"It's time for classes, Emma. Why are you still sleeping? And on the floor, no less! Child, what am I going to do with you?"
Emma gawked in disbelief. He was acting as though nothing had happened! He hummed happily to himself while dressing her in the schoolgirl outfit, then carried her to the classroom. The remaining tenderness of her bottom and thighs increased as she struggled to stay upright on the hard chair behind the student's desk.
He began to lecture, but Emma's attention was diverted by the need for water and nourishment. He slapped her desk with a ruler. "Wake up, girl! Beds are for sleeping! What is your problem?"
Emma glared at him. She had nothing more to lose by talking back. "I haven't had anything to eat or drink in days, Professor. You locked me in my room, remember?"
"I did no such thing! That would be barbaric. And I don't like your tone, missy."
"Then either feed me, or beat me. I don't care." She stared boldly into his face, her heart pounding as his eyes darkened.
There was a moment of silence before he leaned into her. "I know exactly what you are doing," he hissed, placing his hands flat on the desk and looking straight into her face. "I am not going to kill you, no matter what you do to provoke me. I'm smarter than you, girl. In fact, I'm probably the most intelligent person on this planet."
"Then prove it." Emma stared back. "Make me strong enough to listen, and then show me what you know."
"There is no way you could understand any of it," he laughed sardonically.
"You said I was smart, and that all I needed was a good teacher. Obviously, you are not he."
Jack clenched his teeth and slapped the desk loudly with his hand. "Don't provoke me!"
"What happened to that ability to control yourself that you brag about?" Emma sneered back.
He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back. "I've been kind to you these last three months. Don't push me…"
Emma gulped. Three months? He let go of her hair and stomped from the room, slamming the door behind him. She tightened her trembling fists, wishing that she was as brave as she pretended to be. She had to believe that his aversion to drawing blood would prevent him from maiming her, and that his grandiose view of his own intelligence would benefit her. If she could find a way to send a distress call…
But then, what would happen to her if she was rescued? With the tattoo, she had little chance of surviving beyond the walls of her prison. It marked her—not only as a rebel of societal law, but the image itself mocked the war. She looked up as he brought her a sippy cup and a bowl of pasta.
"Mind your manners now," he said pleasantly, sitting across from her and stirring the pasta with a spoon. "Open up."
"Is it drugged?" Emma asked suspiciously. He rolled his eyes and took a bite himself, before washing it down with the liquid in the cup. Slowly, she opened her mouth and allowed him to feed her. After months of a pure liquid and bland cereal diet, her throat initially rejected the food she was trying to swallow. She gagged, quickly drinking from the cup he held to her mouth.
"My poor baby! I didn't mean to make you choke. Should I get you a bottle?"
Emma shook her head, catching her breath as she tried to calm her reflexes. She took a second bite and chewed slowly, mashing the unseasoned noodles in her mouth. Just the feel of real food and juice was heavenly! Another bite, and then another, and before she knew it, the bowl was empty. Pleased with her appetite, Jack stood up, donned his headmaster's robe and picked up the pointer. Emma fought not to flinch as the memories of what he had previously done with that vicious stick came flooding back. Instead of striking her, however, he proceeded to lecture.
Her head swam with information, most of which she did not understand. Still weak, she started to drift into her own thoughts.
"….for the test. I expect you to achieve a high grade on it. If not, you will be visiting the headmaster," he was saying. "The ruler is a very effective device, and it won't cause you to bleed."
Emma groaned, putting her head on the desk. She felt like she was back to square one. Even when she managed to shake him, he returned to this place of torment. He programmed the tablet and handed it to her.
"You have one hour to complete this. Any questions?"
Emma looked up at him, her brain frozen with fear. She forced herself to speak, maintaining that tiny bit of power she had recently obtained. "Will you give me some time to study?"
"You will be on a strict study schedule," he announced grandly, flourishing his hand in the air. "There is much to learn, and so little time, and I have already programmed all the courses into your tablet. There will be tests every day, and pop quizzes whenever I feel it's necessary." He looked at her pale face with maniacal amusement. "You will be wishing that you were a baby again, instead of a young lady. Mark my words."
He was correct. As soon as Emma glanced at the test questions, she knew she was in trouble. She hurried through the test, guessing at most of the questions, which were a mishmash of science, history, literature and math. She was just going back over some of her answers when the alert sounded on her little computer and, shaking slightly, handed him the device.
"Did you do so poorly that you are fearful of your punishment?" he asked slyly, noticing her hands.
"No, sir," Emma lied. "I'm still very weak."
"You will stay weak. I don't want you getting any ideas about trying to leave, now that you are being permitted to speak. In fact," he had a look of satisfaction on his face as he grabbed her wrist, "I can assure you that you will go nowhere. At least for a couple of months."
He dragged her to the door, ignoring her inability to stand and physically follow him. After unlocking it and turning the knob, he opened it wide to reveal a swirling snowstorm, and an embankment that was nearly four feet in height, just outside the roof edge.
"I'll be back for you after I'm done grading this," he said, tossing her headfirst into the snow, and closing the door behind him.
