TAILS FROM THE CRYPT
The Horse Racer
by Hawkwood

Velma watched Santiago Blitz amble under the wire three lengths out of the money and almost cried. She'd put up two thousand five to get in this race and the same again at the pari-mutual window. This was supposed to be the one that would get her back in the black; instead, it had cost her most of what was left of Papa's money.

Santiago Blitz had been a sure thing! The colt had been sired by Blitzkrieg out of Lady James which put big time stakes winners on both sides. Blitzkrieg had brought home maybe eight or ten million before they put him out to stud, and Lady James had won nearly half of her own stakes races. Velma had thought his price tag was very reasonable at three hundred grand.

When Papa and Mama had died in that plane crash, they had left her a nice stable worth maybe half a million and a taste for the excitement of the winners circle. She still ran the place along with "Uncle" Fred, her father's long-time black trainer, Billy the exercise jockey and Eddie, the stable boy.

Santiago Blitz was supposed to be her ticket to the big time. So why was the damn colt so damn slow? His practice times were OK. It was like he didn't give a shit when he got on the track! She'd spent most of Papa's money getting the colt ready, but so far, he'd finished out of the money in every damn race he'd run. Velma was down to the bottom of the barrel. She couldn't even sell the damn horse the way his record looked.

The night after the colt lost his fourth straight, she slept fitfully, and had a thoroughly disagreeable dream. She'd been in Papa's study, all apologetic and fearful. She'd forgotten to cool one of the horses off properly and he'd gotten the colic. The colt would be all right, but he'd had to be scratched from an upcoming race and cost Papa some money. Papa did not believe in letting such offenses pass.

In her dream, she saw the terrible old jockey's crop that papa kept in his office for such occasions. Unlike the lightweight fiberglass bats used these days, this was a very old, braided leather model with three little tails of rawhide on the business end. Papa had always called it his "lucky" crop. Velma knew Papa's jockeys had used it back in the old days, and his horses had won more than a few races.

The dream had gotten very unpleasant then as she'd bent across the old desk, jeans and panties around her ankles for a dozen fiery cuts of the little whip. She'd felt every single impact like a swipe of scalding water painted onto her buttocks with a brush. The sensation had been incredibly real, drawn from some unimaginable source.

The dream had ended with Papa hanging the old crop in its usual place of honor by the fireplace. Velma awakened in a cold sweat with a very clear image of the old crop before her eyes.

Where had such a dream come from? She'd never been whipped by her father, not like that at least. Papa had always been pretty tolerant of most things. The usual childhood mischief seldom earned her anything more serious than a spanking, and usually over her jeans at that. But on the rare occasions she screwed up in the stables, Papa had been very intolerant indeed. Messing with the horses was worth a bare-bottom strapping with a dreadful old cinch strap. But even those rare events had been nothing like the one in her dream.

Velma wondered what the dream was supposed to mean, if anything, and decided that Papa was probably not happy at the way she'd screwed up his nice old stable. She guessed she probably deserved the whipping. On a whim, she retrieved the old crop from the mantle and carried it to the stables.

"Uncle" Fred was in with Santiago Blitz. The big horse nuzzled her like an old friend, without a care in the world. Fred shook his head. "It's like he don't understand what a horse race IS!" the old man said. "Missy Velma, I ain't never had a horse that just didn't give a damn whether he won or lost. I don't know what to do with this one."

Idly, Velma slapped the crop against her thigh and winced as it stung even with this light application. Fred's eyes widened. "Where'd you find that, Missy?" he asked.

Embarrassed, Velma said it had been in her father's study. Fred shook his head. "I thought your Pa had burned that damn thing years ago. Was I you, Missy, I'd get rid of it as soon as I could."

Velma smiled ruefully. "I've thought about it, Uncle Fred," she agreed, "but it was Papa's, and I just can't bring myself to throw it away."

"Wouldn't do no good to throw THAT crop away, Missy. You'll have to burn it to get shut of it."

Velma frowned. "What in the world are you talking about?" she asked the trainer.

"Missy Velma, I wouldn't say a word against your Pa. Mr. Will was a fine man and a good judge of horses, but he made the worst mistake of his life when he brought that thing into the house. That thing's EVIL!"

