A servant and Mistress

Part I -- Arrival
I arrived at the DeMarcco mansion in late August. Summer was already
fading into fall as winter comes early in such a northern province. I
found the castle cold and dark and foreboding, despite the presence of
the Master, who was young and handsome and extremely wealthy. He and his
pretty bride were renowned for their lavish parties and generosity, and
anyone in the country, including the Duke of Kennington, was always
pleased to receive an invitation.
I viewed my change of employers as a tremendous advancement, for a
recommendation by the DeMarcco's would secure me a position anywhere I
wanted. I felt eminently grateful to dear Molly Wells for recommending
me, our c***dhood disagreements forgotten and forgiven with this single
generous gesture. Had I known the true nature of her generosity,
however, I would have rewarded her face with a slap from my palm.
On just the third day in my new position I had the opportunity to
witness for myself the situation I had instilled myself into. It was a
cold, blustery morning, with a touch of fog settling over the hills. I
had started a fire in the kitchen before dawn and was helping the cook
prepare the breakfast when I heard a shriek of pain and horribly angry
voice shouting.
I glanced at the cook but she continued her work unabated, and I looked
nervously behind me as the sounds came closer. The door burst open and
to my surprise it was the Mistress herself who entered, her sleeping
garments covered with a thick robe, cruelly dragging a weeping,
red-faced girl by the earlobe. I recognized the girl as one of the
chambermaids, Mary, by name. She was rather vapid and dense, if I
recalled her correctly, and smitten with one of the groomsmen.
The Mistress strode angrily into the kitchen and ordered the cook to
fetch her "the strap and be quick about it!" The cook obeyed instantly,
heading across the room, while the pitiful girl began to wail and beg
for mercy.
"Shut your mouth you lazy whore!" scolded the petite lady, her black
eyes flashing brightly with arrogance and fury. "How dare you enter your
Mistress' quarters without knocking!"
"But I _did_ knock, Ma'am," sobbed the girl. "I knocked three times,
and loudly, too, you _must_ 'ave 'eard!"
"The impertinence!" screamed the Mistress, her mouth shaping into a
snarl that distorted her graceful lips into something quite repulsive.
"How dare you call me a liar! You shall get the cane for that! Cook!
Bring me the cane instead of the strap! This sorry thing needs a taste
of real discipline."
The cook obeyed, replacing the just removed strap back on its hook and
returning with a long, white, crock-handled cane, slightly bent from
years of use. I watched, petrified with terror, as the cook handed this
terrible instrument of punishment to the furious lady who took it in her
hands with a look of relish that frightened me beyond motion or thought.
I'd never been beaten by an employer before, though I knew it was an
accepted practice. My last Master had been an old gentleman in Furth,
and while once, when I was much younger and wilder, he had he threatened
me with a dose of the leather, I had never given him cause to use it. As
I c***d, of course, I'd had my share of whippings, and I had seen
c***dren in school take the cane, it had always frightened me beyond
belief. I watched helplessly as the Mistress took the weeping girl and
bodily shoved her across a counter and lifted the girl's skirts up and
took down her knickers.
The caning was mercifully brief but unendurably cruel. The Mistress
must have delivered a dozen cuts across the backs of poor Mary's legs
and half that again across her bared bum. None drew blood but many came
close, leaving huge red weals that looked fit to burst at any moment.
"Now go stand in the parlor until after the noon meal!" ordered the
Mistress, licking her lips and panting, and I watched with horror as the
sobbing girl lifted herself and awkwardly managed to walk out of the
kitchen, tightly clutching her skirts up to keep her backside on
display. I was later to discover that she was to stand like that,
buttocks and legs bared, during the entire course of the noon meal, so
the Master and his guests (there were some at almost every meal) and any
passing servants could witness the girl's disgrace and humiliation.
"And just what work are _you_ contemplating so intently?"
I awoke from my stupor to discover the white tip of the cane pointing
at my nose, the snarling face of Mistress DeMarcco glaring at me with
undisguised fury.
Gulping with haste I raced back to my duties, performing them with such
rapidity and motivation that the Mistress seemed pleased and mollified,
and I had never felt such relief as when I heard her order the cook to
replace the cane on its peg. My whole backside tingled with feeling as I
worked, my heart pounding just at the thought of that cane striping my
bottom. It terrified me beyond words. My hands trembled as I worked,
tears swelling in my eyes. There was no way I could possibly endure such
humiliation. If such was the standard practice at the DeMarcco estate I
should have to leave immediately. I resolved to ask the Mistress about
it later, when she had calmed down and was in better spirits.
