From the Top Shelf - Love's Passionate Frenzied Fury, part 2

We continue with our would-be author of bodice-ripper tales, and how she gets her inspiration. You may want to refresh your memory here of how Arthur helps his wife Eleanor create her realistic stories of passion and dominance.

And, as it turned out later, astonishing as well. Eleanor acquired a publishing agent through a friend. The agent liked the novel and got it published-- in hardback of all things. It sold well. It sold well enough in fact that Eleanor acquired a publishing contract with an option for her next three novels.

A few weeks later Arthur came home to see a delivery truck parked in the driveway and some boxes and a large object being carried into the basement. What now? What is all this stuff?

Eleanor was inside directing the placement of the items. There was a strange contraption like T-shaped wooden frame. When the deliverymen left, Arthur asked, “What in the world is this?”

“It’s for my new book, Love’s Passionate Frenzied Fury,” said Eleanor. “I’m writing about a daughter of an English nobleman. You see her father has promised her in marriage to Lord Foulweather who is a villainous rogue, but she wants to marry Sir Percival who is her true love. So she runs away. Anyway Lord Foulweather is the nephew of Henry, the King and is a staunch royalist and his minister the evil Oliver Cromwell captures her and delivers her to Lord Foulweather. He conspires with Cromwell to have her tried for treason unless she marries him but she refuses, so he sentences her to be flogged and…”

“Wait, wait. Which Henry is this? Henry V? Henry VIII? Henry II?”

“Yes, one of those Henry’s.”

“Yes, but my dear,” began Arthur slowly, “there was no Oliver Cromwell in the reign of either Henry II or Henry VIII, or Henry V.”

“There was a man named Cromwell in there somewhere, I read it.”

“Yes, but it was a Thomas Cromwell in Henry VIII’s day and well, Oliver Cromwell was much later and certainly no royalist and…”. Arthur knew a little bit about English history.

Eleanor stamped her foot. “Those are unimportant details. What is important is that Lady Elspeth has run away to find Sir Percival, but was caught and is now in the clutches of Lord Foulweather who is determined to flog her until she agrees to marry him.”

Arthur sighed. “But then what is this, this…thing?” He was pointing to the wooden construct on the garage floor.

“It is a stocks. I bought it in a catalog. On sale for only $599.00.”

“What on earth is it for? And $599? That’s a lot of money.”

“It’s for the new novel, Love’s Passionate Frenzied Fury.”

“You need a $600 wooden pillory to write a novel?”

“Do I have to remind you of everything? This is the way I write. I live my characters. Lady Elspeth is to be flogged. I must place myself in the pillory to be flogged by Lord Foulweather until Sir Percival arrives on his stunning white horse and saves her.”

Arthur mused, “Let me guess. I’m to be Lord Foulweather?”

Eleanor beamed. “Yes, precisely.” Her face glowed with excitement.

Arthur surveyed the apparatus. “So this Lord Foulfeather…he puts you in that and he flogs you with…”

“It’s Lord FoulWEATHER, Arthur. Don’t you listen?” She said in exasperation.

“He uses this,” said Eleanor pulling an object from one of the boxes. To Arthur it looked like a cat-o-nine-tails that he’d seen in old seafaring movies like Mutiny on the Bounty and such. It had a handle and seven or eight strands of thin supple leather.

“It’s made of deerskin, Arthur. Here, feel. It’s soft.”

The strands were light and supple. “But won’t this hurt?” The thing did have some heft to it.

“It’s deerskin and it will sting some, but Miss Cadivec says we must be prepared to suffer for our art. I was assured that it will leave no marks. I’m prepared to take the whipping Elspeth would take. I have to know what she feels, her fear, her emotions when she is stripped and locked in the pillory. The sting of the whip on her naked behind, the…”

This really did have possibilities, mused Arthur. Eleanor had certainly turned passionate as a result of their last encounter, but then she had locked herself away to write for, it seemed, days on end. Now she wanted to play another scene. Suffer for art, she said. She’d also suffer for spending $600 without asking him.

