Chapter Seven

The Stables

 

 

 

The ringing telephone woke Miranda from trance-like slumber. Fear stabbed through her foggy mind—what if Big Daddy was calling? She shook her head, trying to dispel her confusion and disorientation. After four rings, she finally picked up. The cheerful voice on the other end of the line first flooded her with relief, then with shame.

“Miranda!”

“Hello, Lucy. How are you?”

“Oh, Mir, just fantastic. I hope that I didn’t wake you—I just couldn’t wait to tell you the news. Ray asked me to marry him.”

“Marry him? But you’ve known him less than a week!”

“I knew you’d say that, Miss Practical. But that first night, I could tell that he was the one. Don’t you remember, I told you that I had finally found my true love?”

Miranda sighed. “Yes, of course. Unfortunately, you have told me that about quite a few other gentlemen over the last year.”

“This is different, Mir. This is serious. The real thing. I feel as though Ray and I have known each other all our lives. There’s this eerie familiarity. Maybe we even were lovers in a previous life.”

“I gather that you said yes, then?”

“Of course. But I did tell him that I wanted to wait three months before we actually tie the knot. Just in case he has me under some magic spell or something. Because that’s what it feels like—magic!”

“Lucy,” said Miranda carefully, “I’m really happy for you. But are you sure that Ray can satisfy all your desires?” She emphasized the ‘all’.

“What do you mean?”

Miranda summoned her courage. She had to tell her flat mate about last night’s adventure, which should have been Lucy’s adventure. “Lucy, last night I met Big Daddy.”

The line was silent for so long, Miranda wondered if their connection had been cut. “Lucy? Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, yes,” said her roommate softly. “Yes, indeed.” Lucy paused, as if considering what to say next. “So, how was it?” she continued, finally.

Miranda considered the question. She had not analyzed the activities and emotions of the previous night. She’d tumbled into deep sleep immediately upon returning home.

“Well, it was bizarre. I’ve never had that kind of fantasy, but I seemed to fall into the little girl role so naturally, I have to wonder what kind of subconscious stuff he managed to tap into. It was scary, a bit too real.” Miranda’s rear hole still felt stretched and tender. She shivered as raw memory surged.

“And did you enjoy it?” asked Lucy, her voice still soft, almost seductive.

Miranda was silent, blushing although she was alone in the room. She had been massively turned on by Big Daddy’s commanding presence, by his spanking, by the way that disciplining her had excited him. Not to mention the unmentionable, the guilty pleasure of being buggered.

“Yes, I did. The whole scene was incredibly hot. I had feelings I’ve never had before.”

“And you pretended that you were me?”

“I’m sorry, Lucy. I don’t know what made me do it. I was restless, and curious. And surprised, that you were involved in that sort of thing.”

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, Mir dear.” Something in Lucy’s voice made Miranda flash back to her Victorian dream. Her sex twitched even though she felt embarrassed.

“Anyway, Lucy, do you really think that marrying Ray will be—compatible—with these other desires and interests?”

“Absolutely! Ray is as experimental as I am. We’ve already talked about all the wild, kinky things we’re going to do together once we’re married.”

Miranda felt slightly envious. How wonderful to have a committed, loving relationship and also the excitement of erotic adventures.

“Miranda, I’m proud of you. I’m glad that you took advantage of the opportunity to explore. I’ve been worried about you, always so uptight and strict with yourself.”

If only you knew what I’ve been doing the last week or so, thought Miranda, you would really be amazed. “I didn’t really know what I was doing,” she replied. “It was almost as if I were walking in my sleep.”

“Some part of you knew what you wanted, and reached for it,” said Lucy. “You just need to trust that part of you more.”

“Maybe,” said Miranda, not at all sure that part of her was worthy of trust.

“Anyway, international long distance isn’t cheap, and Ray’s paying, so I’d better go. I should be back next week. We can talk then. I insist that you tell me all the details! It’s the least you can do!”

“Okay, Luce,” laughed Miranda. Lucy’s enthusiasm was contagious.

“And, Mir, you’re welcome to use my clothes, and my identity, if that perks up your love life.”

