"No, No! She want's to talk to you. Come on!" Cindy finally got him
moving, and together they stumbled into Nola's room.
     She was still wrenching at her cords, and shaking the whole bed.
"Bobby, let me go right now. I mean it. Untie me."
     Caught by the terrible tone of adult anger and command and yet
unable to obey - quite - Bobby froze.
     "You're all going to get it with the strap. I said untie me!"
     "The bottle, the bottle!" Cindy was quick thinking in her terror.
Instead, Bobby turned on her and began yelling too. "You ungagged her.
You did it. Now we're going to get it. We all are!"
     "Give her the bottle of stuff." Cindy screamed in despair.
     Then Nola screamed again. This time it was right on; it was
abandoned and shrill and animal and prolonged.
     It moved Bobby to action.
     He ran over, pulled the pillow from beneath Nola's head, and threw
it down across her face and held it there. "The bottle's on the
dresser."
     Cindy turned around twice before she saw it. Behind her was a
struggle she didn't want to see. The bed was tossing. On it, Bobby rode
a pillow like a raft, his face lip-bitten and determined.
     "Bring it here," he yelled.
     From beneath the pillow came muffled sounds of desperation.
     "Now hold the pillow. You can't be afraid now! Hold it!"
     Cindy did, but badly and weakly. Nola was able to turn her head
underneath it and shout - it was now muffled in a kind of terror of her
own.
     "Stop it. Stop it! You're going to smother me. I can't--stop it!"
     It was all ugly to Cindy.
     With shaking hands her brother finally got the bottle open and
pulled out the reeking rag. "Keep holding her. I don't care what she
says."
     He bent over and pushed the rag under the pillow where the noise
was coming from and threw himself down beside Cindy to hold it there.
After a while, the nightmare subsided and Nola went limp. Afterward,
still shaking badly, Bobby threw the pillow off and let her get some
air. She was still breathing; in a while, the breathing became more or
less regular. Even so, he sat by the bed and waited a long time before
replacing the gag securely.
     By the door, ready to run if things got worse, Cindy said, "Is she
alright?"
     "You still there?" Bobby seemed to have forgotten her. "Yeah." He
turned around still pale. The high pink spots on his cheeks were
scarlet. "She's out."
     Cindy came back cautiously. "Look, she hurt herself."
     She was right. Nola's wrenching at her ropes had slipped them down
to her wrists, leaving bare, scraped, red places on her arms and flaked,
roughened skin. Bobby pulled down the wrinkled sheet and saw that she
had actually scraped down to blood on one ankle, but nothing looked
serious. He sighed.
     "She's OK enough," and he went outside on the back steps and sat
down.

     After a short interval of not knowing what to do, Cindy, still
frightened and now remorseful - went out and sat down beside him without
speaking. She waited for the police or the sheriff to come and get them
for all that screaming. She also thought about the next time it was her
turn to be with Paul and John. They would probably make her do it
without her underpants for this.
     When none came, she surrendered to the need to sleep and went off
to hide under the covers.
     ...
                           CHAPTER 18

     Nola awoke with sudden fear. The gag and tape - she couldn't
breathe; she was being suffocated again. Jerking her eyes open wide in
fear, she raised her head and then, of course, remembered. There was the
room; there was the ceiling; there was - she turned her head - Bobby,
sleeping exhausted. This was another day, the third like this.
     Closing her eyes again, she took in long slow breaths of air. She
had a headache - oxygen was the answer - because Bobby had forced her to
breathe too much chloroform last night. Her wrists and ankles hurt where
she had scraped them raw in her struggles with him. She was stiff and
muscle-sore all over, and later on, they were going to take off her
nightie, somehow, and spank her. It all leapt back to mind.
     Each day - in her helplessness - began with the weight of the
previous days, each day a step down a ladder whose bottom she could not
see. She felt sorrow, and loneliness. If she could just be free.
     If someone would only just find me. Help me. Help me please.
     But no one was going to find her, no one was going to help her. She
could only help herself. But How?
     Nola said, OK, I'm part of a game that probably began a long time
ago with dolls and toy soldiers. As they got older, the toys faded, they
moved to more freedom, but the game went on. They moved into the doll's
rolls; they became the dolls. And it was unsupervised and completely
outside the adult world. And the game moved on. They became terrorists
in their game. And then that got boring; they hadn't played much
recently - hadn't Cindy said - until now? - and then Nola came along.
     And then I came along, Nola said. This attracted her thought
pattern. And then I came along. It was all so bitterly clear. I am the
next level of the game. Now, the children could, now they would - what?
Who knows? And the only thing to prevent it was silly Nola, who had come
on to the scene in a blue summer dress and not much else; who had
exposed herself in a bikini. How easily the children's impatient
imaginings and the opportunity had come together. Now they could really
play their game.
     If they could. If they dared.
     And they dared.
     But what were the next levels of the game?
     Something chilly and dark passed just behind Nola's immediate
attention and waited in the out-of-reach part of her mind.
     She thought.
     OK, I am their new toy. I walk, I talk, when they let me. They can
move my arms and legs. They can even dress and undress me if they want.
But how do they play with dolls?
     And what if one were suddenly the doll. At the thought, Cindy's
face grew huge in doll Nola's imagination. Cindy's clear, curious,
simple eyes became evil.
     And Paul with his toy soldiers in the dungeon, tied up. Paul was
working out his boy aggressions. Tomorrow the toys would be ready to be
captured again - little harm. Real soldiers, real people, of course, are
only punished once. Once. In Nola's mind, Paul suddenly became even more
a horrible little boy.



