by Lucy Wild
She looked half frozen, her skin paler than ever, not a single part of her moving. For a second, he thought she might be dead but then the soft sigh of her breath reached his ears and he relaxed, smiling as he did so. She had stayed in that position all night. It was incredible.
“You may stand up,” he said loudly, watching as she stirred herself to life.
She looked so weak as she stood up, like an injured and starving tiny bird, it tugged at his heartstrings to see it and it would have taken a far colder man not to have lifted her into his arms, carrying her gently through to the nursery where she would be sleeping for the next week. She was so tired, she didn’t even complain when he tied the nappy between her legs, accepting the dummy with barely a quibble.
Once she was tucked into the cot with her eyes closed, she looked the very image of a perfect submissive little girl. He found himself watching her for some time before the growling of his stomach sent him from the room lest the noise disturb her slumber.
He was still marvelling over her strength of will when breakfast was long finished. He sat at the table, sipping his coffee whilst staring out of the window, lost in thought. What did it take for someone like that to fall asleep in place rather than risk his wrath? For surely, that must have been what kept her in place for the entirety of the night, fear of punishment. The spanking he had administered had obviously had a more lasting effect than he had anticipated.
And what a spanking it had been. It was the first he had ever administered to an adult. On occasion in the past, he had struck children who’d scrumped in his orchards, or the misbehaving brats of his relatives during the interminable season of garden parties he had to endure each year. What had been so different about this instance? He thought hard. Well, he reasoned, for one thing, she is a fully grown woman, despite the fact that she was currently asleep in a cot, with a dummy in her mouth and a doll next to her ready for when she awoke, a nappy between her legs to prevent accidents, quite a risk after all night remaining bent over the desk.
There was something else though, his body told him more than his mind. It was pleasure. Hard to quantify and even harder to understand, he had enjoyed spanking her. The sound of her voice catching as she counted out the blows and did her best not to scream, that had been pleasurable. The tactile sensation of his hand stinging during each blow, the reddening of her skin, the softness of her posterior under his palm, it had all been most pleasant.
He stood up, deciding to check in on her, telling himself it was purely to make sure she was all right, not because he wanted to look at her again. He found her fast asleep, curled up on her side, the dummy still in her mouth, the doll wrapped up in her arms.
He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, just watching her for a moment. Glossop clearly had no idea of the woman he’d chosen for this particular wager. Rather than being impossible to teach, she had taken to submission like a fish to water, it was obviously a part of her that had just been waiting for a chance to come out.
The only fly in the ointment was Clare. What was he going to do about her? His family had hinted at a desire for him to marry, aunts and uncles coming out of the woodwork to talk about what a great catch she was, how he would elevate both families by tying them together. But did he want her? He sighed as he realised he didn’t know. Little Beth coming into his life had served to throw Clare into sharp relief, her coldness towards those less fortunate than herself, her true colours coming out the last time she was there. Was she still angry? Was it worth trying to make amends? In a week, Little Beth would be gone and he would be alone again if he didn’t at least try to reconcile with Clare.
A heavy sense of dread filled him as he realised he had no choice but to go and see her, talk things out. Only then would he be able to make a decision as to whether she was the one he would settle down with, have a family with, grow old with. A thought flashed through his mind as he thought about growing old, it was an image of himself in the drawing room, and next to him was a figure holding his hand. It wasn’t Clare though; it was Little Beth.
“I’m going out,” he called to James from the hallway as he collected his hat and cane a minute later, leaving Little Beth to her rest. His butler appeared a second later, emerging from the servant staircase as if he’d been hovering behind the door ready to be called.
“Of course, Sir. Might I enquire if you will be back for luncheon?”
“I expect so. Keep an eye on Little Beth for me, I shall not be overly long, I hope. I have much to do with her this afternoon. Oh, and that reminds me, did you order those things I asked for?”
“I did, Sir.”
Charles nodded before turning to leave. It was just like James not to question him on such matters. He had given him a list of things to purchase, dummies, nappies, short frocks in a wide range of sizes, medicinal rectal dilators in an equally wide range of sizes, canes, Mary Jane shoes, the list went on and on. Yet if James had questions about their purpose, he asked none of them, doing his master’s bidding in that way he always did.
It had been the articles he had been reading that had led to that list, the detailed requirements for creating the perfect submissive bride. It was a series of studies that collectively had gained the title, The Little Trials. A renowned, though anonymous, German doctor had first noticed that the hysterical patients he treated had all tended towards an infantile attitude in outlook and behaviour. From that first observation, a series of studies had determined that to cure the damage done by their past, recreating that past was a vital first step. Further studies had taken the theory forwards until in the latest cases, women had been turned from aggressive brats to submissive littles, as they were known in the vernacular, in mere days.
