A servant and Mistress Part 2

Part 2

I slept the sleep of the dead that night, and awoke late the next
morning. I lay on my stomach as I realized the sun was already shining,
but I didn't care. What was the worst she could do to me, whip me? I no
longer feared her whippings. The pain I could handle, it was her I could
not. I felt I hated her with every fibre of my being, more than I hated
sin. She was evil, pure evil, and I wished it had been I who had flogged
her, even if it meant that I had to receive twice as much, it would
still be worth it just to see her crying and writhing under the smack of
the leather strap.
Indeed, as time went on her whippings became almost routine. It became
a habit for me to look at my buttocks in the mirror at night before bed
and in the morning when I got up to see how well I was healing. I
daresay there was no time my bottom wasn't striped from one whipping to
the next, or at least blistered from the paddle.
This was another of her little tricks. She had discovered long ago the
benefits of having at her disposal several implements of punishment. For
severe, quick discipline the cane was the best. Just a few strokes, no
more than a couple dozen. For more prolonged punishment, the strap
worked wonders, as it was thick and did not break the skin, and thus the
whipping could last much longer. But by far the most thorough
chastisement was the paddle.
It was thin wooden paddle, small, just barely wide enough to cover a
decent-sized bottom. It stung like the devil but did very little damage
to the flesh, and indeed, with judicious use could be made to last an
hour or more. This was far worse than the cane, which though intense,
was over quickly, or the strap, which soon left your bottom covered with
thick, pulsing stripes. The paddle, however, especially a light thin one
like the Mistress employed, stung terribly and seemed to last forever.
On and on and on until you thought "Surely I've got no bottom left!" but
still it would pound down again and again and then the Mistress would
shift you across her lap to a different position and spank you with her
other arm, paddling your buttocks black and blue with welts and blisters
until just her hot breath against the skin of your bottom would reduce
you to screams of agony.
She always has you strip completely naked for paddling’s, rather than
just baring the buttocks the way she does for the cane or strap. While I
found both humiliating, there was something much worse about standing
naked before her, your heart trembling as you wait patiently and
nervously as she readies herself--always a big production where she sits
daintily and fidgets for a bit, smoothing her skirt across her lap, and
fussing a great deal, and then stands up and recommences the entire
process again while you keep swallowing your heart with tension--and only
after she finally tests the paddle out on her hand a few times does she
give you that curt gesture that you are ordered across her lap. You
lower yourself, palms sweating with terror, your naked body making you
feel as vulnerable as a c***d, and you press your hands against the
floor to support yourself, your bare thighs rubbing against her skirt as
you wiggle yourself into position. She scolds you then, just like you
are a disobedient c***d who cannot understand language well and
therefore everything must be repeated half a dozen times. When she
finishes the scolding, the whole time rubbing and squeezing your
buttocks until you are ready to scream, your face is flushed with shame.
You cannot help it. Even if your crime seems minor in your own eyes,
something about the way she looks at you, and the pure, rich,
unadulterated scorn in her voice makes you feel lower than an ant, of
less value than a disease.
Then, finally, after an agony of anticipation, she begins to spank you.
Not hard, of course, just light slaps with the paddle. The entire
purpose of the paddling, in her eyes, is to make it last a long time.
The punishment is not in the degree of pain but the duration. She does
not spank lightly out of concern for you--she cares nothing if you are
blistered and raw--she is pacing herself, really. She wants to have
plenty of energy left when she begins the real punishment.
As for you, your task is one of endurance. It is a hopeless one.
Valiantly you set your teeth and resolve to bear the pain. Vainly you
hold your breath and struggle with yourself to remain calm and
cooperate, to let her punish your bottom as she wills. But always, at
some delicate, undetermined point, you break. It is too much for you,
and you begin to wiggle in spite of yourself. Your hands ache to reach
back and rub your blazing rump, and you begin to open and close your
legs, arch your back, tense and relax your buttocks, kick your legs,
tremble, groan, moan, scream and cry out loud, weep, sob, beg and plead,
shudder and implore, gasp and pant, and finally, after a paroxysm of
emotions, you collapse as though your body has no skeleton, no structure
or foundation, and you lie there across her lap quivering as though you
are only a puddle of gelatine.