Remembering how it had hurt when Papa used it on her bottom in her dream, Velma was inclined to agree, but it seemed that Fred had something else in mind besides its punitive qualities. She asked what he meant.

Fred was obviously afraid and reticent. "Missy, you know I ain't much on ju-ju. I don't even wear a medal like your Pa always done. But Mister Will, he believed! He got that crop off'n a old ju-ju woman down by the swamp. It's a bad thing, Missy. You take my advice and burn it!"

Velma was puzzled. She remembered her father being superstitious, but no more so than most horsemen. He always wore his "winning" jacket to the track and things like that, but she didn't remember him taking much stock in voodoo. She tried to press Fred for more information, but he balked.

"Missy Velma, I done already said too much," the old man insisted. "It don't do to piss off the spirits. If your Mama was here, she'd tell you I'm making good sense. You burn that thing, y'hear?"

Frowning, Velma said she had planned to have the jockey try it on Santiago Blitz. Maybe it would get the horse's attention.

"Won't work," the old trainer said flatly, "not like that, anyway. Missy, it ain't worth it, now! You go burn that thing and I'll just work this here horse harder until he gets the message."

"What's not worth it?" Velma demanded. "What ARE you talking about? And don't give me any more of that 'can't talk about it' shit."

Fred looked very frightened. "Missy Velma, you don't want to know about that thing. It' s ju-ju, like I said. Your Pa wouldn't want you messin' with it, believe me."

Velma insisted on an answer. Fred looked at his feet and shifted uncomfortably. "Missy, I don't like tellin' tales on Mr. Will." When Velma was still adamant, he shifted his chew and sighed. "Ah, Missy, you know what curiosity done to the cat, don't you? Mr. Will, he done told that old ju-ju woman he wanted a charm, to win some races, and she done give him that thing."

Startled, Velma pressed the issue: "Do you mean Papa believed this thing helped his horses win?" she demanded.

Fred nodded. "That it did, Missy. That old ju-ju woman, she's mighty powerful, believe me. If'n she said it would work, you could damn sure bet on it."

Eyes wide, Velma was growing enthusiastic. "But that's wonderful, Uncle Fred," she insisted. "If our jockey uses it on Santiago Blitz, maybe he'll run like he's supposed to."

The old man shuddered. "Wouldn't be surprised if'n he did, Missy, but it ain't worth it anyway!"

"Of course, it would be worth it!" Velma insisted. "Uncle Fred, we're in trouble here. If Santiago doesn't start winning pretty soon, we're bankrupt. I'm going to have Billy try it today."

"Won't work, Missy," Fred said despondently. "That there crop has to be warmed up good first or it's just another strip of leather."

A chill washed over Velma. "What do you mean, 'warmed up'?" she asked.

Fred fidgetted uncomfortably. "Missy," he started, then sighed at her insistent attitude. "Missy, that thing's got to be used good and hard on a woman afore it'll have any effect on a horse."

Velma's mouth opened and closed. She shook her head. "I don't believe that," she said, flatly. "That's ridiculous."

"Yes, ma'am," the old trainer replied. "Best you burn it and forget it."

"You're serious, aren't you?" she asked. "Did Papa...?" The question died in her throat as she suddenly remembered how her Mama had always walked a little funny and seemed to have more trouble than usual with her hay fever on race days. Unbidden, the picture of her father "warming up" the crop on her mother's bare bottom came to her mind. "Oh my Gawd!" she said quietly.

"Yes, ma'am," Fred nodded. "That old ju-ju woman, she don't never give nothin' free. Mizz Jane, your Mama, paid for them winnin' races."

Velma didn't really believe in magic and voodoo and such, but she knew some folks took considerable stock in their ju-ju. And if old Fred was right, her father had been one of them. "Let me get this straight," she said. "If Papa whipped Mama with this thing, then used it in a race, did his horse always win?"

"Oh no, Missy," Fred shook his head. "They won quite a few, but all the whip done was keep them in the money."

"You mean they never finished worse than third?"

Fred nodded. "That's right, Missy. Mister Will, he wanted to win them all, but the old ju-ju woman said that would make folks mighty suspicious, and someone just might get a even bigger ju-ju to stop your Pa. They figured no one would really notice who finished third."