The list of requirements for experimentation were there in such detail that Charles had been able to set James to the task of procuring his requirements within hours of finishing reading. The first items to arrive were a sample nappy and dummy, and with them had come the decorators who had provided him with a nursery at a premium, their speed and silence requiring additional fees on top of the cost of the work. It was worth it though as he had a fully equipped nursery prepared whilst Lizzie was being shown around the house. By the time he returned home, the other items should be there waiting for him to begin his own study. With a smile as he walked to the stables, he wondered if perhaps one day he would write up his study to be included in one of the journals.
Charles rode out on his horse minutes later, having collected Brutus from the stable yard just as he was being brought out for exercise. “I shall take him,” he said to the stable hand holding onto the beast’s reins. “I have a place I need to be.”
“Very good, Sir,” the stable hand replied, calling for one of the boys. “Get the master’s saddle ready.”
The ride out was good for Charles, bringing him to life as the countryside whipped by either side of him. His bond with Brutus was better than that he’d had with any other horse. He merely had to think about turning and the horse headed that way. There was never a need for shouting, nor for the whip, only a squeeze of the legs when required and a slight flick of the reins and they were in town before he knew it, slowing to a walk as the road around them grew busier.
He arrived at Clare’s house ten minutes later, leaving his horse with a groom before returning to the front door. It was as he was walking that he heard her laugh, the sound not coming from inside but coming from the rear garden. He pivoted and headed through the rose arch to the lawns beyond. She was nowhere in sight and he was about to call out when he again heard her laugh, the sound this time joined by the deeper laugh of a man. She was with someone then.
He was not concerned, assuming it was one of her brothers keeping her company out on the lawn. He walked past the pond and over the croquet lawn, passing between two twisting rhododendrons and then into the walled garden. To his left he caught a flicker of movement, a hand reaching up from behind a stone bench. He strode over to it, stepping round and smiling. “Goo
d…”
His voice faded before the word, “morning,” was out of his mouth. Clare was laid on a blanket and she was not alone, but it was not one of her brothers who accompanied her. It was not a family member who had caused her to laugh by sliding his hand up the inside of her dress, reaching in to kiss her just as he came into view.
“Charles!” Clare said, batting the hand away from her leg.
“Glossop,” Charles replied, grabbing the shoulder of his erstwhile colleague and pulling him upwards. “I might have known.”
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Glossop said, panic flashing across his eyes.
“Yes it is,” Clare said, getting to her feet. “Charles Doyle, you will let go of him at once.”
Charles relaxed his grip, letting Glossop fall back to the blanket with a thud. “Happy?”
“I was happy, Charles, until I found out you had become the local workhouse.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, you aren’t taking in all the county’s poor, then? Just the one?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know about you and Miss Wilkinson. My mother warned me about you, and she was right. Well, as far as I’m concerned, you are a free agent and you can catch all the diseases you want from the scum of the country. Go back to your whore.”
“She is not a whore.”
“So you admit she is at your house?”
“Yes, but it is not what it looks like. Is it, Glossop?”
“Leave me out of this,” Glossop replied. “This is between you two.”
Clare scowled down at him before turning back to Charles. “That woman is in your house after everything I said to you. You may consider our courtship over.”
“It was over when his hand touched your leg,” Charles replied, turning and marching away without looking back. He was fuming, the muscles in his neck solid as rock as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He’d been waiting for this chance, the snake in the grass.
First chance to sneak in and get his hands on Clare and he’d taken it. If the terms of the wager did not require confidentiality at risk of forfeit, he would have told her exactly what kind of man her new beau was.
He collected his horse and rode him hard back home, causing many shouts of protest as he thundered down upon those on the road, oblivious to their waving hands as he rode onwards, thoughts of Glossop and Clare coursing through his mind. It was only as he reached his own estate that a thought crossed his mind. Why was he so angry? It was not jealously, after all. The more he thought about it, the more he realised he was not jealous because he wanted Clare, he was angry because of the way he had been tricked by Glossop. It was his pride that had hurt, the pride of ownership. When he had Clare for himself, he could take or leave her but now someone else had her, he was furious. It was unfair, it was possessive, and it was all he could think about. Until he saw Little Beth.
Once Brutus was back in the stable, he headed for the house, grumbling under his breath as he got inside, kicking off his boots and leaving them in the hallway, marching upstairs to lock himself in his bedroom and work through his fury in private. He was just passing the nursery when he happened to glance inside, catching sight of Little Beth asleep on her side. James must have left the door open for he could see her perfectly even in the gloom of the curtained room.
The thing that struck him was her beauty. She looked beautiful asleep like that. There was an innocence to her face too, so different to the twisted sneer that had plastered Clare’s features as she’d confronted him. He stopped dead in the doorway, unable to move on, his fists unclenching as he simply stood and watched her sleep.
Chapter 13
Lizzie looked up at Charles, his hand pointing at the blackboard next to him. “I can’t remember,” she said, wondering what mad world she had fallen into, terrified of making another mistake.
“What is this?” Charles asked again. “Come on. We’ve just been through this.”
“The labia minora?”
