‘Up. No, leave that towel alone. I will dry you then dress you for the part.’
Mandy got out of the bath and surrendered her shining nakedness to Erica’s towelling hands. She shuddered as the fabric enfolded her and she felt the thorough palms first at her breasts, then at her buttocks – and, finally, in between her thighs.
Another dawn had broken over Sternwood Grange. The sun was already blazing down, promising a fiercely hot day. Mandy was being bathed and prepared for her training. As an angel, under Erica’s tutelage, she was about to encounter the first of her three test residents. A debriefing would follow, at the end of each trial, at which it would be decided if she had won her spurs.
Towelled, talcumed, and in a pair of tight white panties, Mandy was given a pair of sheer, black, nylon stockings.
‘That is all you will require,’ Erica remarked, appreciating the swell of her pantied cheeks as Mandy stepped into each black nylon and smoothed them up her slender legs.
Fingering the dark band of the stocking-tops, Mandy followed Erica along the length of the Long Gallery. Her heart raced. Would Erica turn to the left, or to the right? Was Mandy going to serve a dominant, or discipline a submissive? Erica strode purposefully ahead, her rippling buttocks giving no hint of which way the cropped blonde was heading. Mandy’s concern grew into curiosity as they passed by the last of the double doors. At the far end of the Long Gallery, Erica unpocketed a key and opened a green-baize door.
‘The Games Room,’ she announced, stepping inside and beckoning Mandy in.
Sunlight streamed in through an oriel window. Through it, Mandy glimpsed the heat haze shimmering above the distant elms. The walls of the room were covered with a dull ochre paper, slightly peeling. A map of Scotland, a sketch of Mozart and a shelf of geological specimens furnished one wall. A bust of Dante, a faded diagram of a Roman amphitheatre and a botanically labelled fern graced another wall. Dusty books on dustier bookshelves lined the third wall. The floor was scrubbed pine. A school desk and a chair, a larger teacher’s desk on a raised platform and a blackboard completed the furniture.
I’m to be a schoolgirl and have my naughty bottom caned, Mandy thought, biting her lower lip.
‘Your cap and gown are over there.’ Erica pointed. ‘Your cane, slipper and strap, together with ink, pens and paper are waiting for you in your desk.’
‘I’m the teacher?’ Mandy squeaked.
Erica nodded briskly. ‘Your submissive loves to relive the harsh delights of her schooldays. Her boarding school was notoriously strict.’
I’m to be the teacher, Mandy repeated silently, a surge of relief coming up through her tightening bosom. My resident will be a submissive – a submissive eager for the stern delights of crisp discipline. She strode across to the peg and took down a black gown. Slipping it on, she failed to cover her near nakedness underneath. The gown flapped open, allowing enticing glimpses of her bare breasts, white panties and black-stockinged thighs.
‘This is the Schoolroom. Your submissive will be arriving shortly. Rowena –’
‘The red-haired angel.’
Mandy nodded.
‘Rowena will be in attendance throughout the entire session,’ Erica continued, drawing a fastidious fingertip along a dusty bookshelf. ‘Photographing your efforts.’
Mandy paused in the process of adjusting a perky mortarboard on her dark, bobbed hair. She looked up. ‘Photographing?’ she queried.
‘Yes. She will take no part whatsoever. Your task is to follow this set of cue cards and entertain your submissive. Rowena will be here merely to record what you achieve.’
‘But the photographs? I don’t understand –’
‘Thirty-five millimetre stills. Sharper than video. We provide each resident with a souvenir of their visit to Sternwood Grange, and the snapshots provide me with evidence of your skills and abilities.’
‘I see.’ Mandy nodded. Her mortarboard slipped and tumbled to the floor. Bending to retrieve it, she saw Rowena silently enter the classroom. Dressed in a skin-tight bodystocking, Rowena’s heavy breasts bounced as she paced over to the oriel window and checked the light source with her meter. A Pentax dangled against her thigh.
‘Better take a look at those,’ Erica said, handing Mandy the cue cards. ‘That’s the scenario you must improvise.’
As Mandy studied the cards, Erica took up a duster and wiped out the past historic of the French verb fouetter, leaving the blackboard clean and the air thickened with chalkdust in the streaming sunlight.
Mandy read the four white cue cards carefully. Moments later, the classroom door opened and a breathless schoolgirl bounded in. A schoolgirl of twenty-six summers, but a schoolgirl nonetheless, wearing a short, grey, pleated skirt; white ankle socks and black sandals; a starched white shirt buttoned firmly at each sleeve and a blue, red and silver striped tie. The long blonde hair, Mandy noticed, was drawn back into severely plaited pigtails. Under the blouse, the outline of the Playtex bra proudly announced the pubescent swell of the Sixth Former’s breasts. The schoolgirl’s green eyes sparkled with expectancy. Mandy noted the lipsticked, slightly sullen mouth. Glancing down at her cue card, she read: LATE FOR SCHOOL.
Erica withdrew silently, slipping out through the sunbeams like a shadow, leaving them swirling in her wake. Rowena levelled her Pentax, remaining invisible in the shadows, her bodystockinged buttocks thrust up against the far wall. Mandy took the lapels of her black gown between pincered finger and thumb of both hands and pulled it forward. Her naked bosom spilled out deliciously, wobbling slightly as she planted her nyloned feet apart.
‘Late?’ she barked.
‘Yes,’ lisped the uniformed blonde, giggling. ‘I stopped to speak with a boy.’
‘Come here, you naughty girl. And is that lipstick I see, hmm?’
The blonde pigtails flounced as the girl mounted the platform, fingering her tie nervously.
‘Not a good start this morning. Bend over.’
The naughty schoolgirl shrugged the leather strap of her satchel down from her left shoulder, faced the teacher’s desk and, bending over, touched the black sandals with splayed fingers. Mandy raised the lid of her oak desk. It squeaked softly. The bending schoolgirl shivered pleasurably. Withdrawing the eighteen-inch cane, Mandy lowered the lid of the desk.
‘Panties,’ she prompted, tap-tapping the sweep of her thigh.
The Pentax clicked as the blue knickers were peeled away from the peach-cheeks. Rowena snapped another shot of the poignant white socks all but buried in the blue serge of the panties snuggling the ankles.
