Justice
Part II -- Life
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 unscathed 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 groveled 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 escorting 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.
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 paddlings, 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 child, 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 child 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 gelatin.
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
paddlings. 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, paddlings 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 paddlings 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.
