Macho Sluts (15 page)

“May I warm you?” she pleaded.

“If it will comfort you.”

Clarissa chafed them tenderly between her soft hands, held them to her breast, then gently laid them down and began to kiss the toes and insteps. Suddenly her misery returned in full force, and she wept over those beautiful feet, kissing the tears away and drying them with her hair. “Oh! I'm sorry,” she hiccupped, “but—but—”

Strong arms gathered her in, the red satin robe opened to receive her, and she was enthroned in her lover's lap. “I'm not sorry to learn that you will miss me,” Berenice said. That wonderfully husky voice!

Clarissa thought, how much I lover her, and sobbed, “Oh, I shall—ever so!”

“… as long as this outburst is no sign that you intend to disobey me.”

“No! No, I'll do whatever you want. Only let me come back. I know you won't have me if I'm bad. But if I am good, you will let me come back, won't you?”

“Of course, silly girl. This is your home. It's only six months of school, not a lifetime sentence of permanent exile. If you tried to run away, I would seek you with all my powers and bring you back, even from the ends of the earth.”

Clarissa snuggled between her breasts. In their shelter, she was almost reassured. “Six months isn't such a long time,” she murmured, trying to sound grown up.

“Are you sleepy?”

“No.”

“Fetch my brandy. Elise is doing your packing. We'll spend your last night home together, in the discipline chamber.”

Clarissa shivered, then slipped off her lap and took up the snifter of brandy. The lamplight shone through the liqueur so that a small amber circle floated, shimmering, below her clavicle. Berenice remained seated, enjoying the sight of the tiny steps permitted by the silver chain (which was thin enough to break) and the high-heeled shoes. She was proud of this fair child, and determined not to spoil her by slacking in correction or stinting in affection. Seeing that Clarissa was prepared to mince after her, she strode out of the room and down the hall. The discipline chamber, that shrine to domestic tranquility, was only a short distance away.

Berenice surveyed the room from the threshold. Everything was in good order. Elise, the maid, was meticulous. She reminded herself that while Clarissa was away at finishing school, she would have more time to spend with Elise. Her maid was too well trained to complain about neglect, but the performance of any loved one will slacken and become slovenly if they are left unsupervised too long. Clarissa's absence would not be intolerable, she told herself firmly. They must all be separated if Clarissa was to become a grown woman. The school was the next logical step to the development of her sexuality. Elise would be very entertaining, she promised herself. There were certain things one could not demand of a mere child. Perhaps it was time to throw another party for their friends. Elise had been kept so busy at the last one. Quite the belle of the ball.

The chamber was paneled with dark wood. One wall and the ceiling contained large mirrors. A Persian carpet of intricate design, brightly and sensuously colored, covered the floor. In the middle of the room was a device that resembled a large sawhorse. The top bar and legs were well padded and covered with black leather. There were rings at the head and foot and along the legs. One pair of legs had leather stirrups nailed to it about a foot and a half from the floor. In one corner of the room, a complicated arrangement of ropes and pulleys dangled from the ceiling. A set of stocks had been pushed against one wall, next to a huge, lacquered chest. In the corner behind the door, an ivory-and-gold umbrella stand held an assortment of canes, switches, riding crops, dog whips, and bundles of birch twigs. Berenice straightened these as one would a flower arrangement, reminding herself of what was there. Then she went to the carved Chinese chest and removed four silver bracelets, four short pieces of medium-weight silver chain, and several finely crafted silver locks. These she arranged on the lid of the chest, then fished in her robe for the necklace she always wore, and reassured herself that the key to the locks was on her person.

Clarissa arrived with the brandy. She knelt and offered it, head turned to the side, eyes cast down. Her mournful, pouting mouth and red eyes gave the traditional pose a dash of extra delight. Berenice left her in that position while she stroked the fire, then came and took the snifter from her. “Up on the horse,” she ordered.

Clarissa swung onto its back with the skill of a gymnast—which, indeed, she was. Berenice removed the jewelry chain that held her feet together, but left her shoes on. There was a bracelet for each wrist and ankle. These were quickly locked in place. By caresses, she directed Clarissa to stretch out along the length of the beam, belly down, arms over her head, legs spread, feet in the stirrups. Deftly, efficiently, Clarissa was chained to the horse. As soon as the last lock clicked into place, she began to moan and twist on the beam.

