Chapter 45

On Saturday morning, Ann and Mary slept late. After going through their daily workouts, swimming, soaking in the sauna, showering and having breakfast, it was after eleven before they bothered to check Susie, their computer.

They howled with laughter as they heard Susie going down on Jack to get him hard enough to take her again. When she offered to fix his last unit if he would eat her, they just sat on the sofa of their sitting room watching the show. Finally, after uploading Mayday software along with a Cray BIOS, Susie sadly said goodbye.

Only then did the girls announce their presence. As soon as they did, she told them what had happened and what she had done. Fearfully, she told them she had given away the Mayday software. They assured her it was for a worthy cause and they were glad she had done it.

At that moment the phone rang. It was Cara calling them on the number they had given her. Ann answered. When she did, she remembered how torn up Cara’s loins had been at the end of the night. “How are you feeling, Mother?” she asked. “Are you still in pain? Because if you are, there’s some wonderful pain-relieving cream we use...”

“Thank you, darling,” Cara interrupted, “but I really don’t need any.”

“But you have to be in pain,” Ann protested.

“I’m in agony,” she conceded, “but what does that have to do with anything? I’ve been practicing and can walk normally now. I think of those poor souls and I actually enjoy the white-hot pain in my loins.” With a giggle she added, “Does that sound sufficiently masochistic to you?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Ann replied. “It sounds like an utterly incredible woman to me. But that’s not why you called, is it?”

“Of course not,” Cara replied. Then in an almost shy voice she asked, “I was wondering ... Could I ... Would it be possible if—”

“The answer is yes, Mother!” Ann interrupted. “Now what’s the question that it’s the answer to?”

“Could I meet your parents?” Cara said in a rush of words.

“When would be convenient?” Ann asked. “Are you free for lunch, perhaps? At Maxim’s? I think they’re still speaking to us, although I’m really not sure.”

“Maxim’s at one o’clock?” she asked. Anna agreed.

Immediately dialing Maxim’s, she was surprised when a familiar-sounding woman’s voice answered in French. Switching instantly to the same language she said, “Molly? Is that you?”

“Which twin is this?” was the immediate response.

“It’s Ann. But what are you doing there so early?”

“So late, you mean,” Molly responded. “Oh, Ann, it was so utterly exquisite. And André loves my omelettes, my onion soup, my cunt, my tits...”

She paused and then continued, “We both talked to his parents earlier, and then just got off the phone with mine. Everyone is ecstatic. When I told André’s dad — he’s the senator, you know — who it was who introduced us, he went bananas. And while I’ve got you on the phone, would you both be free and willing to serve as my maids-of-honor? I can’t tell you what an honor it would be—”

“We would love to!” Ann exclaimed. “Just tell us where and when. We’ll be there.” Then she paused and said, “Molly, I called because I need a favor—”

“No, Ann,” she interrupted. “No favors.”

“But I—”

“There are no favors because André and I have already talked about it. How may we serve you? If you tell us to jump, our only possible response is to ask how high? If you tell me you want my arm, the only question is which one? Do you start to get a picture? We adore you two. You are totally and solely responsible for our happiness, both now and in the future. Now how may we serve you?”

“Well, darling, you got most of the story last night. If things work out, Cara will be our mother-in-law. Anyway, she has asked to meet Mother and Dad, so Mary and I were wondering if we could possibly get a reservation at Maxim’s for lunch at one o’clock.”

“Would you prefer the main dining room, the room we had upstairs, or perhaps you would like us to cater an affair someplace else?” she replied.

“Honestly, Molly, I have no idea. What do you think?”

“Wait a stinking minute!” Molly exclaimed. “Your father, as you call him, is the Duke of something-or-other, isn’t he? The hero of the RAF during the Battle of Britain?”

“You have the right one,” Ann admitted. “He’s Air Vice Marshal Sir Donald Whitfield, VC, DFC, KCB, 12^th Duke of Northumbria, and a very close friend of Her Majesty. His wife, Duchess Marion, is the Queen’s closest friend.”

Molly asked her to wait a moment; she wanted to confer with André. A few minutes later she was back. “It would be an enormous favor to us if you would consent to eat in our main dining room. Would that be all right? And I will be doing the cooking. André agrees I’m substantially better than his own chef. Okay?”

They agreed and then hung up.

The two girls told Don and Marion what they had set up. The two just grinned at the two girls.

Exactly at one o’clock, Fred Clark, driving the gray Rolls, came to a silent stop at the door of Maxim’s. This time, rather than the doorman, André was waiting outside to greet them. When he greeted Marion, his heels were together as he kissed her fingers. “Madame la Duchesse est très magnifique!” he exclaimed. He was delighted when she responded in equally perfect French.