It was a full two days later before I was given the opportunity to talk
to the Mistress. In the meantime, I was kept impossibly busy, running
errands for the cook and assisting the housekeeper. At the end of the
second day I was exhausted. I had never known that I could work so hard
and I've been working since I was **************. I'd been in charge of
an entire household, with a dozen servants at my command, and yet I
found it difficult to keep up with even the Mistress' menial laborers,
most of whom I discovered had been employed by the DeMarccos for years,
and were apparently used to such a pace. I had never seen maids of such
energy and stamina. When I mentioned this to the cook, a harsh but
well-respected woman, she warned me that my lack of initiative was sure
to earn me punishment by the Mistress.
"Surely not!" I cried out in distress. "Have I not performed my duties
adequately?"
"Aye," she whispered, her eyes warning me to keep my voice down, "but
the Mistress, she don't care for adequate; she demands perfection. She
insists her household staff perform beyond the call of duty." I
redoubled my efforts at those words, determined to make a good
impression on the Mistress, rising first and going to bed last.
Another chambermaid was flogged by the Mistress that evening, for what
I never heard, though rumor said it was for the failure to dust beneath
a large vase mounted on the Mistress' mantel. Thankfully I was spared
the watching of the punishment as I was stationed in the kitchen that
night, but I could hear the sound of the lash, and laughter and jeers of
the guests mixed with sobs of pain on the part of the punished maid.
Terror swept through my soul and I trembled and dropped several pots,
earning a thorough scolding and threatening by the cook.
The next day I was ordered to make an appearance before the Mistress.
Though I desired to speak with her regarding my position, I was now
terrified. First, I was uncertain as to why she had asked to see me. Had
I committed an offense? Was there a grave error on my part that required
punishment? Second, I was unsure how to approach the woman and ask to be
let go. I had been thinking about this since I had witnessed Mary's
caning and resolved to leave, and now I was hesitant to depart. Where
would I go? I had no other prospects. Surely I couldn't expect a fair
recommendation from Mistress DeMarcco after just three days!
Thus, chewing my lip with nervousness, I approached the Mistress'
chamber door with great fear and trepidation, my heart in my throat, the
throbbing making it difficult to breathe. I knocked. There was silence.
I knocked again. And then a third time. My nervousness was now manifest
by physical perspiration. I had overheard Mary, the evening of her
caning, whispering and grumbling to another maid that she had indeed
knocked many times and very loudly too, but that the Mistress had
obviously ignored her specifically to gain an excuse to punish her.
Under no circumstances could I open that door of my own accord.
I knocked again and again and waited. The waiting made me frantic, and
tears of frustration came to my eyes. This was woefully unfair of the
Mistress. How could she be so cruel? Didn't effort and a willingness to
serve have any meaning for her?
Suddenly the doorway opened before me, and there stood the Mistress.
She was small and dainty, as I have mentioned, and as pretty and pale as
a delicate flower. Her long dark hair fell in waves over her shoulders,
a select few curls escaping to descend across her face, giving her a
wild, unpredictable look. Her face was slightly puffy and round, eyes
large and oval, the pupils black and sparkling, her nose thin and narrow
and just a shade too pointy. Her lips were beautiful, thick, lush,
graceful curves that when they blossomed into a smile melted your heart
and brought a blush of inadequacy to your face.
There was something familiar about her face, a haunting feature,
something reminiscent of someone I once knew, but I could not place it.
I thought at first she resembled my mother, or one of my cousins, but on
a closer look I saw those similarities were only superficial, like the
color of her hair. There was something deeper, something crucial, but I
could not see it, only sense it, and it frustrated me.
Her body overflowed with feminine vitality. Though she was petite, it
was only her frame that gave this impression, her slender arms and
slight height. Her bosom would have been impressive on a large woman; on
her it was magnificent. Her waist was naturally narrow, her hips just as
naturally wide and curved. I could not see her legs, but from what I had
witnessed of the woman's energy and the way she carried herself, I had
no doubt her legs were short and stout and extremely fit, for she was an
active woman, always scurrying, always moving.
Undoubtedly the Mistress was a striking and attractive woman.
Physically, no doubt, she could arouse any man. But it was equally
obvious her personality distorted her features to such an extent as to
make the body almost unusable. Even now, as she stood before me, eyes
cold and hard like glittering stones, her mouth did not smile but formed
an ugly thin line, like the edge of a knife. Her body swelled with the
promise of youth and physical pleasure, and yet she marched like a
statue, glaring and cold, and silently seated herself before me,
watching me with those dark, impenetrable eyes. I trembled, waiting,
wondering.
