and stretch their arms forward and downwards on the other side. There, their wrists were secured by straps. On the top of the centre column a strap was passed over the small of their backs. And finally, to prevent any movement of the part of the body which would be whipped, their knees were secured by other straps to the base of the column itself.

Come on, said the girl. Down with those trousers. Quickly!

The boy undid his buttons. He pushed his trousers downwards. They fell to his ankles. He pushed down his pants. I still think that twelve isn’t fair, he said, sulkily.

Shut up. She went up to him and took his penis in her hands. This is not so vigorous as it was last night, is it?

What do you expect before a whipping? he said. But his penis began to erect under her touch. Do you think I enjoy being whipped?

Many men would. But then, you’re still a child.

I’m not a child. And you’re talking nonsense. Nobody would enjoy being whipped.

She slipped her fingers downwards around his scrotum. She sank her fingernails lightly into it. You’ll see, when you grow up. Kiss me now, and then ask me to whip you.

The boy leaned forward and put his arms around her neck. He strained her towards him. She sank her nails more deeply into his scrotum. He put his lips to hers. She opened her mouth and sucked his tongue on to the top of hers. They strained their bodies together for a moment. Then she broke away. Now ask me, she said, breathlessly. Ask me nicely. You know what to say.

He drew a breath shakily. Please whip me, he said. Whip me as—as hard as you can.

Why?

Because I’ll get only half as many from you as I would I from your father.

You’ve missed a line.

What? Oh yes. Because I deserve it.

Why do you deserve it?

Because you ought to report me.

And if I reported you?

I’d get twice as many from your father.

And so?

I’d rather have half the number from you.

And how many is that?

Six.

What?

Oh, all right. Twelve, this time.

She drew the birch through her fingers again. Kneel down on the block then.

He turned and knelt in front of the column. She put her birch under an arm and stooped

Reviews for Whips, Incorporated

[clifforddorset · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

'Whips Incorporated' is a classic of the F/M erotic literaturechastisement, one which was later issued by Masquerade Books Inc., in 1996 under the title of 'Protests, Pleasures, Raptures'. It describes the activities of a group of aristocratic young ladies and their maids, who are fond of severely chastising the hindquarters of their menfolk, some married and others simply enamoured. Madeleine St. Clair manoeuvres a young man who is heir to a title into painful subservience and, via implied blackmail, into marriage. The book is full of incidents in which the women use canes and whips on the enthusiastically willing men, and it describes these well, making it a classic of the female domination genre, with some cross-dressing.