Papa's Little Pain Princess

by Zoe Blake

  Winnie cried more from the humiliation that from any real hurt. Mrs. Bishop’s blows were painful, especially since she still had not recovered from her earlier spanking, but they were nothing compared to his lordship’s strong hand.

  Winnie felt momentarily lightheaded when Mrs. Bishop set her upright. “I trust we will get no more sass from you this afternoon?”

  Winnie quickly shook her head no, afraid to open her “sassy” mouth.

  “Good,” she said with a pert nod. Mrs. Bishop headed to the wardrobe, opening the large white wooden doors, she reached for the lower drawers on the bottom to pull out a small, lace edged nightgown.

  Winnie gasped in astonishment. The wardrobe was filled with the dresses delivered from Madame Minerva’s. Did that mean the dresses had been meant for her all along?

  “Arms up,” instructed the nanny. Winnie obeyed and soon felt the cool caress of soft linen against her heated bottom. The nightgown barely reached the top of her thighs.

  Mrs. Bishop crossed to the over-sized cradle. Lowering the side railing, she motioned for Winnie to crawl in.

  “You want me to…to go in there?” she questioned.

  “No, I am standing here waiting for the good graces of our Queen!” responded Mrs. Bishop sharply.

  “But…but it’s a cradle! For a child!”

  “Which is precisely what you are,” snapped an exasperated Mrs. Bishop. “Do we need another spanking correction?”

  Winnie shook her head vigorously as she jumped to obey, climbing awkwardly into the cradle. Mrs. Bishop pulled up the high railing and secured the latch. The moment she was locked in, Winnie expected to feel like she was in a prison. Strangely enough, the opposite was true. It felt cozy and safe. The bed linens were fluffy and soft. Her entire life she was forced to share a bed, sometimes with as many as five other girls. Always fighting for a small corner of the harsh, scratchy blankets.

  As Winnie snuggled into the cradle, Mrs. Bishop loomed over her.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Winnie hesitated but realized it would be best to heed her command. She opened her small pink lips, only slightly. A large rubber object was rudely pushed passed them, crushing her tongue and making her mouth feel uncomfortably full. Before she could spit it out and object, Mrs. Bishop secured the offensive item by buckling a leather strap attached to it behind Winnie’s head.

  Winnie moaned her displeasure. Mrs. Bishop ignored her. “This is your trainer. The rubber tip is in the shape of the head of your papa’s cock. Each naptime and bedtime you will wear this. We need to start training your mouth to accommodate the size and girth of your papa’s cock.”

  Eyes wide, Winnie tried to speak around it.

  “None of that, little miss,” admonished Mrs. Bishop, “or I will skip the small one and start you on the next size up,” she warned waving another object in her hand. Winnie could not believe the size of the rubber tip. It was at least three inches long and over two inches wide! That could only mean the trainer in her mouth was not even close to his actual size.

  With a self-satisfied smile, Mrs. Bishop gave words to Winnie’s thoughts. “With obedience and discipline, soon you should be able to sleep with at least four inches tucked into your mouth.”

  Winnie shook her head as tears began to gather at the corner of her eyes.

  “You are just tired. You need your nap,” soothed Mrs. Bishop in her kindest voice yet. “I will get your mittens and you will be all set.”

  She returned with a pair of pink mittens. They were adorned with small pearls and a darker pink ribbon. Mrs. Bishop quickly placed each of Winnie’s hands in the mittens. She then secured Winnie’s wrists together with a small leather strap. Raising Winnie’s arms above her head, she secured the strap to a small hook screwed into the cradle’s headboard.

  “These are your sleep mittens. They will prevent you from removing your trainer and from pleasuring yourself like a naughty girl.”

  Winnie began to sob more earnestly now. She did not like being restrained with no way to call out for help.

  “Hush, now. Time to sleep,” cajoled Mrs. Bishop, as she lowered the light on the globed gas lamp nearby.

  Winnie laid there in the semi-darkness. Her tongue swirled around the rubber trainer. It had a large bulbous head with a hard ridge, then a narrow shaft that reached past her lips. She sniffed past her tears, finding it hard to breathe through her nose and even harder to take in air around the trainer. Pulling on her arms, she found they were tightly bound with no room for movement.