“No,” he snapped. “That’s there.” His cane whacked the blackboard. “This is the labia majora. That’s three wrong, I’m afraid.”
“Please,” Lizzie replied, already getting to her feet. “It still stings from last time.”
“That is not my problem nor my fault. If you had applied yourself better to your lesson, you would not be in this position, would you?”
Lizzie braced herself, knowing what was coming, her entire body tensed up in apprehension of the stinging pain she was about to endure.
It had not been what she had expected from her first full day with Sir Doyle, or just Sir, as he had insisted she call him when the lesson began. She had woken up confused and her day had become more confusing very quickly. Opening her eyes to find herself in a cot with a doll in her arms, she had jolted upright, thinking she was in gaol, the bars of the cot confusing her sleep addled brain. It took several seconds for her to recall how she had ended up in the cot. The stiffness in her legs and arms helped her to remember. She had been carried through to this, to this, what was it? A nursery, she realised. She had been carried through to the nursery and given, what was it he had given her?
She ran her hand under the blankets, catching the tips of her fingers on the edge of the cloth tied between her legs. Yanking her hand upright, she groaned. He had put a nappy on her. What was worse, she had relieved herself in it during the night, as if the presence of it had been enough for her to lose control. She remembered needing to use a chamber pot during the night in the study, not that she dared move, of course.
She had wet herself like a child into the nappy. Her toes curled at the thought. She had soaked the nappy like a baby, she’d been given a dummy like an infant and she’d been tucked in like a little girl. The worst part was that as he’d kissed her forehead, she had accepted without question the things he had done, sucking on the dummy and drifting off to sleep and feeling contented for the first time in a very long time.
That feeling had gone while she had slept and she awoke feeling ashamed and embarrassed in equal measure. She stood up, swinging her leg over the side of the cot and stepping down onto the thick woollen rug beside it. Glancing about her, she noticed a dress had been hung up, presumably ready for her to dress herself. She looked at it, the shortness of it, the lace and frills, the light pink colour. Could she wear that? Surely it was more suitable for a little girl than a fully grown woman? But then if it was a choice between that and the nappy she was currently wearing, it would do, at least for the time being.
She untied the nappy, letting its heavy weight fall to the floor with a wet thud. Crossing the room, she took hold of the dress, surprised by how soft the cloth felt. It was a summer frock of sorts, not something a dignified woman would wear. Slipping into it, she surprised herself by how nice it felt, and how well it fitted her. Sliding her left foot out in front of her, she tugged at the hem, looking down at her bare legs, so much skin on show, it was ridiculous. If she went out on the streets in this, what would people think? Well, for one thing, they’d think she was far younger than she was, until they saw her face, or the slight swell of her chest perhaps.
“You are awake, Little Beth,” said a voice from the doorway. She turned to find James standing there, holding a bottle of milk. “This is your breakfast, warmed ready for you. Would you take it in here or the dining room?”
“Milk?” Lizzie asked, staring at the India rubber teat on top of the bottle. “I am to have milk for breakfast?”
“Master’s orders. In here or the dining room?”
“In here,” she said, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. It wasn’t the fact that James was looking at her oddly for wearing such a short frock, it was the fact that he was looking at her with utter indifference, as if seeing her in an outfit like that was the most normal thing in the world.
He handed her the bottle, stepping back with a slight bow. “Once you are done, you are to join Sir Doyle in the teaching room downstairs. It is next to the study.
Do you need escorting there?”
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Lizzie said, waiting until he’d left to look at the bottle again. It was a strange sensation that struck her as she did so. The sweet smell of the milk filled the air and made her stomach growl as she realised how long it had been since she’d last eaten. She tried to unscrew the teat to drink from the bottle but it appeared to have been glued in place and no amount of effort would shift it. In the end she sat on a polished rocking chair and sucked at the teat, surprised by how tasty the milk was, the thick creaminess so different to the watery doctored stuff she’d had before. She rocked slowly on the chair as she sucked the last of the contents of the bottle down, her stomach protesting at the richness of it.
Once she was finished, she stood up and headed downstairs, finding Sir Doyle waiting for her in the teaching room. The space itself consisted of a low bench before a desk, inkwell, pencil and paper set in place for her. At the front of the room, Sir Doyle stood beside a larger desk, to his left was a blackboard and as Lizzie looked, her mouth fell open as she saw what had been chalked on there.
“Good morning, little Beth,” Sir Doyle said, pointing to the bench. He smiled as he looked down at her frock. “I am glad it fits you. Now, sit yourself down and we’ll get started on your first lesson.”
“What lesson?”
Anger flashed across Sir Doyle’s face. “The first rule of the teaching room is that you speak only when spoken to. I will allow you that transgression as it is your first time in here but any more will earn you a spanking. Any further infractions will warrant a caning. Is that understood?”
She nodded, not wanting to risk speaking again. The cane in his hand looked capable of delivering the most wicked sting if he should choose to make use of it in that manner.
