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        Oliver sat Victoria down on the end of a four-poster bed and unclipped the leash
from her collar. Without a word he walked to the bed head, looped the leash around one of
the brass rails, slipped it back through the handle and laid the leash down the centre of
the mattress. Oliver knelt on the bed behind Victoria who watched him curiously in the
large mirror on the wall she faced. He took her wrists, pulled her arms above her head and
laid her flat on her back. Then he clipped the leash to her wrist restraints and she was
tied neatly to the bed head. Victoria found herself staring at another mirror, this one on
the ceiling, because her arms clamped her head completely still.
        Still without speaking, Oliver left the bed and lifted the front of Victoria’s
skirt to her waist. She could see in the ceiling mirror her naked breasts and pubic hair.
Oliver took each of her ankles and, spreading her legs, tied them to leather cords on a
bar running along the foot of the bed. Victoria looked down her body. She could see her
breasts with their erect nipples and her skirt bundled at her waist. At each side her
knees jutted diagonally upward. She remembered a joke about babies arriving the same way
they’re made. With this position it was positively accurate, she thought to herself. She
looked at Oliver who was leaning against the dresser staring fixedly at her crotch. After
everything she’d done tonight, having her Master, and she thought of him now as her
Master, stare at her pussy seemed a small embarrassment so she looked back at the ceiling
mirror where she saw herself stretched out as if for a sacrifice. Should I tell the priest
I’m not a virgin, she thought; will it ruin the magic?
       Oliver considered his prize. From his place at the end of the bed he could see
Victoria’s most secret parts; the lower part of her still crimson buttocks, her
pinky-brown anus and her slowly opening moist quim. He liked old words and he rolled that
one around in his mind again. Her breasts and nipples glowed rosily on either side of her
chin, like a far-off mountain range in the setting sun. He wished he smoked. A real
Victorian cad would smoke a cigar now, spinning out the girl’s discomfort and increasing
his own anticipation.  The minutes ticked by on the old mantel clock. No sounds from the
rest of the house disturbed his thoughts; the thick walls and door saw to that. 
He couldn’t decide. He felt sure a dandy with his tastes would whip the inside of those
inviting thighs but he was reluctant to do so. His arousal needed no such aid and he
wasn’t sure Victoria was ready for so much punishment in one evening. In the struggle for
historical accuracy versus present surroundings, he decided on compromise. Opening a
dresser drawer he removed a small, many-thonged whip. Its thick handle nestled comfortably
in his palm while its thin leather strands, each ending in a single tight knot, hung
menacingly over his fingers.