by James Grey
Sarah doesn’t bother me all night. I hope she doesn’t think I’m mad at her. I’m totally not. I’m mad at myself, and just need a little me time. I try to read before bed, but it’s hard to quieten my thoughts for more than a few paragraphs. It’s been the most intense week of my life, hands down. Visions from it keep swimming before my eyes. Focus is impossible.
Next morning, I wake up with a clear head, and make sure to catch Sarah as we head into the showers, this time with about eight people up on the gallery. My mentor, our chess queen from yesterday, Rupert, our waker, George…it seems the whole world is watching.
I’m so much less bothered about it than I was at the start of the week. It’s startling. I’m actually switched on enough to put my arm around Sarah as we head towards the water. She looks like she hasn’t slept much. I bet she worried last night, despite her brave words. I feel bad.
“Hey, just in case you’re wondering, we’re good!” I murmur in her ear. “Sorry I messed up, I just needed some time to myself. I guess maybe I’m just not there yet.”
“Aw, thanks Em,” she whispers, no doubt feeling the umpteen eyes on our conversation. “It’s cool. Take as long as you need.” And then she puts her arm around my waist and adds, “Just remember I’m first in line when you are, okay?”
I give her a smile and tell her it’s a deal.
We disengage and I head for Petra, who is already standing under the shower, arms folded and tapping her foot with the impatience of a spoilt princess awaiting her make-up artist. I roll my eyes, and giggle as I notice that the grinning Latifa caught me doing it. It’s lovely to have a few girls on my side.
I go through the now-familiar motions on Petra, as always shutting down my senses as best I can. I know how fun this lesbian shower lark can be, but I won’t let it be fun with her. I note with satisfaction that the stripes on her bottom are turning dark purple.
And I’m well aware that Rupert is watching. He knows how those stripes happened. I wonder what marks he is bearing today? The whole thing is kind of a turn-on.
I’m not quite sure what to do with myself after breakfast. It’s Friday, and we’ve been told there’s a chance to get out to the pub tonight. I’m all for that idea. I need to escape this madhouse for a few hours: good call, staff. I can’t be the only one nearing breaking-point as the first week ends.
Apart from that, I can’t really understand what I’m supposed to do today. But something is bound to turn up – it always seems to. One thing’s for sure: I’m definitely too proud to go looking for Rupert. I knock on Alyssia and Latifa’s door, but they seem to be off…somewhere. Sarah’s occupied too. Am I being left out again?
I mooch back into my room for a while, throw on some plain jeans and a t-shirt. Petra doesn’t seem to have made it back from breakfast. Momentarily I toy with the idea of going through her things, just to be a bitch. But I drop it just as quickly. Bitchiness just isn’t a game I want to play. I’m not going anywhere near her level.
Looking for stimulation, I grab a newspaper from the library and take it through to the lounge. Before I sit down in one of the broad, manly armchairs – I should have a pipe! – I stare out of the window for a moment. I can see the chess board, where so much went down yesterday afternoon. I can see the willows at the bottom of the garden. I can even see the entrance to the maze.
It’s a bright but breezy day, clouds scudding fast across the sky. I wonder if I should brave the pool deck, but decide I’ll be more comfortable in here. I can’t believe I’ve made it as far as Friday. Nearly halfway! I truly can’t wait for my assessment with Miss Jackson. She promised the mysteries would stop after that!
I’m about to turn away from the window, smiling at that happy thought, when I notice a movement at the bottom of the garden. It’s the unmistakeable, shapely figures of Petra and Lilia. And they’ve just emerged from the maze. I feel my brain click into overdrive and my pulse quicken.
It hasn’t crossed my mind to go back in there, but suddenly I want to know if I’m missing out on something. What’s she getting? Will her ‘treat’ be the disappointment I got after finding that envelope laden with promise? The fact that she’s with her partner in crime makes me doubly suspicious, curious and jealous in equal measure.
They’re closer now, and – yes! – they’re holding envelopes. They’re not running and skipping like I did. You can’t tell what they’re thinking, really, from the way they amble along, smoking, like they own the place. I’ve forgotten all about my newspaper. I want to see what happens.