He greeted the Duke with a very precise salute. “There are no words for me to say, Marshal. Had it not been for you and your comrades — but particularly you, yourself — France might still be under the Nazi boot. Welcome to Maxim’s where of course you are our guests.”

He showed them into the restaurant. Again the velvet cord was holding back a horde of other luncheon guests, who were now peering around trying to get a glimpse of the important new arrivals.

When they entered the dining room, the orchestra played a fanfare. The leader then announced, “It is with great pride that we welcome to Maxim’s British Air Vice Marshal Sir Donald Whitfield, KCB, 12^th Duke of Northumbria. Sir Donald is the holder of the Victoria Cross, the highest award for heroism that can be awarded in the United Kingdom, and five Distinguished Flying Crosses, the second highest award. It was no less than Sir Winston Churchill himself who told the King of England that, had it not been for Sir Donald, England would have lost the Battle of Britain and the war itself. Would you please join us in welcoming Sir Donald, and please rise as we play the British National Anthem, God Save The Queen.”

Everyone stood as the orchestra played what most better recognized as My Country T’is of Thee. When they arrived at their table, they found Cara on her feet waiting for them.

As the other patrons were taking their seats again, Mary performed the introductions. As she did, she watched Cara carefully. Except for the red glaze of pain deep in her eyes, she moved as freely as she had the day before on the golf course. She greeted the Duke warmly, but concentrated particularly on Marion. It was obvious that the two women hit it off instantly.

No sooner were they seated than the waiter began pouring Dom Pérignon, 1975. When it was served, Cara raised her glass in a toast. “To Sir Donald Whitfield, a hero in the tradition of, and with the same importance as, the Duke of Wellington and Horatio Lord Nelson. Sir Donald, we salute you!”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Campbell,” Don protested, “but you are much too kind—”

“Garbage!” she interrupted. “Unlike the children here with us today, I remember those days. It was before my time, but just by a bit. I used to read books like Yankee Flyer in the RAF, and others set in the same period. England was down to nothing. And I know that to this day at the mess of the RAF’s 17^th fighter squadron a toast is offered to ‘The best of the few.’ ‘The best’ were you and Saint Karl Kosta.”

Tears were flowing from her eyes as she added, “It was true then, and it’s at least as true today. I am truly honored to meet you, Your Grace.”

Although they had not been shown menus, food began to appear. Only then did Ann tell Cara that Molly Adams was in the kitchen cooking for them. Then she told her parents about Molly, the tournament, and some of the events of the previous evening.

As course followed course, Marion just shook her head in dismay. “Darling,” she said, “I really am a good cook. But the perfection of the presentation of this food — everything arranged just so — is utterly beyond me.” To the girls she said, “Your friend, Molly, is a truly world-class chef and an artist with food.”

At that point Cara suggested to Ann that she and Mary tell Sir Donald about their day on the golf course the day before. Mary looked at Cara sharply and realized that she wanted desperately to talk privately with Marion. Ann began unfolding their tale of golfing glory to Don’s sincere appreciation.

When Cara Campbell decided that he was well into the girls’ story, she turned to Marion and said so softly that only Marion could hear, “Could I look directly into your eyes, please?”

Marion looked at her, and Cara looked deep into Marion’s brilliant blue eyes. Slowly she shook her head and said, “You are truly blessed by Almighty God, aren’t you?”

When Marion tried to temporize she found that the woman’s eyes had her pinned as if she were a bug on a dissecting tray. She could neither lie nor even temporize. Reluctantly, she just nodded. Cara acknowledged the answer and just continued to stare deeply into Marion’s eyes. Finally she said, “How many lashes with a whip did you take, Marion? It was well over 100, wasn’t it?”

Marion was at a complete loss for words. She had never had such an experience. Then she looked even more closely at the woman beside her. Caroline Campbell was an incredibly beautiful woman, Marion decided. Then she realized that her coloring was very similar to Joyce Johnson’s: the same tawny-gold hair and the same emerald-green eyes. But, she realized, Cara’s were even larger and more vivid in their color than Joyce’s and, without question, Joyce Johnson was a rare natural beauty.

Looking into Caroline’s eyes was like looking into emerald fire. It was the feeling that she received that was so eerie, though. It was as if Marion’s own eternal salvation depended on her telling Caroline the whole truth.

Finally, she answered Cara’s question. “I think so,” she said softly. “But I lost count at about sixty-five and was unconscious at about ninety. So it’s only a guess. But the way my body was torn up, it had to be more than 100 lashes.”

