Fall From Grace

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  He moved to the swatches of material and paint, dismissing each suggestion so quickly that Regan wondered if he even bothered to think how it might enhance the look of this house.

  “I was thinking this would be right for …” She tried going back to one favorite green, pointing out the possibilities.

  He shoved her hand away.

  “It’s not the one.” Proceeding on, he came to the end of the stack, doubled back to one paint swatch and a single piece of fabric. “These.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I like them.”

  “But I thought…”

  He shook his head. “Don’t think too much. Slaves get into trouble if they do.”

  “My master often respects my thoughts, sir.”

  “Let him. He still makes up his mind his own way, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, of course he does.”

  “Of course, it’s always nice to make a slave feel special.” This time the smile and the tone of voice were so condescending that she was knocked right from her submissive space. She felt it, quickly trying to get a grip on the strange lust for revenge unexpectedly brewing in her gut. He felt it, too. “Watch yourself, Regan Kingsley, or you’ll be spending three hours in the box tonight, not two.”

  He knew!

  Her cheeks turned hot, even her brow was sweltering. She’d be a puddle on the floor if she didn’t gather her wits.

  Thankfully, he changed the venue so that she recouped some of her poise. Taking a few stray sketches and some swatches in his hand, he moved toward the library expecting her to follow him.

  While some of Tennyson Hallock’s house was in disrepair, more of it was in the midst of being renovated. There was scaffolding scattered throughout, buckets of paint and drop cloths, drapes covering the furniture and the smell of plaster dust evident everywhere. But moving to the library, Regan discovered a wholly different world where there was order, grace and sensuousness—complete and untampered by even the thought of workmen, dust or renovation. This room needed nothing but someone to appreciate its many wonders. Tall banks of windows, Boston ferns, tall tiers of bookcases, brocade furniture and dozens of artifacts from some man’s journeys about the world. There was even a globe spinning on its axis and a telescope to peer out the windows to the stars.

  And, then, amongst the gracious items in this rich man’s domain, there hung a coiled bullwhip on the wall between two filled bookcases. A punishment cane rested just beneath it leaning into the corner. And on the side of the room, not far from the door, there was an apparatus, which to the untrained eye might have been a mystery. But to Regan’s trained one, the device was obvious. Unique though it was for its unusual construction, there was no mistaking the fact that it was a spanking bench. Beside it on the wall hung a flogger and a paddle for easy reach. The items blended so perfectly with the rest of the room’s décor that someone unaccustomed to such things might have easily glanced over them on first inspection. Regan didn’t. Not that she’d been looking for evidence of Tennyson’s craft as she perused the rooms in his house; rather, Regan took in these items as she would everything else—the windows, the globe, the ferns, the books—and understood without even thinking what their purpose was. It only made sense considering who he was and how he lived his life.

  “Regan,” she heard his voice, though it took some seconds to connect with her brain.

  “Sir?” She turned his way, realizing that she was standing in the doorway in awe.

  “Something the matter?”

  “No… no… this is just… just so finished.”

  “I live here.”

  “I imagine you do.” She shrugged. “Why would you even want the rest of the house?”

  Tennyson smiled. “This does have its charms.”

  “And there’s something you want here?”

  “Ah, yes. I want to change the fabric on this. What do you think?”

  He held up a swatch of fabric to an only slightly threadbare chair.

  “Yes. That would fit perfectly,” she agreed.

  He nodded. “And I was thinking of some way I could embellish this ceiling, too.” He looked from the sketch in hand to the domed roof of the room.

  She shook her head critically. “Too much, sir.”

  He stared a moment longer, “Yes, you’re probably right.” Turning back to her, he changed the subject, “Well then, it’s time for lunch. I’ll show you the kitchen. There’s some cold shrimp in the refrigerator, cheese, wine and some fruit. You can set the table on the patio.” He motioned to double doors leading outside.

  “Lunch, sir. I’m serving lunch?”

  “Yes.” He consulted his watch. “I hired you for two hours today. And serving my lunch is what I need you to do. You can join me.”

  As Tennyson made the demand, Regan’s mind flew backwards in a flash… remembering. The address was now little more than a wad of grime and sweat inside her nervous fist. She could still make out the numbers and the street, but just barely. The ink was fading, the letters broken. However, just by the description of the house Kurt had given her, Regan knew which one to approach. The sandy-yellow brick was trimmed in forest green, and a steep, but lush green lawn climbed to the front steps.

  Inside, the formality was as severe as outside. Gold brocades and polished marble, stiff looking maids in formal attire and a starched-looking butler with a grim expression faced her as she moved beyond the front door.

  For nearly a half-hour Regan sat in a straight-backed chair beside the door, hands in her lap, waiting. She could hear her host, General McIntyre speaking with friends, his guests.

  When the half-hour was finally over, she was marched into the formal parlor to meet the man.

  “Wheat, is it? Your name?”

  “Regan Wheat, sir.”

  “I knew a ‘Wheat’—several years ago, bought one of my slaves… could there be any relation?”

  “I doubt so. My family wouldn’t…” she stopped, though it wasn’t necessary to say more.

  “You’re here to be trained as a house slave, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A worthy use of your time,” he nodded. The General was a large, burly man, nearly sixty years old with a robust, even kind-hearted demeanor—certainly not textbook Master. But he did cut an authoritative figure in his household. He was no one to argue with. “Kingsley’s a good Master. If you plan to be his slave, you’d better mind your P’s and Q’s or he’ll blow you out quicker than a jackrabbit escaping a collard patch.”

