Discipline Maintained

                         DISCIPLINE MAINTAINED

       At the time my story begins, I was in the habit of thinking of myself, to some extent at least, as a man of dignity and reserve, not given to an inordinate amount of emotional display; and yet I must admit that I was unable to completely disguise my astonishment--I say nothing of other, more complicated and perhaps darker feelings--when Mr. John Brummel, after a pleasant and quite sociable dinner at his house, to which he had generously invited me, a newcomer to the island, after no more than a day or so of acquaintance--asked me quite calmly and casually--and in the lady's presence--if I would like to watch him chastise his wife.

       "I beg your pardon?" was my quite natural response, as though perhaps I had misheard him, though I didn't think I had. And yet it seemed impossible that he should have uttered those words, especially with almost no preparation or preamble. My surprise, as I have noted, showed through my bewildered reply, and that surprise was augmented by the fact that Mrs. Brummel's reaction to his words was far less marked than my own; in fact, was almost no reaction at all. She simply lowered her eyes to the table top and sat very still, saying nothing

       Samantha Brummel was a rather tall, rather pale woman of, as far as I could judge, twenty-seven or twenty-eight, whereas her husband was easily in his early forties. At first sight I had thought her a fairly good-looking lady, though hardly beautiful; but as the evening progressed and I had the opportunity to observe her more closely, as well as to engage her in conversation, my opinion gradually underwent a change, until I came to look on her as one of the most strikingly attractive women I had ever seen. Her pale face was set off by a quantity of long, straight black hair, which fell unfettered halfway down her back. Her eyes were also black, quite startlingly so, and bright at the same time. Her face was oval in shape, her mouth full and soft-looking, her lips sensuous, with enough color in them, despite the whiteness of the rest of her, to need no artificial addition. Her figure was full and rounded, yet not overly voluptuous, and she carried it with a grace and lightness which in no way diminished its essential sensuality.

       And it was this woman whom her husband had just asked me if I would like to watch being "chastised" by him. As I say, there had been no preparation for such a question; what had preceded it had been an ordinary discussion of what type of activity the three of us would pursue to pass the evening, now that we had concluded our meal.

       "What would you like to do, Charles?" John Brummel had asked me. "Samantha and I often enjoy reading to each other after dinner. Would that interest you? Or we could play some cards--whist, perhaps? Although actually Samantha doesn't enjoy that as much as I do."

       "That's all right, John," Samantha said, smiling. "If you two would like to play, that will give me a chance to clean up some of these dishes. And then afterwards I'll join you if you wish."

       John Brummel smiled back at her, and then at me. "Samantha is the perfect wife," he said. "Gracious and accommodating at all times. Smart and sweet, as well as being a fine cook, as I'm sure you will agree, Charles."

       "Yes indeed," I said. "And a most attractive one, too. You are a lucky man, John."

       "Why, thank you, sir," Samantha said demurely.

       "Luck is part of it, yes," Brummel said. "But luck must be helped along sometimes." He was looking at me sharply now. "You do find her attractive, then?" he murmured.

       "What man would not?" I said lightly, trying to sound gallant without appearing lubricious.

       Brummel nodded. And it was then that he said, "Would you like to watch me chastise her, Charles?"

       To which, in my bemused and bewildered state, I gave the reply already quoted. "I beg your pardon?"

       Brummel smiled again. Samantha, I noticed, was no longer smiling. As reported, she was sitting very still, her eyes down. "I am asking you, Charles," Brummel said, "since you find my wife so much to your liking, whether you might enjoy watching me chastise her."

       "Chastise her?" I repeated dumbly. "But what for?"

       "On general principles," Brunner said. "I believe in discipline, you see. Discipline must be maintained, as that old trooper Mr. Bagnet said. Do you know 'Bleak House?' Mr. Bagnet says it frequently, regarding his relations with his wife. 'Discipline must be maintained.' Of course, he meant it in a different way, and he said it mainly to keep up appearances, as it was she who actually ran things in that family. I, however, take it literally, and believe it to be true. Discipline must be maintained. And so I enforce this maxim by chastising Samantha, on general principles, once a month or so. Of course, if she gives me a particular reason, I do so more frequently; but Samantha is generally so obliging and well behaved that those occasions are now few and far between. This circumstance, in my opinion, is at least partly due to the monthly ritual, which I observe strictly. And which, I believe, is about due to take place. Is it not, Samantha?"

       Samantha's voice, when she spoke, was low and expressionless. "It is a little early yet, John," was what she said.

       "A few days, perhaps," her husband answered complacently. "But not enough to quibble about. And since Charles is here, this evening, as our guest, and it is our duty to entertain him, I think it would be only polite to present our little procedure for his benefit. Isn't that so, my dear?"

       Samantha said nothing.

       Brummel's voice sharpened. "Isn't it, Samantha?"

       Samantha did not look up. "If you say so, John," she said softly.

       "Good," Brummel said. "Then we might as well get started. Why don't you go and prepare yourself, darling. Charles and I will have another glass of wine, and then we will join you."

       Without another word Samantha got up from her chair. She did not look at me, nor at her husband, as she slowly and gracefully left the room.

       My feelings, needless to say, were all in a jumble. My mind could hardly believe what my ears had heard, and my brain was still trying to process it. And at the same time those dark imaginings to which I earlier referred were having an undeniable effect upon another part of my anatomy.

       John Brummel smiled at my evident confusion as he refilled my wine glass. "Not exactly the kind of evening you were expecting, Charles, is it?" he murmured.

       "You might say that," I replied, attempting to appear more self-possessed than I was under the circumstances. But I couldn't resist the desire to assuage, at least to some extent, my curiosity. "But tell me, John. When you say 'chastise,' what do--that is--ah--what exactly--well--what form does this chastisement take?"

       "Flogging," Brummel said simply.

       I could only stare at him. "Flogging?"

       "Yes, Charles. Flogging. With a whip. A flogging whip. On her nether parts. I give her twelve, usually. Twelve of the best, as they say. It is a most effective punishment, I assure you. Extremely painful. And extremely stimulating. To me, that is. And I suspect it will be for you as well. Am I right, Charles?"

       I ignored the question. "And Samantha?" I asked him. "Does she find it--stimulating? As well as painful? I have heard of such--"

       Brummel laughed shortly. "Oh no," he replied. "Oh no indeed. Samantha hates it. Positively hates it. Which I think will be evident when she--"

       My importuning thoughts made me interrupt him. "But then why does she--why does she submit to it? Why would she put up with it? Why doesn't she leave you, or...or..."

       He laughed again. "My dear Charles," he said, "you have lived too long in the city. Samantha was brought up in a small Catholic community, by strict Catholic parents. By their lights, a woman's husband is her lord and master. His word is law. She obeys him implicitly. And she would no more think of leaving him, through divorce or any other means, than of becoming a prostitute. As you say, I am a lucky man."
       "But--but if that is so--if she obeys and submits to everything--then why do you have to--to 'maintain discipline,' as you say. Why do you need to punish her?"

       Brummel looked at me as if I were hopelessly naive. "Because, my boy," he said, "I enjoy it."

       I said nothing.

       "And, as I said before," he went on, "I believe you will too." He paused, as if giving me a chance to deny it, but I kept silent. "You should pay particular attention to Samantha's reactions," he continued. "At first she tries to show nothing. She will take the blows stoically, not allowing herself to cry out--especially in front of another person. But as the punishment goes on--and I do tend to gradually increase the severity of the blows--the pain becomes too much for her, and the sounds will begin to come. Gasping at first, then perhaps a few sobs, and finally...well, you get the idea. And I can see that it appeals to you."

       No doubt my face was flushed; I could feel it myself. "And do you always do this with another person present?" I inquired. "Even a virtual stranger like myself?"

       "Oh no, not always," came the reply. "Usually not, as a matter of fact. But occasionally, when the opportunity arises, as now. It adds to the stimulation, you see. It increases Samantha's mortification, her humiliation, her sense of shame, which added to her physical suffering is most deliciously arousing." He smiled at me again. "Now do, Charles, do me the justice finally of admitting that you share my feelings on this subject, and that you are looking forward to what is to happen with more than simply academic interest."

       "All right," I said resignedly. "I suppose it is hopeless to deny it. I am already as aroused, I believe, as I have ever been in my life."

       "Good," Brummel said. "I always enjoy pleasing my guests. But you do understand, Charles," he went on in a different tone, "that you are here simply as an observer, and that you will play no other role than that."

       "Of course," I hastened to say. "I understand perfectly."

       "Good," Brummel said again. "And as for that arousal you speak of, which will most certainly become far more pressing before this evening is over--I understand you are a bachelor, Charles, and that you have not yet had an opportunity to socialize much on the island; so if you wish I can give you the addresses of certain establishments at which you can assuage your needs for a reasonable--"

       "Thank you," I said, a little stiffly. "But I don't think that will be necessary."

       Brummel shrugged. "As you wish." He drained his glass. "Samantha should be ready by now. Shall we go and see her?"

       We arose, and he led me down a hallway to a closed door at the far end. Opening it, he gestured for me to precede him, which I did. But as soon as I had crossed the threshold I stopped short, staring in disbelief at the scene before me.

       Samantha was stark naked. She was standing at the foot of a large double bed in the center of the room, facing toward the head. The bed was a solid four-poster, with a canopy-like frame on which mosquito netting was hung, as is usual in that part of the world. The netting was pulled up and secured to the top of the frame at the sides. Samantha's arms were stretched above her head, her hands grasping the horizontal wooden rail at the top of the frame, which ran parallel to the foot of the bed. She was of course not bound in any way, but the position drew her body quite taut, although her feet still managed to rest on the floor

       I cannot describe my emotions upon being presented with this incredible sight. I am not sure how long I stood that way, with my eyes no doubt bulging foolishly and my mind in a turmoil. The next thing I remember is turning to Brummel with the intent of saying something, no doubt, but lacking at that moment both the wits to know what it was I wanted to say, and the ability to form any words whatever.

