Chapter Fourteen

Office Hours

 

 

 

Three days had passed since Ray’s dinner party. Miranda had not seen Mark since then, though they had spoken by telephone every day. She missed him. “I don’t want to overload you,” he’d said. “And I don’t want you to get tired of me.”

Fat chance of that! Every time she was with him, she wanted him more. Every time she was out of his presence, her longing became more intense. When he was not with her, she lay in bed, pleasuring herself and imagining him. This was serious—at least on her side. She still was not sure about Mark’s feelings.

Despite her preoccupation with her lover, she had managed to be productive. She had been working hard, mostly at home, rereading all her primary sources and evaluating them against her ‘reality criteria’, as she called them. Today, though, she was busy transcribing Beatrice’s diary.

If possible, Beatrice’s words affected her more on the second reading than the first. Perhaps this was due to the knowledge she now had as to how the woman’s story would end. The episode in the House of Shadows appeared to be the final entry in the diary. As she typed the last sentences into her laptop, Miranda sat back and took a deep breath.

The light summer dress that she wore tickled her erect nipples. She spread her thighs and allowed the sun streaming through her window to bake her naked pussy. A random breeze stirred her cunt-fur, sending little chills up her spine, despite the warmth. Oh, Beatrice, she thought, what happened next?

She rifled through the remaining, empty, pages of the leather-bound volume. They were mutely eloquent. How had Beatrice’s life changed after she was discovered by her husband? Were her fears confirmed, her reputation ruined, her children kept from her? Did he use her need to make her his slave, and if so, was that what she desired? Was their shadowy encounter a stroke of chance, or was it somehow engineered by the suspicious Thomas?

Miranda sighed. She was about to put the journal away and take up other work, when she noticed, on the very last page, some faint writing. Unlike the text revealed by the wine’s reaction, this script was blurred and somewhat difficult to read. The hand was also unfamiliar, more angular and irregular than Beatrice’s graceful penmanship. Burning with curiosity, Miranda turned on her desk lamp and dug a magnifying glass out of her desk drawer.

 

August 7, 1886

I find myself somehow compelled to add a postscript to this account of fleshly exploration. Nothing remains secret forever. It may be that some time in the future, in a more enlightened age, my Beatrice’s tales of lust and longing will be discovered and deciphered. However unlikely this may be, I want to have the last word.

Beatrice will write here no more. From now on, if she wishes to chronicle her pilgrimage of lust, she will do so for me, in the new journal that I have provided her. It is bound in leather as scarlet as her thoughts, and scented with her perfume.

For months before her unmasking, I sensed a restlessness in her, some spark of dissatisfaction. In our marriage bed, to my secret chagrin, she was as compliant and unmoved as ever. Nevertheless, I wondered whether she might not be experiencing urgings of the flesh, which she was hiding from me out of concern for propriety. As cordial as our relations are, I could not inquire of her on this delicate subject. Nor could I, a proper and considerate husband, confide to her that I wished her to be more responsive and to take more pleasure in our bed. For a price, I could vent my bodily frustration. No strumpet or fancy woman, however, could satisfy my true craving, my desire for a partner whose passions would match my own.

Privately, I pressed Beatrice’s maid for details of my lady’s desires. True to her loyal nature, Pauline kept her mistress’ counsel. However, at one point, she mentioned that her mistress kept a diary closely hidden in her jewel chest. Here I would find a clue, I felt certain.

One afternoon when my lady was out, I retrieved the journal and attempted to breach its secrets. The key was nowhere to be found. I will admit with some shame that I forced the lock, frustrated in my efforts toward a gentler and less detectable incursion. Imagine my disappointment when I found the pages of the journal were blank!

I was suspicious, however. Who would lock and hide a journal filled with empty pages? I discovered that by holding the pages to a bright light, I could read them without difficulty. Beatrice’s clever disappearing ink faded from the parchment upon drying, but it subtly altered the page’s composition, adding some slight transparency. With a lantern behind the page, Beatrice’s words blazed forth and her desperate duplicity became clear.

At first, I confess that I was shocked by the diversity of her lusts and the depth of her perversity. My shock quickly turned to delight, however. My intuitions were correct. Beatrice’s angelic countenance hid a soul as hungry for carnal experience as my own.

