"So, uh, could you prepare me a little for what I'll have to do?" I asked.
But they said that they'd been forbidden to.
"And anyhow," Stephanie said, "it's getting late, and we have to get dressed. The best thing is probably for us to get dressed ourselves first. And then we'll dress you."
I watched them lace each other into black corsets, roll high black stockings over their legs, tromp around in sixinch spike-heeled shoes like they were wearing Keds. They dressed me exactly as they were dressed. And then we all sat down in front of mirrors, at the window, in the summer sunshine, and made up our faces.
The window looked out back across a smooth, emerald expanse of lawn, sloping down to the Hudson River. There was a path along the water's edge, and I watched Steve running powerfully along it, and then uphill, to the house. His white shorts and T-shirt were sweaty, sticking to the muscles in his hips and stomach.
"Poor Steve," Sylvie chuckled. "The one awful thing about this scene that's coming up is that he has to play butler, which he'd never do at home, and answer the door and serve drinks. It's a real indignity-he has quite enough work looking after us and supervising Kate's events. But the real butler in this place is hopeless. They really cheated Kate on the quality of the staff."
"Well, it'll be any minute now," Stephanie said, "so he'd better hurry and get dressed, even if he wants to wait until the very last instant to get into his uniform."
They told me that we could look out the other windows, the ones facing the front of the house, so that we could see the guests arriving.
"Don't worry," Sylvie kissed me lightly on the forehead. "It's just like playing pretend. You'll see."
And Stephanie stroked my breast as we peered out the front window "You'll be fine," she whispered. "You just have to obey"
And there they were, our guests, driving up the semicircular driveway in front of the house. I was fascinated by the low, beautiful open car, its flawless dark green paint mirroring the house, the lawn, the sky and flower beds in elegant curved lines that receded to their own little vanishing points, its spoked wheels reflecting the sunlight in dizzying double spirals. I don't even know the names of cars like that. "Is it, uh, a jaguar?" I asked hesitantly, which Sylvie and Stephanie found hysterically funny-quaint, almost.
Steve looked fantastic in his livery, too, dignified and utterly at ease. Except for his thick black hair being slightly damp from the shower, he looked as if he'd been doing nothing all day but, well, whatever it is butlers actually do all day. He opened the car door now, helping a young woman out, while the driver got out on his side and then handed him a small suitcase. They were pretty, these guests, and beautifully dressed. I liked his cream linen suit, her pink and white candy-striped summer dress, the widebrimmed straw hat she carried, with its pink grosgrain ribbon around the crown.
And they were young. Maybe three years or four older than I was, but babies. I looked at Stephanie, peering through her window pane, her moistened lips parted with anticipa tion and amusement. She smiled at me, gesturing with her long lashes at the couple who were now walking up the wide steps to the front door. "I was never that young," she whispered, and I nodded. I didn't know how old she was, but she seemed ageless, a beautiful toy created eons ago to entertain an emperor.
We could hear Kate greeting them now, her throaty voice tinged with amusement. "Mr. Putnam, it's very nice to see you again. How are you today?"
Embarrassed murmur. Perhaps he was asking her to call him by his first name.
"Andrew, then, yes. And this is the young lady who needs some help with her manners, I take it?"
Another embarrassed murmur, still from the young man. And then a tiny, terrified voice, but clear and piping, "Thank you for taking the time with me, Ms. Clarke."
Answered sternly by Kate, "Well, we'll just have to see now, won't we?"
Sylvie whispered, "They're terribly rich, those two. I read about them going to openings, things like that. And their wedding, fantastic, her wedding gown: the beading took weeks. I think this is her birthday present to him. But maybe not. Maybe his to her."
"What's happening now?" I asked. I'd heard them all go into a parlor, and the door shutting behind them.
"Oh, not much yet," Stephanie said. "Steve is serving drinks to Kate and the young gentleman, while the young lady is taking off her clothes and learning how to kneel at attention in the center of the room. Kate'll call us in a minute. Do you have everything, Sylvie?"
Sylvie nodded. Then they both turned to me, looking me over carefully. "You need fresh lipstick, Carrie," Stephanie said. "Quick, Sylvie'll put it on you."