“…heat of the lash and the response of her quivering sex.” Eleanor was getting worked up enough just by talking about it.

“So will you do it?”

“Do what, now?” Arthur was startled out of his reverie.

“Be Lord Foulweather. Strip me. Put me in the stocks. Lash my bare behind with the whip.” Eleanor eyed him breathlessly. “You do remember what happened last time?” She asked coyly, a little come hither twinkle in her eye.

“Of course, dear. Where do we start?” Arthur was a bit more enthusiastic this time.

“Wait here. I’ll get the clothes.”

The clothes? thought Arthur. But Eleanor pulled a costume out of the box and handed it to Arthur. “Go put these on. I’ll dress here. Don’t be long,” she cooed, smiling.

But it took Arthur quite some time to figure out the damn costume, what with all the buttons and cuffs and frilly frou frou. Did they really wear this ridiculous outfit back then? He supposed that he was intended to look like a 17th century cavalier, but to Arthur it looked like he was Captain Hook sent over from central casting.

When Arthur arrived in the dungeon, i. e., the basement, Eleanor had changed into something that looked like a lady’s gown pilfered from the set of Shakespeare in Love.

“Eleanor, I feel ridiculous in this outfit. By the way, how much did all this cost?”

“Arthur dear, it’s all in the furtherance of art. But if you must know,” she sniffed, “it was a mere $850. These are very authentic.”

Arthur cringed. So this little set up was now running close to $1500. And it was just so they could act out a scene and be ‘authentic’. Arthur sighed. “What do we do now, dear?”

“Well,” said Eleanor, handing him a manuscript, “you read what Lord Foulweather says, right here.”

Arthur skimmed the page. Then he began, “Well, you disobedient little strumpet, what do you say now that I have you in my dungeon? You will marry me or suffer the consequences!”

“I will never marry you, you swinish oaf! Lord Percival will hear of your mistreatment of me and he will bring an army to rescue me.”

It seemed to Arthur that he’d heard this dialog before, but he continued, “Ha ha! I will tame you, you cheeky doxy. I think you require a sound whipping for your insolent behavior.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? I’ll show you. Strip out of that gown. Strip, I say, or I’ll call the guards and tear it off you.”

Eleanor, now fully into the part of the captured Elspeth, put her arm across her forehead and said, “You beast. You would ravage a young maid. You are indeed foul, Lord Foulweather. I have no choice but to obey.” Slowly she shucked out of the gown, and took off several layers of petticoats to stand before Arthur in a chemise and stockings. She looked quite lovely. Arthur stared rapturously, not moving

“Arthur,” she whispered, shaking him out of his reverie, “Now you must put me in the stocks.” She pointed to the wooden contraption.

“Hunh? Oh. Ok,” Then Arthur whispered back. “But why are we whispering?”

Arthur saw that the pillory had a hinged top and pried it up. Eleanor put her neck and two hands in the indented lower half, then Arthur gingerly lowered the top and locked the clasps. This left Eleanor in a quite vulnerable position. Bent over like this her shapely posterior was presented for what Arthur guessed would be Lord Foulweather’s evil ministrations.

“What do I do now?” said Arthur.

“You must pull down my drawers and lash me with the whip. It’s what Lord Foulweather would do.”

“All right, dear, but this might hurt, you know.”

“We must be prepared to suffer for our art, Arthur. Please go ahead.”

Suffer for art. Well, ok. He picked up the whip and tucking it under his arm approached Eleanor and tugged down the white pantaloons or whatever they were to reveal Eleanor’s full and curvy rear. The rounded moons were plump, but well proportioned. Arthur now felt a genuine stirring in his lower regions. He took the whip and swished it a time or two. Then taking a stance beside her, he drew back his arm and lashed her bottom. The whip went swish…thwick! Eleanor seemed to jump at the impact. A series of tiny red lines appeared across her rump. Drawing back, he lashed her again. This time she hissed and contracted her buttocks. He settled into a slow tempo, carefully drawing his arm back and whipping it forward so the strands landed evenly across her bottom. The tails would fan out for each lash. Eleanor would flinch and her bottom would wobble as the whip hit, but she remained silent through ten lashes.