“But…”

“No buts. Have a good time. See you next week.”

“Take care, Lucy.”

“You, too. Bye!”

Miranda swung herself out of bed and threw on a T-shirt and shorts. It felt like it was going to be another hot day. All the while, as she made breakfast for herself and planted a bowl in front of Heathcliff, she was trying to understand what had happened the previous night.

Anonymous sex was one thing. She could see the appeal, for her, of indulging her physical desires with no risk of emotional damage. Kinky role-playing games with a stranger, that was different, a new extreme. She would not have expected to enjoy such activities. The risk should have far outweighed the draw of the unknown. Yet her encounter with Big Daddy had been the most intense sexual experience in her admittedly limited history.

She remembered being spanked, the way that the pain transformed itself to arousal. The helplessness and humiliation associated with the naughty girl role had heightened the effect but she had to admit that the physical act itself had excited her. So strange. In the course of her research, she had read dozens of tales of flogging, spanking and other erotically-charged abuse, yet she had never reacted with excitement. What had changed? Where had this new and deviant side of her come from?

She suddenly recalled Mark’s tale of his domineering aunt. That had turned her on, true. Then, for the second time that morning, her Victorian dream came back to her. As she lay spread-eagled upon the table, the ringleader had threatened to beat her. She remembered, now, how that threat had affected her, the exquisite fear fueling overwhelming lust.

So, she thought with a wry inner smile, donning her backpack and heading out into the sun-drenched morning, not only am I bisexual, I’m also a masochist. What will I discover next?

By the time she reached the campus, the unseasonably hot weather had her sweating. She decided to work in her carrel at the library, instead of her office. It would be cooler there, and she was less likely to be interrupted. Entering the dim, air-conditioned atrium of the library was like entering another world. Sound was muffled. People flowed silently and gracefully by, intent on private missions. Miranda found her inner turmoil subsiding, calmed by the timeless aura of scholarship and the faint, familiar mustiness of old volumes.

Her cubicle was in the basement, where the lights were brighter, but it was still cool. She settled into her chair and extracted her laptop and a sheaf of manuscripts from her bag. She felt collected, focused, determined to continue the progress of the day before.

At first, she was successful. She began by annotating several chapters from The Romance of Lust, using her newly-developed criteria. Before long, she concluded that this classic, printed, reprinted, translated and plagiarized throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century, was pure invention. Analysis of Personal Recollections of the Use of the Rod produced more equivocal results. The narrator, the personal maid of a notorious Marquise, made frank and believable observations of her mistress’ behavior and prejudices. On the other hand, the existence of a secret ladies’ society devoted to the mutual administration of corporal punishment—well, this seemed a bit far-fetched. And yet, thought Miranda, how different is this from the Fantasy Factory?

Hardly realizing what she was doing, Miranda skimmed over the scenes of caning and flogging that filled the novel’s pages. The dirty little details were not interesting from a literary perspective, she told herself. In truth, she did not trust herself to read them. After a while, though, she grew restless. Perhaps I should take a break, she thought, get some coffee and stretch my legs. What she did instead, though, was to dig deep into her pack and retrieve Beatrice’s diary.

She knew that she should not be carrying the volume around with her—it was far too valuable. But she had not been able to resist the temptation to bring it along. She knew that right now she should be concentrating on the recognized corpus, seeking evidence for her hypothesis. But she could not resist the lure of the tooled leather, the creamy pages, or the steamy tales set down in Beatrice’s precise, ladylike hand.

 

July 25, 1886

Now is my degradation complete, my shame unfathomable. Now I know how deeply corrupt, how irredeemable, I truly am. I should be wearing coarse stuff, on my knees in the church, weeping and praying for forgiveness.

Instead, I sit here at my dressing table, compounding my sins by setting them down in writing. Sinning again, in fact, as I relive them, describe them, rolling the dark flavors around in my mind like sweetmeats on my tongue. In the mirror before me, I see my face is flushed, my eyes sparkle, the pulse is quick where the lace of my dressing gown reveals my throat. Oh, the shame makes me more beautiful, the shame and the tender pain of silk caressing my stripes.