Still, I was at a loss as to how to profit from this knowledge. If I were to confront her, she would feel threatened or ashamed. I needed to lure her into an environment where I could reveal myself to her gradually in an erotic context.

I recalled a lusty tale I had read about an establishment where masked women presented themselves to be chosen by strangers. This seemed as if it might appeal to my Beatrice. I borrowed the South End house of an acquaintance, hired a few individuals to act as accomplices, invented a ritual, and the House of Shadows was born. Then I planted the story of the house in the servants’ grapevine, and waited for Beatrice to hear of its existence.

I was eavesdropping the day that Pauline innocently carried the tale to Beatrice’s ears. Later, observing her closely, I could tell from her heightened color and shortened breath that she was affected as I intended. I created an excuse to disappear the following day, leaving her free to follow her inclinations. The result, so eloquently described by my sensitive and lascivious lady, was all I could have hoped.

She awaits me in our bed now, boldly naked, her rosy flesh glowing with honest desire. I have promised to take her to Paris, where the strict proprieties of our time are treated less seriously than they are here in straight-laced Boston. Meanwhile, I will store this volume away in the attic with other items for which we no longer have a need. Let fate decide where and how it may find its way back into the light.

 

Miranda sat back in her chair, astonished. Beatrice was not unique in her rebellion against her society’s constraints. How many other couples experienced this dilemma? How many husbands, frustrated by their apparently cold wives, turned to whores and mistresses, while their ladies struggled to suppress their unseemly lusts, satisfying themselves in guilty solitude?

No wonder the Victorians wrote so copiously of sex. The mores of the time conspired to frustrate them to an extent that Miranda could have hardly imagined.

Her musings were interrupted by the ring of her doorbell. Hastily, she stuffed the journal into the back of her underwear drawer. Since her conversation with Mark, she had begun to worry about the safety of the work. Slipping on a pair of sandals, she went downstairs to answer the door.

Standing there on the stoop, looking good enough to eat in a short skirt and tank top, was Lucy.

“Hi, Lucy! Why didn’t you just use your key and come on in?”

Lucy looked shy and a bit embarrassed. “Well, I didn’t want to intrude on your privacy. After all, I didn’t know what you might be doing.”

They both laughed. It felt strange to see each other in the light of day, after their antics a few nights ago. “I was in the neighborhood,” Lucy continued, “and I wondered if you’d like to join me for lunch.”

“Great idea. We can go over to Panini’s across the street. It’s late enough that they probably won’t be crowded. Just let me run up and get my wallet and keys.”

Upstairs, still worried about the diary, Miranda locked her bedroom window. She considered donning a pair of panties, but rejected the idea. I’m only going across the street, after all, she thought. Glancing into the mirror near the door, she noticed that she was flushed. She grabbed her clutch purse and hurried down the stairs two at a time.

Panini’s was remarkably empty for a weekday. They took their salads and cappuccino and retreated to a table in the far corner. For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

Miranda searched Lucy’s face, trying to figure out how her friend felt about their sexual encounter. For her own part, she felt renewed desire just being in Lucy’s presence. Lucy took a sip of her coffee, and for a moment, foamy milk coated her lips. Miranda wondered what it would be like to feel those luscious lips sucking on her clit.

Finally, Lucy spoke. “Miranda, I want to thank you for the other night.”

“Thank me? I should thank you for letting me take advantage of you.”

The blonde across from her laughed. “Take advantage of me! How old-fashioned you sound! Miranda, I was dying to have you touch me. I’ve been attracted to you ever since we met. I don’t have much experience with women, but I could tell even during our first interview that the way you made me feel was more than just compatibility or camaraderie. You always seemed so serious, though, and a bit inhibited. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by making a false move. The night we went to the disco—the night I met Ray—you looked so sexy I almost cried with frustration.”

“Well, to be honest, I didn’t realize back then that I had bisexual leanings. That’s a recent discovery, along with some other interesting inclinations. Anyway, you always seemed to be completely straight. You never gave any hint that you liked women too.”

“In B-school, you can’t be too careful. It’s hard enough dealing with the macho students and professors. The last thing you need is to be labeled as a dyke.”

