Life At Aunt Julia’s: Neurosis, Frustration, An Aunt And Three Stripes

She awoke with a start, something had awoken her yet there seemed nothing to account for the disturbance. For a while she seemed to be experiencing a strangely familiar disorientation; she lay lost, floating in a sort of confused and misguided Déjà vu. Her surroundings, the childish nursery-style wallpaper, floppy-eared bunnies, all pink and grey, the matching curtains and flounced bed cover, the children’s glitter-star spangled mobile hanging over the bed, all were familiar and yet strange. She was home yet not at home. Three months it had been since her father’s passing, three months of cosseted residence with her ‘aunt’. Still there was this oddly disorientating atmosphere, a dream-like quality that accompanied each awakening and that she couldn’t quite pin down nor shake off; the world around her, the safe yet narrow little world she shared with her therapist and her aunt, seemed in a constant state of flux. Forever familiar, reassuringly nostalgic, yet strange, isolated, forever strange, a waking-dream almost.

Not that Aunt Julia’s home had been unfamiliar to her when she had moved in; many were the times over that terrible six months of her father’s suffering that Susan had taken a break here. At first it had been just for the occasional weekend, providing her with a short, but nevertheless essential, respite from the constant worry, friction and stress of her home life. Gradually such visits had become a semi-regular part of her life, evolving and lengthening into vacations of, at first, a week and then of two weeks. Over these last three months, though, ever since the day of the funeral in fact, things had been different. She had taken up a semi-permanent residence with her aunt, not that she would have wanted to have imposed upon Julia,. Indeed such an accusation could hardly have been levied; the woman’s invitation had been insistent to say the least, a refusal would never have been accepted nor had it ever been an option.

In all this time Susan had yet to return home; there was dread there. There were memories there that she just didn’t have the strength to face, not yet. There had been experiences there that she had little enthusiasm to relive. And she didn’t have to. She didn’t have to face those things, relive those dark days. Aunt Julia would deal with it all, she had made that much clear; she wasn’t going to allow Susan to face it. For her part, Susan didn’t want any link with that time and, with aunt Julia’s encouragement, she was trying her best to blank it out, all of it, at least for the time being.

She had thought about having some of her clothes and other personal belongings brought over but with her characteristic indecision and procrastination had still to do so.

Not that she would have had to have been personally involved; Julia had said from the start that she would be happy to organise it, yet somehow, for one reason or another, the opportunity never seemed to arise, the chore always seemed to get postponed. Then again, Julia had tended to discourage it and Susan’s councillor, an acquaintance of Aunt Julia’s, tended to concur. The consensus of opinion was that, for the immediate future, she cut herself off from anything and everything pertaining to her old life. For the immediate future isolation was to be her restorative, isolation would provide her with the space she required if she was to grow, if she was to progress beyond this point.

What with the hurried arrangements and the distressing occasion Susan had been unable to bring much with her; Julia had insisted that they depart immediately after the funeral and would broach no argument. After the first couple of weeks or so the few things that Susan had brought during her previous sojourns to Julia’s home had become somewhat overdue at the laundry. The clothes she had arrived in, a her funeral outfit, had quickly been labelled as unsuitable and packed well away, Julia saying, quite rightly, that it was probably better they be out of sight and out of mind.

A temporary solution had been proposed in the shape of an old tennis dress. This was an oddly dated-looking A-line panelled style in white cotton that came with matching and daintily frilled white knickers and that was decorated over the left breast by embroidery work in green and gold thread. The latter formed what seemed to be some sort of badge consisting of a heraldic shield upon which was what appeared, bizarrely, to be a depiction of an open textbook crossed diagonally from either side by what looked like two traditional crook-handled school canes, the whole being surmounted by a Latin motto.

Some days she remained in her nightdress but to sit out in the garden or to attend the lessons Julia had organised for her, Julia having enlisted the help of a home tutor, it was always that old tennis dress. There was often talk of a shopping trip and the purchase of a new wardrobe for her, yet, somehow, it never seemed to quite materialise. Likewise the few things she had kept at Julia’s never seemed to have found their way home from the laundry.

She never felt the need to question these developments, her life had just settled into a comfortable, easy, routine; in a way she felt too comfortable to question. Indeed, she was loath to talk about, or even think about, anything that might threaten to freshen the memory of the dark period that had gone before. Subconsciously she was doing anything possible to avoid thinking about that awful day, anxious to avoid any mention, any reminder, any thought or memory.

Similarly the developments in her social life, or rather the latter’s deterioration, went un-remarked and engendered little concern. Her boyfriend had drifted away during the early days of her father’s illness, it had been her own fault, she had spurned his concern then neglected their relationship and had finally driven him off. Then there were her circle of so called ‘friends’, many she had lost contact with when she had left school, true some had persisted and a couple had even kept in contact for a while in writing when she had first moved to aunt Julia’s. Gradually, though, the correspondence had dropped off, the replies to her letters dwindled and, what was more the truth of the matter, she had lost interest in keeping contact.

Had she just become lazy or had the act of correspondence become too painful? Did it smack too much of linking to her past? She wasn’t sure, but deep down inside she knew that, for her own good, she should avoid anything that threatened to link her mind with that awful period, and that included ‘friends’.

In this belief she was aided and abetted by the words and deeds of both her therapist and Aunt Julia, although it has to be said that the sedative her therapist had prescribed, although mild, had had its part to play. This latter cushion was something on which Susan increasingly seemed to drift from day to day, seemingly floating aimlessly around the house like the white fluffy clouds that she sometimes felt were inhabiting her head. That the dose had been gradually and progressively incremented since its first prescription undoubtedly bore no little responsibility for this.

To the lay eye perhaps, a fly on the wall as it were, the girl would almost certainly have appeared over-sedated at this point. Indeed, it must be said that the entire situation, if viewed from afar, might likely have raised some eyebrows, perhaps engendered concern, in even the most dispassionate of observers. As a lay person one might well, and perhaps justifyingly, have raised the concern that the girl was becoming a little too dependent on both sedative and therapist. However, is it not often the case that the remote observer, being not privy to the full intricacies of the plot, as it were, and lacking the detailed insight of the professional, perhaps confused by the subtle and the complex motives involved, is prone to misunderstanding? How easy it is to misunderstand a situation taken at face value. Is it not prudent, under such circumstances, that one gives sway to the judgment of the learned professional? After all, who are we onlookers to judge what is, or is not, being done in the girl’s best interest? Who are we, mere lay observers, to criticise the likes of the most eminent Dr Ecclestone?

Not that the developments surrounding Susan’s life had stagnated; there had always been changes, never drastic but changes nonetheless and evolving over time. One example; Julia had always encourage the term ‘aunt’ be used of course, it seemed to engender trust, but gradually, over time, Susan’s consistent use of this title seemed to assume a greater importance to the woman. Julia gradually became more insistent on its use. Now she wanted Susan to use it whenever she needed anything, whenever she was told to do anything - more and more often it felt to Susan as if she was being told, rather than requested, to do one thing or another. Likewise whenever she received anything the preferred expression of due gratitude was now always that suffixed with the term ‘Aunt Julia’; “...a nice quiet and polite ‘thank you Aunt Julia’ is what I would prefer to hear” as Julia had said.