I had completed a productive afternoon of errands and sent Pauline home with the packages, while I stopped at my favorite tea room on Newbury Street for some refreshment. My thoughts focused solely on domestic issues as I sipped my oolong. New shoes for Daniel, refitting the parlor drapes, the pearl earrings I had chosen for Margaret Booth’s daughter, to be married next month. The attractions of the flesh had never been further from my mind.

Something tickled the edge of my consciousness, distracting me from my mundane reverie. I looked up, slightly startled, and there he was, staring at me rudely from his table in the corner. When our eyes met, I felt that shock, familiar and yet always new. Recognition in the eyes of a stranger, secret knowledge. I might as well have been naked.

He was richly dressed in a fine costume of maroon wool, of the latest cut. A gold watch and chain were prominently displayed across his brocade waistcoat. Still, my immediate thought was that this was no gentleman. His complexion was swarthy and his features rather uneven. His brow bespoke intelligence, but his narrow lips had a cruel cast. His thick black hair, though well-groomed, was a bit too long to be proper.

A mental voice urged me to rise and leave the place, but I could not move. His gaze held me transfixed. Thus snakes are said to render their prey immobile and vulnerable. Before I could think or take action, he had approached my table, and was kissing my hand.

“Madame,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, with the hint of a foreign accent. “Will you accompany me? I feel that we have some common interests to discuss.”

“Sir, I do not know to what interests you refer,” I replied demurely, though of course I had some idea.

In response, he brought his walking stick up between my legs, raising my skirts almost to my knees. I looked around in panic. All the other customers seemed to be occupied with their own conversations. “My dear, do not play the innocent with me. I know who you are. I know what you want.”

He let my petticoats drop back into place and offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

I fumbled in my purse for money to pay the tariff, but he waved it aside. “I have already settled that matter. Come, my coach is waiting.”

My escort’s carriage was in keeping with his clothing, richly ornamented and expensive. The driver gave me an odd look as we climbed in, simultaneously lustful and resentful. He wore lavish maroon livery, but he was unshaven and rough-looking. Like his master, he seemed to be acting a part.

I settled myself on the velvet upholstery, feeling more and more nervous. My companion leaned out the window, signaling the coachman to proceed. Then he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a white silk handkerchief.

“For reasons that I am sure you will understand, my dear, I must blindfold you. I cannot have my partners seeking me out after we have concluded our little diversions.” I did not resist as he bound the cool silk around my brow. I could sympathize with his concerns.

The coach galloped on for perhaps three-quarters of an hour. I tried to judge by sound where we were or at least what direction we had taken. Very soon, it seemed, we left the bustle of the city behind. We must have been in one of the fashionable suburbs, Brookline, or Newton. The warmth of the late afternoon sun, slanting in through the window, suggested we were traveling southwest.

My companion neither spoke nor touched me during the trip. However, I was acutely aware of his presence beside me, radiating a kind of magnetic attraction that made me perspire under my layers of clothing. I kept my hands tightly clasped in my lap, resisting the urge to touch him. Indeed, I had the sense that he was tempting me, testing me, with his physical closeness and psychic distance.

At last we slowed our pace and turned into a drive. I heard gravel crunching under the wheels. My companion removed the blindfold, and I saw that we had stopped before a gracious residence, surrounded by gardens. He handed me down from the carriage, and I naturally turned toward the main entrance, with its fanlight and leaded panes.

“No,” he said sharply, reaching out to grab my hand. I looked at him, puzzled. He gave a little laugh. “No, I think it is the stables for you. Go on now, follow Montrose.”

The coachman leered at me. I was about to object, full of righteous disdain, when I realized several things. First, I was alone and unprotected here, in some unknown house, far from the help of any friend. Second, despite both fear and indignation, I was mightily aroused. The trip in the carriage had taken its toll on my senses. I desperately wanted to be touched by the mysterious, dark gentleman with the suspicious accent.

Still, I hesitated. My abductor frowned. “You do not want to cross me, Madame. Do you?”

I felt suddenly meek and pliant. “No, sir. Of course not.”