        Brummel smiled at me. "Yes, it is a sight to see, my friend, is it not?" he murmured. "It is gratifying to me to see my wife's beauty so appreciated. I'm sure it is to Samantha as well--in some part of her, at least--if she will but allow herself to admit it, although she may not feel that way just at the moment." Samantha was gazing straight ahead of her, at the wall beyond the headboard of the bed, not looking at either of us, nor showing any sign of hearing what was said.

       "If you will have a seat, my dear Charles, we will proceed with the chastisement," Brummel said then. He walked over to an elaborate chiffonier, opened a drawer and took out a short whip. It was of leather, with a braided handle and perhaps half a dozen thongs, something like what they used to call a cat-o'-nine-tails, but shorter and lighter, although it looked wicked enough.

       Somewhere inside me the knowledge that I should leave right then and disassociate myself from this bizarre circumstance was struggling to assert itself against the darker and far stronger emotions that were swirling through my mind and body; but the fact was that at that point this faint impulse of decency didn't have a chance.

       There were several chairs scattered about the room. I chose one that sat against the wall a few feet beyond and to one side of the head of the bed. From that position I was able to look at Samantha's face, and I had a direct view of the front of her body from the waist up, her lower parts being hidden by the bed. The way her arms were drawn over her head raised her breasts, flattening them slightly, though not completely, and exposing every inch of their surface to my gaze.

       As I sat there looking at her, her eyes shifted for just a moment to my face, and in that moment I saw in them such an expression of contempt, and of a kind of disgust, as virtually shriveled my soul. That glance, as I say, was quick; her eyes almost immediately reverted to the wall in front of her, and her face was blank again. But if that look had awakened further feelings of shame and guilt inside me, it had also, for some unfathomable reason, increased my lust, and I was aware that my breathing had quickened.

       Brummel had now moved to stand behind and a little to the left of his wife. I watched as he swished the whip through the air and then raised his arm and drew it back. If Samantha was aware of his movements, she gave no sign. Then, with a little grunt of effort, he swung that arm forward with what appeared to be as much strength as he could muster.

       No sound, however, came from Samantha as the whip cracked against her buttocks with a report that surprised me with its loudness. Her body reacted with a slight flinching movement, but her lips were pressed firmly together, and I surmised that her teeth were tightly gritted behind them. As Brummel had said, she seemed determined to make no sound, nor to show any evidence whatsoever of suffering; and yet her face could not completely conceal the pain that the blow had given her. A moment later, however, she had composed herself again, her face once more expressionless, her eyes staring straight in front of her.

       Again Brummel swung the whip, and this time the thongs cracked even more loudly against the rounded posterior. Her body jerked again, her hips pressing hard against the front of the bed, and I was fascinated by the way those high-pulled breasts juddered with the force of the blow. But still she made no sound, though the pain that momentarily twisted her lovely face was more evident this time. And yet she again managed to compose her features, looking blankly at the far wall; nor did she make any move to lower her arms, but kept her hands tightly clutched around the high wooden bar.

       Once more it was as if Brummel had read my thoughts. "I generally concentrate on the buttocks during these routine sessions," he said to me. "Occasionally I will give her a few blows across the thighs, or even on her back, but usually I reserve that for times when particularly severe punishment is called for. If she should break the rules, for example. If she should protest, or complain; if she should try to bring her arms down, or otherwise break position; then of course the chastisement would have to be more . . . drastic. But Samantha knows better than to do that. Don't you, darling?" And with that he whipped her again.

       It was obvious that my earlier impression had been mistaken; Brummel had by no means exercised all his strength on delivering the first blow, for this one was manifestly harder, and those that followed became increasingly harder still. This time a small sound did escape Samantha's tightly pressed lips, a tiny whimpering sound, hardly noticeable, and yet just that sound caused my already stiff manhood to strain harder against my trousers.

       The fourth blow brought a similar sound, but louder and of greater duration, although still brief; and after that it was obvious that Samantha could no longer control her reactions, try as she might. It was as Brummel had said: her gradually intensifying responses were incredibly stimulating, and roused me to such a pitch that finally I feared I might lose control myself, and suffer an embarrassment which would be hard to conceal.

       By the seventh blow Samantha was moaning openly, and at the eighth she began to sob. Her breath was coming in gasps, and the jerking of her body and the delicious quivering of her breasts with each stroke of the whip were more pronounced. At the ninth blow she cried out, and I fancied I could see in her pain-distorted face that she was feeling as much shame at the involuntary display of her suffering as at the circumstance itself. My own breath, I must admit, was quick and heavy, and the throbbing in my loins, as I say, was nearly uncontrollable.

       Her cry was louder with the next blow, and at the eleventh she screamed full-out. It was a scream that I could not describe if I should attempt to do so for the rest of my life. And then, with the final blow, that scream was repeated, with still more volume and intensity. And still she stood there, her arms raised, her hands clutching at the high rail, her body shaking and shuddering, panting, sobbing, and looking at nothing.

       John Brummel now tossed the whip onto a nearby chair. His face was a bit flushed, and his breath was more rapid than usual, perhaps as a result of his exertions, though I did not think so. His voice, when he spoke, was more than a little strained, and though he was addressing me his eyes never left the trembling form of his wife. "If you will excuse us now, Charles, just for a few moments. . . We will join you again shortly. Please. . .help yourself to some more wine. . . or anything you may. . ."

       "Of course," I said, and rose hastily. I would have been extremely embarrassed by the obvious evidence of my arousal, but luckily neither of them was looking at me as I made my way with some awkwardness out of the room and shut the door behind me.

       I had no intention of lingering there, and no thought whatever of eavesdropping; but even as I started to make my way down the hall toward the dining room, I was arrested by the sounds that came through the bedroom door. They were hoarse, guttural sounds, low at first, but gradually increasing in volume, and they sounded more animal than human, though it was obviously John who was the source of them. I could make out no words, and perhaps there were none; all I heard was a series of grunts and gasps, interspersed with low cries of obvious passion which, as I say, grew louder as they progressed. All of this was masculine in tone; I heard no sound that seemed to come from Samantha at all.

       I am ashamed to say that once my steps had been halted by what I heard, I did not continue, but stood there in the hallway for several minutes as though frozen, unable to stop listening, or to keep myself from visualizing what was going on behind that door. It was only when I heard Brummel give a particularly loud cry of obvious completion that I was able to collect myself and move hastily into the dining room. I was trembling slightly, and my arousal was stronger than ever. I had just managed to pour myself another glass of wine when Brummel came into the room.

       His face was still a bit flushed, but otherwise he appeared normal. "I do hope you will forgive my rudeness, Charles," he said, smiling at me. "I am sorry to have left you alone, but under the circumstances. . ."

       "I quite understand," I said, but I found I was unable to look him in the eye. "But it is getting quite late, and I'm afraid I must be--"

       "Oh, don't go yet," Brummel said. "Samantha will be out in a moment, and I'm sure she would like to see you before you leave."

       I was far less sure of that, and I was torn between my fascinated desire to see how his wife conducted herself after her ordeal and my reluctance to subject her to further mortification--not to mention my own embarrassment. "I'm afraid I must," I said finally. "Please convey my farewells, and my thanks, to your wife, and tell her that I . . . I hope to see her again soon."

       "I'm sure you will, Charles," Brummel said. "I hope you will come to see us often."

       I was ready to leave, but I hesitated. There was a tempest in my blood, and so strong was my arousal after what I had seen and heard that it overcame even my shame and self-disgust over the request I was about to make. "There is one other thing," I said in a low voice, looking away from him. "You spoke of--you said something about--about certain . . . ah . . . establishments which. . ."

       "Of course," Brummel said quickly. He went over to a sideboard and from a drawer took a sheet of paper and a pen. Bringing them to the dining table, he wrote an address on the paper and handed it to me. "This is the finest such place on the island, I believe," he told me. "And it never closes, so you will find it available to you even at this hour. They cater to a wide variety of desires, and I am sure you will find what you need. In fact, I will give you a note of introduction, as it were, which I am confident will lead them to treat you as a most valued customer."

       He fetched another sheet of paper and wrote a few lines, then folded it and passed it over. I glanced at it quickly and saw that it was in Spanish, the native language of the island, of which I was as yet ignorant. I had the urge to ask him why, with such a wife as Samantha, he should have such an obvious familiarity with the local houses of ill repute, but I of course restrained myself. I thanked him with as much dignity as I could, and was again about to take my leave, when there were footsteps in the hall, and then Samantha entered.

       She was again fully dressed, and but for a faint hint of pinkness in her pale face there was nothing in her appearance or her manner to indicate what she had just gone through. It was astonishing to me that she should be so evidently unaffected. In spite of my own confusion I forced myself to look deeply into her eyes for a moment as she approached us, and there I fancied I saw something different; something I could not quite name, but which was definitely not indifference. However, that may have been nothing more than fancy indeed. There was no way to tell.

       "Ah, Samantha," Brummel said, smiling at her as though for him also the scene in the bedroom had never taken place. "Just in time, my dear. Our guest is about to leave, although I have urged him to stay longer. Perhaps you can add your persuasion to mine and change his mind."

       "I am sorry," I said. "I must go. Allow me to thank you most sincerely for your hospitality."

       Samantha came forward to shake my hand. "I am most happy to have met you, sir," she said, her voice as soft and pleasant as ever. "Thank you for visiting us."