They don’t see me watching as they cross the terrace and enter the house. I’m quite sure of that. I’m going to follow Petra, or I’ll go insane with curiosity. I creep into the doorway and peep out, fugitive-style, as I hear them having a conversation in the front hallway. I’ve no idea what they’re saying, of course. Eventually Lilia heads upstairs, and the miniskirted Petra trots off towards the hallway beneath ours. Uh oh. That floor is the south wing. South wing, ground floor. That’s where things happen.
Fortunately, she stops and knocks on the first door, so I don’t lose her around the corner. I see her push it open, but from this distance I can’t catch a glimpse of anyone who might be waiting inside. Now how am I supposed to find out anything useful?
I guess I won’t. I tiptoe down the hall, apparently forgetting that I’m perfectly entitled to walk in it. But the house is strangely quiet today, and it makes me jump when I hear a door slam in the distance. Yep, there’s plenty room for ghosts in this mansion.
I’m pretty sure it’s not good form to eavesdrop, but I’ve got nothing better to do right now. And I’m bubbling green with envy. I won’t be happy unless I hear cries of pain coming from in there. So I find myself at the door, barely breathing, trying to listen. I’m ready to spring into a casual walk if I hear anyone coming.
At first, I can’t make out a sound. They must be pretty solid, these big wooden doors. Would I hear a sound if there were any to hear? Minutes pass. Is nothing being said or done in there? Something must have been said after she went in, but I hadn’t arrived yet. Would I have heard it if I had?
I strain my ears. Is that panting? Heavy breathing? Or am I imagining it? Then, a male voice. “I love that, Petra, play with your pussy some more for me. Keep your fingers wet at all times.”
Holy fuck. The sound carries just fine if a man talks. I can’t place the voice, but it’s one of the regulars. She’s…playing with herself for him?
Wow, she must be a good actor, because I don’t think she plays with herself in real life. She’s got no soul, after all. Hey, but as long as he’s enjoying it.
Then again, she’s not making much of a sound. Maybe she’s not such a good actor after all. Even drugged-up porn stars make a noise when they get busy. Isn’t it part of the show? Maybe not in these circles.
“Take a vibrator now, Petra,” the voice insists, more urgent now. I’m surprised this kind of thing is so exciting for a man. “Lie back. Spread your legs wider for me. Push it inside you. Again and again. Do it now.”
I don’t hear her voice. I assume she’s simply doing just as she’s told.
Wow. It sounds like nobody is so much as touching her. Interesting! I feel better now, but who knows where this is going? I’m dying to know.
“MISS CARLING!!!”
I jump at the bellowing voice behind me. It comes from the next room along, whose door has just crashed open without a moment’s warning. It’s Geoffrey. I’ve had nothing to do with him so far, but vaguely remember being introduced to him at the ball. Though not particularly good-looking, he’s insanely tall. Heavy-set as well, like an international rugby player.
He looks pretty scary right now.
I want to disappear. I have no place to hide as he strides towards me.
“Eavesdropping, are you? That’s most unladylike, Miss Carling. Country houses such as this expect discretion, do I need to tell you that?”
I shake my head and squeak a no. “I…I’m sorry,
” I stutter. I hope and pray I’m going to get off with a warning.
But instead he shakes his head too, and grabs me by the collar of my orange blouse. “Evidently you need reminding, you ridiculous girl. Come with me. Move!”
He pushes me roughly down the corridor, squeezing my collar so tight my top button is starting to strain. Oh, fuck. What have I done?
I can feel his snorting breath bellowing down on my scalp. Either this gigantic man is also a good actor, or he’s incensed beyond words.
Moments later, I find myself in Miss Jackson’s office, naked once again, and hanging my head.
Geoffrey left the room immediately after depositing me with my mentor. She already seemed to know my crime, and wore a stern look. She was not alone. Carrie, my intimidating co-student, the one who used to be in the police, was with her, looking mighty comfortable in the chair in which I sat on Monday morning.