     And in the woods, in the unused cabin, gathering place of SECRET
SIX, hadn't Cindy said they took prisoners and hostages and tortured
them for secrets? Erotic play, discovery, a sorting out of values. The
next day, the next raid, the prisoners would be back intact, surly and
unwilling to tell, ready for torture again. But if the prisoners, if the
prisoner were real?
     The logical step was obvious. At this level of the game, six kids
just before teen age or crossing through their teens, were going to
torture Nola. But Nola fought to dismiss this. She wasn't a toy, they
were not free to do as they wished and the world of spankings,
punishment, and authority remained. It only troubled her that they might
think about it. She was also troubled as to why they should think about
it.
     The rope, the adhesive tape, and all the hurt. Were they acting out
life as they wanted it to be. Given everything of their life - love,
fun, warmth, money - why would these kids choose the darkest parts for
their most interesting games? Were they naturally bad. If they were, who
then wasn't? was she?
     Maybe they don't like what they see of what I think is a pretty
world. Maybe war and crime and trash - even violence appeals to them.
     I think these kids are oddball and different and dirty but are they
all that different from the rest? What did you think of them when you
came here? You thought that they were pretty and fun. What did you think
of the way they obeyed and had fun when you took them swimming? You were
all over yourself with love. What these kids are doing to you is the
rest of their playtime.
     Nola shook her head silently. Again, the logical step invited and
again she refused to take it. All kids aren't this way. We weren't.
     Weren't we?
     Nola stopped. Something summoned to her mind the image of the
parking lot snickerers of her own early teens. She saw them clearly
again, heard them clearly again. Their faces moved back and forth
interchangeably with those of SECRET SIX.
     No! They didn't do anything like this, though.
     No?
     Well, maybe, Nola granted. What would they really have done? What
would any person do given entire power and another person? What - in
particular - would inexperienced children do? Who knows what people
think when, when they're children and we haven't broken them yet...?
     Then it hit her hard, like a hard blow to the stomach. Nola no
longer doubted that the children would strip her naked. She had teased
them with exposure in her short blue skirt, in her bikini - what did
Cindy say about Paul - likes to look at girl's bums.
     Well, she had exposed a lot of that part of her anatomy to him.
Small wonder he wanted to see the hidden part. Besides, they had already
done it with each other. Even Dianne and John? And what they were going
to do wasn't that difficult. The kids were getting more confident and it
would hardly be fatal. She was almost undressed now. She knew they could
see her panties when she was spread-eagled like they tied her.
     I've been naked before, Nola said, but as she said it, she
continued uneasy, squeamish.


     On the swimming team, in dormitory life, with doctors and - by
accident, of course - with the family, she had certainly been seen
without clothes on. These occasions, however, had been brief and not
particulary pleasant. She remained private, avoiding exposure and
usually averting her eyes from the exposure of others. What about the
bikini, then, Nola? Was she trying to turn the boys on. Well, she
certainly accomplished that. Naturally, she worried that she was a
prude. Perhaps only timid and hesitant. Certainly maidenly, shyness, the
almost wordless taboo, that inhibited her.
     Rationalizing, she told herself that it was only a matter of time,
place, and values. Indeed, she had many girlish dreams on the subject.
Today's indecency, however, and what disgusted her, made her feel
crawly, was that there was dirt and malice in it, sneakiness and furtive
smirking and giggling. She was being hauled into a world of fooling
around, of lewd pawings. The object was torment and she was afraid she
would show them how well it was succeeding.
     But what else had Cindy said; and she felt her flesh crawling; and
spank you. Nola wanted to cry. They were going to add erotic pain to her
humiliation. At least erotic to them, pain to her. She was their toy;
they were free to do as they wished; and the adult controlled spanking,
there to keep children in check, was reversed and that dreaded check was
available for children to use on her. She had never been spanked. She
felt the tears.  
                           CHAPTER 19