For a long while she said nothing, her eyes staring at me, a tiny curve
on the edge of her lip showing me she enjoyed my discomfort, my terror.
Then she spoke.
"So, Miss Janey, what excuse do you have for your appalling performance
in your duties these past few days?"
The question caught me by surprise. I stared in astonishment. I opened
my mouth but no sound emerged. I was silent.
"No excuse, eh?" she growled. "Good. I abhor excuses. They mean nothing
and excuse nothing. Performance is what counts, my dear. I realize you
are new to the DeMarcco estate, Miss Janey, and I am prepared to grant
you some tolerance as you learn to adjust to your new position, but I
will _not_ have you shirking your duties and promoting laziness among
the other maids!"
My heart seemed to have stopped beating during this speech. My mouth
was completely dry and an earthquake could not have provoked motion to
my feet in that instant. My mind could not even function. To say I was
stunned would be a gross understatement. For the past three days I had
practically exhausted myself to death for this woman, rising an hour
before expected and going to bed an hour after the scheduled time. I had
done the work of three women, scrubbing and washing and fetching until
my legs and the backs of my hands ached and my eyes were throbbing with
pain. Twice I had forgone meals in order to assist the tasks of others
who were less capable than I, and several times I had caught and
corrected the mistakes of others. And now, after all those sacrifices
she dared to accuse me of sloth and incompetence!
A slow, dull burning began in my belly, rumbling dangerously. Heat came
to my face and wrath filled my body. Trembling with rage I glared at the
petite, self-satisfied woman before me. In that instant I knew I hated
her. I knew that she delighted in breaking people, in making them submit
to her by whatever method would work, and in my case nothing I could
ever do would satisfy her, because that was exactly the gratification I
sought, the fulfillment I needed. She was playing with me like a I was a
little doll, nothing more than toy to be tossed aside when the amusement
was over.
"How dare you!" I exclaimed, a dark cloud of doom hanging over my head.
I knew I sealed my fate with those words but I could not have stopped
uttering them if the Devil himself had been waiting in the doorway with
ball and chain and manacle, an evil welcome on his lips. Indeed, being
chained to the Devil would have been preferable to the Mistress
DeMarcco, for she was the queen of demons, a beautiful woman who took
pleasure in evil. Even then she sat primly, a soft, cruel smile
distorting her lips, listening to my outrage with delight, for she knew
the price of my pride, and eagerly assisted me in leaping into her
prison and almost laughing with joy as I took the key myself and threw
it away into the vile blackness of a bottomless pit.
"Welcome to the DeMarcco estate," she whispered quietly, when I had
finished.
"Bitch! Satan's whore!" I hissed, my fury past control. But she only
smiled, the self-satisfied smile of c***d who's conniving has finally
triumphed over the indolent adult, and it was not pleasant, it was not
pleasant at all.


It is winter now, the November winds bringing thick white snowflakes
from the north, and blanketing the world in white glistening coldness. I
feel old and tired. My body aches in places I never knew I had feeling,
and I work like a slave from before dawn to after dusk. I am a slave, in
fact, if not in legality. Mrs. DeMarcco's power was far greater than my
own, and though I knew it to be hopeless, I did seek other employment. I
was so desperate I even investigated other occupations, but there was
nothing. Every door was slammed in my face, old friends smiling wan,
empty expressions and turning away, shaking their heads sadly. There was
nothing for me except the torment of the DeMarcco hell, and there I
returned, to work under the gaze of the bland, self-satisfied Mistress'
face, my every gesture one of pain to me.
I was frequently beaten; don't let me lead you to believe otherwise.
But it developed that the beatings were not the worst of it for me. I am
a strong woman of independent means and I had always valued my freedom,
and I bore the belief that hard and honest work would enrich and prosper
me, which, when coupled with my determination to better my condition,
all worked against me now. Here at the DeMarcco's I was a slave, not a
servant. Here I was not a respected and valued employee, but a drudge,
hired for menial tasks that only served to further debase my ego.
At first it was the beatings I feared most. For the few days after my
initial meeting with the Mistress I walked with cat paws, silent and
swift, my ears and eyes alert for any sign of displeasure from the
Mistress. I knew it would come; how could it not, with her attitude? I
did not know how I could bear it. But others did, others much more
stupid and duller than I, so I should endure it too.