‘We do not speak to common boys,’ Mandy said briskly, swishing the cane across the upturned buttocks. Her pupil suppressed a squeal. ‘We do not come to school late,’ she continued, whipping the cheeks once more with the supple bamboo. ‘And we certainly do not wear lipstick.’ The cane sliced down across the bare bottom for a third time, bringing the pigtailed schoolgirl up on her toes in anguish. The Pentax snapped the three pink stripes as they darkened into crimson against the creamy cheeks.
‘No. Remain bending,’ Mandy instructed, pressing the girl’s neck down dominantly, and controlling her with the cane. ‘Have you done your homework?’
The penitent remained silent.
‘Well? Or am I to take your silence as an admission of your guilt?’ Mandy whispered suavely, bringing to life once more the almost forgotten sarcastic cadences of her own former history mistress.
The schoolgirl shuffled anxiously, squeezing her thighs together.
‘Legs apart. Four strokes.’
The cane caressed the soft swell of the buttocks with intimate severity. Mandy counted out the strokes aloud, swishing the pert bottom accurately and ruthlessly. After dispensing the prescribed punishment, Mandy tapped the sore buttocks with her yellow bamboo cane. ‘Panties up. Go back to your desk. And wipe that lipstick off at once.’
Meekly, the whipped schoolgirl obeyed, stealing a shy glance at Mandy, adoration sparkling in her tear-dimmed green eyes.
The morning progressed satisfactorily. Mandy established and sustained a strict authority and a stern atmosphere in the classroom. After attempting some algebra, the schoolgirl’s fingertips grew inky as she struggled to construe Juvenal in translation. The Latin irregulars caused her much distress, as did the bark of the leather strap several times across her bare bottom.
Lunch was served, during which Rowena withdrew, leaving Mandy to dine from a schoolmistress portion of fried plaice served with boiled potatoes and peas. Imprisoned at her desk, her punished pupil silently munched her packed lunch of a cheese roll, salted crisps and a Mars bar.
Mandy daintily wiped her lips with a napkin. From the desk came the loud slurping sound as the schoolgirl sucked Ribena up through a straw. Mandy raised an eyebrow, silencing the sound.
GYM KIT. Mandy read the next cue card with a slightly puzzled frown. What rich possibilities lay within the potential of those two simple words?
Rowena returned, entering the classroom unobtrusively to occupy the shadows once more, her Pentax primed and eagerly poised, the lens erect and alert.
‘I have received a complaint from Miss Meadows,’ Mandy announced. ‘Girls are attending gym in items of kit other than those prescribed. I understand that one girl came in a silver leotard last week, for which she was soundly chastised. I have decided to hold a snap inspection. Stand up and step over to the wall.’
The wooden chair legs scraped the scrubbed boards as the blonde obeyed, rising from behind her desk and stepping across to the wall below the map of Scotland. She trailed her kit bag reluctantly, dragging it by the tightened drawstring.
‘Undress quickly and get changed into your gym kit. I will come and inspect you when I have completed marking your miserable history test.’
Minutes later, the chalk squawked across the blackboard as Mandy wrote up the correct answers. Reaching up to underline a date, her naked bosom pressed against the blackboard. Mandy gasped softly as her nipples kissed the dark wood, accidentally erasing the first and last O in Marco Polo.
‘Ready?’ Mandy rasped, brushing the chalk from her fingertips.
The schoolgirl was still struggling into her gym kit, hopping on one bare foot as she drew her tiny shorts up over her thighs.
‘Hurry up, girl,’ Mandy ordered, smiling a secret smile at the thought of the black pump she had earlier stolen from the gym bag and hidden in her desk.
‘I can’t find the other one,’ the schoolgirl wailed, her green eyes troubled with sorrow.
‘Search your bag properly.’
The bending blonde rummaged in vain, frantically fingering the corners of the kit bag for the missing pump.
‘You are not property attired for gym. Miss Meadows, quite correctly, is strict in her requirements. You have failed to meet them. Come here, girl.’
Limping in one pump, the reluctant blonde approached Mandy, who sat at her desk, her black gown wide open.
‘Give me that pump,’ Mandy ordered, pointing down at the covered foot. ‘It is quite useless as it is, but I’m sure I’ll find a purpose for it.’
She did, as Rowena’s Pentax recorded. Across Mandy’s black-stockinged thighs, bare bottomed and whimpering, the schoolgirl felt the blaze of the pump against her punished cheeks. Mandy grew sticky during the chastisement, thrilling to the way the spongelike mounds of naked flesh flattened beneath the sweep of the pump, flattened and wobbled, as if soaking up the pain. Nine strokes later, Mandy dragged the ribbed sole of the pump across the crown of each reddened buttock. Her tongue was thick, her throat dry. She battled against an overwhelming urge to kiss the hot hottom, lick it slowly then bury her face into its swollen warmth. No. Not that. Not yet. It would break the spell that bound the submissive to the dominant, the punished to the punisher. Tossing the pump aside, she suggested tea.
Breaktime brought a cup of strong, brown tea and biscuits for the teacher and a glass of milk for the pupil. Mandy gave the schoolgirl two biscuits from her plate but warned her sternly not to make crumbs. After their break, as the rooks slowly returned from their day to circle above the elms, Mandy set the last lesson of the day.
‘I want you to write an essay for me.’
After dictating the title and the length required, Mandy sat at her desk, solemnly filling out the punishment book. The brass nib of her pen flashed orange and gold in the late-afternoon sunshine as she dipped it into the inkwell, tapped the surplus ink off and returned it to the pages of the calfskin-bound volume. The white pages were scored across with thin red lines. Mandy appreciated the sweet irony of the pages echoing the very punishments they recorded: red lines against a pale cream surface. So very much like a whipped bottom. Completing the entry of all the punishments administered that day in the Schoolroom, Mandy signed and dated it. Calling to the schoolgirl, who sat, head bowed at her essay, Mandy instructed her to read and countersign the punishments.
‘Aloud,’ the teacher interrupted sternly, forcing the silent lips to return to the top of the page and, humiliatingly, announce the sufferings of the day.
‘Where do I sign?’ lisped the penitent, pressing her uniformed body closely into the teacher she adored. ‘Here?’
