A servant amd Mistress Part 3

Part 3
It was a complex game we played, the Mistress and I. I was not certain
of the rules or if there were any, but soon after I became her personal
servant I realized there was something unique in our relationship. She
punished the other servants as much as always, the perfectionist in her
always demanding the most from her staff, but I noticed she punished
them coldly, routinely, almost grimly, as though there was little
pleasure in it for herself, or perhaps not as much as she would like.
Many times she seemed almost distant, lost in thought or even bored,
though I doubt the recipient of her discipline noticed anything awry.
Me, however, she punished almost exclusively in the privacy of her own
chambers. There was a large mirror in her room, opposite her bed, and
often she would d**** me across her lap on the bed or bend me over
before the mirror so I could watch myself being punished, a truly
humiliating experience. But I soon found myself watching her, admiring
her dark, flashing beauty, the fire in her eyes never more intense than
when she whipped me, cheeks flushed rouge with excitement and passion,
her massive bosom heaving magnificently as she panted and thrashed me
soundly. She seemed to delight in inflicting pain in the manner one
c***d delights in pulling another's hair for the first time, with an
almost surprised, gleeful expression, as though astonished at the
explosive reaction generated.
Though I noticed these things I did not see them, or comprehend their
significance, until much later. Perhaps there is truth in the old saying
that looking at the flame too closely causes one to forget about the
fire. There was one incident which should have enlightened me, but I was
too blind to see it at the time.
It was soon after I became her private maid, and I was still naive and
nervous, as I thought I could escape her wrath through obedience. One
morning I was preparing the bath for the Mistress. She has a private vat
off her chamber, of course, and all morning I had been lumbering up the
stairs with buckets of steaming water from the kitchen. She likes her
bath very full and hot, and I soon lost count of the number of trips I
made up and down the stairway. At last the bath was ready, steaming and
warm, and I guided the Mistress to the edge and assisted her in
disrobing. She was naked underneath. This was my first time seeing her
naked, and I was instantly jealous, for her body was svelte and
graceful, her skin smooth and unblemished.
She had her back to me at the time, and I could not help but admire her
sleek thighs and round bottom. I had watched her cane my bottom just a
few days previous, and I suddenly knew that my bottom, though always
plump and attractive to men and my only real vanity, as I am resolved to
plainness in other areas, was nothing as perfect as her own. Hers
swelled at the base with such graceful curves I knew it would drive a
man wild to see them, her twin mounds made prominent by a deep
mysterious chasm between them. As she walked toward the water each cheek
gently rotated in a seductive fashion, trembling slightly each time her
foot made contact with the stone floor. In my mind instantly was a
picture of that bottom covered with luscious, rich stripes from the
leather strap, and I could almost see that bottom bouncing under the
paddle. Oohh, how I longed to wield that paddle across those buttocks!
Even just a single stroke would revenge me for a hundred years, I
thought at the time.
I was awakened from these thoughts by a cry of pain from the Mistress.
She whirled on me angrily, slapping my face. "It's too hot, you bitch!
How dare you! Are you trying to burn me?"
I shook my head frantically. I had tested the water myself. The
temperature was fine, not too hot, not too cool. It certainly would not
burn. But the Mistress was already fetching the strap, a long thick one
she had made and kept in our chambers, specifically for me, as it was
too much trouble to run to the kitchen every time I needed the strap.
"Take off your clothes," she ordered, and I silently obeyed, wondering
if this was leading to another paddling, as my first had been a living
nightmare.
In a moment I was as naked as she was, and I obediently bent over and
leaned my arms against the side of the large bath of water and spread my
legs wide. She began to strap me then, long heavy strokes that wrapped
the leather around my thighs leaving angry welts I knew would burn for
days. I sobbed and shivered and took the thrashing as best I could, only
occasionally crying out or shifting my position
As she whipped me I was often granted glimpses of her behind me, to my
left, as she stood raising and lowering the strap with rhythmic
precision. I found myself astonished at her nakedness. It was so brazen,
so exposed, and yet she did not seem the least troubled by it, her heavy
breasts dancing as she flogged me energetically, her wide hips turning
to offer me tantalizing visions of the profile of her curved backside. I
discovered I was strangely moved by watching her. Her face was animated
and alive, her lips full and blood-red, pursed slightly as she breathed
deeply, a faint grunt escaping her as she worked hard to strike me
another harsh and cruel blow. I could not help but admire her beauty and
avid lust, unhidden, uncontrolled. I, whose passion had always been
carefully concealed, almost even from myself, found a delightful freedom
in watching her openly display her emotions. I did not pretend to
understand her perversion, but only accepted it as an obvious fact:
whipping me excited her.