But as the days went on I began to think that perhaps she would be
content to torture me mentally, to force me to perform tasks beneath my
station, to watch me grovel at her feet. Oh, it is easy to be deceived
once, but even easier to be deceived a second time. I fell for her ploy,
and after a week began to relax slightly, and actually sleep at nights.
I was so unbearably tense and nervous those first few days my body just
collapsed with relief, and I spent a day in bed with a fever. I was
better the next day, and when I did not even see the Mistress for two
whole days I felt like spring had finally arrived after a long, cold,
harsh winter. I fell to my work with an enthusiasm that surprised me,
and actually found myself whistling one bright afternoon.
It was then announced to me that I would be serving at dinner that
evening, to the Master and Mistress and his guests. The Master's guests
were a prominent Lord and Lady who had traveled the distance from
London, and I knew he intended to offer them the best that could be
provided. For two days we had been cleaning the castle from top to
bottom in such a fashion as hadn't been done in at least two years,
according to one of the older maids, and the Mistress herself had
already administered half a dozen whippings to various individuals for
crimes of laziness and clumsiness.
Terror shook my bones when I heard I would be required to serve. Surely
this was part of the Mistress' plan. She would be alert for any
opportunity to punish me. The slightest transgression, no matter how
insignificant, would be sufficient cause for her. She would love to
thrash me in front of the guests, I knew, as she often did to other
girls, and my heart felt monstrous and heavy, as though someone had
pierced it with a sharp knife and let out all the joy and hope.
That evening I bravely went forth, determined to make a good show of
it. My uniform was spotless, every bit of lace washed three times to
make it the brightest white. My hair and face were clean and rosy, and I
smelled of soap and fresh water, having bathed in the freezing creek
that afternoon. My teeth shined and I smiled and laughed as though
delighted when the gentleman visitor, in rather unsubtle fashion, I
might add, pinched and patted my bottom beneath my skirt as I placed a
bowel of steaming broth before him, working frantically not to spill it,
his wife glaring at him and at the same time pretending not to notice
his uncouth behavior.
I breathed a deep sigh when I returned to the kitchen uns**thed after
the first course. "If pinching is all my bottom feels before the night
is over I shall be delighted, even if the old brute pinches me black and
blue!" I thought grimly, with fierce determination.
But it was not to be. I served the food elegantly, gracefully, never
forgetting an item or spilling a drop of anything. I wanted nothing for
the Mistress to criticize, and she appeared frustrated and annoyed with
me when I placed a thick slice a roast pork on her plate. I could feel
her eyes on me as I worked, watching, waiting, lurking. I forced myself
to ignore her, and concentrate on pleasing the guests, and the Master,
both of whom complimented me several times on my excellent service, the
Master once even commenting to his wife that she had picked an excellent
maid for the evening, and that I should be well rewarded. I saw a look
of disgust cross the Mistress' face, but it was only for a second, and
only in my direction, and immediately she smiled and nodded at her
husband pleasantly, but her eyes told me that she had other rewards in
mind for me.
It was late in the evening when it happened. The guests had retired
from the main table to the lounge, where it was comfortable and warm
before the fire, and there munched on cheeses and sweets and drank hot
mulled wine. Tea was ordered, and I rushed to bring it in, my legs
aching from all my scurrying, my arms and back exhausted. The teacups
and saucers were waiting for me in the kitchen, and, like a fool, I
rushed back to the guests carrying the tray. I saw the Mistress watching
me from the corridor that passes by the kitchen, a haughty look of
triumph on her face. It unnerved me, and I wondered what she was
scheming now, but I had no time to waste. God wish I had, though it
would have made little difference in the long run. I had just placed the
last saucer and was carefully lifting the steaming teapot to begin
pouring when there was a scream of outrage and a horrified Mistress
DeMarcco leapt to her feet.
I paused and turned, blood draining from my face. After everything I
had done, it was now happening anyway, despite my best efforts to
prevent it. The Mistress was furious, eyes filled with tears and her
pale cheeks crimson. "Oh, Madam," she exclaimed, wringing her hands with
agitation, "I am so very, very sorry! I cannot express my shame and
horror at this blunder. Please, please, do not think this is any
disrespect on the part of the DeMarccos! I beg your forgiveness for this
unforgivable act of rudeness!"
There was more of this, much more, an astonishingly convincing act of
the injured hostess, while the dignified lady, still seated and too
surprised to react, was visibly at a loss to know why she should be
offended at all. Suddenly the Mistress leapt forward and grasped the
Lady's cup and saucer and thrust them in my astonished face.