Thus it was this particular morning, but this morning was to be one of a sudden lurch, for certainly the terms ‘ shift’ or change were insufficient, in her circumstance.

It had started uncharacteristically mild for early December in Surrey, even if set against the backdrop of a Britain held in the chaotic grip of increasingly wild and unpredictably shifting weather patterns - the legacy of global warming it was said. Not that such dire warnings held much relevance to Susan. She was shielded from such uncertainties, discouraged from unnecessary involvement in current affairs.

Television and radio were not exactly banned in this household just carefully vetted. Anything thought potentially worrying or upsetting or likely to become so, was banned, or so well discouraged as to effectively be so, music was to be classical and then of the softest, gentlest pieces available: Aunt Julia’s dislike of ‘loud music’, by which she inferred almost anything in any modern idiom, was well-known.

As usual her early-morning cocoa arrived courtesy of Julia, the two sedative capsules rolling loosely around on the tray, their glistening green and black plastic coating catching the few rays of sunlight that had managed to sneak through the narrow gap in the curtains. The girl’s eyes were bleary and thick with sleep, her mind sluggish, weighed down with the after-effects of the sleeping pills that had only recently been added to her regime. She sat up slowly, drowsily, uncertainly and shakily reached for the mug and the first of the capsules, the tray having been placed on her bedside cabinet. Then the shock:

“How many times do I have to remind you, how many? Thank you, Aunt Julia, that’s all want to hear, thank you, Aunt Julia! How difficult can it be to just remember to be polite when someone has gone out of their way to look after you, when someone has been kind enough to wake you up with a lovely mug of cocoa?”

The mug seemed to throw itself out of her hand, dark golden-brown cocoa staining covers and carpet alike; Aunt Julia’s voice had been piercing, her anger and irritation annunciated with every syllable. She had never known her aunt express anything like impatience before, let alone anger, and anger of such magnitude. It seemed so out of character, notwithstanding the woman’s undeniably overbearing stance at times, but more than that, it seemed out of all proportion. And it was continuing unabated...

“Do I need to punish you like a child; is that what you’d like? I’ll tell you this much; if things don’t improve, and quickly, I think it might be better for all concerned if you were to return home!”

Susan was horrified; her aunt seemed to be almost shaking with anger.

Aunt Julia went on: “The least you could do is apologise, what should you say? Come on.”

“I,I’m s,sorry, Aunt Julia”

“That’s better!, Now, what else do we say?”

A pause and then, comprehension coming slowly: “Thank you, Aunt Julia.”

In that moment a change had come, an irrevocable change in their relationship, no gradual shift in equilibrium, not the evolutionary drift of old, no, now there was a definite and deliberate intent to the proceedings.

For Susan’s part, she was rattled; she had been threatened with being sent home and then there was this mention of ‘punishment’, what did it mean? Most of all, though, it was the thought of being sent away that most mortified her. On reflection, nothing else really mattered to quite the same extent, she needed her ‘aunt’, had come to depend on her, she needed to be here, needed to stay right here. Her inner voice succinctly summed it up: “Aunt Julia is the only one who can help, who wants to help”.

But what if she could see into her aunt’s mind, what then? What if she could see through her aunt’s eyes, see the reason for her aunt’s distant expression, share her fond memories - let alone her future plans - what then?

Would she still listen to her inner voice or would she, at last, begin to question herself, question her own beliefs? Would she, perhaps, question those thoughts, beliefs and ideas that seemed to be hers, and hers alone, and yet were so strangely alien? And behind her aunt’s kindly, yet distant, gaze...?

The memory had come to Julia in an intrusive flash: It was a couple of years old now, this recollection, yet as clear as if it had been that very morning. She had gone to see Anne’s, then new, house. She already knew at the time that her friend employed a young girl to help out around the home; previously a live-in nanny who, through some dispute or other, had fallen out with her employer and who Anne, being friend to both girl and employer, had felt obliged to put a roof over, as it were. Other than that the girl’s name was Penny she had known little else about her friend’s ‘little helper’ up until that day. Nor had she given the situation much consideration other than to wonder at how an arrangement, supposedly intended to be temporary, had come to persist for what was rapidly approaching two years; it had irritated her to think that her friend’s hospitality might be exploited so.

She had known Anne for years, she should have known differently than to have thought that she would be the one to be exploited, far from it. Dr Anne Ecclestone always had good reason for everything she did; her talent for turning adversity and misfortune, even if not her own, to opportunity was the stuff of legend, gossiped over in tea rooms and common rooms across the campus.

On this particular day the adversity was some drama or other in the kitchen; a packet of peppercorns, it turned out, had been spilt across the floor. The misfortune was undisputedly penny’s and the opportunity, as always, seized with both hands by Anne. For a moment there had seemed a danger of a tantrum on the girl’s part, the spectre of an embarrassing domestic upheaval unveiling before a guest loomed large. That moment had been brief however. Indeed, the moment had been expertly pressed into service. The potential for embarrassment was not only circumvented but turned to advantage as visitor became witness; before her eyes Anne had amply demonstrated the effect of such training as had since been adopted by Julia herself and that she was presently bringing to bear on her charge.

It had been a moment of enlightenment; the use of psychological methods, even if subtle, in fact the more subtle, the more efficacious she was later to learn, could clearly provide a greater degree of influence over a girl then she would, at that point, have ever dreamed possible. Flexed in hands such as Anne’s and wielded in the correct manner even the most rebellious of spirits could be curbed. Indeed, her enlightenment had grown with every moment; a few words, well chosen, can punish like the whip or reward as might the lover’s caress, the harshest of chastisement juxtaposed with the sweetest of carrots.

This, most certainly, was not intended to replace physical chastisement, she had learnt, far from it. She could clearly recall how Penny had knelt before the two of them, brushing the peppercorns into a neat pile.

In her mind’s eye she could still see Anne standing there in her black leather knee-length skirt and white satin blouse, hands on hips, the right flexing rhythmically at the wrist as she tapped the leather tab of the riding crop insistently against her skirt hem, her legs astride of the area wherein knelt the girl, looming over her. “Clear it up you stupid child. Now, get up, come on, quickly.” Anne’s voice revealing a harshness to its character that she had never before noticed.

With her pink nylon overall rustling with every movement the ‘child’ had risen to her feet. Despite having reached the age of majority, her 21st birthday having passed some two months previously, being addressed as ‘child’ had clearly been nothing new to her. “The ‘ child’ addressed as such tends to behave as such”; the gospel according to Anne, by which she meant that in emphasising and implying a child’s dependency she was also continuously underlining her own authority.

The obedience to the snapped command had been immediate and automatic even in front of a visitor, a witness such as Julia whom she had never before met and to whom the only ‘first impression’ she could ever hope to achieve was that of downtrodden skivvy. Though her burning cheeks had betrayed her humiliation there had been no hesitation, no hint of rebellion; all too often hesitation had been awarded a good half dozen swift cuts of Anne’s thin cane or riding crop across that fat bottom of hers or, indeed, the equally painful cuts of expertly chosen words across that vulnerable mind. The girl was controlled in equal part by word and cane, as would, in time, be Susan; yes, it would take time, it couldn’t be rushed, but now that she was certain, certain that she had her fully in her hands, it would be inevitable...