Sylvie had just finished with me when we heard the sound of a little silver bell, and immediately we got up and floated down the stairs on our spike heels, silently and rapidly, in single file. Sylvie and Stephanie were carrying baskets of complicated clothing and hardware, but I didn't know any of the routines, so I was embarrassingly empty-handed.
In the parlor, the sunlight was diffused through heavy cotton lace curtains.
The young gentleman was sitting in an armchair, holding a drink in his hand and looking even younger than I'd expected, now that I could see him face to face. There were a few copper freckles across a short, sunburned nose, and, though he had a beautiful, expensive haircut, you expected to see cowlicks. He was big-you could see powerful thighs under the cream linen slacks. And he was pale and thrilled, staring at his wife, who stood in front of Kate, blushing, trembling, a few silent tears sliding down her flushed cheeks. She was dressed only in her ivory stockings, flat shoes, and a narrow garter belt that seemed to be nothing but little pink satin roses. She was all the colors of a rose, in fact-one of those little ivory ones you can buy inexpensively on the street, their petals edged in pink. The wispy tendrils of hair in front and behind her small ears were almost tow-colored, the hair above her cunt more like honey.
While Kate, curled up on an ottoman upholstered in Turkish kilim fabric, looked like a gorgeous moth, in a filmy pale green silk shirt and loose black slacks. Her sandals lay on the floor next to the ottoman. She was barefoot, her finger and toenails a dark mauve color. She rested her chin in one of her hands thoughtfully, while the other one cruelly probed the young lady's cunt.
"You've never restrained or disciplined her?" she was asking the young gentleman. "Not even used her silk scarves to tie her to the bedpost?"
He shook his head.
"Good," she said. "She's like a pampered baby. It will be a great pleasure to teach her obedience." And then, moving her hand between trembling thighs, she probed in the direction of the young lady's asshole. I heard a little intake of breath. "Don't hide from me, you little bitch," Kate said evenly "I'll turn you inside out if I want to."
"But first," she said, turning back to the young gentleman, "let's get her properly outfitted." She nodded to Sylvie and Stephanie, who stepped forward with their baskets of shoes, clothing, and assorted hardware.
"And Carrie," she continued, smiling at him, "will amuse you while you watch."
There was no mistaking what that meant. I knelt in front of him, unbuttoning his pants, taking his engorged cock gently in my mouth. Although he sighed contentedly, I could tell that most of his attention was focused on his wife, being stripped and then dressed in the clothes from Sylvie and Stephanie's baskets-dressed and collared and cuffed.
I wished I could watch, but they were standing behind my back. I could hear little squeals every so often from the young lady, and I supposed they were lacing her into the tight black corset I'd seen in the basket-the same sort we were wearing.
"Little steps, little steps, that's it, sweetheart," Stephanie cooed softly to her, doubtless walking her around the room for the first time in her six-inch spikes.
And then, just before the young man grabbed my head and started breathing hard and probing for the back of my throat, I heard a little click, the unmistakable click of a spring lock in a collar. "Got it," Sylvie murmured, just as a small river o
f hot cum spurted into my mouth. He did have timing, our young gentleman.
He pushed me aside, sending me crashing onto the floor, and when I picked myself back up onto my knees I saw him sprawled in the armchair, a little smile on his face as he contemplated the tableau arranged in front of him: Sylvie and Stephanie with his terrified tow-headed wife between them, all of them arrayed identically in their black corsets, stockings, spike-heeled shoes, collars, and cuffs. Downcast eyes, gently heaving bare breasts. Three slaves, meekly awaiting his pleasure.
"Look at me, Jane," he said, and she slowly raised her eyes to him. A few tears slipped down her cheeks.
"But you're very rude," he continued. "You must always acknowledge me when I speak to you. Didn't I tell you that in the car?"
I wasn't surprised at how much of a struggle it was for her to get the words out. She had to try several times, until she was able to shape the words, and even then it came out as almost a whisper, "Yes, my lord."
His face shone with awe at hearing the words he'd only dreamed about coming out of her mouth. He wasn't sure of where to go next with it, though, and I saw him sneak a glance at Kate, for reassurance, and register her almost invisible stage prompt.