Her body seized immediately in response to the frigid wetness as she sank into the fresh snow drift. She tried desperately to free herself from the soft, deep bank, slipping and falling, over and over again. Her entire body shivered painfully as she was finally able to crawl to the door and collapse on the stoop. She drew her legs close to her torso and hugged herself, rocking quickly in a futile effort to find some warmth. Was he trying to induce frostbite so that she would lose her toes? Or worse, her feet? Just as she felt her limbs becoming numb, the door opened.
"Are you still out here? Don't you know not to go outside and play in the snow without shoes on? What am I going to do with you, girl? Get inside!"
Emma sat, huddled and shivering, unable to move. Jack frowned and pointed to the ground in front of him. "Now! Don't make me come out here and get you, young lady! It's time to stop playing and get back to work."
When Emma did not move, Jack growled and came forward. He snatched her arm and yanked her up with one hand, then flung her over his shoulder. Then he smacked the backs of her bare thighs sharply, making her howl from the cutting pain.
"You are in big trouble, little girl. When I tell you to do something, you will do it immediately," he demanded, plopping her in the chair.
Emma shivered, burying her fingers under her armpits. "For someone so smart, you sure aren't very observant. Couldn't you see I was stuck out there?"
"I saw you playing in the snow. Don't you know that the cold can kill you? You're shivering," he observed, hands on his hips. "Foolish girl. I'm going to give you a hot bath, and then we will take care of your naughty little bottom."
"I don't want a bath. I want a blanket and a cup of coffee."
"Excellent idea! I'll make you some coffee right away."
Something in his voice alerted her to the sinister agenda behind his statement. He locked the door to prevent her from 'playing outside again' and then left the room, latching the hook to prevent her from following him. The clock on the wall indicated that he had been gone a good thirty minutes be
fore he returned, cheerfully.
"I have your coffee all ready for you, my darling. We'll get you warmed up in no time."
He carried her into the kitchen and through a door into what she assumed was the pantry. She was wrong. It was a mud room and cleaning station, complete with a wooden trench against the wall from which two bread-board shaped tables were mounted horizontally. Secured in the wall above the trench was a long piece of wood, complete with multiple hooks designed to hang either instruments or small carcasses on. A large, iron, pot-belly stove stood in the corner, sizzling with a roaring flame.
"I never use this room to clean fish. I don't like the smell," he announced, setting her firmly on the board and slowly unbuttoning her clothing. Struggling to remain upright, she knew that she could not run from him by any means. Her eyes widened as he produced thick, leather restraints and began to place them on her ankles.
"What are you doing? Stop it!" Emma kicked him.
Jack's eyes darkened and he pulled a knife from his back pocket. "Never kick me again," he hissed, touching it to her nipple. "I don't like blood, but I will slice this right off."
All the feeling of empowerment was gone. He was in control again, and knew it. Emma froze in place, watching despondently as he put the cuffs upon both her wrists and ankles.
"That's better. Put your hands in the trench."
She numbly obeyed, still confused as to his next plan of action. He locked the cuffs on the bottom of the trench, anchoring her hands behind her.
"Lie on your back and move backwards until your shoulders are in the gutter against the wall. More, Emma."
Her head and the back of her neck were braced against the wall, and the platform provided a strong support under her back and hips. He snatched each of her cuffed ankles and hooked them to the board over her head, forcing the spreading of her legs and baring her bottom for his use. He then latched two small chains to the labial rings he had pierced her with earlier, and attached the ends to the hooks holding her wrists down by her shoulders. She felt like a pretzel, folded in half with her bottom obscenely displayed for punishment. She struggled against the hard surface and tried not to think of the atrocities he was going to enact upon her this time.
The spanking was predictable; the implement used was not. He produced a long-handled wooden paddle that resembled a bath brush, sans bristles. It was approximately a quarter of an inch thick, and had a large, beveled hole in the center.
"This is a donut paddle. Would you like to know why I call it that?" He did not wait for her response, and instead continued. "Donuts go well with coffee. So, before I give you a donut spanking and teach you thing you 'do nut' do..." he laughed aloud at his own pun, "I'm going to load you up with coffee."
He produced a large bulb syringe with a long, black nozzle protruding from the end, and set it down on the second wooden platform so that she could watch his preparation. Next, he lifted a bucket of steaming liquid from the floor and placed it on the table next to the syringe.
"Your coffee is a bit too hot to use just this minute, so while we wait for it to cool, I'll make the glaze to put over the donut-shaped bruises you're about to get." He picked up a bowl and showed it to her. "Since you are so keen on lube, we'll start with Vaseline. That will keep all the yummy spices right next to your skin so they don't drip off. We wouldn't want to lose any of those now, would we?"
Emma began to tremble as he described each element that he was adding to his concoction—mustard, red pepper, vinegar, fresh ginger, cinnamon, and cloves, along with 'non spices' of crystallized menthol and camphor oil. Her eyes watered from the strong scent, confirming her suspicion that the caustic effects on her skin were going to be agonizing.