As we watch, scenes evolve to acts, intrigue and subplot evolve to history. As such, as a tale couched in past tense and with an admitted ambiguity of timeline, we can only gaze back at fête accompli. Surely then, we, as mere observers here, are absolved of all guilt; even to the point of allowing that we might entertain a certain secret voyeuristic delight. For there can be no greater distance, no greater divide, than that which spans even the most miniscule expanse of time.

Frustration is a Velvet Touch Conditioned by Word and Rattan

Exactly at what point in her stay it had started she couldn’t quite say. Not that she hadn’t sometimes done it, on occasion, before she had come here; what woman hasn’t ever taken some solitary comfort? No, it wasn’t that which was bothering her, it wasn’t the sense of guilt, rather it was this uneasy sense of it being out of control. No, she couldn’t quite say when it had started to become the way it was now. It certainly hadn’t been in the first few days after her arrival, she would have been far too upset. No, it had just slowly crept up on her, insidiously.

It had started in the mornings, her aunt would bring her cocoa and with it her medication and, after waiting just long enough to supervise her taking the capsules, would take her leave to attend to her work. Generally, Susan would finish around half her drink, the full mug was way too much for her at that time of the morning, before reclining on her pillows once more and, reaching across to her aunt’s old cassette player, settling back to enjoy one of her relaxation tapes. At some point she would always doze off to awaken perhaps an hour or so later; Aunt Julia never demanded that she rise any particular time of the day, believing that she best be left to relax as much as possible, the only proviso being that she be up and dressed by midday on the days that her aunt had arranged for her tutor or the doctor to visit.

It was when awakening from this doze, when she was at her most comfortable, that her fingers would begin their secret exploration, their gentle probing experimentation.

At first it had been as it always had, at home alone in her bedroom, yet it had been sweeter somehow, it had lacked the pangs of guilt. Gradually, though, it had changed, became more demanding, nagging, it would intrude on her thoughts through the day and she began to find it harder to concentrate. It was becoming more than a habit, more, even, than an obsession; it was becoming an addiction, it was consuming her. It was no longer the way it had been, it was if those tormenting digits were no longer hers; there was a rhythm and a tempo to their manipulative caresses that would be constant throughout, no faster nor slower. She seemed to be totally unable to either make their strokes more rapid or the stimulation more intense, there was just that excruciatingly slow rhythm. She would reach orgasm eventually, the resulting delayed release shattering in its intensity, but could do nothing to hasten its sweet absolve.

Many, many, such mornings passed filled with ever more lingering and teetering pleasure and with her ever less unable to break the gentle, lazy, swinging rhythm that her soft fingers dictated, no matter how tantalisingly and tremblingly close to release she came.

Each morning it seemed to go on longer, her orgasm towering ever higher, always hinting at ever greater delights beyond, the foothills ever steeper. Her fingers were learning their art well, becoming such beautifully tormenting torturers.

This day had been the most intense so far; left to her own devices she would have rushed at it, thrashed her way to completion well before this point. The sensational waves rippling through her, threatening to tear apart her very sanity, had reached a point beyond bearing long, long ago; in actuality some thirty minutes previously. Nevertheless she climbed inexorably towards her climax, slowly, oh so, so slowly. Her lips moved, softly sighing, then begging for release, then sighing once more, her body slithered with serpent-like undulations amongst sweat-soaked bedding. Still those fingers would not let her go.

They savoured their control, their sensitive silken tips had learnt too much of her desire to allow her release of her own free will; those fingers were far too educated now, they were not going to let her off so easily. It didn’t matter what she wanted; those fingertips would only brush with just enough pressure and with just sufficiently rapid tempo so as to ensure that the promise remained and that the summit ever approached, came ever closer. They would provide for just enough to drive her on, but no more than that.

Then, right there, right at the summit, right at the edge, those fingers began to soften their caress, slow their tempo, maddeningly just when she needed it most, threatening to leave her stranded just short, so, so, close and then, and then... There was something pressing against her anus, then penetrating, a finger that now slowly, lazily, dragged across that sensitive and most private rosebud, the final straw had come...

Her other hand? Why had she done that? Her hand?

The spasms of orgasm were rippling through her still, her stomach muscles contracting rhythmically and uncontrollably. Dully, with the last vestiges of fading consciousness, she became aware of something rhythmically squeezing the index finger of her right hand, the hand that had rescued her; her anus, in its turn, with concerted spasm, was reporting back the details of its gratefully-delicious violation.

Her vagina repeatedly and uncontrollably sucked at the fingers of her left hand, their tips wrinkled and soaked in the clinging moisture of over an hour’s expert stimulation and denial, moisture that was trickling thickly down to pool in globs on the already sweat-soaked sheets.

For a while she just lay there, she always did, but this time she was barely conscious, this time she had lost control, totally. Then, gradually, the wet discomfort forced it way through her floating afterglow, rudely dragging her back to the reality of what had just happened, showering her with consternation, whispering to her of the most hideous and humiliating repercussions. There had often been some dampness, some sweat to mingle with her guilt, but never anything like this.

Easing herself tackily from between the sheets, the duvet having long departed for the floor, peeling the cotton from her skin where her nightdress had ridden up into thick white satin folds around her midriff, she gained her feet unsteadily. Looking down, the true horror hit her, disgusting, mortifying; the bottom sheet in particular accused her, the staining obvious even given a most cursory glance. What if her aunt should see? Mrs Chartriss, the housekeeper, when she came to change the bedding, how could she miss it? What would she think it was? Worse, would she know what it was? Whichever the scenario, and one or the other was inevitable, the outcome was too hideous to contemplate; she would just die, surely she would.

An idea formed, she glanced over at the mantel clock, a marble and bronze art deco creation flanked on either side by kneeling supplicant female figures of voluptuous proportions. Aunt Julia would be in her study at this hour and her housekeeper would be collecting the groceries, she would have to be quick but as long as she was quiet she could go about her business unnoticed and unchallenged.

The first wash cycle had been underway for some time before Aunt Julia appeared at the top of the stairs. Despite the utility room being located in the basement and possessing a concrete floor the washing machine’s rumble tended to propagate up through the structure. Susan had known that of course, she could sometimes make out the low hum in her room, but she had hoped that her aunt would be too engrossed in her work to notice or would ignore it, believing it to be simply her housekeeper at work. She had reckoned without her aunt’s attention to detail and her almost obsessive supervision of her charge.

Aunt Julia smiled down at her. Her eyes signalled friendship yet there was a subtle component of scolding about her speech, almost playful yet with an overtone note of concern. Susan was left without doubt that she wouldn’t get away with this again, but on this occasion, at least, the evidence had been successfully concealed. “What are you doing down there, sweetheart?”

Susan thought quickly or at least as nimbly as she could within the constraint of the ever-present hobble that was her medication. “I, I thought I should help out a little from time to time. It’s just my night things, aunty.” Why had she used that particular form of address, she never had before? She felt sheepish, the peculiarly childish form of address she had just absentmindedly used filled her with embarrassment; her cheeks began to burn and, cursing her propensity to blush, she attempted to correct herself, yet only succeeded in making matters worse. “I, I.,. m, mean aun...”