       "It was--" I said, and checked myself. I had started to say it was my pleasure, but that sounded too suggestive to my mind. "It was a delicious meal," I concluded lamely. "Goodbye."

       Brummel saw me to the door, and graciously came out with me to help me hail a taxi. He then wished me a most pleasant evening, and went back in to his wife.

                                               #

    

       The taxi driver grinned when I read him the address that Brummel had written down for me, and said something I did not understand, but the import of which was unmistakable. He then drove me at breakneck speed to the other side of the island, and stopped in front of a large house with many lighted windows, most of which had shades drawn over them.   

       I was not used to visiting such places; I had done so only once before, in my callow youth, in company with some of my school friends, and I was not particularly proud of that. But now my scruples were more or less drowned out by the unaccustomedly savage lust that watching Samantha's whipping had aroused in me. I paid the driver, approached the house and pulled on the velvet bell rope that hung by the door.

       The door was opened by a tall, dark-skinned and rather  grim-looking gentleman, who looked me up and down very carefully before stepping aside and motioning me in. He said nothing, but led me down a short hallway into a large and rather ornate parlor. There were a number of young ladies sitting around the room, in various stages of attire. Most were dark-skinned, though a few were light, and while their appearances varied, they all seemed, as far as my first hurried survey could ascertain, attractive enough.

       As I entered an older woman rose to greet me. She was  very thin, with short brown hair, dark eyes, and an unusual sheen to her lightly bronzed skin. She did not appear particularly friendly. It was hard to tell her age; she could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. She said something to me rapidly in Spanish, of which I could not understand a word. For a moment I was at a loss, but then I recalled the note Brummel had given me. Extracting it from my pocket, I unfolded it and handed it to the woman. As she read it her expression became less severe. She said something to the tall man, who was still standing in the doorway, and I made out the words "Senor Brummel." When she finished reading she spoke to him again, at greater length. He then turned to me and said in heavily accented English, "Madam say we have special girl for you. One hundred pound English."

       I was taken aback. "She must be very special indeed," I said. "I'm not sure I desire a 'special' girl, whatever that is." I looked around the room, more slowly now. My eye stopped at a pleasingly curved, copper-skinned young woman who looked to be no more than twenty and whose very short dress revealed a pair of particularly shapely legs. I am partial to women's legs, and I assumed this girl would be more reasonably priced. "I'd like that girl," I said, indicating her. "Is she available?"

       The older woman's face darkened. She gave out a stream of very emphatic Spanish, waving the note at me and gesticulating with her other hand. I made out the words 'Senor Brummel' several times, but other than that it was gibberish to me. I turned to the tall man.

       "Madam say you take special girl. She say that what Senor Brummel want. She say Senor Brummel good customer, good man, she give him what he want."

       "Yes, that's all very well," I said, a bit stiffly. "But I don't think I can afford Senor Brummel's generosity. If I cannot have the girl I choose, then perhaps I should come back another time."

       The tall man translated this for the madam, who said something in a tone of vast disgust, and made a spitting gesture toward the floor. Then she said something in a lower voice, after which she turned and went back to where she had been sitting, as if dismissing me.

       "Madam say you no pay this time," the tall man said. "For friend of Senor Brummel. She say you tell Senor Brummel she do him this favor."

       Again I was taken aback. It seemed that I was fated to encounter this 'special girl' whether I wished to or not. The tall man now told me to follow him, and with a last regretful glance at the curvy-legged young woman who had been my first choice, I did so.

       He led me to a staircase in the entrance hall, but instead of mounting the stairs to the upper floor, as I had expected, he opened a door behind the staircase to reveal a much less elaborate set of stairs going down. These he began to descend, and I followed. At the bottom of the steps was a narrow hallway with several doors stationed along its length. Turning right, he went directly to one of these and opened it without ceremony, then stood aside and gestured for me to go in. A bit hesitantly, I complied.

       I heard the door close behind me, and the sound of the man's footsteps moving away, but these things were subsumed in my consciousness by my astonishment at what I saw. There was a woman sitting on a bed in the sparsely furnished room. She rose slowly as I entered, and I believe I gasped aloud. For at first glance I could have sworn that this woman was Samantha Brummel.

       It wasn't, of course. A closer look at her features showed that. There were some similarities, but the eyes, the mouth . . . no, this was a distinctly different woman. And yet the immediate impression was overwhelming. Her hair was exactly like Samantha's, long, straight and dark. So was the luminous pallor of her complexion, and the slender but graceful shape of her body. Her dress, too, while different from the one I had seen Samantha wearing earlier, was of the same style and worn with the same elegance. In addition, her very bearing, the way she stood, the way she carried herself, were so strongly reminiscent of the other woman that it was as though she had actually studied her and set out to deliberately copy her looks and manner.

       There was one other thing that added to my bemusement, although I did not notice it until I had in some measure absorbed the shock of my first impression. There was a long thin chain snaking across the floor of the room, one end of which was fastened securely to a bolt in the wall. The other end was linked to an iron manacle which was clasped around the woman's right ankle.

       Having risen from her seat on the bed, the woman stood silently facing me as I stared at her. There was no expression on her face. Finally I was able to speak. "What---who are you?" I stammered. "What is--what does this mean?"

       The woman said nothing.

       "Do you speak English?" I asked her.

       "Yes," she replied. Her voice was low and soft. Like Samantha's. But even in that one word I caught a trace of an accent, though it was not the accent of the island.

       "What is your name?" I asked.

       "I am Samantha," the woman said.

       I stared again. "Samantha," I repeated.

       "Yes."

       I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "There is a woman named Samantha who lives on the other side of the island," I said. "The wife of an English government official. She . . . she looks somewhat like you. Are you aware of this?"

       The woman made no answer. I waited, but she said nothing.

       Stymied, I took a different tack. I indicated the chain, the manacle around her ankle. "Are you being kept prisoner here?" I said. "Are you here against your will?"

       Again there was no answer.

       "You must tell me," I importuned. "If you are being kept captive I can help you."

       "No," the woman said, in the same low, even tone. "You cannot help me."

       "I am sure I can," I told her. "I am new to the island, but I am not without influence. But I do not understand what this is all about. I am sure your name is not really Samantha. This is all too much of a coincidence. Why are you here?"        

       "I am here for your pleasure," the woman said. Then, with a small gesture toward a battered dressing table that was, aside from the bed and one wooden chair, the only furniture in the room, she added, "Would you like to flog me?"

       I looked at the dressing table, which I had barely noted until then, and received another shock. On the table lay a whip, a leather whip with half a dozen thongs, precisely the same type of whip with which I had watched John Brummel flog his wife.

       For a moment I felt almost dizzy. I took another long breath and turned back to the woman. "No," I said, as steadily as I could, although there was, I confess, a part of me that wished to answer differently. "No, I do not. I wish to talk with you. Please sit down."

       As she slowly reseated herself, I pulled the small wooden chair closer to the bed and sat in it, facing her. "Now," I said. "Tell me the meaning of this. To begin with, tell me your real name."

       "I am Samantha," the woman said again. "That is my only name now."

       I sighed. "And your last name?" I inquired. "It wouldn't be Brummel, would it?"

       "I was given no other name," was the reply. "I am Samantha only."

       "But what was your name before you were given that one?" I persisted.

       There was a pause. "I cannot say," the woman answered finally.

       "And why not?"

       She only shook her head.

       I thought I could place her accent now. "You are obviously not native to the island," I said. "From your speech I would judge that you are originally from France, is that correct?"

       After another pause, she gave a small nod.

       "And how came you to be here?" I asked.

       Again a pause. "I may not speak of that," the woman said.

       "And why not? You need not fear. I am from England, which as you know governs this island. I am a representative of that government. If you have been forced into . . . any kind of . . . of unwilling servitude, it will not be tolerated, I can assure you. I can and will procure your freedom."

       "You do not understand, sir," the woman said.

       "Then tell me, so that I may understand," I said, perhaps a bit hotly. "Why are you here, and what is the purpose of this...this charade? Is this Mr. Brummel's doing? Is he . . . does he . . . visit you here? And why would he do that, when he has--" I stopped, then went on. "And do you actually allow yourself to be--" I stopped again.

       "Yes," the woman said, with no more expression than before. "I am here to be flogged by those who wish to do so. And to be used for their pleasure."

       "And is Mr. Brummel one of them?" I inquired.

       "I do not ask for names, sir," she replied.

       I tried for several more minutes to obtain further information from her, but it was futile. Finally I left her, telling her that I would see that she was soon freed from her captivity. I saw no indication that she believed me, or even that she wished it to be so.

        I quickly climbed the uncarpeted stairs and made my way to the front parlor. The lust which had carried me to that place had been more or less drowned out by anger and indignation. My intention was to confront this madam, find out more about the situation and demand the woman's immediate release. But before I got there it occurred to me that by doing so I might be putting her in danger. I had no idea to what extent the madam and her male assistant were involved in bringing about the woman's plight, but surely they were aware of it; and if I could not free her immediately, I thought, they might decide to do something drastic to forestall further investigation. I would do better to speak to John Brummel, who, whether or not he himself was at least partially responsible for this--and how could he not be?--was in any case in the best position, as Governor General of the island, to see that something was done about it.

       So I said nothing when I appeared again in the parlor, having been gone no more than twenty minutes or so. When the madam saw me she spoke rapidly to the tall man, and they both laughed. He did not bother to translate the remark, but it was not necessary; I got the general drift. There were no words between us as he walked me to the front door and let me out.

       Somewhat to my surprise, my taxi was waiting for me. My impulse was to go directly back to Brummel's house and confront him then and there; but it was quite late now, and I knew he would be in bed. It would be better to do it the next morning, at the office. There I would be delving into more than one situation which I feared might not redound to his credit.