Third was good enough, Velma thought. The Show horse always got a part of the purse, and paid off at the window too. If Santiago Blitz could finish in the money a few times, she might get this thing turned around. She looked at the little crop with obvious distaste.

"I don't suppose you'd know how hard this damn thing needs to be used, would you?"

She'd have sworn if Fred hadn't been black, he'd have blushed. "Now Missy, that weren't none of my business and you know it. I told Mr. Will to get shut of that thing. I didn't want no part of it, then or now. All I know is the worse your Ma felt on race day, the better the horse run."

That seemed ominous. Velma wondered if there was a minimum, and how she'd find out. A speculative look in her eye set the old trainer off in protest. "Now Missy Velma, don't you even be thinkin' such things! That's a downright evil thing there. Don't you be messin' with it!"

Velma would certainly have been glad enough to comply. She didn't for a minute want to feel that braided leather across her rump. But if she didn't do SOMETHING, she was going to lose the farm and everything, and SOON! Tentatively, she started to ask Fred for his help.

"No, ma'am!" the old trainer insisted. "I told your Pa like I'm tellin' you. I ain't havin' no part of that thing!"

Frustrated, Velma wondered aloud about Eddie, the stable boy. "Boy" was an accepted term for anyone doing Eddie's job of walking the horses and keeping up the stables, but this particular "boy" was as old as Velma, nearly 20 years old, over six feet tall and must weigh 230 pounds. Fred exploded. "No, Missy, your Pa would roll over in his grave if you let that white trash boy do something like that to you!"

Fred was probably right, she thought. Papa had been very conscious of class, and Eddie was definitely from the wrong side of the tracks. On the other hand, he WAS rather good looking in a rough sort of way. He'd played football back in school and had the girls hanging all over him. Trembling a little, she thought that Eddie wouldn't have any trouble applying an effective whipping.

Seeing that she was giving it serious consideration, Fred grew desperate. "Missy, you can't do it! You don't know what you're gettin' into!"

Irritated, Velma started to snap a response, but something in Fred's voice stopped her. Looking at him closely, she was sure he hadn't told her everything. "You're holding out on me, Uncle Fred. That's not like you. You don't want me making a decision without all the information, do you?"

Fred looked miserable. "Missy, I ain't never had nothin' to do with that whip, like I told you, but your Pa, he talked some. It ain't enough for you to get a whuppin'."

Velma felt cold. She thought she knew what was coming. "Let me guess," she said in a low voice. "I've got to make love to him after, is that it?"

Fred squirmed. "Missy Velma, I'd as soon cut my tongue out as tell you what your Pa told me." Seeing her not deterred, he continued: "Your Pa, he said his woman had to do whatever he wanted after he whupped her, like she couldn't refuse or somethin'. That's a powerful ju-ju, Missy. I don't think I could stand knowing that white trash boy was takin' advantage of you like that."

Velma's face twisted in distress. "Could you stand seeing this place sold to some Yankee? That's what it's going to come to if we don't start winning."

"I'd purely hate that, Missy," Fred replied, "but I'd rather burn it to the ground than see you get into that trap."

"It would only be for a little while, Uncle Fred. Just until we get the place solvent again."

Fred interrupted. "No such! Missy, you just don't understand. Ju-ju's worse'n drugs for catchin' people and not lettin' 'em go. You use that thing a win a few races and you'll be tellin' yourself it ain't all that bad, and you can stand it a while longer. First thing you know you'll be eatin' your meals off'n the mantle all the time."

"At least I'd be eating, which is more than I can expect the way things are going now." Velma ran the braided strands of leather through her fingers, remembering her dream. Maybe Papa WAS trying to tell her something. "When can we get Santiago into another race?" she asked.

"Oh, shit, Missy," the trainer said, "no harder than he worked last time, he could go tomorrow." He furrowed his brow thinking. "There's a claiming race open this Saturday, but that's a risk."

Velma frowned. A claiming race meant that her horse could be bought if he lost. "I think we've got to risk it, Uncle Fred. If Santiago loses, no one's going to want him. But if he wins, I can name my price, and I don't want to sell."

"Missy," Fred said, shaking his head, "I don't like this one bit, but I worked for your Pa and I'll work for you. If you're determined, I'll get the colt ready."