"How _dare_ you insult our guests in this manner! Do you have no shame,
no pride in your work? I ought to flog you right here and now in front
of our guests!"
Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring the cup, but I could now see quite
plainly the there was a tiny, almost imperceptible chip in the delicate
china. "But ma'am!" I gasped, vainly attempting to defend myself.
"Shut your mouth, you worthless wench!" growled the Mistress angrily.
"There is no excuse for such a mistake. You could have seriously injured
a delicate, innocent Lady with your carelessness! A guest in this house!
And after performing you duties so well, all evening, you have to
embarrass the entire estate by your thoughtlessness! You may certainly
forget any promotion, stupid girl! I have half a mind to throw you out
into the cold, except you'd surely die, a worthless, unskilled slut like
yourself. At the best you can expect to be in charge of cleaning the
fireplaces and disposing of the refuse. Why, I am so ashamed and
embarrassed! I cannot think why _you_ still have the arrogance to remain
standing in front of us! Have you no shame?"
Tears poured down my face and I sank to the floor sobbing, my face
flushed deep crimson. How could I have not checked the china before
bringing it to the table? It _was_ indeed a serious breech of duty. "I'm
sorry, Mistress," I begged through my tears.
"Sorry? You aren't sorry in the least! If you value your employment at
all, young wench, you will rush to the kitchen and fetch me the leather
strap at once. And don't you dare dawdle unless you wish to receive a
double portion!"
I raced out eagerly, terrified, my tears blurring the spinning world
around me. I past unfocused faces in the kitchen, hands guiding me until
someone thrust the strap into my trembling hand, and soft, feminine lips
kissed my cheek with a whisper of "Good luck, Janey!" I didn't even know
who it was, but I was infinitely grateful for the gesture. Sobbing, I
came back into the parlor room where the small group stood before the
blazing fire, Mistress DeMarcco still apologizing and shaking off the
lady guest's assurances that no harm had been done.
"We must make an example of her," said the Mistress as I trotted up.
"We cannot allow such gross behavior to go unpunished." She silently
took the strap from me and ordered me to bend forward across the side of
the settee. This was a slight distance from the others, for which I was
grateful, but the position was still humiliating, my face and breasts
pressed against cushions. Still silent, her expression stern, the
Mistress lifted my skirt and bade me to hold it in place, awkward as
this was, my arms reaching behind me to press it against my back.
Then the Mistress began to disrobe me, pulling down my bloomers and
knickers until only my bare flesh was exposed. My face smarted with
shame and tears as I heard the Master approach, quietly asking, "Is this
really necessary, my dear?" I held my breath. Could he save me? Would he
save me?
"It is absolutely necessary," responded my Mistress. "We cannot allow
such recklessness to go unpunished, and she shall be all the better for
it, you will see. Having it in front of our guests will only enhance the
punishment," she added coyly, "and besides, they might find it amusing."
Her husband shrugged. "Well, you know I leave household affairs for you
to run as you see fit," he said, and then returned to the others,
conferring with them with soft tones. All three soon sat back down and
waited, watching. I could feel their eyes on me, though I dared not turn
my head. I could see the Lord most clearly, and he did not appear the
least put out by my predicament; he appeared almost jovial, in fact, and
rather pleased.
Meantime I lay sprawled in shame across the sofa arm, my naked buttocks
and legs exposed for everyone, the Mistress standing tall and dark and
fearsome beside me, the deadly leather strap in her hand as she smiled
at me, caressing my cheek with it softly, and then she leaned forward
and whispered, "Are you ready naughty one? This is going to hurt, I can
assure you. You deserve every stroke ten times over, little bitch! I
will see that you are thoroughly punished on a regular basis after this.
Do not let this be your first and last whipping by any means. You've got
a fine bottom and it will look lovely covered with thick, red stripes!"
With that, I knew I was doomed. There was no way I was going to get
away with a few token strokes to appease her guests or her own evil
desires. No, I would be taken the full distance, given a long, thorough
whipping that I would not fail to remember for days. And most likely
there would be more tomorrow, and the next day and the next. I knew now
the Mistress was finished playing with me. She meant to hurt me now,
really hurt me, and in the future she would leap at any excuse to do so
again.
