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Pamela never felt anything so traumatic in her life as when the Angel's Kiss had smacked into her breasts. "Smacked" was the correct word. The multi-thonged cat made a loud slashing sound. The leather whip made a cracking sound. But the

Angel's Kiss made a smacking sound. It was, of course, due to where it was used. A girl's bottom, by its design, makes its own unique sound when whipped. A girl's back, much firmer, made anoth- er. A girl's breasts were not firm… they were curvy and soft. They did not crack when hit. They

"smacked."

It had hurt so much, and had been such a sur- prise, that Pamela had not even cried out. Her head swung and her hair whisked and her nostrils flared.

The following strokes were not denied, however, and brought a magnificent array of moans and screams. The Angel's Kiss was not applied quickly to a girl. Each stroke was a separate punishment, applied with a lengthy pause in between to allow the girl the full pain of each blow. Jan applied each stroke with calmness, but yet with stunning force.

Pamela's breasts bounced wildly at each blow, and only when they had returned to their quiet repose did the next stroke come.

Jan aimed, of course, for the nipples each time. It wasn't that she was particularly sadistic. That's simply the way one whips a girl's breasts.

Pamela's screams were noticeably more shrill when the whining stroke did catch one or both of her nipples. She shook her head in stunned admira- tion over the seemingly endless amount of punish- ment that a female nipple could take. Nipples, created to dispense milk, were supposedly things of intimate sensual softness and tender design. Yet over the centuries, probably no other feminine part had been so punished, abused, and tortured, and still remained intact and sensitive. It was one of the strange mysteries of females. Pamela thought about her own. First, pierced like a sow's ear and violated with a ring. Then actually cored down the middle by another metal device, the locking pin.

Then subjected to electric current by Sabrina. Now whipped by a terrible rubber lash by Jan. Yet t,here they were, still there, and delightfully erect in a false passion produced by hurt!

Pamela had drifted off into these thoughts and had not heard Jan dialing the wall phone.

"Hello, Mrs. McNee? This is Jan Nelson… Oh, she's doing fine. Wonderful girl Matter of fact, I'm calling from our extension in the whipping suite.

Pam is getting her first real whipping right now

… no… all over her… everywhere, First of many to come. She's getting to be a proper young woman, so she should begin t.o be whipped like one, don't you agree? Oh, good… I'm glad you feel that way, too. Haven't had time to write you this week, so I thought you'd like a special treat instead. You've heard the sound of a whip on a girl in movies and such… sure… so I won't bore you with that, but I'm whipping her breasts for the first time with a rubber thing we-use… yes… and I thought you might like to hear it being applied to her tits… yes, of course she yells. I'll have one of the other girls hold the phone close to

Pam's front so you can hear it very clearly, and of course, her screams, too. I'll probably be well involved with Pam, so I won't pick up the phone again… yes… just hang up when you've heard enough. Bye."

Marienne McNee heard the loud smacking sound followed by her daughter's yowl. And another, and another, and another. Each moan and cry was dif- ferent, but they. definitely were Pamela's!

"Owwwwww, Geez, my nipples! Yow! Whoooo- eeee! Ohhhhh!" It was enough for Marienne

McNee. She wiped her brow. Then dialed Lila

Carson. They made arrangements t.o get together on Saturday.

Pamela hung sweating. She hurt, but she had not wept. She finally mustered up enough courage to look down at what she thought would be ravaged breasts. They were not. They were red, but not streaked or welted, and the nipples, despite

Pamela's conviction that they were certainly lying on the floor somewhere, were still nicely in place.

Now that the burning hurt was over, Pamela once again felt a sense of peculiar pride in herself.

She had been breast-whipped like thousands of others, and like the others, found that she was still alive and not too badly hurt. More than ever now, she felt like a real woman! Yes, thought Pamela, I can accept it again and I know that I shall have to accept it again as long as I remain a female. It hadn't been too awfully bad at that, and I guess as long as a female has breasts she should expect to be whipped there.

Yet, her whipping was not over. The Angel's