by Rob J. Hayes
Shián could feel tears welling in her eyes, but forced them down and nodded. “Yes, mistress.”
Even to her own ears her voice sounded choked, but the mistress made no mention of it; instead, she pinched Shián's other nipple, then rested one hand under each breast. She ran a hand down each side of Shián's body before raising each of Shián's arms in turn, plucking a single hair from each armpit and then moving on to give the hair between Shián's legs a similar inspection. Shián bit her tongue to keep from crying out at the pain.
“You're pretty, one day you'll even be beautiful,” Mistress Burnhide said, somehow managing to make it not a compliment, “but you will need more than that. We will teach you not only how to look beautiful, but how to act beautiful. Now pick up your robe. I’ll take you back to your room.”
The mistress started off back the way they had come at a brisk pace, leaving Shián to throw the robe over her head and hurry to catch up.
“Do you know how to shave under your arms, your legs, and between them. Most men prefer their women shaven; therefore, you will always be so from now on.”
“Um, no mistress, I don't,” Shián replied. A single tear rolled down her cheek. She rubbed it away before the mistress could see.
“I will have Lexis teach you.” They arrived at Shián's room. Mistress Burnhide unlocked and opened the door, then ushered Shián inside.
“Lexis, teach the girl to shave. I want her clean in the morning.”
“Yes, mistress,” Lexis responded, jumping off her bunk and lowering her eyes to the floor.
“A mistress should never jump, child. You should dismount.” With that the mistress closed and locked the door.
Shián leaned against the door, shaking. She waited for what seemed like an age to hear the footsteps of Mistress Burnhide fade into the distance, then she could no longer hold back. Hot, salty tears streaked down her face, and she shook with the sobs.
“Are you all right?” Hayley asked, looking frightened.
Lexis crossed the distance between them and embraced Shián. She didn't know how long she cried into Lexis' robe, but it felt like a long time.
#
“What's wrong with that bitch?” Shián glanced at her target over her meal. Both the students and the mistresses ate at specified times in the great hall. Each student was given food prepared just for them. Shián picked at her fresh vegetables and small slices of ham. The mistresses had decided the diet would keep her slim whilst also filling out her figure. In truth, Shián was glad of the portions despite their small size; she knew girls who got far less.
“Who? Burnhide?” Patty Deeproot asked from Shián's left.
It had been a very painful morning. “Who else?” Shián said, rubbing her right arm. She had been practicing applying powder all morning under her mistress’ 'supervision.' Burnhide couldn't slap Shián whilst she was applying the powder so instead she pinched her hard on the arm whenever Shián made a mistake.
“You shouldn't call her that,” Lexis advised, her voice just above a whisper. “They have ears amongst the students.”
It wasn't the first time Lexis had given the advice, but then it wouldn't be the first time Shián had been punished for insulting her mistress either.
“I heard her nickname the other day,” Patty's whisper was loud enough for the entire table to hear. “During my massage training. The mistresses didn't think I was paying attention or maybe they thought I couldn't hear them since Jaine's moaning was so loud.”
“I was not,” Jaine protested from the other side of the table, though the deep red color of her cheeks denied her protested innocence.
“Yes you were. Only Hayley moans louder than you,” Patty pressed. Hayley was, in fact, known for her frequent crescendos; the other students had nicknamed her 'storm horn.'
“Some men like a woman who can’t control her volume,” Hayley quoted from her mistress. “It lets them know they're doing everything right.”
The girls at the table broke into laughter, but hushed quickly at the inquisitive glances from the mistresses' table. There weren’t many students at the school, but enough to fill two tables. The older girls tended to keep to their own, and the mistresses never mingled, something the students were more than pleased about.
“So what is it?” Shián nudged Patty.
“What is what?” Patty’s face was a blank slate.
Shián suppressed an un-mistresslike sigh. “Burnhide's nickname with the other mistresses.”
“Oh that.” Patty lowered her voice to a loud whisper. “They call her the mistress of the desert.”
Shián just paused, looking at her friend. “Is that it?” She had expected something funny or rude or embarrassing, but now she just felt disappointed.
“Yes,” Patty said.
“Well it's a bit... dull.” Shián knew Patty thought it was scandalous gossip and didn't want to spoil her delight at sharing it.
“The interesting bit is why they call her that,” Lexis said. All eyes at the table turned towards the older girl.
“You already knew?” Patty asked, her disappointment plain.
Lexis nodded once in response.
“So?” Shián was eager to know more. “Why is it? Tell us.”
“Fine, but you all owe me one.” Everyone knew Lexis liked to collect favors. “Burnhide is barren, always has been.” The older girl’s words were followed by a collective gasp, and then they all spoke at once.
“Are you sure?”
“How do you know?”
“How awful.”
Only Shián was quiet. Her gaze moved from Lexis and to Mistress Burnhide, not even bothering to hide the hostility in her eyes. She knew if the mistress caught her gaze, she'd be punished, but right now Shián didn't care. She had embarrassing information about the woman, and it felt like a little victory.
“Why do you think she's here?” Lexis continued. “Burnhide is well known for her beauty in her youth, but she never captured a powerful husband, so instead she came back to teach at the school of mistresses and married a local.”