My face was turned away from the fire, and so partially concealed in
the gloomy room, and I licked my dry lips and waited. The first stroke
took my breath away. It was so sharp, such a fine, thin pain, that I was
surprised. The strap appeared to be quite wide and thick, and yet the
pain was very focused, precise. Again came the strap, this time causing
me to suck air into my mouth with a sharp hiss. I could feel the twin
bands of heat across my buttocks, both cheeks vibrating slightly with
the impact of the blows. The pain made me suddenly very conscious of my
bottom: the delicate curves of plump flesh, the slender crack between my
cheeks, and dark secrets buried beneath. I could feel the air between my
legs, cool against the lips of my privates, and I knew with deep shame
that surely the men could see everything.
I quivered with the next few blows, amazed at the sting. Tears filled
my eyes and I could not help crying. The strokes seemed to get harder
now, and faster, and my whole bottom seemed to be burning with pain. I
wiggled and writhed as the whipping continued, no longer caring much
what the men saw between my legs. So they would watch me dance. Would
they see anything they had not seen already?
Thinking of the men watching produced a strange reaction in me. I was
horrified and ashamed, of course, but a naughty part of me felt rather
evilly delighted. I could feel a dampness growing between my legs as I
thought of them watching, and when the strap struck me either in a
particularly tender spot or very close to my crotch I could almost feel
myself bursting with excitement and orgasm. I felt the strap was my
scourge, punishing me for my dirty thoughts and desires, and I accepted
it almost gratefully, rolling my hips and arching my bottom even higher
into the air to receive the blows.
The strap was caressing me in dangerous places now. The Mistress had
carefully laid parallel stripes full across both cheeks, so now she
concentrated on unpunished areas, actually bringing the strap upward to
strike at the base of my rump, and bringing it down into my crack,
bringing stinging fire to the tender insides of my cheeks.
After a long time of this she began working on my legs, striping my
thighs all around, especially the insides, right up to my crotch. This
only served to intensify my emotions, and though I wept miserably, I
felt glad I was being punished. I thought of all the naughty thoughts
I'd had in my life, especially those involving men I had known, and I
relished the sting of the strap. It felt good and warm to me, and my
bottom throbbed with a passion I had not known I possessed.
The strap was furious now, lashing down again and again at lightning
speed, my bottom churning in the air as I grovelled with my face in the
cushions and begged for mercy. I finally began to cry out loud, weeping
and begging the Mistress to stop. This seemed to please her, and after a
few more cruel lashes, she stopped. I collapsed on the couch for a
moment, but then she ordered me to my feet. I was to go to the corner
and stand with my legs apart, and my hands holding my skirt so everyone
could see me. I would stay like that until bedtime. That is, unless I
wanted another whipping. It would be my choice.
I chose the corner, naturally, and spent the rest of the night in that
position. When the guests retired, the Mistress e*****ing them to their
chambers, the Master approached me. I had not really met him, and I was
afraid and uncertain what to think.
He is a tall man, and towers above his wife. He is dark, like her, and
beautiful, too, but his beauty is hard and real, not soft and dreamy.
When you look at the Mistress you think, "Can anyone really be so
beautiful?" but when you look at the Master you think, "Ah, there, in
truth, is beauty, strong and rugged and secure."
He seemed like a nice man, as he approached me. His expression was one
of curiosity and concern, not anger or meanness. He knelt and studied my
bottom for a few moments, my face flushed and ashamed. "She certainly
did a thorough job," he said slowly, rising to his feet and looking me
in the eye. I nodded, not sure what to say.
"I wonder where she learned to whip like that," he mused, and I did not
have an answer. His hand reached out and palmed my bottom, my heart
leaping at both the pain and the masculine touch. "Still warm," he
whispered. "Hot, in fact feels rather nice. You have a nice figure."
"T-thank you, sir," I whispered, terrified of his unknown intentions.
"She seems to have a particular aversion to you," he said suddenly,
after a moment of quiet, his palm still pressed against my bottom. "Did
you do something to displease her?"
"I called her a bitch," I thought grimly, but I did not say that.
Instead I whispered, "She is very strict with all the servants, Master."
He nodded. "Too strict, if you ask me," he said casually, but I caught
an expression of concern and puzzlement on his face as he spoke. "But it
is none of my affair. She doesn't interfere with the business and I will
not interfere with the household staff." He removed his hand now, and
carefully helped me pull my skirt over my bottom. "Go ahead and go to
sleep, now. You need your rest. A flogging takes a lot out of one." I
wondered if he knew what he was talking about from experience, but I had
to admit I was more exhausted than I'd ever been in my life. I felt like
I should collapse at any moment, and indeed, I only just barely made it
to my bed.
To be continued………………….