‘No. Leave a space. The day is not yet over.’
Shivering at these words, and at their delicious threat, the pigtailed schoolgirl signed the punishment book, blotted it carefully and padded back across the scrubbed pine floor to her desk.
Mandy peeked at the final cue card. Caught cheating, was all it suggested. Mandy put her mind to the challenge, anxious to make it a memorable session for the submissive. All she had to work with was the folio of erotic prints secreted in the schoolgirl’s desk. But how to bring it into play?
Rising from her desk on the podium, she stepped down and trod the pine floor, circling the girl at her desk with quiet menace. Mandy let her loose black gown part and flap open, exposing her delicious bosom to the chalkdust and sunbeams. Her pink nipples stiffened and rose, thickening with pleasure. From her desk, the schoolgirl stole a furtive peep. Her hand trembled, blotting her essay atrociously. Rowena, plucking at her black stretchy bodystocking where it bit into her cleft, studied the map of Scotland, her Pentax pointing down at the floor, the eye of the lens dull with indifference.
The schoolgirl creaked in her chair as she shifted her weight from one punished cheek on to the other.
‘I will be deducting marks for poor presentation,’ Mandy intoned, ‘and indeed for poor punctuation. But I will deal with any spelling mistakes severely. Most severely.’
The schoolgirl’s pen continued to scratch busily across her page. Rowena silently calculated the distance from Perth to Oban. The rooks fluttered down from the sky into the elms.
Moments later, the lid of the desk squeaked.
Mandy pounced. ‘Cheating? What have we here? A dictionary,’ she thundered, confiscating the small book. ‘And what else have you in that desk that should not be there?’
The schoolgirl paled. Mandy prised up the lid of the desk and unearthed the folio she knew to be there.
‘That’s not mine –’
‘So, what have we here?’ Mandy whispered, ignoring the stammering denials. ‘Danish maidens espied bathing,’ Mandy read, perusing the gold lettering of the title page. ‘A folio of vintage cameos,’ she continued in a tone of studied disgust, ‘depicting the wicked frolics of three naughty maidens and their subsequent chastisement by the governess who discovers their naked antics.’
Rowena turned from the map of Scotland, her fingers tightening around the Pentax.
‘I approve of your appetite for knowledge, girl,’ Mandy purred, ‘but I certainly do not approve of the diet with which you feed it. Stand up this instant.’
The blonde pigtails bounced, as did her ripe breasts imprisoned within the schoolgirl uniform blouse, as the pupil pushed her chair back with a jerk of her bottom and stood up against her desk.
‘Skirt up, knickers down,’ Mandy instructed crisply.
In the gathering shadows of dusk, the snoutlike lens of the Pentax flickered up with interest. Rowena checked the lightmeter and steadied the camera, dropping down on one knee to get a low-angle shot of the bared buttocks.
The schoolgirl bowed her head, her pigtails cascading down over her shoulders. With splayed fingers, she steadied herself at her desk – bare bottomed and apprehensive.
‘Legs back a little, I think,’ Mandy mused. ‘Now bend over. No, more. Give me your naughty bottom, you wicked little wretch.’
As her instructions were obeyed, Mandy slipped the folio down on to the desk, beneath the troubled gaze of the wide, green eyes of the schoolgirl.
‘You find the contents of this forbidden album fascinating, no doubt. Perhaps you would be good enough to share your keen interest with me, hmm? Tell me exactly what you see as I turn the pages, girl.’
Mandy flipped over the purple vellum binding, opening the album to reveal the first of ten sepia prints.
‘Well?’ Mandy demanded, tapping the print impatiently with her index finger. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘It is a picture of a young woman. A young woman disrobing. You can see her bottom,’ came the lisping reply.
Smack. Mandy spanked the curved, up-thrust cheeks of the bending girl. Flipping over the next page, she ordered the spanked girl to continue.
Almost drowned out by the whirring of the Pentax, the schoolgirl lisped a husky description, explaining how the naked bather was now thigh-deep in the pool, the waters lapping at the swell of her wide, white buttocks.
Again, the spanking hand swept down across the naked bottom, cracking sharply against the peach-cheeks and reddening them instantly with a second stamp of pain. The Pentax clicked its greedy fill, capturing the exact moment when the palm seared the soft cheeks: the knuckled fingers gripping the desktop, the bounce of the schoolgirl’s breasts in the bondage of the tight blouse, the flounce of the pigtails as the girl jerked in anguish.
‘Next page.’
The inquisition, stammered response and attendant punishment continued slowly and methodically. As the pages of the album were turned, the tearful schoolgirl described each sepia print in detail, her voice growing more excited by the minute. She described the nude bather splashing her breasts with the icy water, the arrival and undressing of a second bather, then a third. Exact details were demanded. How the breasts differed in size and shape. How one bottom was heavily fleshed, the second apple-buttocked, the third a mouthwatering peach. Mandy arrived at the sixth print. The spanked girl, her voice a tense whisper, described how wet breasts were cupped and squeezed, bottoms caressed, parted thighs explored by inquisitive fingers. Mandy scalded the reddening buttocks of the bending schoolgirl with three severe spanks and turned over to page seven. It showed the arrival of an angry governess.
The girl described the governess, detailing the tall, forbidding beauty buttoned up tightly in shining black bombazine. The severe bun of hair, the cruel mouth, the gloved hands. In the gloved right hand, the schoolgirl whispered – her voice taut with arousal – was a dog whip.
‘They are being ordered out of the pool. The whip is pointing to the reedbank.’
‘And?’ Mandy spanked her again.
‘You can see their bottoms.’
‘Continue.’ Mandy spanked again.
Mandy was told how the first naked young female was already up on the mossy lawn, shivering and shielding her bosom, exposing her exquisite delta below. The second nude, water dripping from her spilling breasts, was scrambling up the bank. The third was staring in fear at the dog whip.
‘They are afraid. The governess is so angry.’
Again, the pupil’s hot bottom joggled beneath the teacher’s spanking palm.
‘And here?’ Mandy demanded, revealing the tenth and final sepia print.