Miss Jackson sighed after Geoffrey left, and told me to strip immediately and await further instructions. So here I am, head bowed, hands behind my back, my clothes already stashed in the cupboard by Miss Jackson. Am I going to be turned loose naked once again?
I’m wondering if what I’ve done is an instant dismissal offence. Maybe I just don’t belong here, I think to myself, trying to blink back the tears. I breathe deeply and try to keep as calm as I can.
“Miss Stafford will take your punishment from here, Miss Carling,” says Miss Jackson, her tone even and low.
Great. First I get caught like a rookie, and now I get my punishment from my freakishly tall classmate. Why couldn’t you just read the newspaper?
My mentor leans back in her chair, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Carrie stand up.
“Right,” she hisses through gritted teeth. “You little fucking spy. Your mistress is going to set you straight, so you’ll not behave like a gossiping shit in future.”
I begin to tremble. She may be a classmate, but she’s acting on full authority of staff. And her tone is pure venom. I’m terrified. And I don’t know what to do. For a second I wonder if I was anywhere near this scary for my session with Petra and Rupert.
“And now you say ‘yes, mistress’. Unless you want to double your punishment, that is. And you will keep your eyes down. To the floor.”
There’s silence as my brain computes what’s going on. I don’t know this ‘scene’ of hers. A helpful cough from Miss Jackson rouses me.
“Y-y-yes…mistress.” I splutter.
“Very well. Wait there.”
I hear her black shiny boots – they’re all I can see with my eyes downcast – trot over to the cupboard. The door opens, and she gather some items. I hear her come closer again, then she stops at my side.
I smell leather.
I hear metal. Something like a chain.
She clams something tight around my neck. Oh. I’ve been collared. Like someone’s pet.
Some of me is curious and wants to know what will happen next. Most of me wants to scream with fear.
“Turn around!”
God, she could freeze your blood with that tone. I’m beginning to sweat already. I do as she tells me, of course.
“Get on your hands and knees, you nosy little cunt. Quickly!”
Wow, the language. I’m tempted to say ‘alright, alright,’ but somehow manage to spit out the magic words before it’s too late. “Yes, mistress.”
I sink onto all fours. Do people actually get turned on by this kind of treatment?
Her high heels are next to my eyes now. The chain tightens with a sharp jingle, and she yanks me forwards, towards the far end of Miss Jackson’s spacious office. To the rug in front of the fireplace.
I crawl along with her, never quite able to keep up with the chain enough for me to breathe easily. I’m quite sure that this is no accident.
The fireplace comes closer to my face. It’s clean, but the cradle for the wood is still there. Carrie pulls my head right inside the fireplace, then reaches up and hooks the end of the chain around something within the chimney.
“Put your head in the cradle, you dirty miscreant. You’re lucky if I don’t set you on fire.”
I’m humiliated now. I’m naked, collared, on my hands and knees like a pathetic animal, and now my head is actually inside the fireplace. I rest my chin on the dark, thick, burnt metal. I smell smoke and oak and winter and ash. Male smells, like everything in this house. Thank God the hearth has been well-swept.
“Do we need to restrain your hands, bitch? Can we trust you to take your punishment?”
I hesitate, unsure of what the truthful answer is.
“Yes, mistress,” I murmur. She asked me two questions, but this is an answer she seems to like. I just want this over with, whatever it is. Let them send me home. Whatever.
“I’m not sure,” she barks. “Better safe than sorry.” And with that she grabs my wrists, cuffs them together and affixes them to what must be the bottom rung of the chimney sweep’s ladder. It’s just above my head, but I must keep my chin down. I can’t rest my elbows at all. It’s barbarically uncomfortable, and I feel totally helpless now.
“That’s good. She won’t move now. I think ten hits with the riding crop would teach her a lesson, Miss Jackson.”
I have no idea how good or bad that is. I haven’t been hit with anything other than a hand, well, ever. And then only for a bit of fun. So now I really do start to shake. Brave Emma can’t do much in this position. And it’s about to get worse.