"I like to see you dressed like that," he continued. "In the future, at home, there will be one particular servant charged with dressing you as a slave when I wish it. But I'm afraid that she won't be as gentle with you as these young ladies have been."
And when she didn't answer he spoke more sharply. "No answer for your lord, Jane? Well, her other job will be to whip you, whenever you need it, like right now"
"Get down on your knees, you disobedient little slut," Kate said lazily, and Sylvie and Stephanie helped her down, as she wept out her apologies, promising always to remember to address him in the future when he spoke.
"I think, Andrew, that we should begin by introducing her to the riding crop," Kate continued, walking across the room to an umbrella stand and picking one out.
"What do you think of this one?" she asked him, but he smiled and shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head. His wife, he said, was a horsewoman and would know a good riding crop, though. Of course, he supposed that feeling it laid on her flesh would be quite a different thing from using one.
I could see her look of outrage as Kate passed it over her breasts, tapping them lightly. "Likes horses, does she?" she asked. "Perhaps later you'd like to try her in a bit and bridle, then. But not right now. Right now, I think we'll just bend her over a block and teach her how to count the blows when we hurt her, hmmm?"
He smiled again and nodded, and, at Kate's command, Sylvie and Stephanie pushed a large block of hardwood into the center of the room. It was about three feet on each slightly rounded edge, and it looked as though it had been worn smooth by having generations of penitents kneel over it. Maybe it had, for all I knew. The young lady knelt over it, Stephanie gently prodding her into place, until she was nicely, if precariously, balanced over it, Sylvie and Stephanie each holding one of her arms.
"Twelve," Kate announced, as though any fool could see that twelve strokes of the riding crop was exactly what was needed in this situation. And, tapping the young lady's thigh lightly with the crop, she told her that she should call out each blow by number, being sure to thank her master as well. "Yes, Ms. Clarke," the young lady replied, and Kate handed the riding crop to the young man.
"Try it on your own hand first," she said, "and then on Carrie."
He had a strong arm. And he was also a quick study, learning to use his wrist to make the crop whistle through the air. Leaning over a little table in the corner, I tried not to cry out too loudly. No use frightening his sobbing wife more than she already was. But on the other hand, I thought, no use letting her think she was in for a walk in the park. And anyway, I knew that no sound I could make would be as frightening as the thin, high whistle the riding crop was making. I let myself whimper, and I was weeping softly by the time he'd finished. But I think I did okay, because as I turned and dropped to my knees to thank him, I saw Kate's approving nod.
He waved me away impatiently, though, turning back to his wife, who was waiting bent over the block in the center of the room. His broad back obscured most of my view of her, and all I could tell about what she was feeling was from the cries she made, and the sound of her voice, as she kept count of the blows.
Her first cry was more one of rage than of pain, astonishment almost, that he would really dare to hurt her. She managed a gasping, prideful dignity through a few of the next blows, but the cries and sobs finally broke through. And after he'd finished, and she'd sobbed out "twelve," Sylvie and Stephanie had a difficult time nudging her into an upright kneeling posture in front of him, where she could thank him for the beating, and promise to keep his rules better in the future.
She managed it, though, and then Stephanie snapped a leash to her collar, and led the couple, Jane crawling on hands and knees, up the back stairs, where I guessed that a room had been prepared for them. And I figured that Stephanie would be staying with them, to fetch and carry, to be an extra mouth or tongue if needed, and just (just!) to watch, to witness, to make it impossible for Andrew, and especially for Jane, to forget that this was not just a fantasy, this was happening in the real, all-too-physical world.
I didn't know whether or not I should be helping Sylvie tidy up the room, but Kate nodded to me to stay on my knees.
"You did well, Carrie," she said. And then she turned her attention to Sylvie, who had put everything away, and had dropped down to her knees as well, the neatly packed baskets lined up at her side.