“I'm afraid,” she said. “But I want to please you!”

“We will see which frightens you more, the pain or my displeasure.”

Berenice approached her trembling, girlish victim, hiding something in her hand. “Close your eyes,” she ordered. Despite whimpers and some insubordinate squirming, she blindfolded Clarissa with a mink-lined sleeping shade. She had already selected her first instrument of chastisement: a carriage whip with a brand new cracker. It made a good deal more noise than anything else. In her other hand, she took up an ostrich plume. A rabbit's fur glove and a currycomb were also nearby, ready for her use. By alternating all of these devices, causing both pain and pleasure with each of them, she soon had Clarissa relaxed and completely vulnerable, jumping and moaning, her skin sensitized, her nerves trained to soothe any hurt or discomfort and blend it quickly into her growing sexual arousal. Even when correcting serious misdeeds, Berenice was not brutal. She loved helplessness, she craved the sight of a female body abandoning all decency and self-control. These things are not granted save in loving trust. Dominance is not created without complicity. A well-trained slave is hopelessly in love with her mistress and will weep for days if a fault is not reprimanded. If no punishment is forthcoming, she will ask for it—even administer it herself as proof of her devotion.

Berenice stroked the inside of Clarissa's thighs with the fur glove and allowed her to feel the first few contractions of an orgasm. Then she withdrew and removed the blindfold. Clarissa protested vociferously. “There's no pleasing you,” Berenice laughed. “You don't like it on and you don't like it off. Perverse little monkey.” She fondled her. “Pretty thing. I'll do as I like with you. Won't I? Won't I?” And she forced eloquent, clarion agreement from her chained virgin slave. Her caresses wandered near the most sensitive areas of the poor child's body. “Can you guess what I want to do? Hmm? My almost-grown-up girl? Something we don't do very often, you and I.” Her fingers trespassed, tempted, retreated. “A little serious flagellation, my pet. A really good, thorough beating. Can you, for me?”

“Oh—please,” panted Clarissa.

Berenice selected a short cat from the umbrella stand and began to lightly switch Clarissa's shoulders and backside. The lashes flicked her tender thighs as well, leaving red stripes that quickly faded. She alternated the blows with moments of loving praise and encouragement, during which time she would tickle Clarissa between the legs with a whip handle. She soon had her writhing upon the horse, her behind plunging up and down like a lusty mare. The girl gasped for breath and clenched and unclenched her tiny hands.

“You're blushing,” Berenice said. She ran a cool hand over Clarissa's hindquarters. She struck again, harder. “Hush. This is nothing. Hush. Nothing.” She walked to the head of the horse and took possession of the bound girl's mouth. “More? Yes. More.” She resumed her position at the foot of the horse and landed several well-aimed blows. “Now you can go ahead. Sing. I like to hear you. God, I'd love to flog the skin off your dimpled, pink behind.” The cat whished through the air, creating a small breeze that stirred Berenice's curls.

Clarissa snorted and snuffled. Her hair hung in wet strands, and her body was shimmering with perspiration. A streak of more viscous moisture stained the division of her pubic fleece. “I can take more,” she said as Berenice appeared by her head.

Berenice smiled. “So sweet,” she murmured. “You are so sweet.”

“Kiss?”

“Oh, yes.”

Berenice's penetrating tongue was so strong! Clarissa forgot herself and began to nip and swallow at it. Berenice laughed at her and withdrew.

“Oh—more!” Clarissa wailed. “I'm on fire from head to toe. Don't leave me!”

“Naughty girl,” said Berenice. “Salacious little slut. Biting at my mouth like a common streetwalker. We must punish the baggage, or she will go from bad to worse. Isn't that so, my darling?”

Clarissa fought back her agreement and remained silent.

“Oh? She wants to argue with her betters. Impudence on top of a sensuous disposition. This is a frightful combination. Tell me this, rebellious miss, did you or did you not nip at me? Eh?”

“I—I did,” Clarissa confessed.

“And was it out of pain or fright?”

“Nooo.”

“Then we must conclude that you were overwhelmed by carnal impulses. And you know that cannot be tolerated.”

“Yes,” Clarissa admitted, defeated. “I know.”

