Chapter 9: Dee's Diary - Old Scars

DEE'S DIARY

SATURDAY, MAY 5^th (Continued)

After a breakfast of toasted frozen waffles, he removed all of my restraints for the first time since we arrived and helped me dress in my blouse, skirt and sandals. I didn't say anything as I stood meekly in the center of the room while he walked around the house gathering up all the things we'd gotten in the sex store, putting them back in the blue gym bag. I sat sadly in the seat of the car, the bag in my lap again, as we sped back toward the home I thought I had left forever. I paid no attention to where we were or what we passed.

Suddenly, he turned sharply down a narrow back road, then quickly again, and yet again, and parked in a small dirt area beside a country access road. He jerked his door open, crawled into the back seat, and I sat bewildered as he began tugging his pants down. "Get back here!" he ordered tersely.

I had to open my side door, put the seat forward, and crawl back to join him on the back seat of the convertible. He grabbed my waist with both hands and positioned me above his lap with my knees on either side of his hips. It took me a few seconds to figure out what he had planned, since we'd never done it this way before. My skirt was really getting in the way.

"Help me, damn it!" he hissed.

I wasn't used to doing anything at all during sex. I was always tied up. I reached down between us, but my hand got tangled up in the skirt, as well. I finally got it free, found his prick, which was very hard (we hadn't done it since last night when I'd talked on the phone), and somehow guided it to my opening. I was sore, but very wet and slippery. I hadn't bathed since last night, either.

He began lifting me up and pulling me down with his hands, and once again it took me the better part of a minute to realize that what he really wanted was for ME to do all the work. I rose up and down, digging my knees into the rough leather seat and impaling myself on his stiff shaft. Once I established the rhythm to his liking, he just sat there, leaning his head back against the seat, his eyes closed. Fortunately, no cars came down that access road. I don't know what I'd have done if one had. I could see the traffic flowing in both directions on the main highway, which was only thirty of forty yards away through the bushes. The sudden thought struck me that anybody who happened to be looking our way could see us. Certainly they would know what I was doing. There was probably no other action on earth that resembled sex between a man and a woman. I felt very ashamed. I also felt very turned on. I wished he would reach down and touch me there. It wouldn't take much. I wanted it so badly. I leaned forward a little, trying to get the friction I needed, but I couldn't quite make it work.

And then he stiffened, grabbed me by the waist again, slammed me all the way down, and bellowed like a bull as his prick twitched inside of me. I tentatively put my arms around his neck and held him as he panted into my hair. I stroked his head and told him how good he felt inside of me. But after another minute, he lifted me off, set me aside on the seat, and pulled up his underwear and pants.

Too soon, I was in the front seat and we were driving again. I felt his cum dripping out of me and soiling my skirt, but I chose not to mention it. Again, I smelled the funny odor I'd experienced that second day, and I reluctantly had to admit it was coming from between my legs. We were moving fast in the little car, but the smell followed me like a cloud.

And then, I suddenly realized that I knew where we were. We were almost there! He seemed to know the way, know the house and where to turn down the winding drive. He braked to a halt before the house, came around to open and hold my door, and to my amazement, he picked up the gym bag. He took my hand and led me to the front door.

"What are you going to do with THAT?" I asked, risking a rules violation.

"Don't want to leave it in the car," he said matter-of-factly. "Somebody might find it."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to argue, but one just didn't do that with one's Master. He didn't bother to knock, and I was very surprised to find that the front door was unlocked. We walked in, and I let him look around a little. This is the reaction many visitors have. Most people have driven by big, big homes and wished they could see inside, and I never begrudged anyone the opportunity to rubberneck a little once they get inside ours. Where were Martha and Ben, I wondered.

He stopped by the first door he came to and opened it. "What's this," he asked.

"The waiting room."

"Waiting room?" He walked in and looked around, and I followed. I didn't come in here very often.

"For guests," I explained. "They wait here while our butler comes and announces them."

He nodded, looked around a little more, then he pushed the gym bag under the settee beside the door. "We'll just leave this here until we're ready to leave," he said, and I breathed a little sigh of relief.

Back in foyer, he told me to take him to my father, and I led him in the direction of the East Wing and then turned left down the Long Hall toward father's library study, which is where he could usually be found this time of day.