“Sssh!, calm down, sweetheart” Aunt Julia’s interjection, pointedly truncating her attempted correction, somehow magnified her awkwardness; Susan felt tongue- tied, small. “You know you don’t have to do that. It is one of the reasons that I employ a housekeeper, you silly girl.” The tone was gently scolding. “The reason that you are here is to convalesce. Remember what the doctor said? We want you to relax totally for a while, that’s the whole point, to rest, to relax totally and I mean totally. You know you shouldn’t be concerning yourself with any kind of work at the moment, not at this stage, sweetheart. You know how quickly you get tired; you’re just not quite feeling yourself right now, are you?”

Aunt Julia had been slowly descending the steps throughout the scolding and now, having reached the front of the washing machine, momentarily glancing down at the settings, she placed an arm around her charge and began to gently guide her back up towards the main house. “Come along, honey, you’re looking very tired. You look so flushed; I don’t think you’re feeling very well. You’re really not feeling very well, are you, sweetheart?”

This last sentence, in truth, was not a question, not even hypothetically, it was more a statement of fact, almost an instruction. Her aunt never really asked her how she felt, she didn’t seem to have to, it was as if she could read her mind. It was the same with her doctor. She guessed it was that insight what made her so good at her job, her diagnosis so complete. There were times, though, when it seemed as if she was being virtually told how she felt, how she should feel and yet, unaccountably, she always seemed to accept it. Deep down, she felt sure that it was true, that they were right about her, but she didn’t want to have to admit it to herself. Surely, though, this morning’s episode was evidence enough.

“It’s quite nice out today, why not have a sit in the garden for a while?” They had reached the lounge wherein the late November sun played in autumnal pools of dark orange-brown across the parquet flooring and floor-length curtains floated away gently on the rustling breeze to either side of the part-open French-doors.

There was a slight chill to the air, although it was still far warmer than it had any right to be at this time of the year. As usual she had on the short tennis dress that her aunt had given her, she would have to face going home at some point, retrieve her own things, but for now it would have to do. Today, though, she would need to wear something over the top against that chill if she was to venture out. As always her aunt had the remedy close at hand; she held up the navy-blue quilted nylon housecoat by its shoulders for Susan to slip into.

Quite from where her aunt had procured this particular sartorial gem was something of a mystery. It had simply appeared on the coat hook at the back of her bedroom door a couple of weeks previously. It was a horrid thing, it really was, but at least it was of an adult appearance, albeit suited to a much older woman than Susan.

She slipped her arms back into the sleeves while her aunt held it aloft, the soft nylon quilt initially chilling her, belying the warmth it would soon provide and of which she would be grateful once out in the chill garden air. Much to Susan’s annoyance and frustration Aunt Julia, coming around to the front, began to fasten the buttons for her. This was something her aunt was becoming more and more apt to do of late and that had, on more than one occasion, been the catalyst for no little friction between them.

Not that she wasn’t grateful for her aunt’s concern but, after all, she wasn’t an invalid and it irritated her. Recently there had been times when she had begun to feel a little stifled, when it had felt to her as though her aunt was treating her as if she was mentally defective or something.

Together they walked out to greet the early afternoon sun, Aunt Julia clearly elated by the crisp early-winter beauty of the scene, Susan, a little less certain. The latter, despite the housekeeper’s absence, remaining a little self-conscious as to her appearance while, at the same time, being glad of the extra warmth and grateful that at least that silly little tennis dress was now hidden from view.

After a few minutes stroll Julia returned her study, leaving her charge to her own devices. A folding garden chair waited, all softly padded and inviting, by the fish pond. Susan sat for a while listening to the little fountain’s tinkling raindrop fall and watching the goldfish drift below the rippling surface, below the little flashes of sunlight that reflected off the surface like a myriad twinkling stars. As so many times before it was those rippling shifting star-spangled patterns of light that drew her attention, the fish below drifting outside her depth of field before, slowly, the glinting wavelet-born starlight itself drifted out of focus. She was all alone with that strangely pleasant, otherworldly, sensation that was so familiar to her now, as if she was drifting out of her body, as if she wasn’t really there, not physically.

Thirty minutes had passed by the time Julia returned, now carrying her little tape player. Susan was sitting motionless, her wide eyes reflecting the water’s shimmering surface in their own calm pools. Coming up behind the girl, the woman’s long, delicate, fingers gently reached out to the nape of her neck, beginning a slow, rhythmic, longitudinal stroking action, up and down, up and down; there was no discernible response from her charge. Only when after some time there was still no response from the girl did she begin to speak:

“The pool is ever so relaxing, don’t you think? You love watching the fish glide, back and forth, back and forth, below the ripples, but it is so, so, tiring trying to keep your eyes on the fish with those pretty ripples flowing across, so, so tiring. Look at the ripples, look at the lovely silvery light, look at the soft soothing ripples, they are so beautiful and yet so tiring to watch, so beautiful that you have to watch them, so tiring, so, so tiring that your eyes feel too tired even to look away. As each ripple passes the world around you seems more and more to drift away, more and more to drift out of focus. There are only the softly rippling pools of light, now. The only sound that you can hear now is my voice, growing sweeter, more lovely with each ripple that passes. My lovely, lovely, sweet voice, your aunty’s voice, the voice of your aunty that you love and trust so, so, much. You do so love your aunty don’t you?”

The voice flowed sweetly past, swirling and eddying around the girl with the slow motion ooze of molasses, a gentle inundation that softly swallowed her thoughts, ideas and beliefs in its insistently rising, sticky, tide. From somewhere Susan heard a new voice, her own voice, it was her own voice so she knew it must be true: “Yes, aunty, I do, so love you aunty, I love you ever so much.”

“That is a good girl, you are such a good girl. Now, why not let your eyes close, just for a while, have a nice little nap, you know how very tired you are. That’s it, let’s rest those tired eyes. Those tired eyes are closing now, closing, closing.”

With her left hand the woman reached around to ever so gently brush her fingers down across the girl’s eyelids, the latter fluttering like butterfly wings before coming to settle over those pretty-pool eyes. Fairies lived in the ripples and swam through the fountain’s rainbow-lit spray. Hand in hand they danced across her dreams, flickering and flittering about the pool, sprinkling in sleepy-dust all that came close, all who heard their whisper. Susan slept, the fountain-fairies’ whispered lullaby now joined by the soft voice from the earphones. Julia returned to her study; the tape had an hour to run and she had much to get on with.

Susan dozed on in the winter sun, a blanket lying across her legs and lap draping down to her ankles to keep warm her legs below the housecoat’s hem. From time to time Julia checked her charge from the study window; it was getting far too late in year for bare legs, she thought. She would have to sort something out for her, not tights though, definitely not tights, so unhygienic, it would have to be stockings. A shiver ran through her and, forcing the image from her mind with no little effort, she returned to her work.

The next few mornings found Susan more and more succumbing to temptation despite her resolution to desist and her growing sense of self-disgust. Again and again there came the torturous attention of those fingers, her own fingers, their seduction now perfected to the point of rendering nonsensical any pretence of self-control. Again there came the mortifying acknowledgement of the evidence of her misbehaviour, and again, and again.