Miranda nodded, taking a bite of her field greens in vinaigrette. She should be careful herself. Academia was not as liberal and forgiving of personal peccadilloes as some might think.

“So speaking of interesting inclinations,” continued Lucy softly, “you promised to tell me about your encounter with Big Daddy.”

Miranda was amazed to find herself blushing. It was harder to talk about than she would have thought, given her intimacy with Lucy. Still, she owed it to the other woman, having usurped her identity, and in some sense stolen her adventure. So, taking a deep breath, she began to give Lucy a detailed account of that evening of fantasy.

The telling rekindled the desire. She felt the wooden seat of her chair becoming slick with the juices leaking from her uncovered sex. She recalled the sweet sting of Big Daddy’s bare palm on her buttocks. She relived the delicious shame and guilty pleasure of her first anal penetration. By the time she finished the story, Miranda’s heart was pounding as if she’d run a marathon, and she was damp with sweat.

Lucy sat, rapt, through the whole tale, her lips half-open, her fork halfway to her mouth. When Miranda concluded, Lucy put the fork down. “So, it was good, then?”

“It was incredible. He was a man of great force of will. Not to mention an excellent actor.”

“I can hardly believe that my straight, serious friend Miranda did something like that. I’m so proud of you. And I’m so jealous!”

“I’m sorry, Lucy. I know it’s no excuse, but it was as if I couldn’t help myself. Anyway, you have Ray now. You told me he was sexually adventurous, and I now have good reason to believe you!”

Lucy smiled a bit wistfully. “Ray is wonderful, and very experimental. But it turns out that spanking and power games don’t turn him on. We’ve talked about this a lot. He’s willing to give it a try, just to please me—he tied me to the bed last week and ‘forced’ me to suck him off—but he really wasn’t into it. He’s just too much of a gentleman, from what I can tell.”

Remembering Ray’s gentle sexiness, Miranda could understand very well.

“He doesn’t mind if I satisfy this interest of mine elsewhere,” Lucy added. “But I really don’t know how to find someone I can trust. In fact, getting together with someone from the Internet was a big risk. I’m glad it turned out well, but in fact, it might have been dangerous.”

Miranda nodded. She saw this now, looking back on her frenzied, pre-Mark adventures. Remembering Mark, she had an idea. “I know someone who might be able to help you.” Briefly, she told Lucy about Mistress Carla and The Keep. She did not reveal the fact that the mistress’ victim had been Mark, however. That was his secret, to hide or reveal as he chose.

Lucy looked interested, but after a moment she shook her head. “I don’t think I could handle something that heavy, at least not yet. I need some serious chastising, but not industrial strength discipline.”

The petite blonde looked slightly forlorn. Miranda wished desperately that she could do something to help, to compensate Lucy for stealing the spanking that rightly belonged to her. All at once, she had an inspiration.

“Okay, Lucy, listen to me. Meet me tonight at nine o’clock, at my office at the university. You know how to get there, don’t you?”

Lucy nodded, giving her an odd look. “What do you have in mind?”

“Just trust me, okay?” Her friend nodded again. “And don’t be late.”

Miranda arrived at the university at quarter to nine. The building was empty, but it was left unlocked to accommodate the odd hours kept by graduate students. Her office furnishings were pretty basic, a desk, two chairs, a bookcase that stretched to the ceiling, and a step stool for reaching the top shelves. She arranged things to her liking, turning off the overhead fixture but leaving her desk lamp on. Then she sat behind the desk, face in a pool of light, and waited, listening to the drumming of her heart.

At nine p.m. on the dot, there was a knock. “Come in,” she called. The door opened slowly, as if the hand behind it was hesitant, and Lucy’s golden curls appeared. She seemed relieved to find only Miranda in the office. “Hello, Miranda…” she began.

Miranda held up her hand in a sharp gesture of rebuke. “I beg your pardon? Where is your respect? You will address me as Ms. Cahill.” She stood up, unsmiling, her back straight, and watched Lucy swallow nervously. So far, this was going well.