                                                  #

       For the fact was that I had come to the island on a special mission for my employers at the Foreign Office, of which Mr. Brummel was as yet unaware. There had been some suspicions raised there over certain financial inconsistencies, subtle yet bothersome, concerning the affairs of the island. As yet they were no more than suspicions, and the office was naturally reluctant to make any actual accusations without some kind of definite proof. But as the inconsistencies continued it became obvious that the situation had to be investigated. I had been sent out to conduct this investigation, and to do so with the utmost discretion, without, if possible, letting anyone know of the matter--including, of course, John Brummel himself. As far as he and the rest of the island officials were concerned, I was there to serve as a diplomatic assistant, a post which had been conveniently vacated two months earlier. If I found nothing incriminating, neither Brummel nor anyone else would ever know that he had been under any taint whatever. However, I was painfully aware that if things turned out differently, I might be responsible for his being removed as Governor General and called home in disgrace, perhaps even being criminally prosecuted.

       As it was my first official day of employment at the office, there were naturally a number of forms to be filled out and formalities to be gotten out of the way before I was settled in. But at the first opportunity, shortly before lunchtime, I presented myself in Brummell's office and asked for a few minutes of his time. He was most affable.

       "I do hope you enjoyed yourself last evening, Charles," he smiled, after inviting me to be seated. "Both at my home and on your . . . little adventure afterward."

       I cleared my throat. "It is that which I wish to speak with you about," I began. I could feel my face begin to flush a bit, but I forced myself to go on. "Last night you--you directed me to a certain establishment, at which--"

       "The finest place of its kind on the island, in my opinion," Brummel interrupted. "I hope you were not disappointed, Charles."

       "I . . ." I had to clear my throat again before proceeding.. "When I arrived I presented your note, and apparently as a result of that, I was taken to . . . to visit a certain young lady, who it appears you had recommended."

       Brummel smiled. "As a special favor," he murmured. "I thought you would appreciate her, particularly after having witnessed what took place at my house. I hope I was correct."

       I stared at him. "Then you know . . ." I said. "You are aware that...that there are certain similarities between . . ."

       "Between Claire--that is the woman's name, Claire--and my wife?" Brummel said. "But of course. That is the whole idea, you see. Didn't you find the situation titillating, Charles?"

       "Then you--did you--do I take it you have been complicit in . . . in creating this 'situation,' as you call it?"

       "Indeed," was his reply. "When I first saw Claire at that place I was struck by the natural resemblance to my wife; and with the cooperation of the managers--elicited by means of certain financial arrangements--I was able to enhance it. The wig, the dress, the . . . ah . . . accouterments. It amuses me to have what you might call a demi-monde replica of my so respectable wife in such a place. I occasionally make use of her myself, but more often she serves as a delightful offering to those of my guests who, like you, have witnessed my chastisement of Samantha, allowing them to replay that scenario, and then to find a fulfillment which had been previously denied. It is particularly effective when those guests are men of influence, from whom perhaps I wish to elicit a favor in return--or to sway them to my side in some matter of importance."

       The way he looked at me as he said this, still with the remains of his smile, made me wonder for a moment if he knew more about why I was there than he was supposed to. The thought was disturbing, but I could not dwell on it. "But the woman is a prisoner!" I said hotly. "She is kept there against her will. She is manacled! Surely that is not part of the--the charade you have created. If she is a captive she must be released immediately!"

       Brummel's smile faded, and he shook his head. "That is no business of mine, Charles," he replied. "Nor yours, for that matter. That is a private matter concerning the establishment itself. We have nothing to do with it."

       "But you are the Governor General!" I protested. "You cannot condone such matters. Involuntary servitude--slavery of any kind--is no more legal here than it is at home. And this woman is not only a prisoner, she is evidently subjected to--" I broke off, the scene I had witnessed in his bedroom the night before flashing vividly before my eyes.

       "To flogging," Brummel said. "Yes. As is my wife. And just as Samantha accepts her chastisement because she knows it is her duty, so Claire, in her own way and under a different kind of compulsion, accepts hers. It is a part of her life."

       "But she does not do so willingly!" I said. "If she is being kept forcibly in that place--"

       Brummel sighed and turned away from me, looking out his window at the leafy scene outside. "You are new to the island, Charles," he murmured. "You have much to learn about how things are done here. The ways of this place are not the ways to which you have been accustomed, nor can they be easily altered, even with the best of intentions. These establishments, for example, these houses, recruit their . . . denizens in many ways, and have always done so. Some of those practices may not meet with your approval, or with the formalities of the law. But it is no use to try to change them." He turned back to me again. "You will find, Charles, that there are many things here to which it is best to turn a blind eye. I think you should keep that in mind. It will, I am sure, make your sojourn here much more pleasant. And perhaps rewarding."

       Again I got the definite impression that he was implying something that went beyond the immediate subject. But of course I could not press him on that. Nor, it was obvious, could I persuade him to do anything about the woman named Claire. But I was not content to abandon the matter.

       That evening, after having dinner at my modest lodgings--which had previously belonged to the departed diplomatic assistant--I found another taxi and went back to the house on the other side of the island. My plan was to talk further with this Claire--even if it meant paying, this time, the exorbitant fee they charged for her services--and to try to gain as much information as I could about the workings of that place, with an eye to the possibility of somehow bringing about her freedom. I had, of course, no idea how I would go about accomplishing this, but I felt I had to do something.

       Again I was admitted by the tall dark-skinned man, who conducted me to the parlor. Neither he nor the madam appeared surprised to see me there so soon after my first visit. But when I asked to see the "special girl" again, I was told that she was with someone else, and would be unavailable for the rest of the evening. I was of course much disappointed, and asked if I could wait, or perhaps return at a later hour to see her, but the madam rather impatiently explained, through the tall man, that Samantha (she called her Samantha) on most nights could receive only one visitor, and that this was such a night. Though she did not say so, it came to me that the reason for this lay in the services the woman was forced to provide. If she was actually flogged, as I had seen Samantha (the real Samantha) flogged, or perhaps even more severely, she would most likely be in no shape to take on further customers without some time to recover. This thought, I am not particularly proud to say, aroused me even as it angered me, though I did my best to conceal both these emotions.

       I then asked whether I might possibly make an appointment to see "Samantha" on the following night. The madam frowned at first, but then replied that I could, but that I would have to pay this time--and in advance. I rather resented this implication of untrustworthiness, but I paid out the money in silence. The madam, having closely observed the store of bills from which I counted out the money, then let it be known that she had many other girls presently available--including the one in whom I had shown an interest the night before.

       When the tall man finished interpreting this, I looked around me for the first time since entering the room. There indeed, among half a dozen others, was the curvy, copper-colored young woman whose shapely legs had enticed me on first viewing. Her name, the madam now told me, was Dolores, and she quoted me a price for her services, which, as I had suspected, was much more reasonable than the one I had just paid.

       I would like to say that my acceptance of this offer was motivated solely by the hope that I could procure from this girl some of the information I had hoped to get from Claire; but the truth of the matter is that I believe I was driven by less admirable desires. It is true that I did think of trying to find out what I could, but it is also true, as I said, that I had been aroused by the mental image of Claire being flogged, and of course still carried the potent memory of the actual flogging I had witnessed on the previous night.

       Having collected more of my money, the madam said something to Dolores, who rose, gave me a rather mechanical smile and motioned for me to follow her, which I did. She led me out to the staircase, then up one flight and down a corridor lined with doors, one of which she opened. I followed her in.

       Though the room was by no means luxurious, compared to the barren chamber in which I had seen Claire it was almost palatial. It was carpeted, and contained a large, well-appointed bed, several comfortable-looking chairs, a dressing table and chiffonier, and various other furnishings.

       As soon as the door had closed, Dolores began to undress. She did so in a matter-of-fact manner, not flirtatiously  or teasingly, but as though it was simply a business to be gotten out of the way, as I suppose it was. But, attractive as she was, and as charged with lustful desire as I had been only moments before, I now felt uncomfortable and ill at ease. I put up a hand as a signal for her to stop, and she did so, looking at me puzzledly in the act of removing her dress. I could already see a good deal of her body in her rather scanty underclothes, and it was not unimpressive. I cleared my throat.

       "Do you speak English?" I asked her.

       "Si," she said, and then, "Yes. Un poco." A little.

       "Can we--I would like . . . to ask you some questions," I said. "Do you understand?"

       She still looked puzzled, but there was suspicion now in her gaze as well. "You no want . . .?" She gestured toward the bed.

       I coughed. "I--I don't know," I said. "That is, I--Yes. I--I do, but--but I would like to talk . . . first. Okay?"

       She hesitated, then shrugged. "No much time," she said. "Half hour Ramon come up."

       Ramon, I took it, was the tall man. "It's all right," I said. "I will buy more time if necessary." I wasn't sure if she would understand, but she did; I saw her eyes change as she registered the fact that I was willing to spend more money. She nodded.

       I gestured for her to sit down in a chair, which she did after completing the removal of her dress. I sat not far from her, trying to keep from staring too blatantly at her body. She was not tall, but very shapely and well proportioned, and her copper-colored skin was smooth and unblemished as far as I could see. Her hair was short and dark brown, and her face was moderately pretty. And of course there were her spectacular legs, the full length of which was now visible to me. I cleared my throat again.

       "Yesterday--" I began, "that is, last night, when I was here, I was shown to a room downstairs in which there was a woman called Samantha. Do you know this woman?"

       For a brief moment I thought I caught a flash of something in her face that might have been fear, but it was gone in an instant; her entire face went blank, and she simply shook her head.

       "Are you sure?" I said. "This is very important. Can you tell me anything about her?"

       Again a shake of the head. She wasn't looking at me.