     Gingerly, very gingerly, she exhumed the outlines of a plan she had
invented earlier and had been too nice to effect.
     The children came late, shifted her from bed to walking and took
her to the bathroom; nonetheless, she went docilely enough and performed
as usual.
     While Nola was washing one-handed, she dropped her wash cloth on
the floor and being tied, couldn't seem to bend over properly to pick it
up. Dianne went in, bent to get it, and Nola grabbed her. Strong fingers
dug into Dianne's neat hair and seized a handful at the roots. Though
only Nola's right hand was free and then only from the elbow down, all
her strength was concentrated there, and it was clear to her and to
Dianne that she was never going to let go. The hair strained at the
roots with the force of the grip. Nola threw out her hip and cracked
Dianne's head against the side of the sink. Dianne yelled - surprise,
sudden pain and anger - but, it was still cool Dianne - not quite panic.
Her own hands shot above her head and engaged Nola. Then she was hipped
against the sink again, and her eyes momentarily lost clear focus.
     The others came banging into the bathroom, wide-eyed, and there was
instant battle. Nola seemed determined to never, never let go, and even
hobbled, resisted their tries at getting her fingers loose. Dianne hurt
and she continually made just exactly that noise as she tried to get up
from her knees where Nola had her forced. In the tumble of bodies,
nothing was clear except the central issue of
Nola-must-let-go-or-Dianne-will-be-hurt - versus
Nola-must-hold-on-and-hurt-Dianne. They swayed and twisted; Paul was
pushed across the edge of the bath tub and fell in it; Cindy and Barbara
fled; Bobby got his hands tangled up with Dianne's and Nola's.
     John doubled his fist and hit Nola on the face. His blow aimed at
the chin went high and struck her just in front of the ear, but it was
delivered with such sincerity that she, in turn, lost focus, and her
hand in response released Dianne and tried to reach up to the hurt.
Paul, who had recovered, hit her as hard as he could in the stomach.
There was no one to catch her. Hobbled, she could not step back and fell
against the wall and slid down.
      Dianne was sitting crying on the floor, her head in her hands,
face out of sight. Nola, still bound, lay twisted beside the toilet.
John ripped the tape from her mouth. She mustn't cry or she might
suffocate behind her gag. Finally, everything subsided.
     Dianne, still crying, got slowly up and stumbled blindly from the
bathroom, down the hall, into the living room, and threw herself on the
couch, still cradling her face in her hands. For some time she remained
there, her tears gradually slowing, her control returning. In the
bathroom, Nola lay in a fettered S on the floor; her cheek white. Paul
had followed Dianne and stood over her, helpless, shaking. Cindy and
Barbara stood timidly behind him while John and Bobby watched over the
prisoner. More minutes passed.
                           CHAPTER 20