“Then do my bidding. To the stables.” He lifted his stick and gave me a solid whack on the buttocks. My bustle absorbed most of the force, but the act was so surprising, I could only stare. He raised the stick again. “Now!”

I needed no more persuasion. I followed the surly driver across the gravel to the barn. He slid the door open, and my nostrils twitched at the rich blend of smells, leather, hay, manure. The interior was dim; the only window was a grimy square of glass high up on the wall. Several fine horses glanced at me as I stumbled across the threshold, but they soon lost interest.

I stood in the middle of the room, my boots buried to the ankles in the straw, at a complete loss. Montrose lit a kerosene lantern, adding to the pungent combination of smells. His master sauntered into the building and looked me over. My confusion must have been apparent, for he smiled, came over and cupped my chin in his hand.

“Now, little angel, it is time for you to prove yourself. Do you want to please me?”

I nodded, spellbound by his dark gaze.

“I can see your soul, little one. It is dark. You need discipline, punishment. You need a strong hand, like mine.”

I need a strong cock, my mind screamed, but outwardly I remained silent and demure.

“Remove your clothing,” he said. I was about to resist, on principle, but his eyes cowed me. “Do it yourself, or if you prefer, I will have Montrose do it for you.”

My skin crawled at the thought of that degenerate touching me. As quickly and gracefully as I could, I shed my overskirt, bustle, underskirt, petticoats, and waist. Now I wore only my drawers, stockings, corset and chemise. I went to undo the corset, but no matter how I tried, I could not reach the lacings.

“Please, Sir,” I said, turning my back to him, embarrassed and excited. “I cannot manage my stays by myself. Would you assist me?”

“With pleasure,” he said. Finally, his hands were on me, surprisingly competent as they released the cords and loosened the confining garment. Please, I thought, let him touch my breasts, and he did, reaching around to cup them in his palms. Only for a moment, though, then he turned me around to face him.

“You are very lovely, Madame. You would tempt the devil. Off with the chemise and the drawers. Montrose, bring the bonds.”

No, I thought, but my nipples ached, my sex throbbed from his brief touch. I would do anything he asked, I realized, and got a strange thrill from this thought. I removed the articles of clothing, as he ordered.

“Bind her,” said my master briefly. Montrose knew exactly what he wanted.

They used leather, reins and other items of tack that I cannot accurately name. My wrists were roped together and the thong was laced through an iron hoop affixed to the ceiling. They hauled me up until I was on tiptoe. I could feel my juices trickling down my thighs.

They wrapped strips of leather around my waist, and affixed them to the stalls along either wall. I am not sure why they did this; perhaps simply to see the leather biting into my flesh. They ran a leather strap between my legs, so that it rubbed against my center, in the front, and chafed my rear opening. Finally, Montrose took a complicated harness and fitted it over my head. There was something like a bit, which he placed in my mouth, but surely, this was designed on a human, not an equine scale.

I could no longer speak. I could not move to any significant extent. I admit, though, I was more excited than frightened, bizarre as the scenario was.

Finally, I was done, trussed up like some odd piece of game. The dark man circled me, obviously pleased. “Sweet, very sweet. I knew when I saw you that you wanted what I had to offer, and this…” He wiggled a finger under the strap, dipped a finger into my sopping cunny then held it to his lips, “This tells me that I was not wrong.

“Now, my filly, you must be brave. Montrose, bring me the crop.”

I panicked, twisted in my bonds, but to no avail. I was totally at the swarthy stranger’s mercy.

His first blows were directed to the fleshy parts of my bum. They burned like acid, and yet, every time I twisted, trying to evade his strokes, the leather between my legs inflamed me further. Soon he was whipping the backs of my thighs, my shoulders, even my breasts. But my senses were overwhelmed, the smell of my own excitement blending with the animal scents, the sharp pain merging with and transforming the exquisite stimulation in my lower parts, till I could not distinguish agony from ecstasy.

Hanging in my harness, I jerked through climax, once, twice, helpless in the face of my own debauched sensibilities.