       I sighed. Then it came to me that she might be bribed. I pulled out my billfold and extracted some money. Sure enough, the girl's eyes came to life again at the sight. I held out a five-pound note. "Tell me," I said.

       She looked around furtively, as if for unseen listeners. Her voice, when she spoke, was lower than before. "Girls not to talk to men. Not say anything. Is muy peligroso. Danger."

       I added another note to the first. "I won't tell anyone you told me," I said. "But I must know. This woman was on a chain. Is she being held captive here? Are there other women like that?"

       Dolores still hesitated. Then she reached for the bills and snatched them from me, tucking them away somewhere in her underwear. Now her voice lowered to a whisper,

       "Rooms downstairs," she said, "very bad. Bad things happen. Bad women. Punish. Dolor. Pain. No good." She shivered.

       "You mean women are tortured there?' I said. "Hurt? Do you mean they are punished by . . . by the people who run this place, or by the customers, for their pleasure?"

       "Si," Dolores said, although I wasn't sure to what. "Is bad. Men . . . some men like. Come to hurt girls." She shivered again. "You no hurt. You like Dolores, no? Make love now?"

       "And these girls, these women," I said, "They are prisoners here? How do they get here?"

       Dolores shrugged.

       "What about this Samantha?" I asked. "Or Claire, which I understand is her real name. Do you know her?"

       Before she could answer there was a knock at the door. I was startled. It seemed to me it couldn't possibly be half an hour since we had entered the room. I went to the door and opened it. Sure enough, it was the tall man, who the girl had called Ramon. I stepped out in the hall and closed the door behind me.

       "I wish to buy more time," I said, taking out my billfold.        But Ramon shook his head. "No," he said.

       "I beg your pardon?"

       His face, as always, was impassive, but his manner was commanding. "No," he repeated. "You come now."

       "Wait a minute. Surely I can--"

       He took hold of my arm. "Come now!"

       I pulled away indignantly. "What do you think you're doing?" I protested.

       "You leave now," Ramon said. His attitude showed that it was futile to argue with him. Instead I left him behind and proceeded downstairs, intending to remonstrate with the madam. But the door to the parlor was closed, and there seemed to be no one else around. Ramon had followed me down, and was now holding open the front door, waiting for me to leave. Not seeing any viable alternative, I did so. But I was puzzled and resentful, and determined to protest this treatment when I returned the following night for my appointment with Claire.

                                                #

       When I arrived at the office the next morning, I found a note from Brummel requesting an interview. I found him at his desk, dictating to his secretary, whom he dismissed as I appeared in his doorway. He beckoned me in and asked me to close the door. He did not offer me a seat. His manner was controlled, but I could see that he was not happy.

       "I understand, Charles," he began, "that you paid another visit to . . . a certain establishment last evening."

       I was surprised. "You seem to be astonishingly well-informed," I said. "Are you having me followed?"

       "No, I am not," Brummel said. "But I do indeed keep myself informed about certain things in which I have an interest. I make it my business to receive reports about aspects of those interests which may require my attention. And the reports I have received this morning indicate that your visit last night appears to have been for purposes other than simple . . . physical satisfaction."

       Evidently Brummel's interest in that place was of a deeper nature than I had at first supposed. But that didn't alter the situation; if anything, the idea that he was controlling as well as condoning the imprisonment and enslavement of that woman--and possibly others--only made it worse. "It's true that I was trying to obtain some information," I told him. "As we discussed yesterday, John--and as you evidently already knew--there is at least one woman being held in that place against her will, and it is our duty--official as well as moral, I should think--to rectify that."

       His face tightened. "And as we also discussed, Charles," he replied, "there are things with which, as a newcomer to this part of the world, it is best not to interfere. A wise man must realize that precipitate actions may have unintended consequences. Both for himself and for others. Whereas . . . " He paused. "Whereas, a certain, shall we say, discretion--a certain relaxation of moral outrage, as it were, about things which do not directly concern him--could have more . . . pleasant consequences. I hope we understand each other, Charles."

       Once again I had the feeling that he was referring to more than the subject we were ostensibly discussing, and that he was aware of the true reason for my presence on the island. If so, I saw no purpose in dissimulating further; but neither was I prepared to acknowledge it openly unless he did. I looked him straight in the eye. "I believe there are some practices, John, which call for what you term 'moral outrage' wherever they may take place. Involuntary servitude cannot be condoned by custom, or by convenience. Nor can thievery, for example. Whatever consequences may be the result of correcting such practices surely cannot be worse than the practices themselves. And whatever gain may arise from overlooking them must be shameful. I'm sure you will agree with me," I concluded.

       Brummel made a little snorting sound. "Fine words, Charles," he said then. "Most upright, most noble. Nobility is a fine thing, but I assure you it can be misplaced. Perhaps you will understand that a bit better this evening, when you return to keep your appointment with Claire."

       Again I was surprised, although by then I shouldn't have been. "Your reports are evidently very detailed," I said. "But what do you mean?"

       "You will see," Brummel said. "I do hope you will enjoy yourself, Charles."

       I was puzzled, but he would say no more, and finally I left.

                                              #

       My official duties as  diplomatic assistant at the embassy were hardly onerous, consisting mainly of routine paperwork and dealing with the occasional visitor from home with regard to a lost passport or a stolen wallet; and thus I had an ample amount of free time to search for and peruse certain records and documents which might provide information concerning my true mission. I had done a certain amount of this on my first day, and now my opportunity was facilitated by the fact that Brummel was out of the office for most of the afternoon.

       I found nothing obvious, which was to be expected, and for a time I began to suspect that there was nothing to find, or if there was, that it had been concealed so expertly that it would take a more astute mind than mine to ferret it out. But gradually I began to detect a pattern in certain financial dealings that seemed a bit curious, and upon investigating further along this path I finally came to the conclusion that there had indeed been certain irregularities in the conducting of some of these matters, and that Brummel had at the very least knowingly approved and endorsed these questionable operations. Whether he had actually initiated them or was simply a part of a larger scheme, whether he had profited directly or been rewarded from another source for his compliance, I did not yet know, but in the end there could be virtually no doubt of his malfeasance. I knew I would have to report accordingly to the Home Office, and I wondered just how severely he would be dealt with.

       I must admit that my speculation was more concerned with Brummel's wife than with Brummel himself. What would happen to Samantha if he were imprisoned? Or even simply disgraced and dismissed from his position? How would she feel knowing that her husband was a thief? What distress might this not cause her, and how would it affect that fragile beauty, that gracious bearing, the love and devotion in those luminous eyes. . .

       I quickly cut off this train of thought and berated myself for my maunderings. Samantha Brummel could be no concern of mine. I had a duty to do, and I would do it. But the vision of Samantha brought back to my mind the recollection of the woman named Claire, who so resembled her, and with whom I had that appointment that evening to which Brummel had referred. My purpose in making that appointment had been to extract further information from her if possible about what went on in that place, but I could not deny the sudden stirring in my loins that made me wonder if I might not wish to use this occasion for other purposes as well.

       This thought also I forced from my mind as I went on with my investigation. But the vision remained.

                                              #

       That night I was prompt to present myself at the appointed hour at the house on the other side of the island. Once again Ramon let me in, but to my surprise he did not take me into the parlor this time, but led me directly to the steps behind the main staircase and motioned me to follow as he descended. I was surprised again when at the bottom of the steps he turned left rather than right, as he had when I had visited Claire before. But these surprises were nothing to the total shock and astonishment I experienced when he opened a door at the end of the corridor and motioned me inside.        

       It was a very large room, with a slightly raised platform at one end, like a makeshift stage. Facing it were several rows of chairs, about a dozen of which were occupied by men of various descriptions. The rest were filled by young women, some of whom I recognized from my previous visits, and more women were standing in the rear. One of the seated women was Claire, her ankle fastened by a short chain to the leg of her chair. But what caught my immediate attention and caused me actually to cry out with near-disbelief was the sight of what they were watching.

       Against the back wall of the platform was erected a large upright wooden cross in the form of an X--what they call, I believe, a St. Andrew's cross. Spread upon it, and fastened to it, by means of manacles attached to each of its extremities, was Dolores. She was stark naked. Her body was stretched extremely taut, her arms and legs visibly straining as she hung suspended against the polished wood. That body was striped with what looked like fresh whip marks across her breasts, belly and thighs. She was sobbing and moaning, and at the same time choking out a continuous stream of rapid Spanish, of which I could make out very little, although the pleading tone was unmistakable.

       As I stared in shocked amazement at this spectacle a man rose from the front row of chairs and came toward me, and I saw that it was John Brummel. At that moment I was incapable of further surprise; there was a pounding in my head, and my brain was in a turmoil. It was only with difficulty that I tore my eyes from Dolores's writhing body to take in the approaching figure.

       "Good evening, Charles," Brummel said, smiling at me, and raising his voice a little to be heard over the sound of the girl's incoherent begging. "You are just in time to witness the climax of our little exhibition. But don't worry--you will still be able to keep your rendezvous with our lovely Samantha"--and he nodded toward Claire, chained to her chair--"although I must say I hardly think you will be able to extract anything more from her than you did the first time--particularly after tonight."

       I struggled to form words, although my thoughts were in chaos. "What--" I stammered. "What are you--what is this--what do you--"

       "It's very simple, Charles," Brummel said. "And obvious, I should think. Dolores is being punished. The reason for that I'm sure you know, for you are in a sense responsible for her offense. Did I not tell you that your meddling would have consequences?"