     When Nola's eyes cleared again, John and Bobby dragged her feet
first, face down, to a space where they could get at her. Rolling her
over, they took the free hand and tied it back to the other behind her.
She said things like "Don't-" and "Please-" and "It hurts-" which only
meant to them that she was OK now. Afterward, they regagged her and
doubled the tape over her mouth. The rebellion was over for a time. They
would punish her now.
     Nola reluctantly went over her escape plan. Because the children
were not getting more careless with her but only more expert, she could
expect only less and less possible freedom. She had already let an
opportunity slip by because things had not been serious enough, and
because she was too squeamish. Because, because, because. But she
finally had to. It had begun as a simple if desperate proposition. Given
a moment with partial movement, she would grab one of the children and
hold on until the rest of them let her go. But with the chloroform and
by weight of numbers they could easily defeat this, she shifted to a
variation. With the momentary free hand she would hurt one of the
children. This would cause adult investigation which would lead to her
rescue and release.
     She could easily have conned Cindy last night but she had not
wanted to hurt that child - who would? Her sense of nicety would not
permit it. There was no sense in trying to catch Bobby; he stayed out of
reach. That left John, Paul, Barbara and Dianne. She would send her
message to the outside world via a black eye, a split scalp or a swollen
nose.
     Since John was too strong, and Paul was, too - well, if she failed,
he might - and Barbara was much like Cindy, she centred on Dianne.
Mornings offered Nola's greatest moments of freedom; she was on her
feet, at least the lower part of one arm was free; the space in the
bathroom was confined enough to make attack possible; and who else was
there. Only proper and sometimes helpful Dianne. The thin girl was the
most responsible of the group; if she failed to go home, or went home
badly banged up, inquiry was sure to follow; she was sure she could get
Dianne. And now that they were going to strip her and physically abuse
her, violence, although not in her make-up, was the answer.
     Once she had sunk her fingers into Dianne's hair she knew she had
enough determination never to let go. When it came to hurting Dianne
enough, however, she held back as she had been afraid that she would.
Mentally she gave the command and momentarily the advantage was hers. A
real smash of the hips banging Dianne's head and face against the wash
basin would have been the end of the game: if not, the next smash would
have. Even as she moved, however, she somehow hoped a little bit would
do. She thumped Dianne a good one, of course, but it was delivered with
a mercy not returned. Dianne was not made of so tender a stuff as Nola
thought; and then the moment of opportunity had passed, and the struggle
was in progress.
     Nola never saw John's blow coming except as a blur in the corner of
her eye, then bright green and white flashes, and then Paul hit her and
she was going down. She had underrated them all.


     She fell, dazed, and struck the floor unprotected. She vaguely
heard crying and voices, dimly felt things being done to her. There was
a dizzy fog. She was gratefully numbed. She would have like to remain
so, but pain and consciousness relentlessly returned.
     She opened her eyes and found herself still on the bathroom floor,
both hands tied again and her feet no longer just hobbled, but bound
tightly together, ankle to ankle. Her mouth was again stuffed with lumpy
damp cloth, and her lips heavily covered with tape. Little dazzling
shock waves of hurt - injured wrist, thudding head - went through her
consciousness. Above her, on the other side of this flickering return to
waking, John and Bobby stared down at her. They were white-faced and
breathing hard, too. She turned her face down to the floor and made a
sound of heartbreak.
     She hadn't had it in her.
     Soon, she would be naked and beaten by children.  