  There was no way she would be able to sleep under such uncomfortable, strange circumstances!

  Several minutes later, Winnie was fast asleep.

  ~

  “Wake up, little miss,” said Mrs. Bishop softly.

  Winnie came awake slowly, disoriented. She tried to move but was prevented by the wrist restraints.

  “Don’t fuss,” scolded Mrs. Bishop. She unbuckled the leather wrist straps and removed the mittens. Slowly lowering Winnie’s arms, she rubbed them to help the feeling come back. Next, she unbuckled the strap holding the rubber mouth trainer in place.

  Whimpering, Winnie licked her dry lips, hating the taste left in her mouth.

  “Here you go,” said Mrs. Bishop, handing Winnie a small glass baby bottle filled with a dark red almost purple juice. At Winnie’s questioning look, she said, “It is black currant juice, silly girl. Now drink your bottle.”

  “May I have it in glass?” Winnie hesitantly asked, her voice hoarse from sleep and the trainer.

  “Certainly, not,” scoffed Mrs. Bishop as she lowered the side rail of the cradle. Helping Winnie out, she led her over to the dollhouse. “You may play while I prepare your bath.”

  Winnie sat on the plush carpet, bottle in hand. Pulling on the small tip, she sighed as the cool sweet with just a hint of tart juice coated her sore tongue. She pulled on the bottle nipple with more relish, no longer caring she was drinking from a baby bottle. She was lost in play when the nanny returned.

  “Your bath is ready.”

  Winnie rose. Handing the empty baby bottle to Mrs. Bishop, she followed her into a sectioned off area of the nursery.

  It was a large bathing room. Covered in black and white tile along the floor and walls. In the center was a large, club-footed cast-iron tub, painted pale pink. Off to the side, was a long ominous looking wooden table covered in thick leather straps. This was where Mrs. Bishop led her.

  “Arms up,” said Mrs. Bishop as she removed Winnie’s nightgown. “Now hop up on the table, if you please.”

  “Why?” blurted out Winnie hugging her arms about her nakedness more out of awareness than cold.

  Mrs. Bishop’s lips pursed in a thin line, showing her extreme displeasure at Winnie daring to question a directive. Before she could be swatted on the bottom again, Winnie crawled up on to the table without further prevarication. It was cold despite the warmth of the bathing chamber.

  “Lie on your back. Knees up.”

  Standing alongside the table, Mrs. Bishop reached across Winnie’s flat stomach to pull one of the heavy leather straps across her torso, low against the ribcage, careful to avoid the tummy area.

  “What…what are you doing?” Winnie asked, alarmed, trying desperately not to squirm. Mrs. Bishop ignored her.

  The leather strap had two loops on either side for securing the forearms. Mrs. Bishop tucked Winnie’s arms into these loops and pulled the buckles tight. Winnie’s alarm increased as she was immobilized from the waist up.

  “Bend your knees then spread your legs open nice and wide.”

  “But…but I will feel terribly exposed,” simpered Winnie.

  “How many times must I tell you, your modesty is no longer a concern?” scolded Mrs. Bishop. “Do as you are told!”

  Winnie raised her knees and opened her legs, although not as wide as the nanny would have liked. Mrs. Bishop grabbed Winnie’s knees and pulled them open painfully wide. With a stern look that spoke volumes, Mrs. Bisho
p turned her attention to a small table set nearby.

  Closing her eyes, Winnie tried to calm her nerves. She desperately wanted to ask why she was buckled down on this table but was terribly afraid of earning another spanking for doing so. She could hear a sudden metallic rattle and then the splash of water into a glass bowl.

  “You are a very lucky little girl,” said Mrs. Bishop, speaking almost to herself. “To have a rich papa who lives in a house with hot running water is indeed a luxury!”

  Winnie’s cheeks blushed an even darker pink at hearing Mrs. Bishop call his lordship, Papa. She thought that was something between them. She didn’t realize it would be common knowledge among the staff. For the first time, Winnie began to wonder what else the staff knew. Did they know about the spanking she received in his study earlier?

  Once she had a bowl of nice hot water, Mrs. Bishop raised her badger-hair brush and vigorously ran it over a bar of shaving soap placed in another bowl. In short time, she had a thick creamy lather. Taking a small dark vial, she poured a small amount of its contents into the palm of her hand, rubbing them together, she heated the oil.