"Please, Professor," she begged. "I swear to you that I was not being defiant. I was stuck in the snow, and…"
"Making up stories is not going to get you out of a well-deserved punishment," he clucked, setting more items on a table behind him. "But you will learn after this, won't you, darling? Ahh, your coffee is ready. Would you like cream and sugar, or just black?" He suctioned the hot liquid into the syringe and poised it over her spread bottom.
"No… please…"
"Yes, please? Certainly. Let's start with some lube, though…" She screamed the instant he shoved a generous dollop of the 'glaze' into her bottom hole, followed by the wide nozzle. "Stings a bit, doesn't it?"
Emma's head swam as the pain from the spice mixture combined with the over-warm coffee flooding into her bowels. He emptied the syringe and picked up the 'donut' paddle, aiming for her nicely stretched bottom. The sound of the first crack was overpowered by the scream that followed. Whether it was the position, the cold temperature of her skin, or the paddle itself, Emma didn't know, but this spanking was the worst she had encountered—other than the cane. He swatted her at full force ten times; each swat producing a shrill screech. He paused to listen to her sobs, and to administer another syringe full of the coffee enema.
"I don't have to tell you what will happen if you spill any of this, do I?" he asked, hovering the paddle over the backs of her thighs. "Let's give you a taste."
The paddle resumed its course of action, this time lavishing the tender skin of her sit-spots and the backs of her legs with ten more excruciating bites. Her sobbing went unnoticed as a third syringe of fluid was added to her innards, immediately followed by a fourth. As she was folded in half, with no way for her intestines to distribute the liquid, the cramping grew to unbearable levels and, without a choice of her own, Emma released the fluid.
Dead silence filled the room.
Jack stood and stared, his expression filled with rage.
"I'm sorry! Oh, my God, I'm sorry!" Emma begged as he raised his arm, the paddle poised in the air. The following blows did not stop—each making full contact with its target. There was no way for her to cover herself or avoid the strokes, and each one was delivered with more and more intensity. Ten… fifty…one hundred—she lost track of the amount of times he struck her bottom and thighs. The strokes were rapid—too rapid to allow her the chance to sink into that place without feeling. He knew what he was doing. He was punishing her, and wanted to have her feel the fullness of his fury.
When he finally stopped, he remained silent. Donning a glove, he scooped up a handful of the 'glaze' and held it over the top of her pussy, his hand hovering menacingly.
"Nooo! OW!" Her shrieking pierced the roof. He rubbed it over her entire crack and then upon the angry bruises covering her bottom and thighs. The pain from the paddle played second to this unbearable cruelty, making Emma wish she would just pass out. He then roughly inserted three of his infamous suppositories, each one generously lubed with the 'glaze'.
Jack stood back with a grin plastered on his face. "While we are waiting for those to do their work, you can think about what a bad girl you've been. As you do that, I might as well get started on my next portrait…"
The last thing Emma remembered was the sound of the tattoo machine, and the cutting burn to the back of her left thigh…
CHAPTER TEN
No convalescence time was permitted after this punishment. In his rage, he continued with his assault to her body, using her as a human canvas for his art. He placed sporadic tattoos everywhere except her bottom—that, he said, was to be kept 'pristine' because he enjoying watching it turn crimson when it needed to be paddled. He also continued to bombard her with lessons, inundating her mind with information and assignments. She saw the passing of day after day through the little window in the classroom, the bleakness of the snowy winter matching that in her heart.
It had been weeks since he'd used her body for his own pleasure. Every morning began with a coffee enema, since 'she enjoyed coffee so much', a light breakfast of puréed fruit and brown bread, followed by several hours in the classroom. Lessons were conducted while sitting at her little desk, and tests were taken with her bent over that same desk with her bottom in the air for a taste of the ruler. Lunch was spent in her 'corner chair
', impaled by the anchor as he fed her a bottle 'to keep her compliant'. More lessons, a strapping with his belt to remind her never to look at the door, and hours of homework followed. By dinner time, Emma was so tender and exhausted that she repeatedly fell asleep instead of eating the one meal that provided her the greatest amount of nourishment.
And then there was the evening Penance at six o'clock sharp, when he would either finish a spanking he had started earlier that day, make her stand in the corner, or have her write lines until her hand began to cramp.
Time passed as an endless blur until the day he made a mistake —one that promised her freedom from his torture, once and for all. Jack was an insane egotist, brilliant beyond expectation, and in constant need of praise and adoration. His greatest achievement was that of the C-spill, and, believing that she could never understand the bioengineering associated with it, he taught her how he had programed the Mother to pinpoint DNA sequences—using a drop of her blood. With the knowledge that had been handed to her, all she needed was a fresh sample of his DNA. But how? She knew that if she didn't start 'growing' her own 'Mother' soon, he would eventually break her spirit once again. So she hatched a plan, using his own psychotic ideas. She did not understand the technology behind imprinting touch screen fingertip sequences that he used to blackmail the government, nor was his hair 'alive' enough to activate the reproductive process that he spoke about. She needed blood or, even better, his semen.
"Professor? I wanted to thank you," Emma choked out from her huddled place on the floor.
Emma's Corner Page 9