                           CHAPTER 21

     The pain at he point where Dianne's head had struck the sink
lessened and left in its place only a headache and slight swelling. When
this became apparent to her, she was reassured and calm again. Drying
her eyes, she got up, went to the kitchen, and put some ice in a towel,
wet it, and put it to her forehead. Her movements were assured and
positive. The rest of them followed and stood milling around watching
her anxiously.
     The faces of the other kids seemed younger and less certain than
before. Paul was trembling. Bobby was deeply shook. Cindy and Barbara
were silent and submissive, and even John on whom she depended, was
quiet; they were waiting for her to speak.
     This suddenly occurred to Dianne. The first thing she said - she
knew it - would be jumped upon, acted upon, regardless of what it was.
It would seem a command, and it would be carried out. The group,
disturbed and without direction for the last few minutes, had became
her's to direct entirely. She felt full authority pass into her hands.
     Still standing, still silent, Dianne felt a slow, exquisitely sweet
sense of freedom engulf her. She took the used cloth from her head,
dumped it out in the sink, wrung it out, and hung it to dry.
     "What're we going to do now?"
     "Take her downstairs," Dianne said, "Undress her and Paul gets to
be torturer first!"
     The unfinished recreation room to be was at the bottom of one
flight of stairs. Exposed overhead joists had been converted into
imagined ship's beams with ringbolts and hooks intended for nets. Barn
siding made walls and deck. It was semi-comfortable chaos, a place of
piled lumber, camping and boating gear, heavy wooden chairs, a picnic
table, two barbecues, and old iron framed bed with wooden slats, and
other miscellaneous junk.
     Cindy had never liked that room. The smell of wood and tar and
cement did nothing for her at all. With feminine disdain she never went
in. There was too much dead there - unused furniture, dust, and a kind
of wet feeling - and it reminded her of the deep pit of the well when it
was open for some reason. Nonetheless, when Dianne spoke, Cindy
immediately understood; it was a little bit like a torture chamber. The
game was going to get interesting again. They were going to spank a
naked adult prisoner - like they pretended.
     If they had been cautious about handling Nola at first, then more
confident, now they were rough and vengeful. She had startled them,
attacked them even - they almost understood what she had intended - and
she had frightened them, the most unforgivable thing of all.
     Half lifting, half dragging her, they got Nola into the hallway and
pulled her to her feet. Although she offered - could offer - no
resistance, she held herself stiffly and, glancing over her shoulder,
made clear enough sounds of pain. They were not inclined to listen,
however, even Cindy. Ever since she had ungagged Nola only to have her
start screaming, she had distrusted her. The scuffle this morning, the
fact that Nola had hurt Dianne, only deepened this. When the others
began to carry Nola downstairs, she'd wished that she was big enough to
help.
     "Watch it now - You still got her?" John and Dianne carried
her by the upper arms. one to each side.
     "Yeah. Watch it, Paul! Yeah, we're OK." Breathing hard and moving
awkwardly, Bobby and Paul backed down the stairs, their hands locked
beneath her knees.
     "Not so fast - "
     "I can't hold on - "
     "Just don't let her go here."
     "There's not enough room for me to turn."
     "Get out of the way, Cindy!"
     Bumping and staggering, they slowly descended the stairs to the
basement, where they put Nola down on the last step while Bobby opened
the door of the room and turned on the bare bulb over the work bench.
     "OK, let's go."
     Moving more easily with level footing, they carried her into the
shop and put her down, hard, on the concrete floor. Time-out!
     "What are we going to do now?" Although he was outwardly calm, Paul
appeared nearly spastic with restrained excitement. His eyes darted back
and forth with guilty, squirming pleasure.
     They considered.
     It was stuffy in the basement. John pulled the tail of his T- shirt
up and wiped his eyes. Bobby looked uncomfortable. They all watched
Dianne.
     Tilting her head back and looking at the exposed joists and the
heavy ship's ringbolts in the finished beams, Dianne said, "Let's hang
her up."
     "Yah, that's neat!" Paul did a jump for joy.
     Nola struggled to sit up, making noise through her nose.
     "By her arms," Dianne said. "That hurts enough."
     "Boy!"
     The complicated manoeuvre meant another fight, however. They had to
move her again - under the heavy iron rings - and knowing what was
coming, Nola kicked out and sent the two smaller kids falling.
     Eventually it took even Cindy to help move her the required eight
to ten feet.
     They hadn't thought about the next part.
     "What now?"
     "I know!" - Paul's moment had come. It was clear.
     "Leave her hands behind her like they are and pull them up!"
     "It'll work," Dianne said slowly.
     This was something that SECRET SIX had not tried upon itself. It
would be interesting.
     Nola's wrists and elbows, still tied together, were released from
her body. John ran a rope up to the ring bolt and down again. He pulled
and wrenched her arms up backward forcing her body. Convinced that she
must stand or have her shoulders twisted around and out of their
sockets, Nola allowed herself to be brought to her feet.
     "More," Paul squealed. He knew what he wanted now.
     John pulled some more. It was no effort at all. To avoid pain, her
heels cleared the cement, and she went up on tiptoe: the tendons behind
her knees were sharply outlined, and the muscles in her calves stood
out. Her breasts hung, and her head, hidden by tousled hair pitched
forward. John tied the rope off to a supporting column and took another
breather.

     In the minutes of wrestling, Nola's body had lost all its novelty
for Bobby and Cindy and much of its excitement for the others. Up to
this instant, the morning had proved the prisoner to be a burden, a
danger, an opponent, a spur to guilt and anxiety, but never the object
of erotic attention. Now, however, forced, twisted, bound, and
motionless except for a slight shifting of weight to somehow ease the
agony; her nightie up at the back exposing her underpants, she became to
them - again - altogether astonishing.
     Dianne had brought a small pair of sewing scissors in her pocket,
and while the others stood around her victim, she used them carefully.
     Folding back the cotton lace of the shoulder straps of Nola's
summer nightgown, she cut almost on the seams concealed there, right and
left. Nola could not see what Dianne was doing, but she felt the metal
go carefully along, the dull edge of the scissors against her skin.
Having then bared Nola's shoulders, she went on with it.
     Beginning at the hip, Dianne cut up the side seam to the armhole on
the right side. When she felt the gown being removed from her body, Nola
closed her eyes and felt the tears she had so much wanted not to show
them. In another minute, the side seams of her bikini pants had been
cut, and she was as awkwardly, gracelessly, naked and exposed as it was
possible to be. Of course, there were giggles - she could hear each one
separately - and she thought, it finally did happen. After all. Every
woman has thought the same under some circumstance. Now they would begin
to do things to her.
     She opened her eyes, still teary wet, and raised her head. The
children were motionless - Cindy half bent, two small hands covering her
mouth to stifle laughter, bright eyes half peeking through her fingers;
Barbara staring, hand over her mouth; Bobby, solemn; Dianne still
holding the scissors; John unable to raise his head for some reason. She
could not see Paul. Of course, he would be behind her, where else. She
was most exposed there in her present position. She tried to clench her
buttocks to deny him some of the intimate view but Paul just trembled as
he stared.
     Outside the shock of seeing and feeling herself naked, there was
yet no real harm. Her's was hardly the kind of beauty that would drive
them to madness anyhow. Sexy Nola would say that Paul was looking at her
best feature. Then John raised his head at last, and she saw his eyes.
She was, of course, acutely demoralized and self-conscious. She felt
every part of her sticking out her, rounding in there. Naked Nola was
somehow less Nola than before. Clothing was privacy and protection. The
children knew it too. Nakedness heightened the captor-captive
relationship as it was probably meant to.
     A still dead atmosphere steadily filled the room and made her skin
moist and uncomfortable. A fly buzzed. Her hair tickled her damp
forehead, and she shook it around as best she could.
     Helplessness: torment.
     "We did it." Paul could not believe it. "We really did."
     He idly watched the fly crawl up the back of Nola's thigh and
thought of black flies, mosquitoes, spiders, ants and other creepy
crawly things and a tied up prisoner.