“Well, then. Let's have no more vain attempts to avoid punishment. Ooh, just you wait till I get my hands on you. Baggage! Tart!” While calling the wrath of heaven down upon her disobedient child, Berenice gave her a sip or two of brandy, then she visited the lacquer chest again. She glanced quickly over the tray that perched on top of its other contents, a tray that originally had contained velvet boxes full of strands of pearls, earrings, diamond brooches, and the like. Now it held another sort of jewelry. She selected one of the trinkets, diabolical miniatures that winked at her. Then she took it over to Clarissa, for her inspection. “My grandmother brought these back from the Orient,” she said. “She used them to fasten her opera cape. Aren't they pretty?” She showed Clarissa a pair of silver clasps, each in the form of a dragon whose jaw moved to grip the edge of a cloak … or whatever was placed in its rapacious mouth. The clasps were connected by a few inches of chain.

The beam was so narrow that Clarissa's breasts peeked out of either side of it. Berenice petted them, making the little girl so lascivious that she thought she must go mad if she were not granted some reprieve. A pinch on each nipple only increased her need. “You are so cruel,” she wept.

Berenice twisted the nearest nipple. “Mind your tongue,” she said, and pressed the cold, grinning dragon against her soft skin. “Do you know what I'm going to do with this?” she asked. “Have you already guessed?”

“No,” Clarissa lied.

Berenice opened one of the clamps, pulled slightly on Clarissa's nipple, and left the mythical beast hanging from her breast. In another moment, its twin was swinging from the other breast. The chain was so short that it almost made her nipples touch.

Clarissa sounded as if she were crying, but no tears were coming from her eyes, and she was attempting to rub her female parts against the beam. The stiffness of her corset prevented her from achieving full freedom of movement, and the slight contact she was able to achieve with the leather only titillated her further.

Berenice went to the foot of the beam and petted her again, spreading her love dew from the clitoris up to the perineum, anointing each side of the inner lips, even rubbing it on her tightest, smallest hole. Then she bent down and blew on the moisture, and Clarissa groaned. “I feel as if I'm nothing but wetness, nothing but the thing between my legs. What are you going to do with me?”

“What does it matter to you?”

“It doesn't—only don't leave me—please take me, use me—oh!” she cried as Berenice once again spread the thick juices, smeared them onto her thighs and between the cheeks of her behind, and expelled her hot breath on the inflamed, liquid parts.

When Clarissa was quite incoherent, Berenice selected her third and final weapon: a long, flexible, yellow cane. Before beginning, she administered more brandy and a few sharp tugs on the grinning dragons.

Thus far, she had inflicted moderate pain and reddened the skin until it was warm and slightly swollen to the touch, but she had not bruised it. She was not in the habit of marking Clarissa, preferring her skin smooth and unblemished. Clarissa coveted the welts on Elise's body and often reproached Berenice for withholding them. Tonight, she informed her young charge, she would leave her with visible tokens of the whipping.

“I have to give you enough to last six months. Remember that, if you think you've had enough. Six long, lonely months.” Though she seriously doubted Clarissa would go without comfort, company, or chastisement at this particular school. Sternly, she repressed a pang of jealousy. She had kept Clarissa all to herself for years. The love between them was genuine, but might not survive her adolescence. Even this sweet submission might fade and something hostile, domineering, or indifferent grow up in its place.

Clarissa was waiting patiently for her to resume talking or begin the caning. Berenice collected herself, and returned to the task at hand. She must think of nothing else. No scattered concentration could be allowed to make her hand waver.

“The marks will move up your legs from the back of the knee to the top of your hips. They will be evenly space and parallel to each other. You will not move.”

Berenice's voice was calm and deadly. Clarissa froze. Training exercises performed in previous sessions had convinced her that, when explicitly ordered not to move, she had best not stir even one-eighth of an inch.

A few seconds to allow tension to build, to gather and slow her breathing, to take the most careful aim—then—swick! swick! swick! Each stripe was awful. Berenice alternated sides so that each thigh would match. She paused before marking Clarissa's behind, to give them both a chance to take courage. Then she struck out like a tigress and left her with a perfect row of weals from the tender roll of baby fat just beneath the buttock to the thin, tightly stretched skin at the tip of her tailbone.