Whip Hands by C. P. Hazel Page A

legs apart, like so.’ Frau Amalie gave a grotesque mime of the position Jane was to adopt. The woman’s hand moved up the inside of one thigh, stopped before reaching her cleft and slid down the other. Then, just as Jane thought it was over, she felt her sex lips being parted and a stubby finger pushing its way into her genital purse.
    She gasped and wriggled free. She was enraged, but became aware that she was also blushing furiously.
    â€˜ Nein, nein ,’ Amalie clucked. ‘You must be obedient. Here at the Bismarck you do as you are told.’
    Suiting the action to the word, the dominatrix pushed her once more face down on the table. This time the fingers pinched her protruding vulva in a manner that was meant to be playful, but caused Jane a twinge of discomfort.
    â€˜Now you lie on your back, while I inspect these clothes.’
    Jane turned over, flesh squeaking against the polished mahogany of the table top. She tried to cross her legs, but it felt ridiculous. Instead she stared up at the chandelier and began counting the crystals.
    Frau Amalie tut-tutted with disapproval. ‘You wear nothing underneath your dress but this.’ She held up the thong, stretched between both sets of thumb and finger as if to emphasise its insubstantial nature. Then she draped it over one hand and raised it to her sharp nostrils. A beatific smile spread across her face.
    â€˜Such a sweet fragrance. Fit for a young flower still to be picked, I think?’
    Jane could not hold the other woman’s sneering glance and lowered her gaze, annoyed with herself and confused. The virago bent over her and, letting the satin underwear hang from her fist, drew it across her nipples several times. Jane felt them budding treacherously and raised one hand to cover herself. It was a reflex movement, thoughtless and precipitate, and it was to prove costly. The buckle flashed between her fingers. Her wrist was gripped firmly by Frau Amalie.
    â€˜ Ach , what is this?’
    In a moment of blind panic Jane imagined slipping the buckle into her mouth and swallowing.
    It was just possible that the older woman would not have imagined the floral design with its central ‘opal’ could have concealed a camera. Just possible, that is, if the device had not slipped from her fingers and fallen on the thin carpet with a thud. The faint zip of the automatic wind-on was audible in the silence. Amalie pounced on it.
    She immediately found the button for the shutter, then shook her head wordlessly. With a sickening leer she put it into her bodice. Jane felt the strength leeching out of her limbs as Amalie gave her a look of triumph.
    â€˜A spy. You are a spy!’
    Jane’s feeble attempts at denial were unconvincing. She should have prepared herself for just such a situation as this. What kind of journalist was she?
    â€˜Now we go, spy. We shall see Max. Upstairs.’
    The door was pulled open and Jane was dragged into the cooler atmosphere of the hall, where a group of younger women identically dressed in Prussian blue were talking animatedly. They fell silent in an instant, confronted by the dominatrix with a naked girl in tow. Their eyes widened and one began to titter nervously.
    â€˜For God’s sake, let me get dressed,’ Jane muttered, struggling to free her wrist. She found herself unable to best this diminutive figure with the blazing eyes.
    â€˜ Nein, nein , spy girl. You must go straight away to explain this. There is no time for dressing.’
    Again the lascivious leer, then Amalie grabbed a handful of Jane’s long hair. Now she was held even more securely. Wherever Amalie went she had to follow, at a crouch. Struggling and cursing under her breath, Jane was pulled up the broad, carpeted staircase to stifled tittering from the group in the hall.
    From above came sounds of male laughter and background music as they ascended. She became aware of the intermingling scents of cigarette smoke and