The spanked schoolgirl gasped. Gazing down, she saw the three naked bathers, arranged thigh to thigh, bending. Their bottoms faced the camera, each pair of cheeks already adorned with the imprint of the dog whip, each pair of cheeks sporting several stripes. Above the whipped buttocks, the gloved hand of the governess gripped the supple lash.
Mandy stepped back a pace as, grunting thickly, her pupil collapsed down over the desk, thrusting her buttocks up and crushing her bosom into the front edge of her desk. Mandy – and Rowena behind her whirring Pentax – saw the schoolgirl’s spanked cheeks spasm and dimple as they were clenched in orgasm: mewing softly, the pupil ground her hot slit into the sepia print and came.
Mandy allowed the orgasm to run its violent course to a softly screamed climax, then gathered up both pigtails, wrapped them around her wrist, and peeled the spent blonde pupil away from her desk.
‘Just look at what you’ve done to that print. The print of those three naughty girls being whipped. You’ve ruined it. You’ve smeared it with your sticky juices, you wicked little wretch. This,’ Mandy whispered fiercely, ‘I fear, means a very special punishment. One that I cannot possibly enter into the punishment book but one which –’ she tugged at the pigtails, turning the green eyes around to gaze into her stern blue stare ‘– will be a lesson your bare bottom is never, ever going to forget.’
‘Come in.’
Mandy, showered and suppered, entered Erica’s lair. It was spartanly furnished with clinical chrome and black leather. No velvet, damask or chintz softened the harsh tone. Austerity was the keynote, severity the achievement.
‘Your debriefing. Rowena’s first rush of prints are out. Let us examine your first day’s work. Together. Closely.’
Erica was eating a late supper of celery stalks and Stilton. She napkined her lips fastidiously and wiped her fingers.
‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ she murmured, leafing through the glossy blow-ups. ‘But look. Here. Your first mistake. Flip the hem of the skirt up with the tip of the cane. It is a more dominant approach. And here,’ Erica continued, worrying a stray sliver of celery with her tongue tip, ‘another mistake. The panties of the punished should always be drawn down to a restricting band at the knees. It bunches the buttocks beautifully and hobbles the victim, rendering her more helpless. Understand?’
Mandy, mesmerised momentarily by the blow-ups laid out before her, blinked and nodded.
‘Now here,’ Erica murmured, pausing to suck at a tooth, ‘you should have touched the bottom with your hand.’
Mandy gazed down across the cropped blonde’s shoulder to see.
‘Count the stripes which you have just administered. Count them aloud, and use your fingertip. The touch of flesh upon flesh, at this stage of the domination and discipline, is yearned for by the submissive. But be careful of any display of tenderness. It is too soon for that. A dominant touch to the whipped cheeks will suffice.’
‘I understand,’ Mandy whispered.
‘Now this, this was excellent.’
Mandy preened herself.
‘Excellent.’ Erica had discovered the gym-kit sequence. The Pentax had captured everything: including a big close-up of the anxious schoolgirl scrabbling for the missing pump, her teeth biting down pensively into her lower lip. ‘Quite inspired,’ Erica enthused, nodding approvingly. ‘We’ll make an angel of you yet. Hiding the pump and using the other one for punishment. A neat touch. Yes, I like that.’
Mandy felt a surge of pride welling up inside her. The next shots showed the schoolgirl accepting a biscuit and dipping it into her milk. Erica thoroughly approved, saying it was an authentic gesture between teacher and pupil, but one that sustained the power balance between the dominatrix and her charge.
The inquisition, punishment and subsequent climax over – and into – the album of erotic prints captured by the Pentax were studied carefully. Erica pronounced her verdict.
‘Magnificent,’ she sighed, lingering over a huge close-up of the spanked cheeks frozen in their spasm of orgasm. ‘The mistress will be pleased.’
The mistress. Mandy felt a flash of anger wipe out her glow of triumphant pride. She detested the very sound of the word.
‘Keep them,’ Erica said, passing up the snapshots.
Mandy looked at her inquiringly.
‘You can have that set as a trophy. You can learn so much from them. Study them closely when you are in bed, tonight. You will find them quite diverting, no doubt,’ Erica chuckled darkly, her teeth closing down over a freshly salted stick of erect celery.
The next day, Erica led Mandy once more along the carpeted length of the Long Gallery. Once more, Mandy was ushered into one of the many Games Rooms behind the locked, green-baize door.
She found herself standing in a prison dungeon. The rough sandstone walls loomed up, windowless, to an oppressive granite roof. Flickering torches provided a mean but adequate source of light. Sand had been sprinkled on the floor, rendering all footsteps silent. Mandy, dressed by Erica in a simple white robe, examined the few furnishings: a full-length looking glass fixed to the far wall, steel rings fixed to the wall and suspended from the roof, a pair of wooden stools and a whipping post.
‘No cue cards for you today. Your brief is simple.’
Slave or mistress, Mandy wondered, a trickle of sweat glistening on her temples.
‘This is the antechamber where captive slaves are prepared for the harem.’
Slave, Mandy shuddered. I’m to be the slave girl, utterly at the whim of some dominant resident. She looked at the whipping post and felt the spiders of alarm scurrying across her buttocks.
‘Today, you will be pleasuring another submissive. I think you have a flair for games of dominance and discipline. You will be preparing the captive for the harem. Invest the session with your full imagination. Deny her nothing and do not spare her the opportunity to taste the bittersweet delights she craves. Rowena will be here to record your achievements.’
Mandy, relieved, simply nodded.
‘Keep in mind these three words: humiliation, bondage and punishment. Yearn to see her weep her tears of sugared sorrow just as passionately as she yearns for your strict word, your stern voice and your severe touch.’
Mandy swept her hand down to the base of her belly and thumbed her slit absently as Erica spoke. Her labial lips responded to her touch: parting and pouting, they briefly kissed the cotton of her simple robe.
The door to the dungeon opened, admitting a shaft of light. Breaking the shaft of light, in stepped Rowena, her Pentax swinging from its black leather strap. Prepared for the heat of the dungeon, the redhead was scantily dressed in a pale-blue bikini. The underwired cups gave her a deep, inviting cleavage, bunching the rounded breasts up into delicious flesh-mounds. Mandy felt her hot slit-juice, and silently wished Rowena were hers for the day, hers to slowly strip, examine and bind to the whipping post.