“All because she can't have children?” Patty asked.
“Exactly.”
“Burnhide is married?” Shián asked, bringing her attention back to the conversation.
Lexis looked at her in surprise and nodded. “You didn't know?”
Shián shook her head. How could she not have known Mistress Burnhide was married?
“He lives in the nearby village. You've probably seen him. He works as a builder here sometimes. Tall, big strong arms, full beard. He’s quite handsome.”
“Mmmmmm...” from Hayley.
“Yes, we all know you've seen him, Hayley,” Lexis said, causing the younger girl to blush.
“Hayley's probably thinking of him even when one of us is working on her,” Patty said with a grin, earning a scowl from Hayley. “I wonder if he likes volume.”
“What's his name?” Shián asked Lexis, ignoring the exchange.
“Um, Urgo, I think. Urgo Dust,” Lexis said. “But don't go mentioning this to Burnhide or any of the others. They'll put me in the hole for a month.”
Shián had been in the hole. It wasn't pleasant. She smiled at her friend. “Your secret is safe with me.”
#
By the age of sixteen, Shián had been at the school for almost three years. She'd already learnt more about giving, receiving, and faking pleasure, both to and from men and women, than she ever thought possible.
The school had taught her how to capture a man's attention with but a glance, how to keep that attention with the way she moved, the garments she wore, the scents she chose. They'd taught her all kinds of conversational tricks. Such as how to flatter a man's ego whilst not letting on that she may well be smarter than him, and also how to be polite while embarrassing other women in conversation to remove the competition.
The school was teaching Shián everything she needed to know to seduce a powe
rful husband. How to walk, how to talk, how to dance, and how to fuck, but after three years she'd still not once had sex with a man. In truth, she'd hadn't even seen a man in three years, apart from those that were brought in to show to the girls so that they knew what to expect of course. It would, after all, be unseemly for one of the girls to be scared at the sight of a potential husband’s manhood.
Shián was something of a star pupil. She was starting to grow into her body and all the mistresses agreed she was beautiful and would only become more so as she aged. She was slim without being skinny, she curved in all the right places. Her breasts were perky and well-shaped, her skin was soft and the perfect olive tone of a westerner, and her eyes were as dark as her night black hair.
Shián excelled in all her studies, learning all the mistresses had to teach and making the practice of her studies seem easy and natural. The other girls rejoiced to be picked as Shián's partner, and all the mistresses praised her efforts. All except ‘the mistress of the desert.’
Mistress Burnhide never complimented Shián, never praised her, and still found every excuse possible to punish her student. The punishments were always cruel, always inventive, and Shián was certain the mistress enjoyed abusing her; she just couldn't understand why. Shián had long ago decided it was out of jealousy. She was more beautiful and more skilled than Burnhide had ever been, she had her whole life ahead of her…and she wasn't barren.
“Pain and pleasure are not opposites. They are, in fact, very similar,” Mistress Burnhide lectured to the group. She paced in front of the girls as she spoke. They all knelt on the customary padded rugs in their standard brown student robes. Ten sets of eyes followed the mistress as she paced and lectured. She didn't look at them as she spoke. Mistress Burnhide acted almost as if her students weren't there at all, at least until she had to interact with them.
“... many men either confuse pleasure and pain or link the two together. Some will even take pleasure in the causing or receiving of pain. You will learn to facilitate these desires and, as with the others, make them your own.”
As always, Burnhide’s hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. It was thick and dark and Shián could imagine that, if the mistress ever let her hair down, it would look much like Shián's own, only with the occasional streak of gray. Burnhide's powder was pristine, yet even so Shián could spot the unmistakeable signs of ageing. After all, there was only so much that powder could hide, and Burnhide was past her prime.
The woman turned to look at Shián so suddenly that, for a moment, she thought the mistress had read her thoughts. She fought the urge to panic, dreading what would come next.
“Crowfeather,” Mistress Burnhide pointed at the floor in front of her. It was her way of calling Shián to the front of the room. In truth, Shián found it demeaning, but she was sure that was the point.
Shián obeyed, walking to the front, making sure not to make eye contact. Burnhide would take that as a sign of defiance, and that would bring more abuse.
Burnhide glanced at Shián, who was now almost the same height. It would be a small victory the day Shián was taller than Burnhide. She would take any victory she could.
“Disrobe,” the mistress said in her customary emotionless voice.
Shián didn't hesitate. She had long ago discarded any awkwardness about her body. To hesitate or to show embarrassment would only bring more abuse, and she was fairly certain she was about to receive some of that already.
Mistress Burnhide stepped forward and reached down, rubbing between Shián's legs. Shián stood as motionless as stone, trying desperately not to display any pleasure the mistress’s actions gave her. She bit the inside of her lip almost hard enough to draw blood, but could already tell her traitorous body was giving her away by getting wet.
The mistress kept going, watching Shián the entire time until her student could no longer control her body. The moment the first tremor ran through Shián the mistress’s free hand shot out, pinching and twisting Shián's nipple hard. Shián couldn't help herself, she gasped. Her legs almost buckled, but she managed to remain upright.