"I need to use the bathroom," I said in a small voice, pausing by the East Wing downstairs bath. I didn't really have to, but Jay's cum was dribbling down both of my inner thighs and the "smell" seemed to be getting stronger (though that may have been my imagination).

"Not now," he said tersely. "We can stop here on the way out."

So I continued down the hall and hesitated outside the closed door. But Jay opened it without knocking (something no one was EVER allowed to do) and I found myself shuffling uncertainly after him.

Jay marched right up to Daddy, who was sitting behind the huge desk, and put out his hand in greeting. "Jay Johnston. Pleased to meet you, sir."

Daddy didn't even look up, just kept writing on a yellow legal pad. After a few long seconds, Jay lowered his hand, but he kept that silly, patient smile pasted on his lips and didn't move or say another word. I wondered who would blink first in this war of wills. To my astonishment, it was Daddy.

"Sit down," he grumbled. I immediately went to the large sofa and sat in the center of it, giving Jay the opportunity to take either side he chose, but to my amazement, he walked to the big leather chair in front of the desk and sat there. He still didn't say anything, and a very, very cold feeling began to creep all over me. Why didn't Jay sit beside me? Why wasn't he telling Daddy he loved me? Why wasn't he telling Daddy that he was taking me away, and that all the money in the world didn't matter? Why didn't he say SOMETHING!?

Finally, Daddy looked up and locked eyes with him, but his most withering look didn't seem to faze Jay, and I felt a small flash of pride. They just sat like that for the longest time. Then, slowly, Daddy looked back down, opened his bottom drawer, and my heart sank even lower when he took out the big leather checkbook. I might have made a little noise of surprised dismay, but if I did, neither of them seemed to notice. The atmosphere in the room was electric. I wished (oh, how I wished!) that Jay's cum would stop dripping out of my cunt.

Daddy wrote out a check, tore it from the large volume, and laid it on the edge of the desk in front of him, and then he leaned back and glared at Jay.

No, Jay! Please, Jay! No! Please, no!

Jay got slowly out of the chair, walked forward, picked up the check, then backed up, always maintaining eye contact with Daddy, and sat down again. Suddenly, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I felt hollow. Artificial. I wasn't real. Nothing was real anymore. The tears started then. Quiet tears. Silent tears. My "Daddy tears."

Jay glanced down for a split second and right back up at Daddy again. The silence stretched on.

Finally, Jay said: "I will require one additional thing."

"Not one cent!" Daddy screamed, spittle spraying across the desk, his face crimson. I've never seen Daddy that mad.

Jay acted as if he hadn't spoken at all. "You, sir, have the power ruin any man you wish. I would need your word of honor that you would leave me and my affairs alone."

Daddy suddenly calmed. He regarded this young adversary with sudden respect. "Done," he said solemnly, "provided you never, ever invest, bargain for, or do business with any of my companies, holdings or financial instruments..." he paused "... including her." He jerked a thumb in my direction without looking at me. I had become a financial instrument.

Jay nodded slowly. "Done," he said clearly, then hoisted himself out of his chair and walked to the door.

"I've given the maid and butler the day off," Daddy barked. "You found your way in, you can find your way out!"

Jay didn't answer. He opened the door and walked out. He had never once looked at me or even acknowledged my existence since we had entered the room. The only thing I had left to remind me of him, at least for awhile, was the smell and feel of the sexual juices he had deposited in my body only 30 minutes before.

Daddy began writing on the legal pad again. I sat there. Something was going to happen. Something terrible. My tears continued without so much as a whimper.

Finally, he set the pad aside and stood up. He went to the door, then finally turned and motioned for me to come to him. I did so without question or hesitation. He grabbed my wrist and led me out into the hall and down toward the West Wing. I simply allowed myself to be led. Nothing seemed real.

He opened the door to the basement, flipped a switch, and led me down the steep stairs. There are several corridors down there, and more than a dozen rooms. I never showed any inclination to explore below the main floors as a child. I always thought it was spooky. Scary. I did know, somehow, that the door we finally stopped in front of was always kept locked. Sure enough, he took a small set of keys from his pocket, selected one, and opened it.

The room was totally bare except for a metal folding chair and a very strange sort of table in the center of the floor. The walls sported no pictures. A small fireplace was set into one corner, but there was no firewood and no ashes in the grate. It hadn't been used for a very, very long time. The table appeared to be bolted to the floor on sturdy, oversized wooden legs that were both too far apart on one side and too close together on the other. It was very narrow in the center, and very wide at either end, and it faintly resembled a capital letter "X." The only light in the room was provided by a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was a hook on one wall, and from it, in a large coil, hung a very thick, very long, very mean-looking bullwhip.