  Moving to stand at the end of the table, between Winnie’s open knees, Mrs. Bishop placed her right palm squarely over Winnie’s exposed cunny.

  Starting at the contact, Winnie started to close her knees.

  Mrs. Bishop responded by giving her a sharp slap on her left inner thigh. Winnie howled in pain. The contact on such a soft vulnerable area not the less painful for being unexpected. Looking down at her injured limb, she could see the perfect imprint of nanny’s hand in bright red against her white, pale skin.

  “Stay still,” warned Mrs. Bishop as she continued to rub the oil over Winnie’s cunny. “This is an oil of sweet almonds. It will help your delicate skin during the shave.”

  “Shave? Like a man shaves?” asked a befuddled Winnie, still smarting from the inner thigh slap.

  “Little girls do not have curls on their cunnys!” explained Mrs. Bishop as she wiped her hands clean of the sweet almond oil. Picking up the badger-hair brush filled with lather, she brushed it down the center of Winnie’s lower lips, covering the delicate area in rich, creamy foam. Picking up a straight razor with an ivory handle, Mrs. Bishop slowly sharpened it on the thick strop dangling from the small table’s edge.

  Tiny tremors racked Winnie’s body with every swish, sweesh, swish of the razor against the heavy leather. In one last ditch effort, she summoned up the courage to ask, “Does his lordship know you are doing this?”

  “That’s Papa to you,” snapped Mrs. Bishop. “Do you really think I would do anything without his lordship’s explicit approval?” she asked, affronted. Placing the strop down, she turned her attention back to Winnie.

  Carefully holding the razor between her thumb and first two fingers of her right hand, Mrs. Bishop placed her left hand on Winnie’s smooth stomach. Stretching the skin of her cunny taut by gently putting pressure on Winnie’s stomach, Mrs. Bishop looked up at Winnie’s frightened eyes. “Stay exceptionally still or your will get cut.” Winnie was afraid to speak, to even nod in acknowledgment.

  Mrs. Bishop drew the sharp, cold razor cleanly through the white froth. Wiping it on a cloth tucked into the waistband of her apron, she repeated the gesture. Over and over again. Each time exposing smooth, slightly pinked skin.

  Winnie’s thigh muscles hurt from straining to keep them open and still. Every time she felt the edge of the razor press against her skin, she held her breath, not wanting to get cut. Her fingers clenched into fists from where they were secured tightly to her side.

  “Now I want you to pull your knees up close to your chest,” instructed Mrs. Bishop. As soon as Winnie complied, the nanny placed her left hand at the top of the poor girl’s bottom cheeks using the tips of her fingers to force them open even wider than Winnie’s exposed position allowed.

  “Oh…oh…oh…please, I don’t like this,” cried Winnie.

  Concentrating on her task as hand, Mrs. Bishop did not respond. Taking the razor, she shaved around Winnie’s puckered dark entrance. The nanny was nothing if not completely thorough with her job. When she was finished, she set aside the razor and placed a linen in the hot water. She placed the linen over Winnie’s shaved cunny to clean away any extra shaving soap foam and to calm the skin.

  “Well look how pink and pretty that cute cunny is now that all those curls are not in the way,” exclaimed Mrs. Bishop.

  Before Winnie could respond, she heard a deep, masculine voice say, “I could not agree more Mrs. Bishop.”

  “Oh my…no…no…you shouldn’t see me like this!” bemoaned Winnie as Archer strolled into the bathing room.

  It was a beautiful sight. Winnie stretched out on the wooden table. Her legs open as if in invitation. Her sweet cunny all pink and slightly swollen from its first shave. He reached out his index finger to stroke down the seam of her lower lips, appreciating the smooth unobstructed view.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” greeted Mrs. Bishop with a small curtsy. “I was just about to change her position for her inside cleaning.”

  “Then I am just in time,” he said with a smile as he walked around to the side of the table. Looking down at Winnie, he noted her pert nipples. Watching her reaction intently, he pinched her left nipple between his thumb and index finger. Increasing the pressure until she called out in pain. Her hips rising off the table in her distress. “My dear, you are so wonderfully responsive,” he noted before unbuckling her forearm and torso straps. “Now flip over onto your tummy, little one,” he instructed.