Then she begins the real spanking.
My first paddling lasted a half hour to the breaking point, and the
Mistress continued the punishment for what I calculated was another
fifteen minutes beyond that. I've never wept so profoundly in all my
life, never felt so drained and exhausted, as after one of her extended
paddling’s. My second was even worse, for she spanked just my left
bum-cheek for a good half hour, and then my right. I thought we were
finished, and I was infinitely relieved, but then she paddled both my
cheeks for another half hour. I have no idea what she has in store for
my third paddling, but I will do everything in my power to avoid it,
though I seriously doubt I shall be able to do so.
Fortunately, paddling’s are rare. The Mistress selects only two or three
of us per week for this punishment, and never more than once a month for
the same person. We all receive our fair share of routine canings and
whippings, some more than others, but at least paddling’s are reserved
for serious, personal offenses.
I should also point out that the Mistress does not neglect the male
Servants in her technique, but treats them in the same manner as the
women. Many times I have crossed the main dining room in the course of
my duties and paused to stare at the half-naked servant standing along
one side, breeches completely removed, buttocks red with angry blisters
from the thin cane or leather strap. It would seem to me that it must be
even worse for the men than for the women, both because the men are in
the minority here, making the few who are punished feel more select and
embarrassed, and because I have yet to see a single whipped man who's
organ isn't stretched out proud and tall as he stands blushing and
fidgeting under my examination, hands locked at his sides or behind his
head according to the Mistress' instructions.
The Mistress did not forget her promise to reserve for me the lowest of
household chores, and for months I was responsible for the meanest
duties, the filthiest and least amusing tasks. I carried heavy loads,
scrubbed stained floors, plucked chickens, and discarded the refuse each
day. If the massive oven in the kitchen needed cleaning or even if it
did not, it was I who was summoned to crawl deep inside and sc**** the
caked soot and blackened remains along the walls, always working late at
night so the oven could be ready for use the next day.
I took my lot graciously and did not complain. Even as I was whipped
for failing to remove an imperceptible black spot off a great iron
skillet I'd been commanded to wash, or caned for an article of clean
laundry growing dirty as it blew dry in the wind, I did not complain. I
wept quietly and stoically, burying my resentment and anger deep inside
my bosom.
One day the Mistress came to me as I scrubbed the walls of a rarely
used room in the cold, northern wing of the mansion. She stood watching
me for a while, my breathing slow and steady as I fought to still my
panic and concentrate on cleaning quickly and efficiently. There was no
doubt in my mind that her purpose was naught but to discover some fault
for which she should enable herself the opportunity to punish me, and my
heart grew cold and faint at the thought. She'd caned me just the day
before and my legs and buttocks still felt stiff and sore. I was
certainly not eager for another dose.
But she spoke to me finally, and did not seem displeased. In fact, she
complimented my spirit and attention to duty, and told me that for my
reward she was going to make me her personal chambermaid. Wasn't that
generous and charming of her?
I nearly wept when I heard these words, and though my scrubbing slowed,
I did not stop. I trembled in spite of myself and wondered if my misery
could grow any stronger. The last thing I wanted in the world was to
spend any more time with the Mistress. Even the mildest gaze from her
eyes unnerved me, and her smile sent terror down my spine. That I should
be forced to work by her side, in her very room, while she watched me in
that lazy, nonchalant, indolent manner of hers, just waiting for me to
stumble, to hesitate, to make the slightest error that would justify her
leaping up with an eager smile and bidding me to assume the position for
punishment while she fetched the cane or strap or dreaded paddle.
"Well, Miss Janey you do not seem pleased. Is it not an honour to serve
your Mistress?"
With a slowly bowed head I nodded, and knelt and kissed her feet. It
was a pointless gesture on my part; it held no meaning for me, and I
felt no sacrifice in making it. But it made her laugh out loud and smile
with open glee. She stretched out her right arm warmly, her open palm
inviting mine, and grasping it, she led me from the room and the
pointless task to an even colder and more distant place, a place of
constant fear and dread, a place filled with shame and hatred.