She tried turning the bottom sheet over, then tried turning it the other way around. Perhaps tomorrow she could get it to the washing machine without anyone noticing. But tomorrow never came; always there seemed to be someone around, either her aunt of the housekeeper. Both ends became stained, then stained multiple times, the discoloration overlapping and darkening, and then...

It had happened. She had returned to her room after her shower, her mouth fell open aghast; her bed had been stripped. Her aunt or the housekeeper, it didn’t matter who, whoever it was they couldn’t have missed it, the telltale staining, the sinful odour.

All day she had done her best to avoid both women, at tea they were both present, at tea she self-consciously waited, weighed down by guilt and embarrassment, her cheeks shamefully burning. She waited for some comment, a knowing look perhaps, yet nothing was said nor were knowing glances exchanged. For a while there was relief, everything seemed to be normal, then gradually a new dimension of consternation began to open up; surely everything was too normal, one of them must have seen it, how could it have been missed?

She was glad when the evening finally drew to a close and she could return to the familiar comfort of her bed. Yawning, she pulled back the covers; no, nothing had been said, and for that she was grateful, but if she had thought that her indiscretions had gone unnoticed she was clearly mistaken and the extent of that naiveté was staring back at her. At first glance all had looked normal then with a double take it had hit her; a rubber mattress cover had taken the place of the bottom sheet.

A full week went by, still without comment, still all seemingly routine. For the first few days her embarrassment had augmented her self-control but then, gradually, the habit returned.

The rubber cover added to the humidity, kept her sweat around her and became slippery with her juices. If anything it added to the piquancy - more and more often she would awake to find her nightdress was as stained as her sheets had been.

She had progressed to caressing herself through the fabric, the satin offering a subtle interface, prolonging still further the agony and ecstasy of it. Again she could do nothing to hide the fact, nothing that would assuage the mortification she felt, yet still nothing was said.

The nightdress would be whisked away to the laundry pile and returned, magically, to her pillow without comment, again, and again, and again. On the third or fourth such occasion though, still without discussion or recrimination, she found that her nightdress was now accompanied by a pair of short legged knickers, her mortification being completed by the discovery that the soft satin disguised beneath a latex inner lining. Nothing had been said, nothing needed to be said - the accusation was right there in her hands, embodied in the protective garment and as silent as it had been with the provision of the rubber bed cover. Unlike on the latter occasion though, she was granted no respite, not even temporarily. Quite the contrary; the drive, the ache, not only went unabated, it seemed to have intensified.

There was something about those knickers, the sensuous slippery softness of the satin, the intimately lubricated caress of the latex and, yes, the smell, even the smell. She couldn’t keep her hands off herself; her fingers now drew out their delightful torture of her at night as much as in the morning. There were two, then three sessions daily until it was as much as she could do to think of anything else during the day other than to anticipate the hour at which she could again retire to the privacy of her room. Excuses soon came in many guises - she needed an afternoon nap, she had a headache - her ingenuity forever being stretched and taxed in her drive to return to the warmth and comfort of her rubber sheet and those knickers.

Time passed, the winter drew in more closely about them and despite the weather-man’s predictions the garden was white with frost more often than not. As had been promised a shopping opportunity had finally materialised but Susan had turned it down; Aunt Julia had gone alone, Susan preferring the safety of home and the privacy of her room. The result had been somewhat disappointing as far as the girl was concerned, Aunt Julia returning with several pairs of stockings, a quite hideous button-through bottle green long-sleeved cardigan, that looked as if it belonged in some school somewhere, and an old-fashioned open-bottomed girdle that she was assured would be: “More comfortable then a suspender belt”. Other than these additions to her wardrobe there had been little change to her routine.

There was still the silly little tennis dress, although now augmented by the cardigan and worn over the girdle and stockings ensemble, the latter, being of a long length and being teamed with short suspenders, remaining ‘decent’ even under the short dress. There were still the regular visits to the privacy of her room, such visits having grown in frequency as her torturers had refined their torment of her; more often than not in daylight hours she felt compelled to return to her aunt’s company despite having failed to reach a satisfactory conclusion, the frustrated ache coming with her and taunting her with promises of later release.

That she no longer wore the matching tennis knickers below her dress aggravated her condition; those knickers, she had been told, had been packed away. Their replacement had been described as being more substantial and far more suitable in the chill of winter. Indeed the new knickers were more substantial; high wasted ‘big knickers’ they were of a shiny white nylon satin but, like her bedtime attire, they were lined in the finest, most clinging, latex. All day she could feel the intimate slipping and sliding of the soft rubber, she was now practically permanently wet, practically permanently aroused, living only for the return to the attention of her lover, tormentor and torturer.

Had time stood still or had an age passed in the blink of an eye? It amounted to the same thing; a full five seconds of incredulous open-mouthed and very pregnant silence, the gestation of outrage and anger stretched and morphed across a landscape ravaged and laid bare by sheer ice cold terror. The blood had crystallised in her veins even as the handle had turned, muscles had locked together in futile antagonistically shuddering knots. She had thought... she had thought what, exactly? What had she thought? That was just it, really; she had thought precisely nothing, nothing at all, that was the horror of it. Her thoughts, those perverted images flooding through her mind, all had gone into to a freeze-framed analysis of the most appalling clarity before petrifying to finally collapse in formless dunes of, of... nothing, absolutely nothing. The enormity of the situation had just been too much, too overwhelming; a temporary, yet, for all intents, total, mental collapse had been her only escape route.

Even with the partial recovery of her faculties there was still nothing she could do, her sense of helplessness now cruelly sharpened, her shame highlighted in the glare of her returning awareness. No, there was nothing she could do, there was only the horror, her body prone and splayed with hands still writhing around her crotch and, above her, her aunt’s face, once ruddy with embarrassment now darkening with anger and twisted with undisguised disgust.

“ Disgusting, disgusting. I,I,I don’t know what to say, you disgust me. Are you a whore, a pervert, is that it?” The woman was livid, beside herself, the girl, terrified, mind still numb, could only manage a pathetic “n,n,n,no, I, I...” before being cut off by her aunt.

“For God’s sake just shut up. I’ve never seen anything so disgusting in all my life. You filthy, filthy girl! It’s a sin, what you’re doing, don’t you know that? A sin!” There came a pause, her aunt shaking with indignation, the girl trapped in a boiling cauldron of emotion from which even tears would not give release, for none would come, not even tears, the enormity was just too great.

Finally came the bombshell, Susan’s world was engulfed in its own private Holocaust, hopes, dreams, all were put to the slaughter. A finger stabbed accusingly almost to the point of her nose, her aunt’s face so close that she could feel the words as much as hear them: “You’re out of here, now, right now! I can’t have a thing like you in my home with your filthy perverted acts. I’m going to ‘phone your stepmother right now, she can come over and pick you up right away and I’m going to damn well tell her what you have been doing here too!”

Somewhere in Susan’s mind something cracked, crazing like a windshield under a bombardment of hail. “No! Please, please, please! I, I didn’t mean to, p,please it, it’s not my fault. I, I, it, it just happened”

Her aunt’s anger was not appeased; if anything it seemed fuelled by the girl’s pathetic whimpering. “What should I do then? Are you sick, should I call your doctor? Have you put away, put in a home? Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was what she suggested, after all she’d be the first to admit that you have not been responding well to treatment at home. You have become far worse of late haven’t you?” Silence: the girl fidgeting awkwardly under the bed covers, having now tugged the duvet up under her chin, her aunt drawing an impatient breath. “I said; you have been far worse lately haven’t you?” The woman tut-tutted loudly. “Haven’t you?”