  Winnie looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Please, I don’t want to. I’m frightened.”

  “I am your papa now and you must do as I say or be punished,” he warned.

  Defeated, Winnie gingerly rolled on to her side, then her tummy. Giving out a sharp cry of alarm when she felt two hands grab her around the ankles. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Mrs. Bishop securing her ankles with even more heavy leather buckled straps. She then moved to the top of the table and unceremoniously pulled on Winnie’s wrists, securing them as well. Winnie was now stretched and spread out on the table, completely restrained.

  “The bar, my lord,” said Mrs. Bishop, helpfully handing him a large wooden dowel covered in cotton batting.

  Archer wedged the bar under Winnie’s hips, forcing her body to bow up. It was a strange sensation, Winnie was tied down and yet her stomach, hips and thighs were suspended above the table. It also forced her bottom up and out at an embarrassing angle.

  “Would my lord like to administer the oil or shall I,” asked Mrs. Bishop respectfully.

  “I will,” said Archer decisively holding out his hand, palm up. Mrs. Bishop poured a generous amount of the sweet almond oil into his hand. Archer raised his hand over Winnie’s suspended bottom, letting the oil drizzle between her bottom cheeks.

  Winnie gave a start when she felt the oil. She tried to turn her head to see what he was doing but the wrist restraints and the position of the bar under her hips made movement difficult.

  Watching the oil glisten on her bottom cheeks in the flickering candlelight, Archer ran the four fingers of his right hand down over her smooth cunny, rubbing the oil in. Moving his fingers back and forth, carefully brushing her small clit but only enough to tease. Against her will, Winnie moaned, his ministrations taking effect. Archer flipped his hand upwards and ran his two middle fingers up and down between her bottom cheeks. Winnie’s hips shifted and moved, not liking this stimulation as much as his attentions to her cunny. He continued to rub his fingers over her tight back passage as he nodded to Mrs. Bishop to pour more oil. The moment the silky stream of oil hit Winnie’s skin, trickling down to pool around Archer’s fingers, he pushed his middle finger past the first knuckle into her bottom, using pressure to get past her body’s natural resistance.

  “No, no…I don’t like that,” pleaded Winnie, trying to squeeze her bottom cheeks shut.

  “You will soon learn that very little
which is done to you will be about what you like, little miss,” observed Mrs. Bishop.

  Archer pushed his finger in deeper. Feeling her body clench and pull. Swirling his finger around, working the oil, he gently pushed a second finger into her bottom. His cock swelled and lengthened. Just the thought of how he would soon have the pleasure of forcing his large shaft past her tightly clenched entrance, watching as it strained to open around his thick length. Feeling her body both pull and repel him as he thrust in over and over again.

  Winnie groaned, “Oh, it hurts.” Her bottom hole burned from the forced stretching and manipulation.

  Pulsing his fingers in and out, in and out, Archer worked the oil, relishing how her creamy white skin glistened. “Trust me, little one, you do not want to have this done without the oil and some preparation,” he observed. “Mrs. Bishop, the nozzle if you please.”

  Mrs. Bishop offered the smallest nozzle, about two inches in length and only about a half an inch at the opening.

  “No, not that one. Her bottom can take a more ambitious nozzle size,” said Archer.

  “Very good, my lord,” responded Mrs. Bishop. Turning to her small table of supplies, she selected a larger nozzle. This one was at least four inches long with a one-inch mouth opening.

  “That’s the one,” confirmed Archer as he reached for the nozzle with his left hand. “Winnie I want you to take a nice deep breath and hold it for Papa.” Winnie had no choice but to comply. With relief, she felt him slowly pull his fingers from her body. Her relief was short lived. A hard object replaced his warm fingers.

  “Oh god!” she exclaimed. “What is that?” Despite her restraints, Winnie desperately tried to shift her head to and fro to see over her shoulder.

  Archer watched as the tight puckered skin of her rectum opened around the tip of the hard metal nozzle. Once it was past the tight ring of muscle, about an inch in, he applied more pressure, forcing her bottom to accept every inch of the intrusion.