I groaned as a particularly sharp cut struck the inside of my left
thigh, high, near my stretched and vulnerable crotch, and I felt relief
when she returned to my buttocks, as sore as they were. It was a long
and thorough whipping, even by her high standards, and I almost
collapsed when she finally finished.
"Now into the water," she commanded, and I looked at her with horror.
The water would be scalding against my welted flesh. I could not do it.
It would feel like I was being boiled in oil, whatever that felt like.
But I felt helpless under her gaze. To disobey would be to ask for
punishment, something I could not willingly do. Perhaps it wouldn't be
so bad.
I stepped in, the water rising up my legs. It felt warm and soothing,
steam lightly enveloping the rest of my body, tickling my breasts. Then
the water rose to my thighs, and I felt the fierce burning as every
sleeping welt awoke and painfully announced its irritation at being so
disturbed. I moaned loudly, but still the Mistress insisted, and taking
a deep breath, I sank in completely, crouching on my knees so the water
came up to my chest.
The pain was dizzying. I felt like I was being eaten alive by thousands
of ants, like in those African stories of native tortures. I writhed and
moaned loudly but I could not escape the pain. It was all around me, the
water feeling ten times hotter than when I had filled the bath. I wept
miserably and begged the Mistress to let me out.
"Isn't it too hot?" she asked coyly, and I nodded, sobbing, and cried
out, "Yes, yes! It is too hot! It burns, it burns!"
With a look of triumph she began to climb into the bath herself. I
started to rise but she pushed me back down. "There's room for two," she
said, "if we squeeze." I was forced to lean back on my haunches to make
room for her, my buttocks blazing angrily as they pressed against the
back of my calves. My knees were spread wide when opened and exposed my
crotch, and I was glad that part of my anatomy was under water. The
Mistress knelt opposite me and smiled. "Isn't this nice? I just _adore_
a warm bath on a cold, wintery day!"
I smiled weakly at her and then began to soap and wash her, as she
instructed me. I was finally given permission to rise to better perform
this task, but I felt shame as I was naked before my Mistress, my sex
openly displayed at the level of her eyes. I could not think about this,
however, and concentrated on washing her properly, while she talked
eagerly and with rare openness, seemingly in a very generous mood.
At one point she grasped my hips and turned me suddenly, almost causing
me to fall. She stared at my bottom and cried out, "I certainly striped
your bum thoroughly, I must say!" She laughed gaily, as though we were
at a tea party and she had made a delightful joke at the expense of
someone not present. I flushed deeply at her words and waited for her to
allow me to resume, but instead she placed her hand one my right cheek
and squeezed me hard, bringing tears to my eyes. "I bet that smarts,"
she whispered, her voice low, and strangely gravelly. "What does it feel
like, Miss Janey? Does it burn when I touch it?"
"Yes, Ma'am," I muttered, extremely uncomfortable.
She massaged both cheeks now, squeezing the thick rolls of tender flesh
between her fingers. Then she began to wash me, splashing water on my
bottom and rubbing it in between my cheeks and into the crack. I was
speechless, stunned. "Ma'am, please," I begged, my face flushing
crimson. I'd never been touched by anyone like that, and it frightened
and unnerved me. The sensation was unbearably stimulating, that was the
problem, and I did not know how to react. I felt it was unnatural,
forbidden, and yet it felt so good I could not ask her to stop. I simply
said, "Please," and she continued to wash me, her slender finger sliding
up and down the crack of my bottom, occasionally brushing against the
secret hole there, sending wild shivers through my whole body.
Then she stopped suddenly. I turned and she was not looking at me. She
motioned for me to get out and I did, and she told me to get dressed and
fetch her wood for the fireplace, as she was cold. I tried to tell her
there was plenty in the woodbox right there in her chamber, but she
insisted I go to the woodshed immediately, my body still damp as I
dragged myself through the icy snow. Her voice was strangely flat, yet
serious and urgent, and I obeyed her at once, her tone making me feel
that something was quite wrong, and I suspected she had realized our
water games were extremely inappropriate. As I left, however, I noted
her face was almost serene, with a rather desperate, intense look, as
though she had almost reached some long sought goal, and yet in her eyes
she was lost and forlorn.
To be continued……………………………………………