       I could only continue to stare at him. "In a place like this, Charles," he went on, "as you might have suspected, had you been less blatantly innocent, most of the rooms are monitored, in one way or another. This is partly for the benefit of certain clients who enjoy listening in secret to the activities that go on there; but it is also to ensure that the young ladies do not talk out of turn about things which outsiders have no business knowing--whatever the temptation. The girls are well acquainted with this rule, and the reason for their presence here tonight is to remind them of how strictly it is enforced."

       I now understood why Ramon had so peremptorily interrupted my session with Dolores the previous night. I silently cursed myself for being such a fool; but before I could say anything Brummel went on. "As for the gentlemen," he said, "they are specially chosen clients, for whom these proceedings provide a particularly salubrious form of entertainment. I should think you would be among them, Charles. In any case, it pleases me that you should be here to witness this. Why don't you take my seat, my friend. It is only proper that you should have an excellent view."   

         For another long moment I could not speak; I was nearly choking with indignation and dismay. And yet I had to make a conscious effort to keep my eyes from turning back to the sight of the helpless naked woman. "This--this is monstrous!" I managed to say finally. "You cannot--how can you--Damn it, John, this is beyond all bounds! You must release that girl immediately!"        

       "Do sit down, Charles," Brummel said. "This ignorant outrage is not only tiresome, it is hypocritical. The girl has betrayed this establishment, and she must suffer the consequences. If you would only allow yourself to forget your high moral principals, which are quite out of place in your present surroundings, I am quite confident that you would enjoy that suffering along with the rest of us. Now do me the grace, Charles, at least to admit that I am right."

       I wanted to hit him. "I admit nothing," I said heatedly. "And if you persist in torturing that woman, I will not have any part in it." I turned toward the door, but Ramon was standing in front of it, with the obvious intent of preventing me from leaving.

       "But you must, Charles," Brummel said. "Since it was you who bribed poor Dolores into this unfortunate predicament, it is only right that you should witness the results. And afterwards, as I say, you may have your scheduled meeting with Samantha. I suspect you may have a strong wish to do so at that point."

       "Her name is Claire!" I burst out. "And you--you are--" But words failed me. My brain would not function, and I suddenly felt weak, and even a bit faint. In this condition I made no serious resistance as John took my arm and led me to the chair he had occupied. When I was seated he went to stand by the door.

       "Very well, Ramon," he said. "You may proceed."

       Ramon went up onto the stage. On the far side of it was a small brazier, which in my preoccupation with Dolores I had not noticed before. I saw now that it was glowing, and that it held what looked like a branding iron in the process of being heated. I caught my breath as Ramon went to it and picked up the iron. I could now see that the tip of the implement was formed into a small circle, with the letter T in the center. It was only later that I learned that the T stood for the Spanish word traidor--traitor. The iron was red hot, and smoke rose from it as Ramon lifted it from its place.

       Dolores gave a piercing shriek of pure terror as Ramon came toward her, holding the implement before him. "No!" she screamed out. "No, por favor, madre de dios, no!" Her body twisted frantically against the wooden cross, but her movements were limited by the manacles that stretched her so tightly. Her bulging eyes were wild, crazed with fear and horror as Ramon came closer. "Lo siento!" she howled. I'm sorry. "Por favor, no, ten pieded, por amor de dios, no! Lo siento! Lo siento!"

       Ramon paid her no heed. Without a pause he raised the iron to the level of her breasts, which were lifted and tautened by the position of her straining arms. He then pressed the glowing end firmly against the flesh of her left breast, just above the nipple, and held it there.

       Her scream of agony was the most terrible thing I had ever heard, and I can truly say that it pierced my soul. I will not say what other effect it may have had, save that for all my grief and guilt and horror, I could truly not have been much better than the slavering men who surrounded me.

       There was no expression on Ramon's face as he continued to hold the iron against the screaming girl's flesh until she passed out, her body slumping only slightly in its restraints, her head lolling. When he removed it I could see the raw red brand deeply implanted in the still smoking breast, and I knew that it would never fade away.

       Ramon moved away from her to replace the branding iron, then returned to arouse the girl from her swoon, which he did by slapping her rather viciously across the face, forward and back. Dolores moaned piteously as she regained consciousness, and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably.

       "All right, gentlemen," Brummel said then. "Those of you who would like to take your pleasure with her before she is released may do so now."

       Three or four of the men swiftly rose and went onto the stage. There was a brief colloquy about which of them would go first, but it was soon settled, and the designated candidate, a stout middle-aged figure with a sweating face, quickly opened his trousers as he approached the cross, dropping them, along with his shorts, when he stood in front of the hanging girl. She was placed at a height convenient for his purpose, and he wasted no time in adjusting himself and thrusting his member inside her. Her cry of anguish seemed only to stimulate him further as he pressed himself against her, pumping himself in and out of her with rapid strokes. He did not last long; after satisfying himself with a shout he fell away from her, to be immediately replaced by another of the men. This man, as he took her, deliberately manipulated her branded breast, squeezing and twisting it and pressing his fingers against the wound, her shrieks of pain bringing him swiftly to his culmination.

       I had watched all this in a turmoil of conflicting emotions, still too dazed and disturbed to take any positive action--not that anything I could have done would have altered the situation. But as the third man took his place in front of the sobbing girl I could no longer stay in my seat. I rose unsteadily, but I seemed to regain some of my former strength and determination as I moved toward Brummel. I was shamefully aware of a certain physical condition which did me no credit whatsoever, but I could only hope it was not too noticeable.

       Brummel was still standing near the door. He smiled at me as I approached him. "Still anxious to leave, Charles?" he said. "I should have thought this little exhibition would have put you in the mood to stay. If not to keep your appointment with Samantha--or Claire, if you prefer--then perhaps to join with these gentlemen in making use of poor Dolores. Please feel free to do so."

       "You are a monster!" I said hoarsely. "And you should be--" I had been going say horsewhipped, but in this situation the allusion did not seem apropos. "You should be damned!" I went on. "And I have no doubt you will be. Now kindly allow me to pass."

       He stepped aside with a small shrug. "Of course," he said. "I believe the point has been made. You are free to go, Charles. But it is a pity. When these men are finished, I intend to have the girl provide us with another kind of entertainment. With a dog. That kind of thing is very popular, you know, and I think Dolores will be putting on many such exhibitions from now on. Are you sure you do not wish to stay and watch?"

       If I had wanted to hit him before, my desire to do so now was almost overwhelming. "Damn you to hell!" I burst out. "You are pure evil, you are the devil himself, and I can tell you that you will pay for this!" I was raging now, and I spoke heedlessly. "You will pay!" I repeated. "I have the means to destroy you, John, and by God I shall do so!" And before he could say anything more I opened the door and stalked out.

                                             

                                                   #

 

       I had little doubt that Brummel already knew, or strongly suspected, what the means were to which I had alluded, and having collected sufficient evidence to make a convincing case, I determined to write up my report as quickly as possible and send it off to the Home Office, before he could take any action to prevent it. I was engaged in doing so one afternoon, a few days after the events I have just described, when there came a knock at my door. It being a Sunday, I was working in my rooms, and I had no idea who my caller might be. I could hardly have been more surprised when I opened the door and saw that it was Samantha Brummel.

       She was wearing a light summer dress, something like the one she'd had on when I had met her at her home, along with a simple but fashionable hat, and white gloves, and she was carrying a folded parasol. I was immediately struck once again by her beauty, and by the elegance and grace that she seemed to personify, simply by standing there on my doorstep. For a long moment I was too astonished to speak, and I am afraid my startled stare may even have verged on discourtesy.

       "I do hope I am not disturbing you, sir," she said in her low, sweet voice. "If the time is not propitious, I can--"

       "No, no," I said hastily. "Please forgive me. I was not  expecting-- I'm sorry. Would--would you like to come in?"

       "Thank you." And Samantha Brummel walked into my rooms.

       I quickly showed her to the sitting room, indicated the most comfortable chair and offered her a cup of tea, which she politely declined. She removed her hat and gloves before she sat, laying them, along with her parasol, on a small table beside her. She sat upright in the chair, her body perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap. I sat opposite her, dazedly wondering what in the world could have brought this extraordinary woman to my residence so unexpectedly, and all alone.

       "I must apologize for calling on you without notice, sir," Samantha began. "I hope you will forgive me."

       "Please," I said. "I am more than happy to see you. But it is, I admit, most unexpected."

       There was a short pause. "I have come," Samantha said finally, "on behalf of my husband."

       "Indeed," I replied. "Does he know you are here?"

       She did not answer this directly. "My husband believes," she went on, "that you mean, in some way, to do him harm. That you have . . . certain information that may . . . that would perhaps, through no fault of his own, produce an unfortunate impression of his character, and even place his situation in danger. May I ask you, sir, if this is truly the case?"

       I was taken aback. I was sure this woman was not aware of her husband's nefarious activities, either at the office or outside of it, or surely she would not have remained with him. And I of course could not tell her of them, though doubtless she would soon be made aware of them, to her sorrow.

       I cleared my throat. "You must forgive me, Mrs. Brummel," I said. "You place me in a difficult position. I cannot--I am not at liberty to speak of official matters, which must remain confidential at the present time. I hope you will understand."

       Her dark eyes looked straight into mine. "I am here, sir," she said then, "to ask you to refrain from harming my husband."

       "My dear Mrs. Brummel," I said. "Please believe me when I say that I would not, if it could possibly be avoided, do anything to harm you, or to cause you sorrow. But there are perhaps things about your husband that you do not--" I stopped. Her gaze did not waver. "In any case," I went on, "I must do my duty. Again, I hope you can understand that."

       There was a long pause. Her eyes remained fixed on mine, but I saw her pale face color a little as she spoke. "My husband believes," she said in a lower tone, "that you find me . . . attractive."