Erica was pulling at the rings in the wall, ensuring that they were securely embedded. ‘Surprising how frenzied a whipped nude can become,’ she purred, ‘when struggling to escape the lash she deeply desires.’
Mandy considered this paradox. Looking up, she shivered as she saw the cropped blonde walk past the whipping post. Turning her body deliberately towards the post, Erica grazed her pubis against the leather-cladding and grunted a soft, animal moan.
‘I will bring you your submissive,’ Erica whispered, crushing her bosom into the post and fluttering her hands down along its phallic length. ‘She will come to you naked. See to it that when she departs she is wearing red stripes of sorrow and is dressed in the pleasures of pain.’ She left.
Rowena ran her splayed fingers through her red hair and spoke, breaking the sultry silence after Erica’s departure. ‘Hot in here,’ she observed laconically. ‘And you’ll be making things even warmer for your submissive.’
Mandy looked up and grinned, but Rowena was engrossed in her Pentax. The submissive entered the room, blinking in the unaccustomed darkness. Mandy noted that she was wide hipped – always the promise of heavily fleshed buttocks – and blessed with a firm, ripe bosom. The naked woman’s nipples were already thick and dark. Turning, the nude briefly presented Mandy with a glimpse of her plump bottom: as Mandy had anticipated, the cheeks were superbly swollen. Mandy felt the pulse at her neck quicken. In her dry mouth, her tongue grew heavy and slow. Swallowing silently, Mandy examined the arrival’s beauty. It was the bloom of a thirty-three-year-old in the summer of her splendour. The limbs were lithe and supple, the hands daintily small. Mandy paused to take in the glory of the dark, tumbling curls and, set on the pale face, the look of shy eagerness. Mandy’s stern gaze came to rest on the dark pubic curls – and then on the darker eyes, already swimming in liquid desire.
‘You are here to learn how to serve and please my master,’ Mandy said, her tone curt. ‘My master has turned his harem into a temple of pleasure.’
Deliberately ignoring the submissive brunette, Mandy turned to examine the contents arranged on a silver tray. She picked up and scrutinized a curled whip – holding the leather up to the flickering torchlight – and then fingered an ivory dildo before sniffing with satisfaction at pots of cream and phials of scented oils.
The woman grew restless, shaking her dark curls impatiently as she plucked at her left nipple.
‘But before you have the privilege of surrendering yourself for his delight, and the fierce joys of his crimson couch, you must be thoroughly prepared. Trained and prepared in the arts of pleasure and lust. Be warned, slave. If you fail in any way to please my master, then you fail to please me. And, if you fail me, I will punish you severely. Go before the glass,’ Mandy instructed, pointing to the full-length mirror. ‘Let us see what fruits of the flesh you bring to the banquet before you.’
The brunette obeyed, shivering with delicious dread as Mandy tapped her bare bottom with the coiled whip. In the glass, the dark eyes widened as they gazed into their own reflection. Mandy, her white cotton grazing the swollen cheeks of the nude’s bottom, stood dominantly behind.
‘Your eyes,’ she instructed. ‘Keep them cast down when in the presence of my master. A bold gaze is insolent and will be dealt with harshly. Better to keep your eyes lowered,’ Mandy whispered softly, ‘than tightly shut against the kiss of the crop.’
Rowena, fingering her bra strap to keep the bikini cups comfortably in place, positioned herself at an angle, pointing her Pentax into the mirroring glass. As Mandy tapped the captive’s chin with the stock of the coiled whip, tilting the slave’s head back to keep her in thrall, the Pentax snapped twice.
‘Your mouth, slave, must remain silent, except to scream your delight. No words must be uttered, no questions asked. But you may moan. However,’ Mandy continued, ‘you must not keep your mouth closed when in my master’s bed.’ Using the tip of the whip handle as a lipstick, Mandy dragged the slave’s lower lip down. ‘My master may wish to use your mouth for pleasures other than discourse.’
Continuing her inspection of the naked slave, Mandy dropped the whip down on to the warm sand. Encircling the brunette from behind, she cupped, weighed and then dominantly squeezed the ripe breasts.
‘Melons. You bring melons to my master’s banquet. That is good. When feasting, my master likes all fruits fully ripe.’
The brunette shuddered and clamped her thighs tightly together.
‘Fine, broad hips,’ Mandy murmured, framing their outline with her palms. ‘Again, that is good. My master will ride you like a desert steed. He prefers firm flesh between his thighs when he is asaddle. Your buttocks,’ Mandy purred, spinning the brunette around briskly and presenting the bare bottom to the glass, ‘are superb. You bring rare fruits to the feast before you. My master cannot pass over the plumpness of peaches.’
The Pentax snapped three times as Mandy palmed and gripped the bare cheeks in her taloned fingers. Placing her hands on the brunette’s shoulders, Mandy turned her round again to face the glass.
‘What fruit have we overlooked?’ she whispered.
In silence, the brunette fingered her dark pubic curls.
‘Yes,’ whispered Mandy. ‘Sticky dates, split figs or dark, oozing plums. My master feeds greedily on such delicacies as these. What do you bring to tempt his fingers and tongue? Is it a sticky date?’ Mandy prised the labia apart expertly. The brunette squealed. ‘Or is it a split fig?’ The labia opened out, the flesh-lips already wet with pleasure. ‘Or is it a dark, oozing plum?’
The Pentax devoured the images of submission and subjugation fixed and frozen in the glass.
‘Remember, slave, when pleasing and pleasuring my master, no part of you must be denied to him. He has an appetite for all fruits, especially those that are forbidden.’
The nude moaned and buckled slightly at the knees. Mandy scooped up the whip and directed her captive across to the rings on the wall. They were fixed at a height of seven feet above the floor. Mandy arranged the slave so that each wrist threaded through and was then bound to the rings. Mandy dismounted from the wooden stool and stood before her spread-eagled prize.
‘My master has a splendid hawk,’ she began. ‘It gives him endless pleasure. But the hawk has to be blindfold and rendered mute, or else it grows wilful and rebellious. You, slave, will of course taste the lash if you grow wilful, but like my master’s prized hawk, perhaps you will benefit from a blindfold and a gag.’
