The Mistress of Sternwood Grange

by Arabella Knight

  The slave moaned. Placing the papers down, Mandy moved across and examined the bound nude, checking her cords and the tightness of their knots. A thin rope hugged the belly, disappeared between the thighs and tightened as it coursed up the cleft between the buttocks and arrowed up the spine. Bending, Mandy inspected the waxed cord at the labia. With her fingers, she inched it directly over the wet flesh-lips so that it tormented the slit within. The rope pressed down into the clitoris – Mandy saw to that – causing the slave to whimper. Mandy sternly silenced the nude and resumed her reading beneath the flickering torchlight.

  ‘His tongue drove deep within me, forming strange fancies to haunt my brain. Fancies young virgins admit to when whispering their confessions – and for which they are later scourged by nuns with rods of supple willow. My strongest and most wicked fancy was that I was upon a horse – a muscled beast of Satan – with no cloth or leather betwixt my naked flanks and the steed’s hot flesh. I whipped the stallion on and on, until he bolted in a frenzy, rendering the most private and secret parts of my body as hot as a coal plucked from Hell. This, and betimes other dark fancies, clouded my mind and dimmed my proper judgement. I confess to this quite openly. I confess –’

  The slave writhed. The cord ravished her clitoris; the slave moaned sweetly. Rigid in her thrall of roped bondage, the merest twitch brought sweet torments to her naked flesh.

  ‘When I came round from my lust-drugged stupor,’ Mandy read, her voice a silky whisper, ‘I knew from the burning pleasure in my private parts that I had endured the Mamaluke to enact enormous indignities and outrages upon my person. It was not I upon a horse I half-dreamed of, it was he upon me, whip in hand, riding me to the very edge of Heaven through the gates of Hell. Whip in hand, and with the usage of my hair as reins, he rode me on his crimson couch of shame. He lashed my buttocks and then ventured deep inside them with his long sword of manhood. I cried for pity, my tears soon staining the satin cushions as I buried my face in shame. But shame soon ceded to a dark, devilish delight.’

  Mandy paused, allowing her closing words to linger and haunt the fevered minds of the listeners. Pitilessly disregarding the wriggling slave stretched out across the sand, she resumed the final part of the reading.

  ‘He deflowered me daily, often more so, spearing me with his extraordinary shaft of flesh both at sunrise and then again at sunset, changing his choice of access to my innermost flesh at whim. My hands, my hair, my very mouth itself were used to satisfy and sate his demonic appetites. But it was, dear reader, under the cold gaze of the Zanzibar moon that he took possession of me in that most forbidden place – that place some speak in whispered tones of as the Jewel of Sodom. Yes, it is true, for it was there that he enjoyed me to the utmost of his heathen carnality. And always, always, I shivered under the shadow of his raised whip.’

  In the concluding passage, Mandy recounted how, when whipped, the Mamaluke would prise open the wretched captive to see if she, like the oyster that bore the prized pearl upon the ocean bed, was wet and sparkling. The final sentence was a forlorn sentiment.

  ‘Here I weep in my prison of shame, ready to bear the keen stripes across my bare buttocks as the zebra is fabled to wear the stripes of Nature’s rod.’

  Mandy closed the pages and set them aside. Kneeling over the bound brunette, she thumbed the slave’s nipples slowly, then guided her fingers down to the weeping fig below. The flesh was glistening.

  The Pentax clicked hungrily as, bending closer to her squirming victim, Mandy licked at the rope-tormented labia with her thickened tongue.

  ‘This tongue that spoke from those pages,’ Mandy murmured, working her lips into the hot slit, ‘is now speaking to your flesh.’

  Jerking in her bondage, the brunette screamed and came.

  Exhausted and utterly spent, the brunette, still bound, slept deeply. Mandy sat on the sand floor in silence, slowly contemplating her submissive charge. Had the session been successful? What would the photos show? Was she truly skilled enough to be an angel? Would her late aunt have applauded her efforts?

  The slave stirred and moaned softly.

  ‘You are awake now,’ Mandy said, ‘but not entirely free from suffering.’