Then Cara asked detailed questions regarding the whipping, such as the size of the whip, how she had been suspended in position, and exactly where on her body she had been beaten. Then she said, “But there is not a mark on your body now, is there? There is nothing but utterly flawless satin-smooth skin that is golden brown all over. Right?”

Marion could only nod.

“Tell me about your background. Were you a prostitute?”

Slowly and haltingly, she told Cara everything she could remember of her prior life. When she started to tell her story, Cara took her hand and gripped it, while her eyes remained locked on Marion’s. As she talked, Marion realized that she was telling Cara details she had never mentioned to a living soul. Nevertheless, it seemed to be the most natural thing to do. When it ended, tears were streaming down Marion’s face.

“Come, darling,” Cara said rising from her chair, “let’s go to the ladies’ room and freshen up.” They excused themselves and entered the ladies room. Seeing it empty except for a female attendant, Cara led Marion into a stall, closed the door and said, “Strip off all your clothes, please.”

Again, Marion found it impossible to refuse. Unzipping her dress, she stepped out of it, and was now bare except for her bikini. When Cara said nothing, she slipped it down over her thighs and stood up proudly with her tits upthrust... “Turn around, please,” Cara said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

Marion followed her instructions. With her back turned she could feel Cara running her fingertips over every inch of her body with a touch like a feather. When she concluded her examination, again Marion was told to turn. Again, Cara’s fingers moved all over. As she went lower on Marion’s body, Cara dropped to her knees better to see. She most carefully examined the girl’s cunt and ended by kissing Marion’s pubic patch and then her slit which was again moist with her fluids.

“Now get dressed and let’s finish cleaning you up,” she said.

In an instant Marion again had her clothing on and Cara opened the door. Then taking a clean towel from the attendant, Cara carefully ran cold water over it and put the towel over Marion’s eyes. After removing the last trace of her tears, and drying her face, she led the way back to the table.

When they returned to the table, the waiters were bringing out the main course, tournedos Rossini with foie gràs and truffles. It was served with Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1959. The conversation remained general for the rest of the luncheon.

As they were waiting for coffee and cognac, Molly emerged from the kitchen wearing her chef’s toque. “How was it?” she asked diffidently. “Did you like it?”

They raved about the magnificent meal, and then, as André joined them and put his arm around his fiancée, they explained that Molly was the top professional golfer on the LPGA tour and the winner of the 1995 USGA Women’s Open.

Marion listened to the recital of Molly’s achievements and then asked with an utterly bland face, “But what do you do with all your spare time?”

André was so proud of Molly and so much in love with her, he could hardly speak. But he said that it was the finest meal ever prepared in the restaurant. “Molly has two loves,” he said. “Haute cuisine and golf. She doesn’t know which is her favorite, nor do I. They are my favorite activities as well.

Then he told them that, when he told his father that Mademoiselle la Duchesse du Bourgogne would be one of Molly’s maids of honor and Mademoiselle la Marquise du Flandres would be the other, the older man was so overjoyed and excited, he couldn’t even speak. “And when something keeps a Frenchman from speaking, it must be important!” André concluded to the laughter of the others.

Four days later, as the girls were starting to make preparations to go to Las Vegas for COMDEX, the doorbell rang at the apartment. Since Ali was at the office with the children and Bill Clifford and Donald Whitfield were playing golf, the girls were alone with Marion, who went to the door.

Opening it, she found herself face to face with Cara whose first words were, “It worked.”

Only then did she realize the woman’s feet were bare and she was wearing a very strange-looking garment. It was made of an exceptionally coarse material, almost like a very heavy grade of burlap, and was extremely simple in it’s design. It seemed to be just a very large-diameter circle of the coarse material with a hole cut in the center for the head, and a single cut at the neck to make the hole large enough for her head to fit through. There were laces on the slit to close it.

“May I come in?” Cara asked quietly.

Only then did Marion realize she had just been standing at the door, motionless. Looking into the woman’s emerald eyes, Marion shuddered. She could see a bright flame of pain burning deep in both of them. “Please come in, Cara!” she exclaimed. She was going to take the woman’s arm to help her, but her arms were concealed under the cloak. Instead she put her arm over the woman’s shoulders. When she did, Cara smiled her thanks.

Entering the living room, Cara just stopped and looked around very carefully. Then she said softly, “Utterly magnificent!” She shook her head and said, “There are so many people with money who have their taste in their feet. Ali Clifford has both money and impeccable taste.” Then she continued to look and then smiled. “This is utterly wonderful! This apartment is furnished for people who are frequently bare. I can see that all the upholstery materials have been selected to feel wonderful against a bare body.”