Velma nodded. "Thank you, Uncle Fred," she said sincerely, "I really don't know what I'd do without you." Then as an afterthought, she sighed and added "You better send Eddie up to the house after work Friday." Fred shuddered and nodded, unable to answer.

She had two days 'til Friday, plenty of time to decide if she really wanted to do this. Hell, she knew that already and she definitely did NOT want to. What she had to decide was whether she WOULD. In the end, she just couldn't let Papa's place go broke without giving it a try.

Late Friday, Eddie came to the house, a look of puzzled apprehension on his face. Velma realized he thought he was in trouble.

"Come in, Eddie," she said, smiling, "and quit looking like someone shot your dog. You're not in any trouble." A look of relief crossed his face, but he was still puzzled.

"I need your help, Eddie, for something very personal, and I need to know whether you can keep your mouth shut about it." Even more puzzled, Eddie assured her he wouldn't tell a soul.

Producing the crop, Velma took a deep breath and explained. "I need you to give me a whipping, good and hard."

Eddie's eyes widened. "You serious, ma'am?" he asked.

"Quite serious, Eddie," she nodded. "I can't tell you why, but it's very important. I need you to promise me two things: first, that you won't tell anyone about this."

Eddie shook his head. "Ma'am, I ain't likely to say anything. Anyone I told this to would call me a liar. Wouldn't nobody believe you asked me whip you."

"I'm not sure I believe it myself," Velma said. "But it's got to be done. And that's the other thing. I want you to promise not to get sentimental and tender-hearted on me. If this is going to do any good, it's got to be a serious whipping. OK?"

Eddie grinned, taking the crop from her hand. Velma shivered a little to notice the swelling in his trousers. "Ma'am," he said, "my daddy always said if a person could sit down three days after a whippin' it weren't done right. I 'spect I can make you that promise."

"Good," Velma said, not believing the conversation, "well, let's get to it. Come with me." She led him to her father's study. In the dream, she'd been across the desk. If it WAS some kind of omen, she didn't want to screw it up now. Unbuttoning her jeans, she tugged the down to her knees. When she bent across the desk, they fell to her ankles. Trembling, she reached back to pull her panties over her hips and drop them as well.

Astonished, but admiring the presentation, Eddie asked how many she was to have. Velma sighed, realizing that she didn't know. "I guess," she paused to clear her throat, "I guess I'll leave that up to you. Make it enough that your daddy would approve." Shifting her weight, she tried to brace herself for the whipping.

The very first time the crop bit into her buttocks, Velma knew it was going to be worse than she'd imagined. She was sure Eddie had lacerated her flesh (where in fact, he had hardly raised a weal, only a darkening red stripe). Behind her, the stable boy was rewarded with a uncontrollably lewd wriggle as she tried in vain to throw off the scalding impact.

He had paused then, half expecting her to back out and refuse to endure any more, but she fooled him, remaining bent across the desk in expectation. His grin widening, he lashed the crop across her rounded rump a second time. Her squirming became more pronounced, exposing her to her tormentor.

After six, her buttocks were criss-crossed with the red weals and flexing in a most unruly dance of distress. She was making small, nearly incoherent sounds of protest, begging for respite, but she did not leave the submissive position. Eddie decided that she hadn't yet had enough to satisfy his father.

As he delivered the twelfth cut (he thought it was the twelfth, but he had lost count some time ago), his cock was straining against his trousers. Velma's writhing response to the whipping was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. Unable to help himself, his left hand reached to caress the squirming, wealed rounds. Moaning, Velma had parted her legs widely, as if welcoming his caress.

That was too much for the already aroused stable boy. He dropped the crop and opened his trousers. Velma heard his zipper opening and was astonished as she lifted herself on her toes in invitation. When she felt him nudging for entrance to her sex, she moaned again, this time in delight. It would be hard to say which of them was more surprised by her spasming climax that seemed to last for hours.

It was only minutes, of course, but it seemed much longer. Eddie quickly found his own rapture and withdrew, fascinated, but not quite believing it had all been real. Velma was too exhausted to do more than lie across the desk panting for breath and squirming with the pain of her whipping. Not knowing what to say or do, Eddie shrugged, replaced his clothing and left quietly.

Velma slowly pulled herself together, went to the shower and tired in vain to soothe her flesh with a stream of cool water. Eventually, frustrated, she went to bed. She slept soundly (on her stomach) and dreamed of Eddie.