“One last thing, young whore,” says the voice behind me, softer and more threatening now. “I want you to spread those legs. I need to see that mischievous gash of yours. Bottom up, knees apart.”
I wriggle into my most demeaning position of the week, wheezing my ‘yes, mistress’ for this horrible woman just in time. I sensed an ugly vibe from her the moment we met, and it seems my instincts were bang on.
This is ironic, I think to myself. Things have come full circle. I was dishing it out on Wednesday, and there was a certain twisted pleasure in that. Now I’m about to be on the receiving end, and there’s absolutely nothing to like about it.
“Hmm,” I hear Carrie murmur. “There’s a certain level of moisture there. Clearly being naughty excites this devious little snake. I haven’t even hit her yet. This is worth noting, Miss Jackson.”
Wet? Now? Me?
All I can think, as I press my forehead into the metal and feel the blood draining from my hands, is that I simply don’t know who I am anymore.
Chapter XX
The first bite of the riding crop makes me wince and grit my teeth. It’s vicious. It really hurts. I don’t know if I can take ten of these.
Crack!
Carrie really puts her back into the second blow, and it seems to sting more. I don’t know if this is as painful as what I gave Rupert and Petra, but it’s definitely enough for me.
Crack!
My top-heavy body convulses and sways. I don’t know if I can last in this position, with my hands going more numb by the second. The loss of feeling there only heightens the sensation in my burning backside.
Crack!
It feels like a short strip of leather she’s using. It concentrates the pain where she hits me. She alternates strikes between my left and right cheek. I feel completely and utterly pathetic.
The physical violence goes on, and my trembling doubles as I feel a bead of sweat roll down my face. My head is in a fireplace; I’m bound; I’m naked. I’m being beaten like small child. These thoughts continue on a loop.
But there are no more spiteful words. Carrie lets the riding crop do the talking, for now. Does she think she’s turning me on or punishing me? Both? I can’t really think about any of that, because tears are forming. The strain is getting too much. How many to go?
Crack!
Surely that’s ten, now? I don’t hear anything. Oh God, please be done. I wiggle my butt as invitingly as I can, just so it’ll be over quicker. Fuck, I’ve never felt so completely open, such sub
mission.
Crack!
My breathing turns short and rapid-fire. I’m desperate to be let off the hook, literally. I’m coiled spring and caged animal, and my ass cheeks are burning like crazy. I must look an unbelievable sight.
“Last one,” she announces coolly. She’s in no hurry, and it’s torture.
I spread my legs wider and push my head even deeper into the hearth. I’m not sure why I do this.
CRACK!
Extra effort went into the finale. Are we done? That’s all I care about. But she leaves me hanging a moment. I’m breathing heavily, and dying for release. I’m aching all over.
At last, she leans in and releases my hands. Mercy! I let them fall to the hearth, just letting my circulation return. I don’t even think about moving. I’m not sure if I am supposed to, anyway. I’m not sure of anything.
“And what do you say?”
Uh oh. I have to guess.
“Er…thank you, mistress?”
“Say it like you mean it.”
I take a deep breath. This is the last thing I want to say.
“Thank you for my punishment, mistress,” I say, trying to sound more sincere. “I won’t eavesdrop again.”
“The fucking amateur is learning,” she says, evidently addressing Miss Jackson. “Now turn your body around. Keep your head where it is and keep your legs spread.”
Clumsily – there is no other way – I do as asked. I’m looking up the chimney, but I’m terribly aware that I am as exposed as it’s possible for a woman to be.
In my peripheral vision I can see her boots standing between my legs. The riding crop is there too. I flinch in surprise as I feel what must be its leather part probing my lower lips. Is she going to hit me there?
But the movement is a gentle caress, no more. It’s…pleasant. She probes inside me with the tip of the instrument, and I gasp. I’m not sure if it’s the shock, or something else. I’m definitely wired. And the stinging beneath me has barely subsided at all.
“There’s no doubt, Miss Jackson. Look at this! My crop is soaked with her lubrication. We have an excitable little sub on our hands.”