"Come here, darling," she said, and Sylvie crawled over to the big red plush armchair where she was sitting and kissed her feet. "Good," Kate said softly. And then, "Present, darling. I haven't had time to look you over today"
It was a long presentation too, perhaps because Sylvie had collected quite a few bruises and welts, at the race yesterday and then at the party. I watched her serene face, her open mouth, as Kate bent over her, prodding her, lightly and sometimes not so lightly. What had she said earlier? I love it when they look me over carefully. She did, too, breathing deeply, sometimes gasping rapturously. And then she kneeled up and Kate smiled at her, kissing her gently on the mouth. "Very good," she said. "Steve said you took your whipping well last night, too, and you all did very well this afternoon."
"You'll serve dinner," she said, "you two and Carrie, at eight. I think we'll get little Jane to help, too-she'll probably find waiting table every bit as humiliating as anything I'll have her do while they're here."
She stood up then. Which must have been a signal, because Sylvie sprang into action. Gently, but quickly and deftly, she unzipped the silk pants, unbuttoned the blouse, expertly laying the clothes on the back of a chair so that they wouldn't wrinkle. It seemed that Kate hardly had to move, except to stretch, and then to settle back into her chair and pick up the drink she hadn't finished.
"Come here, Carrie," she said, and I crawled forward. It was hard to keep my eyes down, I wanted to look at her so badly. At her breasts, her skin-Renoir skin, I hadn't known it really existed-at the pink and brown and apricot at her cunt.
And to Sylvie, she said, "Beat her on the breasts."
"Yes, Kate."
I watched Sylvie go to the umbrella stand to get the proper whip. I knew they'd use the same small whip Annie used, and I steadied my breathing, propped my hands under my breasts, and arched my back to receive the strokes. "Not too hard," Kate cautioned Sylvie. "I'll want you to do it again tomorrow morning while Andrew watches."
And then she sighed contentedly, sipping her drink, her other hand creeping to her cunt. "And I'll just have to rough it and do myself while I watch," she smiled, "since the two of you will be occupied. We really need another mouth around here, don't we? Amazing how spoiled one gets."
Andrew asked about the marks on my breasts later that evening, at dinner, as he helped himself to potatoes from the platter 1 held at his elbow. "May I
touch her?" he asked, as he laid the silver serving utensils back on the platter. Kate nodded, and he traced the painful red lines with a thick index finger. I kept still, breathing softly. "But they'll fade by tomorrow," Kate said. "So after breakfast, we'll give her some new ones."
"It's very provocative," he said.
"And I imagine it would hurt her quite a bit," he added, "if I slapped her, where she's marked, and uh, clamped, you know." He touched one of the little silver bells Steve had clipped to my nipples, making it ring softly and melodiously.
Kate laughed. "I imagine it would. She's not mine, you know, but she's had some good training... well, since the last time I saw her, anyway. So I don't think she'd cry out. And she certainly wouldn't spill those potatoes."
He moved his chair back, to get a better swing. And no, I didn't spill the potatoes. I held them carefully, even remembering to hold them away from me so that I wouldn't get any tears on the platter.
"Ah yes," Kate said, "training is everything. And those bells have a pretty sound, don't you think?
"But," turning to Andrew again, "it will be a good lesson for you-watching her being whipped tomorrow. It'll teach you a little precision." And then, throwing a stern look at Jane, who was holding a bowl of creamed peas and onions in trembling hands, "And if you drop those peas, Jane, we'll slap your breasts until you scream."
We four-Sylvie and Stephanie and Jane and I-had been fed earlier, from a communal trough of raw vegetables and whole grains, on the kitchen floor. Jane had knelt hesitantly when she saw the other three of us silently getting to our knees under Steve's stern look. Well, she'd seen more than the expression on his face-she'd also seen his hand moving to the little rubber truncheon that hung from his belt.
And after we'd eaten, and bathed, and made ourselves up again (Jane timidly copying the rest of us), he inspected each of us, straightening collars, moving stray tendrils of Stephanie's hair into place. We were barefoot, and completely naked, except for narrow wreaths of flowers around our heads, the leather restraints at our wrists and throats, and the bells that he'd produced at the last minute. The bells did have a lovely sound-so soft and subtle that they seemed to mingle with the flowers' perfume, wafting around the room on the warm breezes that floated in off the river, as the evening slowly darkened in the candlelit dining room.
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