“Er, Eleanor, how many lashes does Lord Foulweather give her?”

“Just keep going, darling, I’ll tell you when it’s enough. Oooh, it’s hot and stingy, but please continue. Miss Cadivec says we must really feel it to appreciate the true emotional state of our heroine. I must feel her pain.”

Arthur mused that a recent president had said much the same thing. He probably did not have this scene in mind—or maybe he did, who knows? Then Arthur decided that this was one way to get a little satisfaction for a $1500 outlay. Hopefully there would be several novels with this kind of scene so it would at least be a bit more cost effective. He went to work with the whip.

Arthur set about to give Eleanor her money’s worth. The lashes fell on Eleanor’s quivering rear end in a slow but steady tempo, impacting the soft cheeks and drawing more red lines across the wobbling rounds. Eleanor began to make little gurgling noises, but did not beg Arthur to stop. Arthur felt like a grim executioner of old, standing beside his prisoner, drawing the whip back with his arm and then striking a blow to the reddening cheeks. After a while he thought that his form became pretty smooth.

Swish….thwick! At each lash now, Eleanor shifted from foot to foot which only made her bottom cheeks dance lasciviously. Eleanor began to give out little stifled yelps. After about 30 lashes she implored Arthur to stop.

“Oww…oww, darling. That’s quite enough, dear,” she said hopefully. “I think I have the feel of it now.”

Arthur stood back. He could not stop thinking about the $1500 worth of stuff.

“Well dear. Lord Foulweather would not stop just because Lady Elspeth asked him to do so, would he?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” came Eleanor’s muffled response.

“And so, I think he might lay on another dozen or so ---real sharp stingers, wouldn’t you think?”

Eleanor was silent for a moment. “No, no. He wouldn’t, he…..well, maybe. But not too hard, darling.” Eleanor was pleading now.

Arthur chuckled. “Oh, I think they’d be hard. After all, she is a naughty wench.”

By God, this was exhilarating thought Arthur. He drew back the whip and resumed, lashing her with a volley of deliberate, stinging strokes delivered right across the fullness of Eleanor’s backside. Eleanor yelped, all pretense of bearing it stoically cast aside. Now she was getting a taste of it. Now she knew what it meant to be whipped, the little baggage! The whip bit. Swishh…..whick! Eleanor’s bottom quivered in response. Refuse to marry him, would she? Swish….whick! He’d show her obedience, he’d….

“Arthur! Arthur! Stop!” Eleanor was practically shrieking.

Arthur stopped himself. Whew! What had he been thinking? Eleanor’s rear was a bright red with little striped tracings near the side. Arthur dropped the whip and caressed his wife’s glowing cheeks. Eleanor moaned, “Oh…Arthur, that feels so good.” He had moved his fingers down lower into her cleft. The slit of her vagina was slippery wet. She moaned and rotated her hips, responding to his fingers which continued to stimulate her sex. Without thinking Arthur stood behind her and unzipped his pants, letting them fall. Eleanor heard the sound, but could not see him.

“Arthur, dear, what are you doing?” But before she even react she felt the probing of Arthur’s maleness at the entrance to her vaginal slit. “Oh, my….Arthur, ohhh….Arthur,” she gasped as it slid all the way in. Arthur stroked Eleanor, slowly at first, but then built up speed, his mid section spanking the red globes of her bottom as he thrust repeatedly deep inside her. Eleanor screamed as she was ridden to climax and Arthur seemed to go completely rigid as he was wracked with orgasmic spasms.

Later, in bed and out of the period costumes, Eleanor confided that it had been a most thorough whipping Arthur had meted out, but that his manly conquest of her had made it worth the suffering endured by her poor bottom.

“Well, as you said dear, we must sometimes suffer for our art. I now feel almost like a co-author of these novels of yours. I’ll be happy to help, anytime, dear. Really.”

Eleanor's creative juices are really flowing now! I would love to read the finished product.