“Y,yes, Auntie, b,bbut I,I...” yet again the girl was cut off mid-sentence, left staggering, off balance, her aunt continuing with unabated anger.

“And just what you mean by ‘it just happened’? Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? Don’t you know what you’re doing any more, is that what you’re saying, that you can’t even be responsible for your own actions any longer?”

“No, I, I mean yes, I, I m,mean I I’m n,not sure, I...”

“Yes, perhaps I should ‘phone the doctor, maybe it is for the best if you end up being put away. I’m not sure I can help you anymore.”

“P,please don’t, Auntie!. P,please! Anything, anything, anything, please!” Susan hearing her own whimpering voice in third-person disbelief as if through a distant dream or played back from some, long-forgotten, recording.

The woman, for her part, seemingly, by some supreme effort of will, having calmed herself, was clearly determined to press home the advantage. “But I have to do something about this, this... this misbehaviour. You are clearly sick, aren’t you? Even you must see that now. This episode, it’s yet another of your little problems coming to the fore. These problems you have, they’re not normal, you must realise that, the doctor has explained that to you enough times, I have explained it to you. I think we have both shown great patience with you but still you won’t admit it to yourself. If only you would only admit it to yourself it would be a start. After all if you were to contract flu you wouldn’t hide it and certainly not from yourself, you would recognise it, get it treated. The problem is that you are sick right now and yet you are trying to hide it away from your self, to deny it. Why can’t you just at least admit it to yourself, you are sick right now aren’t you?”

“Y,y, yes auntie.” Deep down this was costing Susan dearly, she felt as if she were offering up pieces of her soul and the shame burned hotly in her cheeks accordingly. Deeper still, a small but insistent voice whispered to her that they were right, Aunt Julia, the doctor, all of them, they were right.

The woman bristled once more. “What do you mean, yes? Yes you are unwell or yes you are in denial? I would have thought it was pretty obvious, even to you, that both are equally true, being noncommittal is helping no one”

“I,I I’m sick, auntie. P,please, I I, I am sick, p,please don’t send me away. I,I’ll do anything, please!”

“That’s better, but it’s still little excuse for what I caught you doing just now. What do you think your friends would say about you if I told them? What if I was to tell them that you lay there half the day interfering with yourself, masturbating?

What if I was to tell them that you had to have a rubber cover on your bed and that your nightdress was becoming so badly stained that you had to be made to wear rubber knickers to protect it? What do you think they would say about you then, don’t you think they would call you a pervert?”

“I, I, I, I’m not s,su, I mean, I, I don’t think...” the girl was completely flummoxed now, head spinning in confusion. Could it be, was it true, was it?

“Perhaps they already know, perhaps they could sense it about you, perhaps they could read it between the lines in your letters. Perhaps that is why none of them ever comes to visit you, why none of them even writes to you any more. When was the last time you had a reply from any of your letters?” No answer. “Well, when was it?”

“I, I, I c,can’t remember, auntie.”

“Well it’s been a very long while I can tell you. Do you know what I think? I think they have found out about you in some way, I think they know what you do. Can you imagine what they have been saying about you behind your back, what do you think they call you now?” Another long silence, the girl quietly and slowly shaking her head in the negative, in disbelief. Another deep, impatient and exasperated breath was drawn in by the woman standing over her: “I asked you a question, I expect an answer. What do you think they call you behind your back? what do you think you should be called?” On her face she wore, still, that hot seething expression, below, flowing in the deepest, slowest, current she was being chillingly at her most calculating. She was only too well aware of the psychological havoc she was wreaking, of just how damaging this was becoming for the girl, but it had always been her intention to depart the girl’s room accompanied by a large chunk of the latter’s self esteem tucked away securely beneath her arm.

“I,I,,I’m not...”

“Come on, come on. do you think they call you a pervert, yes or no?”

“I,I, m,mean, y, I, s,surpose, b,but I...”

“I’ll ask you once again; what do you think they call you, what do you think they should call you?” Now sharp and insistent.

“A, a, p,p,pervert, a,a,a auntie” Her voice had become the smallest it had ever been in her life, barely more than a whisper, but she had finally got it out.

“That’s better, much better. Yes, a pervert, what you have been doing is a perversion, quite vile, so, yes they’re quite right to call you that, it is the correct term for you don’t you think?”

“Y,y,yes, Auntie”

“What is? What do you think I’m talking about, what is the correct term for someone like you, a dirty girl like you?”

“P,p, pervert, auntie”

“Say it properly girl, I want you to say it properly in a nice complete sentence, I want to be certain you understand. If I am to help you then you need to convince me that you fully understand what you are, what you have become and, more importantly, what should be done about it. At the moment, to be honest with you, I am at complete loss. Now, let’s try again, what are you?”

“A, a. a, p,p...” haltingly, a horse, begrudging, whisper.

“No! Again! Start again and damn well apologise this time”

“I,I,I,I’m ssorry auntie. I,I,I,I’m a,a, p,p,pervert, auntie.”

“So, the question still remains; what should we do with you? How can I justify having a pervert living with me? The trouble is you are all alone now, your father has passed away, God rest his soul, but at least he was spared the shame you would have brought on him. Your boyfriend left you, your old friends have deserted you, and I am loath to send you back to your stepmother but there may be no other choice. The doctor and I are the only friends you have at the moment, don’t think I don’t understand that, but how can I have you continue to live with me if you’re going to behave in that way. Do you really think I should have to put up with having a pervert living under my roof?”

“N,no, auntie, I,I mean I,I,I,I’m ssorry, auntie. I,I’ll n,never do it a,again, I promise, please, p,pplease!”

“But what am I supposed to do then? I have to do something for your own sake. You’ve seen the newspapers, read the headlines, perverts are punished, they get sent to prison”

“Y,yes b,but I’m n,n,not a...”

“Perversion is perversion, perverts are perverts. Don’t you think perverts deserve to be punished?”

“Yy,yes, auntie, but. but...”

“Well then, you deserve to be punished, don’t you?” No response. “I said don’t you?”

“B,but I,didn’t...”

“Enough! You’ve admitted you are a pervert, you have admitted that perverts deserve punishment, I just can’t see what else I can do. How can I have you living under my roof like this, what if you were to do something in public, what if it was to get out, what you do, how you behave? It would reflect on all of us, myself, my housekeeper, even the doctor, all of us might be tarred with the same brush.”

“But p,please don’t s,s,send me away, auntie. P,please don’t send me b.b,back home, please, p,please, I’ll do anything, I p.promise. Punish me, I,I,I d,deserve to be p,p,punished, anything, but n,not by s,sending m,me away”

“But I just can’t see what I can do, how the hell am I supposed to punish you in any way that is going to make any damn difference, in any way that is going to ensure that this kind of behaviour does not repeat itself under my roof. I can just imagine what the Victorians would have done with a girl like you. Yes it would’ve been easy for them, in their time, they knew exactly how to deal with dirty little girls with dirty little habits in their day. Yes, it’s a shame but this is the 21st century and you are no little girl, not that that would have mattered to them, grown woman or not they would have tanned your behind, taken a cane to it. But there you have it, you are going to have to leave I am afraid. “

The girl’s eyes were wide with panic: “ No, no please, please p,p,punish me, I, I, don’t mind how, really I don’t.”