     Cindy looked at him and understood. Indeed, she felt that everybody
did. It was the game for real. The game played so many times in
imagination and now had come true. What Paul had said went for them all
and there was a sense of complicity and commitment in the basement. They
all knew that in 'the game' there were other things that could be done.
It was suddenly a little scary - at least, Cindy thought so - and she
didn't reply or say anything.
     "Well, what did you expect? That we couldn't or something?" John
bluffed a casualness that Cindy saw was false.
     Paul appeared nervous and not nervous, looking and not looking at
Nola's white, smooth, rounded buttocks.
     Dianne alone acted. Standing n front of the captive, she reached
out beneath the bent body and took the older woman's bare breast in her
fingers and with deliberate coolness squeezed and twisted it as hard and
as far as she could.
     It is possible to feel someone else being hurt, and Cindy
experienced it now. Nola's flesh was soft and grotesquely distorted and
the hand was hard and thin and white-knuckled. Moreover Cindy heard it;
the prisoner exploded in futile writhing and noises while Dianne kept at
it over a minute. Eventually Dianne released the breast, took Nola's
head up by the hair and slapped her across the face two hard times. Then
the obscene moment was over.
     Dianne did not say one word.
     Nola's knees bent and for a moment she seemed in danger of tearing
her own shoulders with her own weight. She made sounds of being hurt,
then the greater pain took charge,and she stood on toes, legs stiffened
once again.
     It unnerved Cindy, the whole thing did. It imposed complicated
thoughts and emotions and responsibilities she had no wish to have. She
felt her face becoming hot as it did when she was about to go into a
total-despair crying time. It was all bad. And Nola was bad to have
caused it all, and Dianne was right. With something akin to sudden hot
abandon, Cindy slapped Nola on the thigh.
     Dianne said quickly, "Paul can take first guard." Then she patted
Cindy. "You were good. You helped. You can help me with her next when
it's my turn." She took her by the hand and let her from the basement
room, the others following.
     "Is that when we spank her?" Cindy looked up at Dianne with wide
innocent eyes.
     "Yes, Cindy, we'll give her a good one."
     "Yeah," Cindy smirked, remembering one of her spankings. 