So this was to be my punishment. How Machiavellian. How gothic. I was to be reduced to a character in a cheap novel. But he couldn't hurt me anymore. No suffering could surpass what I was feeling already.

He led me to the table and let go of my wrist to position it. The whole table twisted on some sort of hinge, and sure enough, when it was vertical, it looked exactly like a big "X." There were leather buckles at each corner, and I passively let him fasten first one wrist, then the other to the uppermost portion of it. My breasts, unrestrained beneath my light blouse, ballooned slightly as they pressed into the rough wood of the thing. There was a cross-brace at the level of my face, and I turned my head and rested my cheek against it, watching, waiting. He knelt to remove my sandals before fastening my ankles to the lower portion, spreading my legs so that my feet no longer touched the ground. I felt more of the cum dribble down the insides of my legs. He must have smelt me. He was very close down there, and I could smell the odor.

He twisted the table again, swinging it forward, so that I was neither horizontal nor vertical. Then, with a savage movement, he grabbed handfuls of the back of my blouse and ripped it almost completely off of me. Small tatters of the garment were dangling from each arm, and he quickly tore those off as well. With a vicious yank, he pulled my skirt's waistband so far asunder that it fell all the way to my widely spaced ankles. He left it there. The air was cool but dry in the basement, and with my whole backside exposed to the room, I shivered involuntarily.

Daddy walked to the wall and picked up the bullwhip almost reverently. I watched in fascination as he began doing something very strange. He started pick-pick-picking at something on the very end of the whip, and with all honesty, he reminded me of a monkey picking fleas. I simply couldn't fathom the meaning of the ritual. He didn't even glance at me for the longest time. I was completely naked, yet Daddy was much more interested in the whip than in the nude woman tied to the table in front of him. I had thought briefly that he might rape his only daughter, but he was much too focused on the task at hand to consider such a thing.

He walked behind me and I lost sight of him. I waited several long seconds before the first blow struck.

The fickle finger writes, Omar Khayyam said, and having writ, moves on. History, once complete, cannot be undone. But, if I ever DID have the chance to relive that horrible event, I would do it much, much differently. I would scream. I would scream loud and long, and beg and cry and plead. But as it was, I did none of those things, except to continue to shed my silent "Daddy tears." I never uttered a peep of protest. That's why he didn't stop, of course. He wasn't going to stop until he had gotten some sort of response from me.

There is no sound on earth like that of a bullwhip striking flesh. Many have written about it, but they've obviously never seen it, and most certainly they've never experienced it. TV and movies don't even come close. Try to imagine hitting a piece of raw meat with a dull butter knife hard enough to cut. That's what the whip does. It strikes and grabs and digs in and rakes and tears and cuts, all in the span of a half-second. The first stroke hit with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. By the time the second struck, the pain from the first was just starting to build. And after the third, I quite frankly lost count. Silly for someone so proficient at math.

I've tried to count them once or twice. It just can't be done. I stand, naked, in the bathroom with my back to the big mirror and look in a hand mirror back over my shoulder and try to figure it out, but it's impossible. They get all jumbled. The scars, I mean. One ends where another begins. Is that scar from one blow? No, two at least... maybe three. They're at slightly different angles. And that one's too deep to be connected with that one... unless two blows fell in exactly the same place. Thirty, at least. Fifty? Perhaps. Oh, God, the pain was terrible.

I suddenly couldn't breath, and sputtering, realized that Daddy had thrown a glass of water in my face. Had I passed out? Where had the water come from? I looked over my left arm to watch him. Why was everything pink? No, not pink, really. There were little, tiny dots of red on everything, everywhere. Blood. My blood. Daddy stood in front of me, breathing hard, picking at the end of the whip again. Picking. Cleaning the end of the whip. Picking what? Bits of flesh. My flesh. And suddenly my heart sank even more. Oh, the horror of it! Whose flesh had he been picking from the whip before he struck ME?!?! There could be only one answer to that question, though my mind screamed and railed against the thought. Mommy. Oh, Mommy!

And then he was gone again. Out of my view again. And another blow, and another.