Miranda was dressed conservatively, even for her. Her straight black skirt reached below her knees. Her white blouse buttoned high around her throat. Over the blouse she wore a fitted black jacket that suggested a uniform more than business attire. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her neck. She paused for a long moment, allowing Lucy to appreciate her costume. Then she spoke. She was surprised at how stern she sounded.

“Don’t just stand there like a little fool, Lucy. Come in, and close the door behind you.” Lucy obeyed, entering the room and standing in front of the desk, looking uncomfortable. She was not exactly in costume, but her clothing suggested youth, canvas espadrilles, a denim miniskirt and a jersey top edged with lace around the neckline. Miranda recalled the schoolgirl garb she had worn with Big Daddy, and briefly wished that she could see petite little Lucy dressed that way. Well, perhaps some other time.

Miranda allowed the silence to lengthen, watching Lucy’s fear and excitement grow. Finally, she picked up a wooden ruler from her desk and began tapping it in at a meditative pace against her palm. “I summoned you here, Lucy, because it has come to my attention that you have been behaving scandalously.”

She paused as if waiting for a reply. Lucy seemed to be completely tongue-tied.

“Specifically, you have been accused of shameful and dirty activities with another girl. Is this true?”

A hot blush climbed from Lucy’s face to her cheeks. Her blue eyes glittered. Could those be tears, so soon? Miranda slapped her palm with the ruler. “Well? Speak up. Have you been acting like a filthy little dyke?”

Lucy’s voice was almost a whisper. “Yes, Ms. Cahill.”

“Louder, please. I cannot hear you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I did things with another girl.”

“What kind of things, Lucy? Tell me the details. Be quick now.” Miranda moved from behind the desk and made a slow circle around Lucy’s form, still tapping with the ruler. Then she stood before the blonde girl, summoning every inch of her height so that she appeared to tower over her.

“I can’t say,” Lucy murmured, looking down at the floor. Her delicious embarrassment was palpable.

“You must, Lucy, or I will not know how hard to punish you. Why should you endure the most severe punishment if your infractions were minor?”

Lucy had no answer for this. However, as Miranda watched, feigning impatience, the blonde woman’s nipples tightened and lengthened, till they showed prominently through the stretchy cotton. Without warning, Miranda flicked at one with her forefinger. Lucy flinched. Miranda caught a whiff of her woman scent and knew she was damp underneath the denim.

“You are not wearing a bra, Lucy. Respectable girls always wear bras. You know that, I am sure. However, I will forgive you this transgression. I am more interested in your lesbian activities.”

Lucy tried to reply, but her resolve failed her. Miranda was astonished that she could inspire such a change in her roommate’s sunny, confident personality.

“Did you touch her breasts, Lucy? Did you?”

Staring at Miranda’s sensible shoes, Lucy nodded assent.

“And did she touch yours?” Another nod. “What else? Where else did you touch her? What did you do to her? What did she do to you?” Miranda slammed the ruler down on the desk and Lucy jumped. “Do not try my patience, young lady, or you will be very sorry indeed.”

Lucy seemed to gather herself. She stood a bit straighter. Miranda noticed a drop of liquid appear on the bare thigh just below the denim hem.

“She kissed me,” said Lucy softly, still looking at the floor. “And I let her. Then she stuck her fingers into me.”

“Into your pussy?”

Lucy nodded.

“Shocking. I will bet that you liked it, though, didn’t you?”

She nodded again, miserable and yet clearly aroused.

“Anything else?”

“She kissed me—down there.”

“The correct term for that disgraceful practice is cunnilingus. Lucy, I can scarcely believe how nasty you have been. This merits the maximum punishment, I’m afraid. I am assuming that you have told me everything, have you not?”

Lucy looked around like a frightened rabbit. Miranda half expected her to turn and bolt. But she held her ground, and after a moment, shook her head.

“There is more?”

“Yes, Ms. Cahill.”

“Well?”

Lucy was clearly ready to break down. “She stuck her finger—behind. Into my behind.”

“Anal penetration! Disgusting. You are totally corrupt, Miss, and you must be punished to stop you from continuing these depraved practices. Do you not agree?”

Lucy raised her tear-filled eyes to Miranda’s. She nodded one more time, slowly. “Yes, Ms. Cahill. I should be punished.”