  The brunette’s dark eyes flashed up fearfully. Sorrow framed her sensual lips into an anxious pout. Mandy squatted down alongside the bound nude and slowly unpicked the knots securing the searing ropes. Unleashed, the slave rolled over, squashing first her heavy breasts and then her broad buttocks into the sand.

  ‘A message from my master. You are not yet ready for his divan of desire. You have much to learn,’ she purred, ‘your lesson in pain must continue.’

  The brunette shrank back in the sand, scrabbling in retreat from Mandy’s tone – and look – of venomed velvet.

  ‘Up,’ came the promise of imminent pain. ‘You will be pleased to learn that my master has kindly supplied me with the instrument for your punishment. See how he attends to the smallest detail, even in the matter of your continuing sorrow. Look,’ she cried, flourishing a silver slipper. ‘This is for you. For your bottom. You will bend and I will beat. Feel it,’ Mandy enthused, tossing it down. ‘Crush the leather to your bosom.’

  Snatching at the slipper, the brunette caught it clumsily. Obediently, she brought the supple sole to her nipples.

  ‘The silvered hide is snakeskin, the sole is fashioned from the hide of a Barbary goat. Give me the slipper,’ Mandy ordered, her tone strengthening to one of stern command.

  The brunette peeled the slipper away from her bosom and surrendered it to the waiting hand above.

  ‘Bend over. Part your legs a little. No, take your hands away. Put them up to your breasts. That’s right. Cup them. Good. Now squeeze them in time to the strokes.’

  The bending nude’s elbows angled as she cupped her spilling breasts, capturing and containing their weight in her sweating palms. Mandy lightly brushed the sparkle of sand sticking to the swell of the proffered cheeks, briskly dusting the curved buttocks with her knuckles. The soft bottom clenched in a spasm of anguish.

  ‘Kiss the slipper, you miserable wretch,’ Mandy instructed.

  Tossing her cascade of dark curls, the brunette raised her face to plant her thick lips on to the supple hide.

  The punishment was slowly dispensed, each of the fifteen strokes searching out and scalding every inch of the upturned cheeks. Before the twelfth blistering swipe, both punisher and punished bowed before the implaccable surge of an approaching climax: as the slipper kissed the crimson buttocks for the fifteenth time, both punisher and punished buckled into their slit-searing orgasms.

  Erica had completed her supper of grilled mushrooms on toast and was sipping a glass of Médoc.

  That’s my wine, you bitch, Mandy silently seethed, noting the vintage and the provenance of the prized red. You’ve no right to be here, in Sternwood Grange, drinking -

  ‘I’ve seen the photos,’ Erica began, putting her glass down beside her chair.

  Mandy set aside her suppressed rage and listened. A pause ensued. The pause became a silence. Mandy grew anxious. Had she failed? Had she failed to fully pleasure the submissive slave this afternoon, in the hot dungeon?

  ‘Excellent. Quite excellent,’ Erica murmured, inspecting the snapshots for a fourth time. ‘The weaknesses in your technique are of no importance and can be soon ironed out.’

  She listed Mandy’s errors and mistakes, illustrating each one with a graphic black and white blow-up.

  ‘When examining the naked subject, especially in front of a mirror, don’t omit to rasp your pubis down across their buttocks. It is a supreme gesture of domination and suitably establishes the relationship between a dominatrix and her naked slave. Peculiar to the female, of course, but most effective. And,’ Erica continued, ‘drag down the lower lip and keep it depressed. It deprives the victim of her power of speech. Humiliating, is it not?’

  Mandy nodded.

  ‘Yes, this was good. But with the sweetmeats, in future, I w
ould like you to remove the gag. Not the blindfold,’ Erica stipulated, ‘just the gag. Allow the tantalised a brief taste – the merest lick – of each morsel.’

  Grudgingly, Mandy had to secretly agree that Erica was a superb dominatrix. The cropped blonde sipped her Médoc.

  ‘What about –’

  ‘The reading?’ Erica asked, anticipating Mandy’s question. ‘As for the reading, let the submissive read from the text. Be sure to punish her should she falter or stumble over tricky foreign vowels.’