“You stupid, stupid, girl what would you have me do, should I cane you like they would have done in the past, is that what you want?”

“I,I,I’m not sure, I...”

“Who ever gets caned nowadays? That’s why the country is in the state it’s in, no discipline, no backbone. That’s why you are in the state you’re in, and girls like you, you’re all just becoming little sluts.”

The outburst was explosive, it was meant to be. Suddenly Julia was reaching for the ‘phone, then the receiver was in her hand and she was beginning to dial...who, who exactly? Did it really matter who? Not at all, not to her charge at any rate, a girl to whom to leave here, to live without her aunt, would be to die. No, it would be worse than dying.

“P,please, p,please, the c,cane, anything!”

“Too late for that now I’m afraid.”

“No! No! P,please, please c,cane me, please cane me, please!” Still begging pathetically she made a grab for the receiver only for her aunt to parry her attempt with her other arm, sending the girl sprawling to land in a sobbing heap of flesh and satin; her tears had finally come through for her. Then, at her lowest ebb, through tear-blurred vision she watched as, almost as if in slow motion, Aunt Julia quietly replaced the receiver on its cradle.

“Right then, so be it, if it’s the only way forward then it is the path we must follow, we must at least give it a chance.” She stood gesticulating imperiously toward the right hand side of the bedroom. “Lie across the bed and hold up your nightdress and don’t you dare move until I get back, I mean it!

Where it had materialized from she had little inkling, she knew only that it had taken mere moments for her aunt to return with it, swishing it through the air as she approached with the consummate ease of a well-practised hand.

The cane was of rattan, not that such a detail was known to the girl nor would it have meant much to her had it been, but suffice it to say that it was of a traditional crook-handled appearance and supple in the extreme, being of a thickness comparable to that of her aunt’s little finger, a remarkably dainty finger at that. Moments later and it had begun; her first caning, her first taste of corporal punishment of any form in fact. No ceremony was observed beyond a series of light preparatory taps on her right buttock cheek with the cane’s tip so as to confirm the aim and then:

Thrrack! The latex of her knickers amplified the sound out of all proportion to the actual force of the impact. Yes, it stung, but it was not so bad.

THrrack! Harder this time, painfully stinging despite her knickers’ intercedence.

THRRAACK! “Owww!” That one really stung, but it was bearable. It was the shame that was the hardest to bear, that and the humiliation of actually having begged to be caned.

Then it was over. Just the three strokes, quite mild and placed across the girl’s knickers. Nevertheless Julia was satisfied with her work; sheer physical pain had never been part of the equation on this occasion, never part of her plan. That the girl had accepted punishment from her, had actually begged her to punish her, that was the point. Yes, physically there had been little to suffer but psychologically? Well, that was a different matter; the girl would always remember this, her first caning, and in time it would come to fill a disproportionate niche in her mindset. There would be many, many, more opportunities to reinforce that mindset from now on, she was going to see to it that there were.

And so it was to be: A little more than a week later she was caught again - there was no mention of any ‘phone calls, there was no need, Aunt Julia had sufficient authority; she no longer had need for the augmentation of props.

Another three strokes were received across that tautly knicker-clad bottom with the appropriate expression of gratitude; in aunt Julia’s new world all boons granted were to be greeted with a cheerful gratefulness and by a softly spoken “thank you, aunty”.

That, shortly after and despite the expedient of punishment, there should occur a third and then a fourth such episode speaks volumes as to the magnitude and the urgency of the unnatural fevered urges that were increasingly holding the girl in their thrall. Indeed, she could no more resist the temptation then she could go without food and drink; to ignore it was to ignore the urge to breathe, the outcome as inevitable as holding one’s breath. For Julia’s part it was clear that she would have to up the ante if she was to fulfil her duty; three strokes were awarded on each occasion, much as before, but now delivered across the girl’s bare buttocks.

For the following two weeks the girl’s aunt had no option other than to await her privilege with patience and anticipation. The girl’s willpower had surprised her; she had detected nothing untoward despite the girl’s previous responses to suggestion. The fifth occasion, when it finally arose, well warranted the six strokes she awarded; the woman’s generosity now extended to providing premium quality to match the hike in quantity.

At night, though! Ah! At night. At night all was safe, all around fast asleep. At night there were no witnesses, no doors bursting open. Not that she was free, not any more, far from it. Nor had there been any diminution of her torturer’s skill, anything but; a subtle refinement had been introduced, albeit via a third party. She would approach her culmination, the sensations building slowly to their crescendo, completion, her release, would be little more than a breath away, and then, and then...

The sensational panorama would fade below a chilling fog-blanket of shuddering cold-sweating guilt. From somewhere deep in her subconscious a voice would whisper; “ pervert, you’re a pervert”. Shame and humiliation would begin to bubble to the surface. Then there would arise the memory of her punishments, but this would drive her excitement in a way that fell just short of her grasp of understanding and explanation, yet ultimately would lead to further recriminations in her mind, further self-accusation of perversion. Her subconscious was guarded now; a sentinel stood, forever vigilant, just short of her escape. So, so close, but the way barred nevertheless. Sometimes, but only sometimes, she could overcome this barrier but such occasions were becoming rarer, one could almost say endangered.

Viewed from outside of her frame of reference, the girl’s growing sexual repression would have been obvious, for those embroiled though, those embedded in the manipulative games of others, vision is, more often than not, impaired. Yet the question remains: Why?

Then there came the night-time incursion. Trapped, caught again, but the two of them at the door this time; Aunt Julia and her housekeeper, both in their nightdresses. How had this happened? Had she been so indiscreet, noisy perhaps? What had given her away? The caning was inevitable of course, that the correction was to be immediate, that was the shock. It was to be given in the middle of the night and to be witnessed; a new dimension had opened up before her and she didn’t much like what she saw.

That it had to be so was obvious to the girl’s aunt, was it not all summed up in that one term; correction? This was behavioural correction after all, behavioural modification, and as such it was important that it be administered so as to be as strongly associated as possible with the behaviour to be modified. That the girl’s activities had been detected when she had been so close to her goal was more than pure chance also. Rather it was key to her aunt’s agenda, as was the severity of the punishment she intended to inflict; it had to be a shock, driven deep into the girl’s subconscious, there to remain for all time.

The girl was crying openly by the third stroke and begging by the fourth. By the sixth stroke she was utterly finished, having had to be held down by Julia’s housekeeper from the penultimate.

She was given the news the very next day; her bed was to be moved into her aunt’s bedroom, there would be room for it at the foot of her aunt’s bed. She was still far too numb from the pain and humiliation of the caning of the previous night to object. But there was yet still more humiliation to endure; overhearing her aunt discussing the move with her housekeeper was particularly galling, the repeated references to ‘the girl’s lack of self-control’, the housekeeper’s suggestions for ‘further restricting the child’s behaviour’. She would be able change for bed in her old room, she was to be allowed that much privacy at least, but then it was to be straight into her aunt’s room to sleep and she would have to be quick about it too; she was not to be allowed time for any ‘misbehaviour’ to occur.