Both were provided by strips of red velvet which proved effective when applied to the dark eyes and red lips. Suddenly denied the power of sight and speech, the bound nude wriggled and writhed. Mandy stilled the dancing feet with a caress of the whip. The terrified toes stiffened and pointed down in obedient submission.
‘Sweetmeats will be served when you are on the couch of pleasure,’ Mandy explained, crossing the dungeon to collect a silver tray. Returning, she remounted the stool and passed a succession of sticky morsels beneath the quivering nostrils.
‘Spiced lamb, aromatic rice, honeycombs cleaved open and almond nougat will be served,’ she promised, her voice now warm and urgent, ‘but only if you please him.’
The slave craned her neck, eager to taste the delights despite the velvet that sealed her lips tightly.
‘Fail to please, slave, and you will dine on dry bread and bitter herbs – bitter as the sorrow you will feel as the scourge stripes your buttocks.’
The brunette tongued her gag in mounting excitement. Mandy returned the tray of sweetmeats and exchanged it for another. Placing it down carefully on the sanded floor, she selected one of many small porcelain pots. Mounting her stool, Mandy opened the pot and placed it under the suspended slave’s nose.
‘Thickened oil of attar,’ she whispered.
Beneath the blindfold, the nostrils flared as they drew in the heady scent.
‘To lubricate those orifices my master may choose to probe with his curiosity, with his lust.’
Despite her bondage, which pinned her helplessly against the wall, the nude seemed to shrink back at the touch of the perfumed oil at her gleaming slit. Mandy stroked the lower labia gently, working the unction into the flesh. The nude grunted into her gag. Reaching around the left hip, Mandy fingered and anointed the rosebud sphincter buried between the heavy cheeks. As her oiled fingertip probed the anal whorl, the slave threshed helplessly.
‘My master will treat you like a captured city,’ Mandy continued suavely, over the whirr of the excited Pentax. ‘When a captured city is breached,’ she hissed, ‘be warned: no gate remains closed to the victor.’
The Pentax snapped three times: freezing the images of the nude twisting and jerking to avoid the oiled finger at her sphincter, of Mandy mastering her slave, and of the finger sliding dominantly between the clenched cheeks.
‘When it pleases my master to do so, he will turn your face down into the satin cushions. Crop in hand, he will straddle you and ride you, ride you fiercely as if racing the wind. A small show of modesty is permitted, for it will serve to sharpen his keen desire. But be warned, my master can be cruel in his pleasures. They say that, when out hunting, he enjoys the quivering terror of his quarry, and savours the despair of cornered, helpless prey. And they say that his laughter is demonic when he spears the captive flesh, driving home his shaft to the very hilt to impale and quell the struggling victim.’
The brunette almost swooned. Mandy pinched each nipple swiftly, bringing the slave to alert attention. Perched up on the footstool, Mandy untied the submissive, only to march her halfway across the sanded floor and retie her to the single ring suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Removing the blindfold – but not the gag – Mandy turned the dangling nude to face her.
‘I must make you familiar with the prowess of my master. His fame sweeps through the harem before him like the crackling flames of a wheatfield on fire. You should, I think,’ Mandy said, as if considering an option and deciding in favour of it, ‘be given a taste of his brute manhood.’
She padded softly across the floor, her toes leaving faint footprints impressed in the sand, and scooped up the ivory phallus. The heat in the dungeon made her loose gown stick to the moist warmth of her breasts and buttocks. She plucked at it, peeling it away from her nipples and cleft. Over in the shadows, crouched behind her Pentax, Rowena was taking aim. In the flickering torchlight, Mandy spied a soft gleam of flesh. The redhead had abandoned her bikini top. Her loose breasts glistened beneath their sheen of sweat. Mandy, her hot slip now throbbing, returned to the naked slave in her bondage.
“This,’ she explained, raising the dildo aloft, ‘is my master’s prowess. It is a likeness taken directly from the original.’
The gasp of the slave was audible through the velvet at her lips as the dildo was pressed against her left breast. Mandy teased the nipple, then transferred the ivory shaft to the right breast. Mandy squashed the pliant globe of flesh beneath the hard dildo. The chain rattled as the nude threshed in response. Tracing the snout down across the flat belly, Mandy paused before gliding it down over the clitoris to stroke, and splay, the labia.
The Pentax whirred as Rowena took her shot. Mandy glanced down and saw the redhead’s toes scrunching the sand excitedly. Looking back up at her slave, into the widening, dark eyes, Mandy gripped the nude and turned her around, presenting the heavy buttocks for her inspection.
‘In a moment I shall whip you.’
The chain rattled as the nude shuddered in anguish.
‘I shall whip you to give you a taste of the harsh pleasures of serving my master, of surrendering and submitting yourself to him completely. And,’ Mandy said, dropping her voice to a venomous whisper, ‘of the sweet agony you shall suffer if you should fail in the harem.’
The slave moaned, her long legs threshed in midair, the thighs welded into one flesh. Mandy glimpsed the nude’s toes scrabbling five inches above the sand.
‘Open your thighs,’ she commanded.
Slowly, reluctantly, the slave obeyed.
‘You have the beauty, the flesh-fruits, to both inflame and quench my master’s desire. But have you the stamina? Have you the dedication? I shall place this here,’ she murmured, inserting the dildo into the cleft between the heavy buttocks. ‘Hold it there, hold it there while I whip you. Let it fall, and we shall go back to the beginning and repeat the entire exercise. Many times, if necessary. Here in the desert,’ Mandy whispered, ‘time is erased like the sand dunes before the winds of eternity.’
A soft sound in the shadows caused Mandy to pause. Looking across into the gloom, she saw Rowena cover the Pentax carefully with her bikini bottom before kneeling down on the sand. Head bowed, her bare bottom burying her heels as she squatted, the red-haired girl thrust her hands between her slightly parted thighs. Mandy smiled and understood, tugging her white robe away from her own sticky labia. A surge of burning pride seared through her veins. Brought here to witness and record Mandy’s emerging skills in domination and discipline, Rowena was already kneeling in admiration – in participation – in masturbatory celebration.