  Again, Mandy bowed – literally – to Erica’s judgement.

  Erica continued. ‘The good points, indeed the excellent aspects of your session today are as follows: the phallus wedged between the cheeks during the whipping, thumbing the victim in her bondage, pacing and delaying her climax – these were superb touches of domination, discipline and humiliation. I particularly recommend your control of her orgasm. And the snake skin slipper …’ Erica’s voice drowned in her own dark laughter. ‘A delicious touch. Yes, my girl, I can safely report to the mistress that you brought your submissive down a tortured path signposted towards desire, which twisted slowly through the fields of dread and meadows of despair.’

  Mandy sighed her relief. Fearful of Erica, indeed despising the cropped blonde, she held the cruel witch in grudging respect. For Erica was a priestess in the dark arts of domination.

  ‘There is only one thing that puzzles me,’ Erica murmured, sipping again from her expensive Medoc. There appears to be something of a time-lapse. Look. I have no photos between here –’ she held up a snap ‘– and here.’ She held up another.

  No, you don’t, do you. Mandy smiled secretly in her triumph. You won’t find any photos there, bitch, because I was so good down in the dungeon I even made Rowena come right then and there.

  ‘Probably changing her film,’ Mandy ventured.

  ‘Probably,’ Erica echoed, far from persuaded. ‘But it is surprising. Talking of surprises, I have one planned for you tomorrow.’

  Six

  Early the following morning, Erica led Mandy along the Long Gallery. Mandy, naked, wondered who it could be requiring attention at such an unholy hour. She glimpsed the green-baize door leading to the Games Room. What was the surprise, she wondered apprehensively.

  The cropped blonde paused, turned abruptly to her left and entered through a pair of massive double doors. Mandy, disturbed by the lingering fear that Erica’s planned surprise might mean a painful encounter with a dominant, relaxed instantly. They had entered the room of a submissive.

  Erica strode across to the bay windows and drew back the heavy curtains. Thunderclouds darkened the Suffolk dawn, filling the vast sky with their swollen shadows – and the promise of a summer storm. The submissive stirred sleepily beneath the silken sheets.

  ‘Today, you will be a nanny. Your uniform and equipment are over there.’

  Mandy peered across at the crisp nanny’s uniform dress, buckled belt and sensible brogues, arranged by a long cheval mirror.

  ‘You will wake the resident up, then see to the usual nursery routine: bed making, breakfast and bathing. Be stern and dispense strict discipline.’

  Mandy, edging closer to the bed, looked up and nodded.

  ‘Wake up,’ Erica barked, snatching up the silken sheet and dragging it down to the bottom of the bed.

  Mandy gasped aloud. The sleeping resident was naked. A naked young man.

  That was my surprise, Erica’s smile seemed to say as she turned to the double doors and departed.

  The naked man stirred and rubbed his eyes. His nakedness sharply reminded Mandy of her own. Like Eve in the moment of carnal knowledge, she blushed and covered her breasts with her hands in a show of modesty. Like Eve before her, Mandy felt their swollen ripeness – as ripe and swollen as the stolen apple plucked from the tree of shame.

  He opened his eyes, staring at Mandy’s blonde pubic curls. She dropped her hands down to shield her delta. His eyes widened as they devoured her breasts. Mandy’s gaze raked the bed, taking in the teddy bear, the Biggles book, the box of Bassett’s Liquorice Allsorts. The young man lay back on his pillows. He had dark, curled hair – expensively cut. His face was square, though lined with the burden of some heavy office. His mouth hinted at character, and the patrician nose suggested an easy arrogance: it was the face of a man accustomed to command. Army? A multi-national director? Her eyes met his gaze. She studied their cold blue quartz – but noted how wide they were with both wonder and expectation. Then Mandy recognised him. The young Turk, a political firebrand who had bullied his way to the brink of Cabinet. The Sunday heavies, with glowing editorials, had mapped out his path to Number Ten.

  ‘Who –’ he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

  ‘Say good morning to Nanny properly,’ Mandy ordered, getting into her stride instantly.