                           CHAPTER 22

     Paul was petrified, everything tingled. He felt that he had some
kind of haze over his eyes; there was a knot in his throat. After
pretending disinterest for a few minutes, Paul went over and closed the
door. Then he came back and walked around Nola. It had all come true.
His heart was very loud; he could hear it from within his own head.
     When they first talked about taking Nola's clothes off, he had
pictured her like the girl in the book Dianne was reading. She was tall,
slender, terrified, bound to a stake. Reality, of course, had been quite
different.
     For one thing Nola had hair down between her legs and this
surprised him. He imagined a woman's genitalia from air-brushed pictures
he had managed to see - something small, rounded, utterly smooth and
some how magically attractive, else why could they not show it? Cindy
didn't have any and he wasn't sure about Dianne; he only looked at her
bum. Would Barbara? In this sense she had let him down. For another
thing, his idea of anatomy was not so vague that he didn't realize that
he'd seen better and more rounded figures - clothed, remote, of course
- many times. He expected better than his sister or little Cindy.
     However, Nola was here and helpless, naked and that made up for a
lot and her bum was really nice, the way it stuck out.
     Paul had a knife, an ordinary kind, but today it was hot as a poker
and weighed a ton in his barely thirteen year old hand. He took it out
and opened the big blade. Only when he had done so did he allow himself
to look up. She wasn't looking at him as he had expected, but looking at
the blade, following the movements of his small hands with attention.
     Paul turned the knife this way and that, made as if to feel the
edge, which was dull enough. He moved the knife from side to side and
again watched her eyes follow. It was like holding a switch over a dog
and not beating him - yet! - but it was far, far better. An extreme, a
delightful sense of going-to-be-bad filled him. He whipped the blade
past her at arms length - it was perhaps as close to him as to her - but
she stiffened.
     Only that?
     Probably, Nola wasn't afraid that he'd kill her; maybe not even
afraid that he would hurt her very much - this he wished her to feel.
Paul was obviously in command in one way, but as an adult, she was
obviously and still in command in another. She better not be or else. It
hurt Paul. Cross him, belittle him in any of his crazy whims and you had
a very angry boy.
     Well, she'd better believe me, Paul said to himself. He reached out
and slapped her thrusting naked buttock. Her skin felt fiery to his
touch and he let his hand linger on her flesh for a moment, then, he
slapped her again, as hard as he could. She grunted and tried to move
her buttocks out of his way. He liked the way she wiggled.
     Leaning forward, he put the flat of the blade on her throat and
pressed the dull side into her gently and safely. She wouldn't know, of
course; she couldn't see under her own chin. She shook her head, no, no,
angrily, and in doing so, cut herself. There was after all, a sharp side
too. It was no more than a prick, but she felt it, and it slowed her
down. Paul almost withdrew, but when he saw that she was merely
scratched, he left the knife on her neck and continued to press - less
gently. There was the tiniest, whitest little blond hairs on her skin -
you wouldn't even see them unless you bent close and tested her neck
with a blade - and Paul was fascinated. The point of the knife made a
little shadowy indent that was white at the tip and flushed all around.
He did it again and she stopped moving at all. Now she knows, now she
knows, he thought. Then he began to trace the long tendon of her throat
up and down, a little harder each time, until she had to withdraw. This
continued until she had her head practically flat on her far shoulder.
     Delighted, Paul held her there with the point of steel just under
her ear. They had invented a new game; he could make her move her head
anywhere he wanted. And she resisted. It was exciting and dangerous. If
she became too angry or tired and thrashed her head around again, and he
did not get the knife back in time, she really would be hurt. But still
he pressed the blade there another second and another and pressed
harder. Then, finally, he relented, only to walk around her - stopping
to spank her buttocks again - and began the game over from the other
side again.
     During all this Paul was painfully aware of her naked breasts. He
thought that somehow there was something sacred about a woman's breasts
- it was one of the reasons he wanted her night gown off - but he wasn't
going to touch either of them - not yet - he'd explore them carefully
later.
     When he had tired of his present game, he let the knife trickle
down between her breasts to her navel and her pale white belly where he
pressed in just hard enough to make her wince and squirm. Then a new
game began. This way, that way, harder.
     When he finally straightened up, it seemed like he had been holding
his breath forever. He let it out slowly. It was better than he dared
think, and his turn at guarding wasn't half over. He looked at Nola -
the victim - and he smiled.
     He went behind her again and the raw exposure made is heart pump
faster and his breath came in gasps. The next time he would have her
legs wide apart like when she was spread on the bed upstairs. He knew
that he would be able to see much more. He could only see her underpants
then, but now...
     Much more slowly now, with much less fear, he began to test her
body with his knife, staring at her feet and working up her calves, then
her thighs. He found that, by keeping the blade flat and pressing in on
the point, he could leave a faint white line on her skin. He could make
designs even if that lasted but a moment. Paul trembled as he worked on
his victim.
     When Paul straightened up a second time, he found that he had been
lost in his dreams for nearly an hour. Nola's body was crossed and
marked with a number of now pink lines that were slowly becoming more
vivid. After that, they would fade; a least, he guessed that they would.
He found, however, that he really didn't care. There would be no beating
for this tonight and the remoteness of punishment plus the number of
possibilities formed something like an inescapable corridor down which
he must go, each step leading to the next. He had to do what he was
doing!