Miranda had been worried that she was pushing her friend too hard, but Lucy’s agreement reassured her. She pulled over the straight-backed wooden chair that was sitting in the corner. Then she arranged the step stool in front of it. “Stand on the stool, Lucy.” The girl obeyed. “Now, lean forward, and hold on to the chair seat. That’s right, one hand on each side.”

Given her slight experience in dominance and submission, Miranda had wondered whether the position she planned would actually work. She was gratified to find that the body dynamics were exactly as she had imagined. The stool elevated Lucy’s rump to a level where she could reach it without difficulty. Lucy’s back extended downward toward the chair at about a forty-five degree angle, giving her the stability to withstand the blows that Miranda was planning to inflict. She laid the ruler on the desk, temporarily, and attended to her victim.

First, she adjusted the gooseneck desk lamp so that it was focused on Lucy’s upturned bum like a spotlight. Then, bit by bit, working to achieve the maximum suspense, Miranda pushed the denim skirt up. Lucy’s buttocks were sheathed in plain white cotton panties. Very good, thought Miranda, very appropriate. She felt a surge of excitement, surveying those vulnerable cheeks, and an intense sense of her own power.

After a long moment, she reached forward, grabbing the elastic waistband with both hands. As if unveiling a masterpiece, she gradually pulled the garment down, exposing Lucy’s deliciously rounded flesh. She remembered her night with Big Daddy, and left the panties tangled around the other woman’s ankles, where they would add to her feelings of awkwardness and shame.

At Ray’s, she had barely seen Lucy’s sex. The encounter had been too frenzied to permit aesthetic appreciation. Tonight, she could take as much time as she liked. Every minute that she delayed Lucy’s punishment would increase the blonde’s fearful anticipation.

“Arch your back, Lucy. I want to see that nasty little cunt of yours.”

Lucy obeyed promptly. Miranda licked her lips at the sight of the pink, protruding folds, vulnerable and hairless as a baby’s. When Lucy had shared their apartment, Miranda was fairly sure that she had not been depilated in this way. Ray must have suggested this little novelty.

She smiled a little and retrieved the ruler. “Perhaps I should chastise your cunt rather than your bum,” she said softly. “I imagine that this ruler would sting quite nicely in that sensitive area.”

Lucy whimpered. “No, please, Ms. Cahill. That would hurt too much.”

“But that is exactly the idea, my little slut. If the punishment does not hurt, how can it be effective?” She tapped the ruler lightly against the girl’s conveniently presented ass. “Still, since this is your first offense, although a serious one, I suppose that I will be merciful.”

Without further warning, Miranda snapped the ruler down smartly on Lucy’s right cheek. Lucy jerked and cried out. A streak of red appeared on her creamy skin. A matching streak on the left soon followed. Miranda paused, breathing in the ocean scent beginning to rise from between the other woman’s damp thighs.

She smacked the ruler against the right mound again. The sound of the flexible wood landing on elastic flesh echoed in the high-ceilinged room. She noted how Lucy’s lower lips swelled and reddened in response to the stroke. Another pearl of moisture escaped and trickled toward Lucy’s knees as Miranda addressed her ruler to Lucy’s left buttock. She resisted the urge to kneel between the other girl’s legs and lap at her juiciness. As to banish any thoughts of such weakness, she increased the force of her slaps.

Miranda worked with deliberate care, evaluating Lucy’s state before each blow. The petite blonde was moaning now, twisting her hips with each stroke. However, Miranda noted the telltale glistening of moisture on those peach-hued labia whenever Lucy bucked away from the ruler. The woman was hugely aroused, despite, or perhaps because of, the pain.

After a while, Miranda’s wrist began to ache. She stopped for a moment and went around to look into Lucy’s eyes. Her face was tear-stained, but her quickened breathing bespoke her arousal. “Are you truly sorry for behaving so badly, Lucy?”

Lucy nodded.

“And do you promise that you will never again engage in indecent activities with another girl?”

Something like defiance flared in Lucy’s eyes. Her lips were pressed tightly together. She was silent.