Finally, the master stopped beating me. He released the gag that held me speechless. Then he gently stroked my scored nether cheeks. His touch was cool and soothing. “There, there, my sweet. You did well.”

The approval in his voice gave me more pleasure than all the sensual stimulation I had endured. I rubbed my cheek against his jacket, delighted that I had satisfied him.

“However, we are not quite finished yet.” He pulled himself to his full height, looking me in the eye. Once again I remarked the cruel twist of his mouth. “You have not yet been fucked, and I understand that this is what you really want.” He unfastened and removed the thong between my legs. The leather was dark and slick with my moisture.

“Only if it pleases you, master,” I whispered.

“Oh, it does,” he said softly. “Montrose, come here.”

I cannot bear to tell what happened next, my degradation and my filthy pleasure. He would not take me himself. No, he required that his servant take me instead. And I allowed it, though I kicked and screamed. Ultimately I rejoiced at having that thick, smelly rod embedded in my depths, churning, plowing, using me more roughly than I would have ever imagined. I rejoiced because I knew my Master was watching, knew that the more debased and debauched I was, the more he loved me.

However, after it all, I will not see him again. He made that clear, as he kissed me, refitted the blindfold, and sent me home in his carriage. “Now you know who you really are,” he said, and he spoke truly. “My work is done.”

I must close this chapter of my life, put it behind me. I cannot bear to remember the sweetness of the pain, the sharpness of the pleasure. My stripes remind me now, but they will fade. I risked everything this time, and I survived, but I no longer have the illusion of control. I will not do this again, I tell myself, will not put my husband, my children, my life in jeopardy. As I write, though, I wonder. Is not my impulse to record this just another evidence of my weakness?

For the first time in my life, I am full of doubt. , Am I the mistress of my passions, or only their slave?

 

Miranda snapped the leather-covered book shut and sat back in her chair. Her heart was pounding as if she had just run a marathon. Perspiration drenched her T-shirt, though the ambient temperature was still comfortable. Her sex was wetter still, swollen and aching for relief.

I could go off to the ladies’ room, she thought vaguely, and frig myself in the stall. Even as she weighed this plan, though, she was working her hand into the elastic waistband of her jersey shorts. She laid two fingers against her cotton-covered mons. Even this slight touch sent shivers through her frame. She stroked her middle finger lightly over her clitoris. Although that bud was shielded by her underpants and her pubic curls, the layers transmitted the pressure quite effectively. Her inner walls twitched, and her buttocks clenched involuntarily. That, in turn, woke echoes of pleasure and pain in her recently plumbed rear hole.

What am I doing? Miranda marveled at herself, but she did not answer her question, and she did not stop. Pushing the cotton aside, she slid her fingers through her bush to the slick knob of flesh hidden there. The direct contact, skin on skin, made her gasp. She paused for a moment, listening. All she heard was the hiss of the air conditioning. She resumed her activity, still furtive, but more energetic. The seaweed smell of her secretions rose in the cubicle.

Eyes closed, she allowed herself to think about Beatrice’s tale. She had never been bound, but she could picture, vividly, how she would react to that state of helplessness. No escape, no responsibility—anyone could do anything to her, and she could not prevent it. She understood, far better now after last night’s revelations, how intoxicating it could be to be in someone else’s power.

As for the riding crop, well, could it have been so different from the fierce strokes of Big Daddy’s bare palms? But her rear cheeks had shown no trace of the spanking this morning, while Beatrice had enduring marks. So, the crop must be sharper, more painful, more extreme. Miranda imagined herself bent over Big Daddy’s ottoman, while he lashed her butt with a flexible wooden ruler. Somehow this seemed more in keeping with his disciplinarian personality than a crop. Meanwhile, she had both hands in her pants now, rubbing furiously. Climax hovered close, but did not come, though it seemed that her cunt was so hot and swollen that it must burst.

She could picture the brutish servant, uncouth and hairy, with a huge, livid dick. Oh, she needed that now, needed something stiffer, longer, fatter than her fingers, to satisfy her. She could see him grin as he fondled himself, even as the master began to beat her again. She would perish from frustration if someone did not penetrate her. She writhed and twisted in her leather harness, lewdly offering her lower half to master and man.