The mistress took a step back and wiped her hand dry whilst she waited for Shián to compose herself.
“Was that pleasurable or painful?” the mistress asked, gesturing towards Shián's nipple, now an angry red color.
Shián could feel her nipple hurting now. It felt sore, but at the time...
“I…don't know, mistress.” Shián braced for the slap. Mistress Burnhide seemed to enjoy slapping her when she answered incorrectly. Shián used to cringe, but now she knew better. Yet, the slap didn't come.
Mistress Burnhide turned towards the students. “The signals of pleasure and pain in one's body can be confused. With training, you will learn to confuse the signals yourself when needed. Sit back down, Crowfeather,” Burnhide added, without looking at her student.
Shián picked up her robe and walked to her seat on shaky legs. More than one of her fellow students gave her a sympathetic smile.
#
Afterwards, Shián sat in her quarters alone. She had only recently been moved to a private room, and she enjoyed the privacy but missed the company of sharing a living space. She still spent most of her free time, little as it was, with Lexis and Hayley, as the three had become close friends, but she also appreciated the time apart.
Shián felt violated and abused, but they were familiar feelings. She often felt this way after lessons where the mistresses 'taught', but she didn't cry. She never cried. Not since that first night at the school three years ago. Shián refused to give Burnhide that power over her ever again, no matter what 'lessons' or punishment the aging mistress inflicted.
Her room was about the same size as the one she had shared with Lexis and Hayley. It had just the one bed and a wardrobe for clothing. After graduating to a private room she was also given other clothing, though the mistresses still determined when she could wear anything other than a brown robe. There was also a small desk with a chair and a large oval mirror mounted on the wall above it. Shián now had her own brushes, tweezers, razors, and powder, and she also had orders to use them every day — to attend a lesson looking anything less than perfect meant punishment.
She sat at her desk, staring into her mirror, and brushing her hair. It was something her grandmother had done for her back before she had come to the school. She assumed it was something her mother would have done, but the woman had died in childbirth, so her grandmother on her father's side had acted as a mother to Shián for as long as she could remember.
The school had taught Shián how to properly care for her hair. They had taught the best way to brush, the correct brushes to use, the proper lotions to apply. Her hair was now a full, dark glossy black that extended a fair way down her back. Many of the other students were more than a little jealous of it. Shián knew she was pretty, but so were all the students at the school; however, her hair was special. It was the most beautiful thing about her, and it made her stand out amongst the other girls.
Still, even her hair couldn't distract her today. Shián felt angry. She had never hated anyone before in her life, not until Mistress Burnhide. Why was the woman so intent on humiliating her?
It's unfair, Shián mouthed as she stared into the mirror. She felt like raging, like throwing something, but she had been trained better than that. Random acts of frustration, boredom, and anger were un-mistresslike.
Shián replaced the hair brush in the desk drawer. It was a beautiful brush with a bone handle and hundreds of metal bristles, and it was her favorite possession at the school. She suppressed a sigh and walked to the door. Opening it, she stepped out of her room.
Shián didn't walk quickly. There was no need. She didn't know where she was going, and she didn't have anywhere to go. Though it was unusual to see a student walking around the school grounds without a specific destination, it wasn't unheard of, and Shián had long since earned the privilege of doing so without supervi
sion. The few women she did pass, students and mistresses alike, paid her little attention, likely assuming she was on her way to the baths or to practice with another student.
Before long, Shián found herself in the garden. Most students loved the garden; the pretty colors, the natural perfume of the flowers, warm light, and soft benches all made for a serene atmosphere. Shián, on the other hand, thought it was wasteful. She had lived her first thirteen years in the desert, where the only flowers she had ever seen before arriving at the school were cactus flowers; and, at least cactuses had a use, as they could be harvested for water.
Shián missed the desert. She knew it was just beyond the school walls but, to her, that was an impossibly long way.
There were no students in the garden this afternoon, and it was empty save for a single man. He stood over a workbench, measuring planks of wood. Yesterday a sandstorm had blown out one of the delicate glass windows, and it appeared the entire frame needed replacing.
Shián adopted a knowing half smile and sauntered over to the man. She had been trained to talk to men, but it had been three years since her last verbal encounter with the opposite sex, and that had been her father. Shián was intrigued. She wanted to put what the school had taught her to the test.
“Hello,” she said as she approached.
The man jumped as she spoke. He looked at Shián with a terrified expression akin to a nervous mouse before glancing around the garden.
“I can't speak to you,” he said in a hushed voice.
Shián giggled as if he'd made a joke.
“That's fine. We don't have to talk.”
Shián studied the man as she walked around him. She made sure she was close enough to touch, but also made sure she didn't so much as brush against him. He was tall with thick, strong arms that showed through his vest. He had a full, brown beard with flecks of grey starting to show, and he still had a full head of hair that reached down to his shoulders, not the typical western fashion.
Shián continued to circle the man, inspecting him as she walked, much as the mistresses inspected their students. He was well muscled and not at all unappealing. He looked up to catch her eyes. Shián smiled and looked away, forcing color to her cheeks.