“No? Well, miss, I guess that the punishment will have to continue. I should have brought my cane, but I did not expect you to be so incorrigible. My bare hand will just have to do.” Miranda began slapping her palm against Lucy’s cheeks, alternating right and left in a brisk rhythm. Before long, the rosy trails left by the ruler had disappeared in a general field of inflamed skin. Miranda could feel the heat half an inch away from Lucy’s flesh.

Her own hand stung and burned, and gradually, heat suffused her whole body. Her costume felt tight and constraining. She longed to be naked with Lucy, to take her into her arms, cuddle and console her. However, she knew she needed to stay in character. She stopped spanking the reddened cheeks in front of her, but Lucy did not cease her moaning and twitching. “Nasty girl,” scolded Miranda, “I do believe that my spanking arouses you. Let me feel your cunt.” She thrust her hands between Lucy’s damp thighs, found her clitoris, and gave it one hard pinch. It was enough to send Lucy over the edge.

She gave a scream and clamped her thighs around Miranda’s hand, humping the fingers that Miranda pushed into her. Liquid poured from Lucy’s depths, soaking Miranda’s cuffs.

When Lucy’s spasms had subsided, Miranda removed her arm. She held her wrist under Lucy’s nose. “Look what you’ve done, you dirty girl. You’ve ruined my suit. You will pay for this, believe me.” There was still fear in Lucy’s eyes, but Miranda saw exhaustion, too.

“Get up. Pull up your underwear.”

Lucy winced as the cotton settled over her irritated skin. She stood straight, hands clasped in front of her, eyes downcast.

“I can tell, Lucy, that you have not learned your lesson. We will have to continue this another night. For now, I will let you go. I have more important business to attend to.”

An expression of relief flooded Lucy’s features. She turned to leave, but Miranda’s voice stopped her short. “Wait just a minute, young lady. Don’t you have anything to say to me?”

Lucy looked puzzled.

“Aren’t you grateful that I have taken an interest in you? Believe me, I only punish you for your own good.”

For the first time since she entered, a hint of a smile played on Lucy’s lips, and her eyes held a bit of their normal spark. “Thank you, Ms. Cahill. Thank you very much.”

Lucy shut the door behind her. Miranda sank into her chair. Lucy was not the only one who was exhausted. However, at the same time, her whole body was quivering with strange excitement. She was far from orgasm. The sensation felt radically different from her normal patterns of sexual arousal. However, she was powerfully aroused, there was no doubt of that.

She had pleased her friend, given sweet Lucy what she needed. Meanwhile, she had learned quite a bit about herself and her capabilities. She closed her eyes and lay back in the chair, simultaneously excited and weary.

After a few minutes, there was a soft knock. “Come in, Lucy,” said Miranda softly. However, the head that poked into the office was brown-haired, not blonde. It was Mark. He slipped into the room, stood behind her, and began to massage her shoulders and neck.

“What are you doing here?” asked Miranda.

“Looking for you, of course. When you didn’t answer your doorbell, I thought you might be here, working late.” His eyes twinkled. “Of course, I didn’t appreciate exactly what kind of work you were involved with.”

Miranda whirled to face him. “You saw Lucy and me? You heard?”

“Mostly heard,” he replied. “I could hardly not. I arrived just as she was confessing to her crimes.”

Miranda felt strangely embarrassed. He bent to kiss her, wiping that feeling away.

“You were incredible, Miranda. Fantastically believable. You have a gift of erotic imagination that until now I didn’t fully appreciate.” He cupped her chin in his palm and raised her face to his once again. All her tiredness slipped away in the boiling lust that seized her.

“Mark…”

“Shh. You must be tired. Let me do something to relax you.” He lowered himself to the floor, spread her thighs, and applied his talented mouth to her panty-less pussy. “Ms. Cahill,” he said after a few slurping minutes, “you are one hell of an actress.”

Miranda did not reply. She knew that at the most fundamental level, it had not been an act. The role of chastising headmistress had come too naturally to her. Then again, so had the role of guilty schoolgirl that she had played in Big Daddy’s hotel room. Perhaps she was not fundamentally deviant. Perhaps, as Mark suggested, it was simply a question of an active imagination.

As she slipped into ecstasy, urged on by Mark’s agile tongue, Miranda had an inspiration. Suddenly, in the throes of orgasm, she knew what to do about Beatrice.