Now there was no hiding place; for a while, still, if she was very, very careful, she could get away with some surreptitious fumbling, but with very little satisfaction. Partially it was the stress engendered by her lack of privacy, partially it was the repression developing in her subconscious, and each wasted, frustrated, effort was only serving to nourish the latter’s growth. Then, after a few nights of carefully covert, if frustrated, manipulations, something changed.

The bed, her bed, something had happened to it, a broken spring perhaps? She had no idea, she only knew that it now squeaked and quite loudly at that! Climbing under the covers, or even just perching on its edge, was now accompanied by harsh rusty-hinged creaking. The slightest movement during the night, even turning over let alone anything more untoward, was greeted by that telltale alarm. Many a disturbed night’s sleep was suffered and shared by both women while she learnt to lie still in her sleep - but learn she eventually did. Her aunt knew that she would, the device was a great training aid, sleep deprivation a fine punishment; it was certainly training Susan. Not that Susan was to be relieved of the drive, the yearning that throbbed through her all her waking hours, but there was now a distinct conflict developing between desire and repression, between reward and repercussion - neurosis.

Pavlov had done it with his dogs, pared feeding behaviour with electric shocks -that was the conflict, they were driven by hunger yet feared punishment - in the end they had whimpered pathetically, postured submissively. Her technique with the girl was far more subtle of course but the conflict was just as real, the outcome inevitably comparable. Julia knew what she was doing; this was her world, her influential sphere, after all.

For Susan life progressed from that day forth as if a fork in the road had been taken, a misdirected turn along a track so well rutted as to allow no return.

There were days that almost, but never quite, approached normality. Such days, though, were gradually becoming the exception and in any case were interspersed with periods in which, at best, she felt as if she could do little right by her aunt and at worst were characterised by episodes perhaps best described as being of humiliating psychological cruelty. There were many more affectionate kisses from her aunt’s rattan to be grateful for, but their gift was no longer restricted to an occasion of solitary sexual impropriety nor was the venue limited to the bedroom.

Day by day the infractions ruled as being ‘caning offences’ grew both in number and in their pettiness. She was caned for not addressing her aunt correctly, not being respectful to the housekeeper ‘Miss to you, girl’ and even, on one occasion, for having her pen and pencils in an incorrect order on her desk. She was caned over her desk, her aunt’s desk, across the bed and, most humiliatingly of all, while lying across the housekeeper’s lap, her aunt wielding the cane while the other woman quelled her struggles, holding both her arms up her back in a hammerlock with surprising strength, forcing her to remain double despite her protestations.

On more than one occasion she had thought about running away. She had made plans but, no matter how careful her preparation, she somehow just didn’t seem able to go through with it when the time came. Partly it was the thought of leaving the house; it had been such a long time since she had last been outside, other than for her daily walk in the garden, and even then in the company of her aunt. Indeed, her doctor now paid house calls, three times per week, in order to ‘spare her the stress and worry of travel’ as her doctor put it.

She was right of course, the doctor, she was always right and so was Aunt Julia, that was part of the problem. There was always that sense of panic when she was outside, a dizzying sensation of being out of control. It was undeniably wrecking her life; it was one of the things that she was being treated for and this selfsame debility was barring her path to independence. Not that the treatment seemed to be working, at one point she had even entertained the notion that, somehow, it was all just making her worse.

She had voiced her concerns to her doctor on a couple of occasions, had even suggested that she stopped her treatment. The doctor had just seemed to have sidestepped the issue, changed the direction of their conversation. She couldn’t quite recall how it had come about but somehow, on both occasions, she had found herself talking about her relationship with her father and the thoughts that had been running through her mind on the day of his funeral.

Of course it must all have been part of her underlying problem, she realised that now, her concerns were merely a way of distracting herself from issues she was too afraid to confront. The doctor had this way of getting inside her head, of understanding what she was trying to say, what she needed to say, even if she, herself, did not always know. She had ended up in tears on both occasions, had found herself actually begging the doctor to continue with her treatment. She had recognised then just how much she needed the support, both of her doctor and, unfortunately, of aunt Julia; therein hung her quandary. Giving up on her therapy really wasn’t an option, at least not for the time being, and yet, at times, she really did feel the need to get away from her ‘aunt’, to regain some independence.

For one thing, and it was a really big thing, there was her inheritance to sort out and the family business. Her aunt was supposed to be handling all of the legal side for her but was she? How could she be sure? Her aunt was always reluctant to discuss it, usually citing her concern over the girl’s ability to ‘handle the pressure’ in addition to all of her other ‘problems’. But, then again, there was undoubtedly truth to her aunt’s concerns; had not merely the act of bringing up the subject brought on one of her ‘attacks’ on more than one occasion? How often, after such a confrontation, had her doctor had cause to change her prescription, to increment her medication? She would have to confront her stepmother directly one day, that much she knew, but for now it would have to wait; the panic would come, that awful feeling of panic, pounding heart, sweaty, clammy palms, throbbing head, the room spinning dizzyingly. She’d give it another week. And she did; she gave it another week, then another, then another...

Then two things came at once, as such things often do. Firstly, Aunt Julia had announced that she was going to be out of the country, perhaps for as long as two to three months - no explanation had been given. Secondly, a flyer had fallen out from between the pages of the local newspaper as she had retrieved it from behind the front door. The paper had to be taken directly to her aunt of course, that was the rule; she was discouraged from flicking through it lest she should come across something that might worry or disturb her. The flyer, though, she tucked away in her knickers, the tennis dress being devoid of pockets, not knowing quite why.

Two totally unconnected events, occurring well within an hour of each other. Completely unconnected in their encounter and yet, for the second time within a year, two events, bound together through serendipity, were to completely change the direction of her life. The first, although at first sight offering her a way forward, taken in isolation would undoubtedly have been insufficient to really force her hand. Indeed almost immediately she was conjuring up scenarios whereby she might remain where she was; perhaps the housekeeper would be staying on, perhaps the doctor could visit more often, her home was relatively local even if her office was in the city. It had taken the flyer to press her. It had taken the flyer to bypass her customary indecisiveness, her reluctance to embrace change and her overwhelming yearning for stability.

There was something compelling about that flyer. It was just a call for volunteers for medical research, she had seen such adverts before, but it was strangely fascinating, she felt compelled to read it again and again. It offered her the chance of regaining some independence and yet, between the lines, was contradictorily suggestive of stability and support. At some level in her psyche it seemed to appeal to both her dependency and what was left of her independent spirit at the same time. An impossibly antagonistic concept to most, the mutual exclusivity glaring, yet oddly sensible, acceptable, even desirable to the girl who now sat reading it for, perhaps, the twentieth time.

Reassured by the faintly familiar patterning, embossed into the glossy paper and catching the light in rhythmic ripples, gently rocking to and fro, to and fro, she gazed from behind the safety of soulless glazed eyes, her thumb-sucking innocent comfort a gauge of her acceptance. A woman, corrupted, yet made innocent.