The next day, Santiago Blitz ran second, only half a length behind and gaining as they went under the wire. Better yet, because of his past record, he paid nearly $15 to Place. Velma brought home her first stakes winnings (modest to be sure, but ANYTHING was better than nothing) and enough from the window to catch up the worst of her bills.

Fred had just shaken his head and said nothing.

Santiago couldn't run again for at least a week, according to the trainer, and Velma didn't mind. It took three days for the weals on her rump to subside and she was glad enough not to have to renew them right away. Then she got word of a nice stakes race at an upstate track. It wasn't the Derby, but the payoff was quite nice. Unfortunately, the entry fee was three grand, which would take most of her winnings from the last race, and the track payoff for second and third was not so good. It would be quite a gamble, since Santiago would have to win to bring home the bacon.

Velma wondered what she'd have to do to ensure a win. What was it Fred had told her? The worse her mother felt on race day, the faster the horse ran. S he shuddered a little thinking about it. If a dozen had been enough for second, how many of the dreadful cuts would she need to endure to get her horse across the line first?

The Friday afternoon before the race, Eddie had shown up at the house without being asked, a wide grin on his face. She almost asked what he wanted, then bit her lip.

"Big race tomorrow, ma'am. Thought you might want to see me," he said confidently. Velma shrugged and opened the door, inviting him in.

"It's the horse, ain't it ma'am?" he asked. "He runs better if'n you get a whippin' the night before." Velma told herself that while Eddie might not be the most intelligent person she'd ever met, neither was he stupid.

"It's, um, something like that," she admitted. "Is that a problem?"

"Not a bit," he cheerfully insisted. "Like it says in my contract, 'other duties as assigned.' Always glad to be of any help I can, ma'am." Velma laughed ruefully at his cheerful enthusiasm.

Taking a deep breath, she said: "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to be a bit more severe this time, Eddie." His grin widened.

"I 'spect I can do that," he agreed. "Two dozen sound about right?"

Velma wanted to protest the number, but decided against it. She DID need to win this race. Trembling, she nodded her agreement.

"And ma'am," he continued, pressing his luck like any good gambler, "I'd like you to get all bare this time."

Cooly, Velma said that her exposure like the last time would be quite sufficient. He shook his head.

"Way I see it, ma'am," he said, "you ain't got all that much choice. I ain't right sure what you got goin' here, but I'd lay a considerable bet you wouldn't invite me up here if you had an alternative. You're a right pretty filly, ma'am, and I'd purely like to see you all naked this time."

The Hell of it was, Velma thought, he was right! She didn't have any choice. It was way too late to back out now. And after all, what difference did it really make? Considering what she was inviting him to do to her, having him see her nude was no big deal. Shrugging, she led him into the study.

As she began removing her clothes, she felt his eyes hot on her. Embarrassed in spite of herself, she asked: "Do you have to stare?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, nodding vigorously. "I reckon I do. It ain't every day I get to watch a beautiful woman take off her clothes."

Velma realized that she was flattered. Nobody but Papa had ever called her beautiful, and she suspected he was a bit prejudiced. Back in school, she'd gotten a few nibbles from the boys, but none had ever been interested enough to pursue her for any length of time. On the other hand, Eddie had pretty much had his choice of the girls. It WAS flattering that he put her in their class.

It was a little disconcerting to see Eddie's "enthusiasm" rising in his pants, but as she shed her bra and he made a very appreciative noise, she decided she didn't really mind being appreciated. "Lordy, ma'am," he said, a little breathless himself, "you do make it hard for a man to remember what he's about. Maybe you better get them jeans off and bend over before I forget what I came for." Bending deeply, which made her breasts swing, she tugged her pants down. Naked, she stood for his inspection.

Almost as if he couldn't help it, he reached out to cup and caress one of her breasts. Frightened at first, she realized that his touch felt rather good. Her nipple grew rock hard under his fingers and she began to breathe a bit irregularly. When he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, she surprised herself by opening her mouth to his probing tongue.

Suddenly frightened that Eddie would hurry her whipping and cause her to lose the race, Velma backed away, bare breasts swinging. "Eddie, you promised. I've come too far to lose all this now. You've got to give me a real whipping, not just some quick get-it-over-with so you can get on to other things."