Turning, Mandy snapped her short whip before flicking it leisurely across the swell of the heavy cheeks. They spasmed under the lash, trapping the phallic shaft deep inside the hot cleft. A thin red line burned across the creamy gobes where the whip had kissed the naked flesh. Mandy jerked her supple wrist, flicking the whip once more, lick-lashing the bare bottom. Still the dildo remained trapped between the squeezed cheeks of the punished nude. Four more times, Mandy plied the cruel lash, crack-snapping the length of dead hide across the living flesh. The brunette’s bottom blazed beneath the strokes, but the dildo remained clenched between the whipped cheeks. Over in the shadows, Rowena buckled forward and came – her groan of ecstasy echoing around the dungeon.
The brunette, stretched out across the sand, was tightly bound with eight lengths of waxed cord. It secured her ankles, burned into her wrists, bit into her thighs and buttocks and bound her swollen bosom. Rendered helpless and utterly motionless in her strict bondage, the slave listened eagerly as Mandy read aloud.
‘Should these pitiful pages ever fall into Christian hands, let it be known by all who knew me for a daughter of decency and a child of chastity that I, Leonora of Palermo, did not go willingly to the couch of the Mamaluke lord. It was misfortune upon misfortune that brought me to his bed of burning shame …’
Mandy had elected to read from the papers smuggled out of a Zanzibar seraglio. Penned by an unfortunate noblewoman who had fallen into the rapacious clutches of a Mamaluke warlord in 1732, they provided a dire warning to spirited European ladies intent on travelling into uncharted seas and across unmapped lands east of the Bosphorus.
Binding her naked, oiled slave in the strictest ropes of bondage, Mandy was reading the selected extracts as a warning to the brunette of the rigours of the harem – and the painful punishments awaiting anyone contemplating rebellion among the scented, satin cushions. Equally captivated, though free from the bite of searing hemp, Rowena listened enthralled as Mandy read on.
‘After the second shipwreck,’ Mandy continued, ‘and our base betrayal at the hands of hired Janissaries, I was led here in chains, in servitude, to this nest of perfumed vice, this Garden of Excess where even sin is perfumed. The gross Mamaluke toyed with me at first, marvelling at the whiteness of my skin, the firmness of my bosom which he likened to ripened apples, the music of my occidental voice, the swell of my buttocks which recalled to him the moon above the Nile. My bottom, dear reader, provoked much excitement in him. He would stroke me firmly there with his open palm, squeezing and cupping the flesh for his dark delight. I shudder at the memory of his rough hands, strong fingers, sucking lips, leathery tongue and eager teeth. Yes, his mouth did taste me and his teeth did eat me as if my buttocks were cold viands spread out for his supper. The European bottom, I later learnt, when bared, has a less pronounced swell than that of duskier maidens. I swear, dear reader of my tale of woe, that I fought hard for my modesty and struggled for my virtue but he had a short whip to hand and plied it freely across my naked cheeks. It was as if he were breaking in a wild horse taken from the desert beyond the Atlas mountains. After the whip had visited my flesh for the third time, I succumbed. I succumbed, I admit, and surrendered. Once more of my nakedness did he eat, tonguing me in nameless places as if I were a roasted fowl. To my eternal shame, a dark, disturbing sense of pleasure –’
The slave moaned. Placing the papers down, Mandy moved across and examined the bound nude, checking her cords and the tightness of their knots. A thin rope hugged the belly, disappeared between the thighs and tightened as it coursed up the cleft between the buttocks and arrowed up the spine. Bending, Mandy inspected the waxed cord at the labia. With her fingers, she inched it directly over the wet flesh-lips so that it tormented the slit within. The rope pressed down into the clitoris – Mandy saw to that – causing the slave to whimper. Mandy sternly silenced the nude and resumed her reading beneath the flickering torchlight.
‘His tongue drove deep within me, forming strange fancies to haunt my brain. Fancies young virgins admit to when whispering their confessions – and for which they are later scourged by nuns with rods of supple willow. My strongest and most wicked fancy was that I was upon a horse – a muscled beast of Satan – with no cloth or leather betwixt my naked flanks and the steed’s hot flesh. I whipped the stallion on and on, until he bolted in a frenzy, rendering the most private and secret parts of my body as hot as a coal plucked from Hell. This, and betimes other dark fancies, clouded my mind and dimmed my proper judgement. I confess to this quite openly. I confess –’
The slave writhed. The cord ravished her clitoris; the slave moaned sweetly. Rigid in her thrall of roped bondage, the merest twitch brought sweet torments to her naked flesh.
‘When I came round from my lust-drugged stupor,’ Mandy read, her voice a silky whisper, ‘I knew from the burning pleasure in my private parts that I had endured the Mamaluke to enact enormous indignities and outrages upon my person. It was not I upon a horse I half-dreamed of, it was he upon me, whip in hand, riding me to the very edge of Heaven through the gates of Hell. Whip in hand, and with the usage of my hair as reins, he rode me on his crimson couch of shame. He lashed my buttocks and then ventured deep inside them with his long sword of manhood. I cried for pity, my tears soon staining the satin cushions as I buried my face in shame. But shame soon ceded to a dark, devilish delight.’
Mandy paused, allowing her closing words to linger and haunt the fevered minds of the listeners. Pitilessly disregarding the wriggling slave stretched out across the sand, she resumed the final part of the reading.
‘He deflowered me daily, often more so, spearing me with his extraordinary shaft of flesh both at sunrise and then again at sunset, changing his choice of access to my innermost flesh at whim. My hands, my hair, my very mouth itself were used to satisfy and sate his demonic appetites. But it was, dear reader, under the cold gaze of the Zanzibar moon that he took possession of me in that most forbidden place – that place some speak in whispered tones of as the Jewel of Sodom. Yes, it is true, for it was there that he enjoyed me to the utmost of his heathen carnality. And always, always, I shivered under the shadow of his raised whip.’
In the concluding passage, Mandy recounted how, when whipped, the Mamaluke would prise open the wretched captive to see if she, like the oyster that bore the prized pearl upon the ocean bed, was wet and sparkling. The final sentence was a forlorn sentiment.
‘Here I weep in my prison of shame, ready to bear the keen stripes across my bare buttocks as the zebra is fabled to wear the stripes of Nature’s rod.’