     Taking his knife again, Paul re-opened his game, returning to her
belly, pressing in as if daring himself to break the skin and draw
blood. Now, that ought to hurt. He put the point of the knife on her
breast and ran it luxuriously down to the nipple. Hers were larger than
his, bigger even than Dianne's, and they had little bumps in the pink
part and he had a long time to go yet, and so he toyed with his knife
point round her nipples. Tears were dropping on the floor and she made
gasping sounds behind the gag. The next time he wouldn't have her gagged
so she could cry out loud. He would like that.  

                           CHAPTER 23

     Later that night, after they had taken Nola down and put her on the
bed; they had all looked at Paul after seeing the marks, but said
nothing. Paul sat in his own room. But tomorrow -such was the contract
between parents and child - he would not only be released again, but
pitched out, free to run and play and torture a grown girl. This whole
adventure was for Paul like a string of erotic days all in a row.
     The thrust of Paul's thought was entirely sexual. Compared to other
thirteen-year-old's, Paul was very nearly jaded. At five he had peeked
at his naked older sister; at eight, he had found his father's
magazines; at ten, him imagination had already taken him far beyond what
the world could ever offer. At twelve, he understood that he was closed
in and that his best dreams would never come true because of people.
     Paul loathed adults.
     Yes, they held you down; yes, they dominated; yes, they kept you
away from the fun; but Paul had a deeper complaint. Yes, they were more
stupid by far.
     Adults were unseeing, insensitive, slow and dull-witted. How could
they be human at all? Paul was not related. He held, like the blade of
his knife, an absolute division between them and himself and the
division would never be mended. He could see where they could not; he
was cheered when they wept; he was clear when they were unclear. The
only hitch to this was that they dominated. They ran the world.
     Paul's feeling was less one of hatred than pure separation. He did
not grant their existence any more than after waking he granted the
existence of his strange dreams. He did not grant the existence of his
parents although he had to grant their power. He did not grant the
existence of school-mates - except some of the girls. Paul was - given
other times and circumstances - capable of an Inquisition, a witch
trial. He would punish and hurt cheerfully, simply because the victims
offended the world he would create. A world of Pauls - to his mind - a
perfect world.
     To that extent, when he thought of Nola, he thought only of her
skin and of his knife prodding her. In his night imagination, he heard
a scream, but it was them screaming, not anyone in particular at all. It
was great.
     Only Dianne escaped his fervour; first, because she understood him
and told him things; second, because she was bigger and older; third,
because she allowed him glimpses of nakedness - bending over to pick up
something or dropping the towel just before getting into the shower
knowing he was peeking; and last, because she was his sister. Within
this unsentimental list of priorities, her chief value remained that of
story teller, exciter.
     Dianne was widely - though not well - read. She devoured book club
novels. She was always off to the library every time the family car went
to town. She was a fund of scattered, not to well- considered,
knowledge. Those things she shared with Paul, however, had a certain
direction.




     For him she reserved her tales of nazi atrocities, the Salem witch
trials, the fate of early Christian martyrs, or human sacrifices of
primitive peoples, and when she did so, her cool grey eyes became large
and intense. Paul ate it up. He saw, he saw it all as she talked. He saw
the iron cages, the rattling chains, the whips. He heard the shrieks,
the screams of captive agony from the pillory, the rack. The irons grew
red in the fire. Paul nearly fainted at the force of his tutored
imaginings. This wasn't a make- believe story; this wasn't the comics or
TV - they were all tame and boring - this was what happened to real
people. Real naked girl prisoners.
     It was too much for a small boy, and yet from the time he could
think, Dianne had treated him to such fare. He never put his fingers in
his ears. He listened. Their natures coincided at this point and the
games as they were able to influence them, were their games. It must be
admitted that though the others might change the plot here and there,
they played. They liked it.
     Thus, when Paul considered tomorrow and the prisoner they called
Nola, he considered it from a most special point of view. He lay in the
darkness of his room turning over all the possibilities. Actually you
ought to have a candle and an ice pick as well as the knife to do any
good.

(To be continued in Nola10A.txt)     

                      A Comment from the Author:

     The comments and suggestions posted by readers are what keep the
authors going. The same is true for me. I've got a general direction I
want to go with NOLA series from here, but that's all. The door's wide
open for specific scenes and characters. I'd love for all you "Anons"
out there to contribute your suggestions. If nobody does, the NOLA
series will probably go on anyway but the more suggestions I get the
better the product, I hope.

     Please post any comments to French Connection BBS (914-278-6266) or
Leather Rose BBS (312-665-0111). I visit both of them regularly.