       I think I may have flushed a bit on my own part upon hearing that. I was certainly somewhat flustered. "I surely cannot deny that," I said, in as normal a voice as I could manage. "You are a beautiful woman, and I am sure the entire world shares my opinion."

       "I am here," Samantha said then, "to offer myself to you, sir, in exchange for my husband's exoneration."

       This time I stared at her openly. I could not believe the words I had just heard from her mouth. She simply continued to gaze at me, her posture as straight, her eyes as steady as ever.

       Finally I recovered myself somewhat. "Your husband put you up to this, did he not?" I said hoarsely. "He has sent you here to--to prostitute yourself in order to save him. It's abominable! It's monstrous! How can you even--how can you--"

       "You speak of duty," Samantha said evenly as I sputtered to a stop. "I am my husband's wife, sir, and if I can do anything to protect him from harm and to save his good name, it is my duty to do so. Whatever that may be."

       "But this is--you cannot mean that you would--that you would actually. . ."

       "Again, sir, I will do what is necessary. If the use of my body will ensure your leniency toward my husband, it is yours."

       "He did send you here, did he not?" I said hotly. "This is his doing. I have no doubt of that."

       "My husband is aware that I am here," Samantha said. "He will make no difficulty for you on that score. You are free to do with me as you please." She paused. "And," she went on in a lower tone, "if you wish to chastise me, as you saw him doing, you may do that also."

       These words made my head swim. For a moment I thought I must be going mad. "You are jesting," I managed to say finally. "You cannot truly intend--"

       For answer she reached into the folds of her parasol, resting beside her on the table, and brought from it the short braided leather whip with which I had watched John Brummel flogging his wife.

       I was speechless.

       Laying the instrument on the table, Samantha now rose from her chair and, facing me squarely, began slowly to undo the small hooks that held together the front of her dress.

       For a long moment I watched her as though paralyzed, not only physically but mentally also. The small part of my brain that still functioned told me that I should stop her, that I should put an end to this, should order her to leave immediately. But I could not. I could do nothing but sit there with my eyes devouring her every movement as her hands moved from hook to hook, from the collar of her dress to her waist.

       When I finally spoke I did not recognize my voice. "I will not whip you," I said.

       "As you wish," Samantha replied. She slipped the top of her dress from her shoulders, and it fell to the floor around her feet.

       I knew I was lost. I felt shame even as I was seized by the most importuning desire I had ever felt. I was perfectly aware that I was on the verge of sacrificing every principle that I held dear--integrity, loyalty, duty--as well as my own self-esteem; but at that moment, to possess this woman, even if only once, was the most important thing in the world to me. I was in the grip of sheer raging lust, but it was more than that. I was drawn inexorably to her inner beauty as well, to her compelling mixture of elegance and simplicity, even as she offered herself to a virtual stranger, to the grace and courage that shone through her blushes as she forced herself to disrobe before me-- indeed, to everything that she was and to everything that she did.

       Still, as I watched her slowly remove the rest of her clothing, piece by piece, that stubborn part of my mind jabbed at me, begging me to save what remained of my honor before it was too late. But I knew it was a losing battle. And when the last garment was discarded and she stood before me gloriously nude, there could be no more hesitation.

       I had seen her that way before, of course, at her house, when I had watched her being flogged by her husband, but I had not been in a position then to view her as comprehensively, or as uninhibitedly, as I now allowed myself to do. Samantha underwent my inspection with her head high and her eyes still on my face.

       "You are lovely beyond words," I said finally, and my voice was not particularly steady. Samantha said nothing. I rose and approached her. She stood her ground, but she put up one hand, palm outward, as if to halt me, which it did.

       "First promise me, sir," she said, in a low but even tone, "that you will do nothing to harm or to vilify my husband. I must have your solemn word on that. Your solemn word," she repeated.

       "I promise," I said. What else could I say? "You have my word." As a gentleman, I might have added; but I did not feel much like a gentleman at that moment.

       With that Samantha slowly lowered her hand. I stepped forward, took her in my arms and kissed her.

       She allowed the kiss, but did not return it; her lips were cool against mine, yielding but in no way active. It did not matter; just her touch, the feel of her body against mine, thrilled me to the core. When I stepped back from her I was breathless. I was also stiff with lust.

       "Let us go into the bedroom," I croaked out. I took her hand and led her there, and she came with no resistance. Once there I quickly removed my own clothing. My straining arousal was obvious as I turned to her, and I had a moment of embarrassment; but as a married woman, of course, the sight was not new to her. She showed no visible reaction; but turning with the same slow deliberation that characterized all her movements, she stepped directly to the bed and lay down upon it.

       I joined her in an instant, and proceeded to worship her body. I began by kissing her again, receiving the same dutiful acquiescence as before. My hands traced the contours of her, moving over the smooth pale flesh, wandering over every curve, every delicious inch of her still, sensuous perfection. After some moments my mouth moved down to her breasts, moving from one to the other, tasting them, sucking on them, savoring their delicate firmness, the very texture of her nipples as they seemed to bend this way and that under my stroking tongue. All of my senses were clamoring for me to take her, to be inside her, but I held off, lost in her loveliness, stroking and caressing and kissing her all over. I wanted with all my being to be intimate with every part of that exquisite body.

       After some moments of this I felt her breathing begin to quicken slightly, and the idea that I had aroused some response in her caused me to pursue my explorations even more avidly. Never before in my admittedly limited experience with women had I felt such a mixture of lust and tenderness, of rampant desire and indefinable longing. As I continued to make love to her the acceleration of her breathing became more pronounced, and when I heard her gasp softly and let out a low moan, my heart leapt. Soon I saw that her head was rolling slowly from side to side on the pillow. I was nearly mad with passion, but only when she was almost panting, and her moans had begun to increase in volume and frequency, did I gently draw her legs apart and place myself between them.

       Her head stopped moving and she looked up at me with wide but surprisingly clear eyes. Her bosom rose and fell with her heavy breath. Her mouth was slightly open, and I leaned down and kissed it. This time she did more than simply accept my kiss; her lips responded to mine, and when I probed softly with my tongue they opened wider to admit it. I was overcome; it was as though I was kissing her very soul, and I wanted to do it forever.

       The kiss ended, however, and I looked down once again into her deep dark eyes as I now slowly positioned myself at the entrance to her womanhood. She drew in her breath sharply as I first breached her portal, and I stopped for a moment, then continued, sliding slowly, gradually into the depths of her. Her hands came up to grasp my arms, her fingers pressing into the flesh as I sank to the hilt inside her, and she gasped again when, after another pause, I began to move back and forth in her tight passage with deliberate restraint. I forced myself to go slowly, using all my will power to hold my clamoring passion in check. Not only did I wish to savor and prolong this delicious moment as far as possible; I also had a strong desire to give pleasure to this wonderful woman--perhaps partially as some kind of compensation for taking such ignoble advantage of the sacrificial bargain which I had no doubt her husband had compelled her to offer me.

       Thus I felt another surge of delight when, after a few minutes, I felt Samantha's body begin to move with me, faintly at first, then more decidedly, picking up the rhythm of my strokes, which grew gradually bolder and more assertive under this encouraging sign. Soon we were both panting and moaning, and all too soon, in spite of all my efforts, I felt myself beginning to spiral out of control. Samantha was gasping now, and I could feel her stiffening, straining underneath me. Then, just as I knew I could hold off no longer, that body gave a convulsive shudder and a sharp cry issued from her throat, a sound louder than any I had previously heard her make, save when she was screaming under her husband's whip. A moment later I made a rather loud sound of my own as my passion erupted inside her.

       For some moments I could do nothing but lie there in the wonder of her as our breathing slowly returned to normal, and my disordered mind attempted to do the same. Finally I rolled off and lay beside her, looking up at the ceiling. Already feelings of shame and self-disgust were forcing themselves in among the lingering remnants of happiness and pleasure. I felt profoundly embarrassed, and could think of nothing to say to her. When I did speak my voice was scarcely audible. "I am sorry," I muttered. "I should not have--it was wrong--it was unforgivable of me to. . ."

       "You have no need to apologize, sir," Samantha said gravely. "It was I who made the offer." Then, after a pause, she said in a lower voice, "My husband has never made me feel like that."

       A sudden rush of madness came upon me, an overwhelming surge of emotion that filled me with tenderness and longing for this exquisite and extraordinary creature. I turned to her then, putting out a hand to touch her face.

       "Samantha," I said intensely. "You must leave him."

       She stared at me. "What?" she said, startled.

       "You must leave him," I repeated. "You cannot stay with this evil man. Leave him and marry me. Come home with me to England. I will be leaving soon. We can--"

       I broke off as she pulled back from me, sitting up in the bed, and instinctively drawing up the covers to hide her breasts. Her eyes were wide with shock. "You are mad!" she breathed. "I hardly know you, sir, in spite of--" She stopped, and I saw her flush. "And I could never leave my husband!" she went on. "Never!"

       I was taken aback by her words. "But you must!" I cried out. "He is a monster! He is evil! I don't think you know what he--And he beats you! For the love of God--he whips you! How can you--"

       "He is my husband," Samantha said flatly. "I am his wife. And I love him. I will never leave him."

       I could not believe what I was hearing. "You love him?" I said incredulously. "You cannot love him! He is a thief and a whoremaster. He treats you like a beast! You said yourself he does not satisfy you. For God's sake, you must--"

       "I do love him," she repeated. "And he is my husband. Nothing can change that. Nothing."        

       "You don't know what you're saying!" I raved. "If you--"

       "Did I not offer myself to you, sir, for his sake?" Samantha said, in her soft, even voice. "Am I not here, in your bed, in order to keep him from harm? What more proof do you need?"

