Justice
Part III -- Servitude
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 scrape 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 honor 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 behavior, 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.
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 drape 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
child 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.