Eddie smiled at her, but somehow it was like the smile of a 'gator, not at all reassuring. When he put his hands on her shoulders, she gasped. Slowly, the pressure of his muscular arms forced her to her knees. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I can't wait no longer. I been hot all day just thinkin' about you and it don't do no good to pretend." One hand went to his zipper while the other curled into her hair. "There's an easy solution, 'though," he said. Velma's eyes opened wide as he liberated his erection. "Just a quick blow job and I'll be able to concentrate a whole lot better."

Velma wanted to object. She'd never done this for any boy (although, to tell the truth, only a couple had asked). But as his hand drew her head closer to the purple knob, she felt paralyzed, unable to resist. Moaning deep in her throat, she opened her mouth to accept him. She didn't really know what to do, but it didn't seem to make any difference. She licked and sucked at him and almost immediately she felt him tense and fill her throat with his semen. She had always thought she would find this disagreeable, but it wasn't. He tasted kind of salty, but not at all unpleasant. When he didn't release her head, she swallowed and continued to lick at him until he was exhausted.

When he finally let her go and stepped back, she saw a different determination on his face. "Now you just fetch me that crop," he said, frighteningly, "and I'll see if I can't make your pretty bottom wriggle some." Velma rose and hurried to the mantle to retrieve the crop. It surprised her to realize that she was almost eager for the whipping.

He made her bend over in the middle of the room, legs spread and hands gripping her ankles. She understood at once that this was both a more vulnerable position than across the desk, and more erotic, as she was utterly exposed. When the crop lashed across her the first time, she quit worrying about trifles. Eddie's concentration was indeed a "whole lot better."

Velma was sure she'd never felt anything as painful as those twenty-four cuts. She thought each lashing stroke was certainly taking some of her skin with it. Her bottom squirmed uncontrollably from the first cut until the end. At the same time, however, she felt a most unusual second result. She barely recognized it as arousal. The more her buttocks felt like they were on fire, the more she wanted Eddie to drop the whip and fuck her again. She heard herself begging him, not for respite, but for sex.

She was gratified to see his cock growing erect again as he lashed the crop across her now exquisitely tender bottom. Each impact, and its resulting lascivious squirming seemed to add to his rejuvenation. She had long since lost count of the strokes, but when he told her she needed another six, she only nodded and took a tighter grip on her legs.

Somewhere during the last six cuts, Velma was no longer able to distinguish between the pain and her arousal. Each of the terribly painful lashing strokes seemed indistinguishable from a caress. Her moaning and gasping were no longer signals of distress. Behind her, Eddie seemed to feel the new undercurrent as well. Growling, he gave her one last enthusiastic cut and threw the crop asi de.

Raising her to her feet, he lifted her easily by the waist. Realizing his intentions, she parted her legs eagerly to wrap around his waist. She pulled his head close for a deep, probing kiss as he impaled her on his renewed erection. This time she was not surprised when she began to tremble in ecstasy as soon as he entered her. It occurred to her to be amazed at his strength as he lifted and lowered her by her very tender rump. Nearly fainting with rapture, she heard her own voice making the most lewd invitations for him to double his efforts. If she had had any breath left, she would have screamed when she felt him explode inside her.

He hadn't left that night. Instead, he carried her tenderly up to her bed and let her sleep while he fixed a rough meal for them both. She awakened to the smell of coffee and the incredibly delightful feel of his cool hand on her sore and still naked buttocks. They had eaten sandwiches and chips, washed down with hot, strong coffee, and then he started to make love to her again. Almost frantically, she pushed his hands away, and heard her own voice insisting that he get the crop and use it again first.

He had given her another dozen as she knelt on the bed, rump lifted for his attentions. He hadn't cut her very hard, but on buttocks already so very tender, it was terribly painful. Then he loved her. Velma had passed out with pleasure.

By morning, Velma understood the terrible attraction of the ju-ju crop. She knew then why her mother had never protested (or even mentioned) her trauma. Because it wasn't really a trauma at all. The more it hurt, the wilder was her response. She realized that she didn't really care what happened to the horse, the stable or anything else, just so long as Eddie continued to love her and whip her.

That afternoon, Santiago Blitz won going away by six lengths.

Copyright 1997 Hawkwood