       I felt as though the breath had been knocked out of me. My head was spinning, and the madness that had led me to propose to her so precipitately now took a different form. "Then you are a whore," I heard myself say. My voice was hoarse. "You sell yourself for your husband's advantage rather than for money, but you are as much a whore as those miserable girls in his brothel!"

       I saw her go pale, but she still kept her eyes on me. "If you wish," she said in a near-whisper. "But if so, I am his whore, and I do it for his benefit. I would do anything for my husband. Anything."

       I could barely contain my anger, which I now realize of course was directed at myself as much as at her, if not more so. But at that point I was anything but rational. I leapt out of the bed and, in spite of my nakedness, began to pace rapidly around the room.

       "Damn you!" I shouted hoarsely. "It is monstrous! You cannot--how can you--you are as evil as he! If you will not--" I hardly knew what I was saying now, and at last in my agitation I flung myself out of the room and down the corridor outside. I moved aimlessly through one or two other rooms, until I found myself back in the sitting room. I was almost blind with rage and frustration, but my eyes focused immediately on one object--the leather flogging whip which lay on the small table where Samantha had left it. Without a thought or a pause I picked it up and carried it back to the bedroom.

       Her eyes widened as she saw the instrument in my hand, and she became very still, but she showed no other reaction. I was breathing hard.

       "You offered to let me whip you, did you not?" I demanded, still in a rage. "To flog you, as your husband does. That was part of the bargain, as I recall. Your whore's bargain. Was it not?"

       I thought I saw her swallow, but I couldn't be sure. "Yes," she said in a whisper.

       "Then we shall carry it out," I said. "Get into position, Mrs. Brummel. As you do for him."

       For a long moment she did not move. Her eyes bored into mine, and in that brief flash of time I thought I saw in them the same swift expression of contempt and loathing that I had seen, or imagined, when she had looked at me that first night, just as her husband was about to "chastise" her. But again, it could have been my imagination, or perhaps a projection of my own deepest emotions, even as I prepared to do the same. Then she got slowly out of the bed and walked, still with that indomitable grace, around to the foot of it, where she turned her back to me and raised her arms.

       My bed was much like the one in her bedroom, with the usual canopy frame supporting the mosquito netting, and Samantha had no difficulty reaching the rail that ran across at the top, and holding on to it. The sight of her standing that way, naked and waiting, did nothing to calm the turmoil in my blood. Taking my stance behind her, I drew back my arm and slashed the whip hard into her body.

       I meant to hit her across the buttocks, as her husband had done, but my inexperience, along with the blind emotional turmoil that was driving my actions, played havoc with my intentions, and the thongs landed on her lower back, bringing a short, sharp cry from her, quickly cut off. I recalled how she had made an effort to keep silent as long as possible under her husband's punishment, and I realized I must have hit her harder than I knew. I didn't care. I wanted to hurt her, I wanted to bring screams from her, as he had succeeded in doing at the end. I made no effort to lessen the strength of the blow as I gave her another, this time deliberately hitting her across the back, somewhat higher than before.

       Again and again I lashed that smooth, pale flesh, each blow  bringing another and slightly louder sound from behind her tightly clenched teeth. I hit her back repeatedly, both high and low, until her mouth opened and she began to emit full-throated cries of pain. The flesh of her back was striped with angry red weals when at last she began to scream. I did not stop. I whipped her several more times, each of her screams searing into my soul as the lash seared into her body. Yet never did she ask me for mercy, never did she move from her position, never did her hands loosen their white-knuckled grip on the wooden rail above her.

       Finally I stopped, but my fury was unabated. I was breathing hard with exertion and with renewed lust. Samantha stayed as she was. Through the roaring of my blood I could hear her panting, shuddering breath. I was crazed. I knew it, but I could do nothing to stop it.

       "Turn around," I heard myself say. Again I did not recognize my voice.

       She did not move immediately. I was not sure she had heard me at first, but I waited. Then, slowly, she released her grip on the rail and slowly lowered her arms. After another brief pause, she turned around to face me. 

       I could see the pain in her eyes, of course, the torment that was also etched unmistakably into her lovely face. What else I saw in those eyes--fear? hatred? accusation?--I in my all-consuming passion could not make out, nor did I wish to.

       "Arms up, whore," I commanded hoarsely.

       And Samantha, still with her eyes on mine, raised her arms and once again took hold of the rail at the top of the bed frame. As she was facing outward this time, she had to grasp the rail from behind, with her hands turned forward. This caused her upper body to arch very slightly, with the result that her wonderful high breasts were thrust into prominence, seeming to offer themselves deliciously for my consideration.

       I whipped them.

       Once. Twice. Three times. Each blow bringing another scream of agony from Samantha as the leather strands slashed into the tender flesh. And still she stayed in position, her stubborn endurance only adding to my fury. Until at the fourth blow she broke. Her hands slipped from the rail, her arms came down, and then her legs gave way and she fell to her knees, bending over, cradling her breasts with her arms and crying piteously.

       My body was shaking now with uncontrollable emotion, and I was stiff and aching with lust. Dropping the whip, I stepped up to her and took hold of her hair, pulling her head up sharply. "This is what whores do," I said roughly, and still holding her hair I thrust my rigid member into her sobbing, moaning mouth.

         

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       Afterwards, I could not look at her. I could not, so to speak, look at myself. Having so vilely satisfied my renewed passion, after everything else I had done to her, I was drained, physically and otherwise. I was more than disgusted with myself, and all I wanted was to somehow lose consciousness, possibly to get drunk, though I had never been much of a drinker. Without another word to Samantha I quickly got dressed and left the house. I wandered about aimlessly for some time, cursing myself, cursing Brummel, though I could no longer curse Samantha, even in my mind. I could not rid myself of the overwhelming realization that in the course of just a few days spent on this island, I had descended from the state of being a gentleman to that of a ravening, virtually inhuman beast. And for that, if I had any shred of honesty left, I could blame no one but myself.

       When I returned, an hour or so later, Samantha was gone, and there was no trace of her. The place seemed as empty and barren as the inside of my soul.

                                                #

       I arrived late at the embassy the next morning, and went straight to Brummel's office. "I must tell you, John," I said without preamble, "that I am resigning my place here. Circumstances have made it impossible for me to stay in this office, or on the island. I leave for home as soon as possible."

       Brummel did not seem surprised at this news. He only nodded. I surmised that Samantha had told him that I had agreed to spare him, though I had no way of knowing just how much she had reported of what had passed between us. "As you wish, Charles," he said smoothly. "We will be sorry to lose you, of course, but perhaps it is for the best." But he could not help adding, "I assume we can rely on your discretion about all . . . official matters."

       I was not in a mood to beat around the bush. "I think you know that," I said. "As you are no doubt aware, I have made a promise to your wife."

       "I think we may leave my wife out of this discussion," Brummel said. His voice was even, but there was something in his face that made me suspect that his wife had indeed told him everything. But then it was he who had put her into that position in the first place. As much as I regretted what I had done, I felt no compunction for him.

        "It is a bit late for that, I'm afraid," I said. "It is only because of my promise to her that you may rely on my silence." I paused, then went on. "And although I mean to keep that promise, there is one other condition, which I am sure it will be in your power to fulfill."

       He looked at me quizzically. "Another condition?" he repeated. "I was not aware that the promise you speak of had conditions attached, other than . . . those that have already been met."

        "You are right," I replied. "The terms were agreed upon, and more than satisfactorily fulfilled, and I could not, with all honor, demand more. But I have already sacrificed all claim to honor in this matter, and a bit less of it will hardly make a difference. There is one more thing I want, and as I say, I have no doubt that you can bring it about. After which you will have nothing to fear from me."

       "I see," Brummel said. His eyes appraised me shrewdly. I remember thinking fleetingly that we were two of a kind now. "And what might this extraordinary condition be?"

       I told him.

                                                               

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       And so, when I embarked for home a few days later, I was not alone. With me was the woman named Claire. Although the weather was mild, she was wrapped in a rather voluminous cloak, which concealed the fact that her hands were bound behind her. Not that I thought it likely that she would try to escape; she had long ago passively resigned herself to the fact that she was a captive for life, and if anything, the idea of being subject to one man, rather than to a nightly succession of strangers, must have been to her mind a vast improvement in her condition. But there was no harm in taking precautions. On the voyage she passed as my wife, although I kept her confined as much as possible to our stateroom. Once back in England, however, I installed her in my house, from which I never allow her to roam. I am not in the habit of receiving company there, and to most of my friends and acquaintances I remained, and still remain, a bachelor. 

       Claire's resemblance to Samantha is still, even now, a source of wonder to me. I enhanced it by having her grow her hair longer, and

darkening it to Samantha's natural shade, thus dispensing with the wig that Brummel had provided her; and I keep her supplied with the kind of clothing Samantha habitually wore. Most of the time, particularly when I am not at home, she is manacled at her ankle by the same very long chain by which she was confined in her former establishment. It prevents her from leaving, should she have any thoughts of doing so, without hindering too much her freedom of movement in the areas of the house which she generally frequents. She may not be the most stimulating of intellectual companions, but for the most part we get along fairly well. She cleans my house as well as she can, given her limitations; she prepares my meals; and at night she shares my bed. 

       And, once in a while, when the urge is upon me, I place her at the foot of my bed, in the position in which Samantha Brummel once stood for her husband, and later for me, and I proceed to whip her with all the strength that is in me. In addition to the chain, she also brought with her, as part of my request to John, the leather flogger that had been kept in her room, for the use of those who desired to employ it;  and with that I flog her mercilessly, front and back, watching her contortions and listening to her screams, until she can no longer stand upright, or I can no longer raise my arm. At which point I throw myself upon her and assuage my overpowering lust with all the savagery at my command upon her twisting, agony-wracked body.

       Discipline must be maintained.