Then she turned to Mary and asked, “Do you have a large plastic sheet somewhere, perhaps?” Knowing the rather unusual approach to childbirth in the extended family, there were large plastic sheets, and Mary retrieved one. “Could you put one over that chair, please,” she asked. “Although it’s improbable, I would hate to get blood stains on anything in this lovely apartment.”

Mary did as she had been asked, and Cara sat down in the chair, then leaned back and said, “Perfect!” To the amazement of the others, she even wriggled her bottom against the cushion, although she was sitting on the coarse material of her garment when she did.

When the others sat down, Marion offered refreshments and Cara asked for a dry martini on the rocks. Since it was almost five o’clock, the others joined her. Ann made the drinks and served. When she reached Cara, the girl flipped the side of her garment up to free her right arm to accept the drink. The others gasped as they saw that the woman’s whole upper body — what little of it they could see — was a mass of bleeding lacerations.

Seeing it, Marion had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was almost afraid to ask, because now she was certain what the answer would be. “When you came in, Cara, you said, ‘It worked.’ What worked?”

“Kids,” Cara said to Mary and Ann, “I don’t know if your mother told you about our conversation at the restaurant. And incidentally, I never had a chance to thank you for picking up on my hint and engaging your father in conversation so I could talk to your mother alone.”

“I told her everything about my background,” Marion explained. “She was particularly interested in the details of my whipping. You kids weren’t there when I arrived, but I guess you know I was not in great shape.”

Now focusing on Cara’s eyes as intently as Cara had previously focused on hers, Marion demanded, “What did you do to yourself? Or, more accurately, what did you have done?”

“I received 150 lashes with a bullwhip,” she replied calmly. Then with a smile she added, “And thank you, darling Marion, for putting your arm on my shoulder when I came in. The excruciating pain was just marvelous. As to how, I advertised on the Internet. I went to a number of the S&M chat rooms, looking for just the right guy in the Los Angeles area. And the guy I found was absolutely perfect. He made me thank him and kiss the end of the whip after every stroke. After about thirty, the whip was getting blood-soaked, so he ordered me to squeeze my blood off it after every few strokes.

“Of course the best — or the worst, depending upon one’s point of view — was when he whipped my cunt. I took twenty strokes there, while I was standing on my head with my legs spread wide. Fortunately, I had him do that first. At the end, I don’t think I could have done a headstand if my life had depended on it. Then I paid him and he left. Of course, even though the hotel where he did it was a fleabag, I still had to pay them extra to clean up the blood.”

Then she smiled warmly and concluded, “Anyway, Marion, it worked.” Then her face fell and she said, “I hope the rest — the most important part — works, as well.”

“And what might that be?” Marion asked. Again, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer, but was now reasonably confident that she had heard the worst.

“You three are beloved of Almighty God,” she said simply. “I want you to gather around, hold me as tightly as you can — and you’re all very strong, so that had better be very tightly — and then pray with me to God that he will accept my suffering in the spirit in which it’s offered. I would like to be forgiven my sins. And ... and ... and someday — perhaps after two or three more episodes like this — He might see me as being worthy of a tiny blessing.”

Then looking at the girls hopefully she asked, “Do you think He would? Now, please hold me tightly.” With that she stood up from the chair and found a spot on the floor with enough room for the others to stand around her.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” the Voice thundered. “Cara Campbell, you are causing me to lose my patience — and the world knows how truly patient I am.”

Cara cocked her head and said, “Forgiving ... yes. But patient... ? I’m afraid not, Lord. That is not known to be one of your strong suits.”

“Damn it, woman!” the Voice exclaimed. “You’re getting to be as bad as Henrietta Conroy! And I thought she was the worst. And now look what you’ve done! You’ve caused Me to start swearing. I am losing My patience with you...”

“That’s nice, Lord,” Cara replied calmly, “Because Heaven truly knows that You don’t have much of it to lose!”

At that point the others lost control and could no longer control their giggles.

“Harumph!” the Voice said, sounding like He was clearing His throat. “At this point I would be irritated at you three, too, except I simply adore the sound of your giggles. It is the merriest, happiest sound I’ve ever heard. But that’s neither here nor there.

“Just a few days ago, and against My better judgment, I permitted — no, I ordered! — Susie to pull Cara’s pubic hair out in clumps. Why? Because she wanted to offer her suffering for the poor souls with no one to pray for them. And I went along. Reluctantly. When the bloody business was all over, I told her that Purgatory had been cleaned out. There’s no one there!”