My new duties commenced immediately, as soon as we reached the Lady's
chambers. She instantly ordered me to fetch her a gown for dinner, the
"long black one," which proved difficult, as I found four black dresses
of various cuts and materials within her extensive wardrobe. I proceeded
to return with all four, my heart already cold with dread as I feared my
ignorance was already to earn me punishment. But the Mistress only
laughed and told me to take them all back, that she'd changed her mind,
and wanted the white one with the fox fur lining. This one was more
distinct, and I found it quickly, pleased, only to discover her gone,
the room deserted. Frantically I searched the room but she was not
there, and I grew terrified with uncertainty. Was I to leave to find
her? Should I wait for her return? How long? Would I be punished for
neglecting other duties, which, though I was ignorant of them, I was
supposed to be performing even now, as I waited? These were the
questions that haunted me, and even at that early moment I knew I could
not long work for a Mistress such as her, who's demands defied logic and
whose concept of justice made a mockery of it.
With a heavy breath I laid the dress across the bed and walked to the
large window that overlooked the courtyard. Several stories below I
could see the footmen guiding horses to the stables and maids hurrying
to and from the central well. It was late afternoon and soon the guests
for the evening would be arriving. I could not remember who was to come
tonight, but I vaguely recollected something about a rather large party,
perhaps a dozen men and their wives, as the cook had been rather
short-tempered this morning, frustrated by the mammoth preparations
required for such an occasion.
I felt tired and old. The Mistress' games did not amuse me. It was not
the punishment I dreaded; that I suspected would come no matter what I
did or didn't do. The pain of the punishments no longer frightened me,
for though I did not relish them, enduring them brought a certain
satisfaction to my lips. Even the humiliation did not bother me as much
as it used to, though I was always astonished by how shameful I felt,
especially for a trivial offense. It wasn't even the unfairness of the
Lady that frustrated me, because I was accustomed to such treatment from
the ruling class.
No, what bothered me the most about the Mistress was that while in
reality I had no control over my fate, she made it seem as though I did.
She never punished without cause; even if the reasoning was absurd or
ridiculous, there was always a justification for your punishment. In
effect, it was not the Mistress who was punishing you, it was yourself,
by your own actions, that asked for and received the just reward. If she
had punished me for no reason at all I could have rationalized and
accepted it, justified it on the basis of her particular perversion of
power. But she continually reinforced the notion that punishment
followed behaviour, as though the two held a logical relationship, as
though there was some method of _escape_, when in truth there was none.
I was a prisoner taunted with the key to freedom, dangling just outside
my grasp on the other side of the iron bars, visible, tangible, and yet
impossible to obtain. But my situation was such that something inside me
made it equally impossible for me to give up, to abandon my attempts at
escape, and I would claw my fingers bloody in the vain hope of clutching
that key, of releasing myself, even for just a moment, and breathing
free air again.
So it was that given a clear choice between punishment and no
punishment I should gladly have chosen the former, if that's what the
Lady wanted, but given a choice between two unknowns, two _potentials_,
with no method of discerning the outcome of either, I was abandoned into
a state of utter bewilderment, a state of chaos, of ruthless despair,
and my misery was made obvious to me, and I wept.
I wept when I was beaten and when I was not beaten; the difference
between the two was lost on me. Either meant torture now, and I dreaded
both equally. My heart would leap at the prospect of escape, only to
plummet to even deeper depths as I realized that it was all illusion, an
elaborate hoax on the part of the devious and devilish witch that was my
Mistress.
In truth I was not beaten any more often or more severely serving so
close to the Mistress; she simply did not have to look as far to find
cause to punish me. But just the unspoken threat of her presence, her
dark, opaque eyes always watching me, following me. Even when she sent
me to the wine cellar for a bottle of port late one evening and I
wandered the cold, dark corridors by myself with only my lantern casting
a gloomy glow around my footsteps she was there with me, following, eyes
on my back, piercing me, taunting me, threatening me, daring me. I
longed to give in, to scream at her, to throw down my apron and leave,
to find a patch of soft snow and simply lie down and die, quietly and
peacefully, and alone, but I knew that she would be victorious if I did
that. I was not sure what she would win, what stakes we played for or
even why we played, but I knew that I could not allow her to beat me.
Someday, I knew, I might break and let her win, but while I still had a
scrap of dignity in my body I was determined to fight her, even if that
was only by living, simply enduring her scorn and punishments.
To be continued…………………………..