Mandy closed the pages and set them aside. Kneeling over the bound brunette, she thumbed the slave’s nipples slowly, then guided her fingers down to the weeping fig below. The flesh was glistening.
The Pentax clicked hungrily as, bending closer to her squirming victim, Mandy licked at the rope-tormented labia with her thickened tongue.
‘This tongue that spoke from those pages,’ Mandy murmured, working her lips into the hot slit, ‘is now speaking to your flesh.’
Jerking in her bondage, the brunette screamed and came.
Exhausted and utterly spent, the brunette, still bound, slept deeply. Mandy sat on the sand floor in silence, slowly contemplating her submissive charge. Had the session been successful? What would the photos show? Was she truly skilled enough to be an angel? Would her late aunt have applauded her efforts?
The slave stirred and moaned softly.
‘You are awake now,’ Mandy said, ‘but not entirely free from suffering.’
The brunette’s dark eyes flashed up fearfully. Sorrow framed her sensual lips into an anxious pout. Mandy squatted down alongside the bound nude and slowly unpicked the knots securing the searing ropes. Unleashed, the slave rolled over, squashing first her heavy breasts and then her broad buttocks into the sand.
‘A message from my master. You are not yet ready for his divan of desire. You have much to learn,’ she purred, ‘your lesson in pain must continue.’
The brunette shrank back in the sand, scrabbling in retreat from Mandy’s tone – and look – of venomed velvet.
‘Up,’ came the promise of imminent pain. ‘You will be pleased to learn that my master has kindly supplied me with the instrument for your punishment. See how he attends to the smallest detail, even in the matter of your continuing sorrow. Look,’ she cried, flourishing a silver slipper. ‘This is for you. For your bottom. You will bend and I will beat. Feel it,’ Mandy enthused, tossing it down. ‘Crush the leather to your bosom.’
Snatching at the slipper, the brunette caught it clumsily. Obediently, she brought the supple sole to her nipples.
‘The silvered hide is snakeskin, the sole is fashioned from the hide of a Barbary goat. Give me the slipper,’ Mandy ordered, her tone strengthening to one of stern command.
The brunette peeled the slipper away from her bosom and surrendered it to the waiting hand above.
‘Bend over. Part your legs a little. No, take your hands away. Put them up to your breasts. That’s right. Cup them. Good. Now squeeze them in time to the strokes.’
The bending nude’s elbows angled as she cupped her spilling breasts, capturing and containing their weight in her sweating palms. Mandy lightly brushed the sparkle of sand sticking to the swell of the proffered cheeks, briskly dusting the curved buttocks with her knuckles. The soft bottom clenched in a spasm of anguish.
‘Kiss the slipper, you miserable wretch,’ Mandy instructed.
Tossing her cascade of dark curls, the brunette raised her face to plant her thick lips on to the supple hide.
The punishment was slowly dispensed, each of the fifteen strokes searching out and scalding every inch of the upturned cheeks. Before the twelfth blistering swipe, both punisher and punished bowed before the implaccable surge of an approaching climax: as the slipper kissed the crimson buttocks for the fifteenth time, both punisher and punished buckled into their slit-searing orgasms.
Erica had completed her supper of grilled mushrooms on toast and was sipping a glass of Médoc.
That’s my wine, you bitch, Mandy silently seethed, noting the vintage and the provenance of the prized red. You’ve no right to be here, in Sternwood Grange, drinking -
‘I’ve seen the photos,’ Erica began, putting her glass down beside her chair.
Mandy set aside her suppressed rage and listened. A pause ensued. The pause became a silence. Mandy grew anxious. Had she failed? Had she failed to fully pleasure the submissive slave this afternoon, in the hot dungeon?
‘Excellent. Quite excellent,’ Erica murmured, inspecting the snapshots for a fourth time. ‘The weaknesses in your technique are of no importance and can be soon ironed out.’
She listed Mandy’s errors and mistakes, illustrating each one with a graphic black and white blow-up.
‘When examining the naked subject, especially in front of a mirror, don’t omit to rasp your pubis down across their buttocks. It is a supreme gesture of domination and suitably establishes the relationship between a dominatrix and her naked slave. Peculiar to the female, of course, but most effective. And,’ Erica continued, ‘drag down the lower lip and keep it depressed. It deprives the victim of her power of speech. Humiliating, is it not?’
Mandy nodded.
‘Yes, this was good. But with the sweetmeats, in future, I would like you to remove the gag. Not the blindfold,’ Erica stipulated, ‘just the gag. Allow the tantalised a brief taste – the merest lick – of each morsel.’
Grudgingly, Mandy had to secretly agree that Erica was a superb dominatrix. The cropped blonde sipped her Médoc.
‘What about –’
‘The reading?’ Erica asked, anticipating Mandy’s question. ‘As for the reading, let the submissive read from the text. Be sure to punish her should she falter or stumble over tricky foreign vowels.’
Again, Mandy bowed – literally – to Erica’s judgement.
Erica continued. ‘The good points, indeed the excellent aspects of your session today are as follows: the phallus wedged between the cheeks during the whipping, thumbing the victim in her bondage, pacing and delaying her climax – these were superb touches of domination, discipline and humiliation. I particularly recommend your control of her orgasm. And the snake skin slipper …’ Erica’s voice drowned in her own dark laughter. ‘A delicious touch. Yes, my girl, I can safely report to the mistress that you brought your submissive down a tortured path signposted towards desire, which twisted slowly through the fields of dread and meadows of despair.’
Mandy sighed her relief. Fearful of Erica, indeed despising the cropped blonde, she held the cruel witch in grudging respect. For Erica was a priestess in the dark arts of domination.
‘There is only one thing that puzzles me,’ Erica murmured, sipping again from her expensive Medoc. There appears to be something of a time-lapse. Look. I have no photos between here –’ she held up a snap ‘– and here.’ She held up another.
No, you don’t, do you. Mandy smiled secretly in her triumph. You won’t find any photos there, bitch, because I was so good down in the dungeon I even made Rowena come right then and there.
‘Probably changing her film,’ Mandy ventured.
‘Probably,’ Erica echoed, far from persuaded. ‘But it is surprising. Talking of surprises, I have one planned for you tomorrow.’