  ‘Good morning, Nanny,’ he whispered excitedly, a thrill lubricating his Etonian vowels.

  ‘Nanny must get dressed and then she will see to you.’ See to you. His flaccid penis twitched at the delicious threat of her final words. Mandy saw it stir in the mirror as she stretched up to take down the pale-ivory brassiere.

  ‘No peeping at Nanny putting on her scanties or it’ll be a smacked bottom before breakfast, young man.’

  The shaft stiffened. Mandy, keeping her bottom towards the bed, gazed into the glass of the cheval as she filled the cool silk cups of her brassiere with the warm weight of her breasts. Stretching, she snapped the straps together. In the glass, her bosom bulged within its silk bondage. In the glass, his blue eyes glinted, wide with adoration. Planting her feet apart, causing her soft buttocks to joggle, she fingered the bra cups and adjusted them for comfort. The shaft between his thighs thickened appreciatively, and nodded as it rose.

  Bending, at which he gasped with delight at her widening cheeks, she stepped daintily into the stretchy silk panties. Drawing them up luxuriously, she lingered at her thighs before snapping them into place. She thumbed the tight material where it snuggled into her cleft, and eased the bite of the amorous silk at her slit. On the bed, the naked man grunted.

  ‘I distinctly said no peeping. No peeping at Nanny in her silk underwear. I know you want to. Every naughty boy does. But I shall spank your bare bottom if I catch you looking at Nanny putting on her suspender belt and nylon stockings. Do you understand?’

  Silence.

  ‘I said, do you understand?’ she repeated sternly.

  ‘Yes, Nanny,’ he said meekly.

  The suspender belt hugged her tightly, framing and pronouncing her hips and buttocks superbly. On the bed, the engorged shaft rose in a stiff salute. Slowly, deliberately, Mandy rolled up the dark-bronze stockings and stepped into them. Smoothing down the sheath of glistening nylon, she palmed her inner thighs and slender legs until the stockings fitted like a second skin. The suspenders snapped into place, tugging up the darker band of bronzed nylon at her thighs.

  In the mirror, she saw his left hand inching down towards his erection.

  ‘No. Nanny has spoken to you before about doing that, hasn’t she? You must not touch or play with it. What did Nanny say she would do if she ever caught you doing that?’

  He swallowed, flushed with excitement.

  ‘Nanny will have to use the hairbrush, won’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied eagerly.

  ‘And how does Nanny use the hairbrush when punishing naughty boys?’

  He remained silent.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘On my bottom. On my bare bottom.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ Mandy said, her voice slightly muffled by the uniform dress she was pulling down over her head. ‘Nanny will arrange you across her stockinged thighs, pin you down firmly, and then spank your bare bottom with the hairbrush until it is red and sore.’

  Her blue and white striped uniform fitted her like a glove. Pleased, she glanced in the cheval mirror and patted her dark bobbed hair into place.

  Moments later, replete in
a plastic apron, nurse’s watch at her left breast and the leather brogues, Mandy the nanny turned to face the bed, meditatively buttoning up her starched cuffs.

  ‘Are the seams of my stockings straight?’

  ‘Don’t know, wasn’t looking,’ he replied sullenly.

  ‘Stop sulking. Now tell me, are my seams straight? Nanny needs to know.’ Turning slowly, she inched the hem of her uniform dress up until the dark stocking-tops – and the swell of her lower buttocks – were revealed.

  After a long silence, the voice from the bed whispered yes.

  ‘Yes, what?’ she demanded primly.

  ‘Yes, Nanny.’

  ‘That’s better,’ she approved, approaching the bed and sitting down. ‘But I think you’ve been peeping at Nanny.’ Reaching across to close the Biggies book and place it on the bedside cabinet, she deliberately brushed the tip of his throbbing erection with her starched cuff. The shaft twitched in response. ‘And you’ve been eating sweets after lights out,’ she continued sternly, picking up the box of Liquorice Allsorts. ‘I’m very much afraid I’m going to have to punish you after all.’