But wait, Beatrice had not specified how the coachman had used her! What if the lout had forced that enormous, ripe penis not into her well-oiled cunt, but through the delicate portal of her ass?

Her own anus twitched and rippled as this thought brought orgasm crashing down on her. She heard a cry, then choked it back, remembering belatedly where she was. Hastily, she pulled her hands out of her shorts. They were redolent and sticky.

Miranda leaned back and closed her eyes, willing her breathing to slow. She might have drifted off for a moment. Some slight sound startled her eyes open, to the sight of Mark Anderson peering over the top of her carrel.

“Here you are, Miranda. Smart, it’s much cooler down here.” He leaned against the cubicle frame and looked her over with frank interest. Did he guess what she had been doing? Was it her imagination, or did she see his nostrils flare slightly? “How are you? Any ill effects from all that wine yesterday afternoon?”

Not unless you consider a newfound interest in masochism to be an ill effect, Miranda thought, a little wildly. “No, I’m fine. I really enjoyed our lunch. I feel that I know you much better now.”

“Me, too,” said Mark. “In fact, since lunch was such a success, I was wondering if you would be interested in trying dinner. Not at my apartment,” he added with a little laugh. “On neutral territory. There’s a great-looking little Mexican place called the Guernavaca Café on Mass Avenue that I’ve been wanting to try. What do you say?”

“I’d like that,” said Miranda, sincerely. She felt sweaty and disheveled, but she could not help but glow a bit at the appreciation she saw in Mark’s eyes. “When were you thinking?”

“Why not tonight?”

Miranda briefly flashed on the amount of work she had to do, plus the fact that she had squandered much of the morning in—non-productive—pursuits. She had thought to make it up by working late. But then she heard Lucy’s voice in her mind, calling her Ms. Grind and urging her to ‘have fun’. She nodded.

“Sounds great. Meet you there, around eight?”

“Perfect,” said Mark. “I’ve got quite a lot of work to get done today. Tomorrow is my lecture on Charles Dickens and sex.”

Was he teasing her? “Come on, Mark,” she said.

“No, really. I speculate on how Dickens could have written thirteen major novels, and be generally regarded as one of the keenest observers of the human condition of any author in any period, and never openly mention sex. What does this tell us about Dickens the writer and Dickens the man?”

“Maybe he was also writing pornography, under a pseudonym,” said Miranda mischievously.

Mark gave her shoulder an affectionate pat. “Well, if you find any evidence for that theory, please do let me know. Anyway, see you tonight, Miranda.”

“See you!” She watched his trim figure disappear between two aisles of books. She still felt a pleasant heat on her shoulder, where he had touched her.

Once again she felt poised and focused, eager to get to work. But I’d better go wash my hands first, she thought with a little grin. Leaving her books and papers in the cubicle, she headed for the restroom, where she splashed some water on her face and sopped up some of the dampness between her legs. She returned, feeling refreshed, and started sorting through her pile of photocopies.

The clipping fell out of the pages of Confessions of an English Maid. She had no idea how it got there. She had ordered the manuscript from London, via interlibrary loan. But the half-sheet of newsprint was clearly from the local entertainment rag, Boston After Dark. In fact, it was from the Adult section.

There were several columns of advertisements, for escort services, phone sex, swingers’ parties, and the like. One, however, was circled.

 

The Keep. Dominance for the discriminating.

Every Wednesday through Friday, Mistress Clara entertains and instructs.

1263 Commonwealth Ave., Brookline

 

There was no telephone number. Strange, too, that such a place would be located in staid, wealthy Brookline. Of course, thought Miranda, Mistress Clara may be some bored matron trying to spice up her life of golf and shopping. For some reason that reminded her of Beatrice. She slipped the clipping between the pages of the diary and thrust the journal resolutely down toward the bottom of her backpack. You’ve done quite enough damage for one day, Madame, she thought. I don’t want you tempting me further.

As she worked through the afternoon, though, Miranda’s mind kept slipping back to the journal and Beatrice’s tale. I wonder, she thought, whether Mistress Clara has a stable.