  The general tugged on the bell pull behind him. In the distance, Regan could almost hear the ringing bells—the kitchen? Perhaps it was just her imagination.

  “In this house, you’ll be trained to serve,” he informed her in his clipped military delivery. “The rules are strict and strictly enforced. Punishment for failure is brisk and hard. However, I’d suggest that you not worry over it. You’ll have your first meeting with my paddle soon enough and likely when you least expect it. I do not spare the rod or paddle for any man’s slave. Once you’re in my house, you’re here to be taught—manners, decorum and discipline. You won’t be touched sexually—except if I decide to take you below, which is my prerogative. Your master, rather your future master, speaks of you highly, which gives you a reputation to live up to. I wouldn’t suggest that you disappoint him.”

  Just as he stopped speaking, a young maid appeared in the doorway. She remained there silently until he addressed her.

  “Jenna, take Miss Wheat to her room and find her a uniform. She’ll serve with you in the kitchen until I advise otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General McIntyre turned to Regan. “Follow in her footsteps, she is an impeccable slave.”

  Jenna appeared to be no more than an ordinary serving girl—a fact that held true of all of the General’s servants.

  It wasn’t until dinner that night that Regan found out otherwise. One clumsy move, a spilled plate—all over Mistress McIntyre’s sil
k shoe—and Jenna was standing before her master, hands behind her head, elbows wide, eyes staring straight forward.

  “You have something to say for yourself?” the General sternly regarded her.

  “I failed to concentrate, sir. My humble apologies.”

  “Accepted, young lady. Now assume the position. Audre bring me the paddle,” he gestured to a second maid who was standing by the door. Regan watched from the side of the dining room where she’d been told to stand. Her eyes were wide in fascination as she viewed the scene before her. She’d never seen anything like this house; nor had she ever felt such a sweeping undercurrent of energy with its subtle sexual charge existing in the background of such impeccable decorum. Despite the formality and stuffy attire, everyone from the General, to his wife, to their three houseguests and all the maids, had churning beneath the surface of their manners a hot-blooded sexual excitement. It captured Regan’s cunt right where it throbbed the most.

  Would the General really paddle the perfectly mannered Jenna for one very small faux pax? From what Regan could see, it was the Mistress’s fault, not the maid’s. But she didn’t expect either the Mistress or the Master to see the incident that way.

  Seeing the paddle, Regan almost shrieked. The broad flat thing would pack a horrendous punch. At least the girl would have the advantage of her clothes to protect her bottom from the worst… so Regan thought.

  But Regan was wrong.

  The gentle reprimanded maid bent over. In so doing, she automatically whisked her skirt up, uncovering her bottom, which, to Regan’s surprise, was completely naked. Jenna wore a pair of lovely stockings with rosette garters at the top; but otherwise her ass end was fully bare, a wide round target of virgin-looking flesh, with dimples and flawless smooth skin.

  Standing at her side, the General lay his wicked-looking, broad-surfaced punishment paddle on the young woman’s ass, as if he were thoroughly contemplating his next move. Then he drew back his arm—paddle and all—and brought it forward sharply.

  Smack!

  Jenna emitted just a low groan, one barely audible across the room—perhaps even that sound was just Regan’s imagination. She wanted to groan herself. The impact of that strike seemed to be felt around the room. But the response wasn’t horror at the poor maid’s distress, but another bout of sensuous excitement making the small crowd even more aroused. Much more sexual charge, they’d be fanning their faces and asking for ice water, Regan thought.

  One strike followed the next in rapid succession, with each one having the same jarring effect to Regan’s body.

  After six meanly administered strikes, the punishment was over and the maid’s behind had turned a bright rosy red hue.

  “Mind yourself, young lady,” the General charged his maid. He pulled her upright and stared her down. There was not one ripple of fright or sadness in this well-trained woman’s face. She remained perfectly poised even though her ass must have been smarting viciously from the resulting burn.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, not a tear in her eye. “And thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Was this what Kurt Kingsley expected her to learn? Three weeks into their relationship of brief Master/slave encounters, he’d shipped her off to General McIntyre’s for formal submissive training. She’d given him no commitment. He’d not taken her freedom. They’d played, toyed and teased their way into the beginnings of something real—real beyond her own imaginings, and maybe his—though Kurt Kingsley was obviously more experienced than she was.

  It almost slapped her in the face to be ordered to this house of rules and formal etiquette. Why? It wasn’t like Kurt Kingsley to demand this narrowly focused form of slave compliance. And he would never want her wearing a prudish, calf-length dress and a starched white apron.

  Whatever his reasons, however, she would endure the training for Kurt, and figure out his purpose later. It was enough to feel the man’s hand winding its way through every inch of her life, the same way it physically wound its way through her hair the day they met.

  Recalling her training with the General as she set the table on Tennyson Hallock’s patio—which was not an outdoor patio at all, but an enclosed greenhouse porch, housing hundreds of plants—Regan’s body quickened with an unexpected surge of desire. To serve him this way was to serve a master.

  Even if it was a simple task—the food was ready and easy to serve—she couldn’t escape the way this act once again reduced her to ‘slave’ in this man’s house. She prepared the meal trying hard to understand why she was being required to do so when the task at hand was supposed to be decorating the house.

  Obviously, Tennyson followed no rules, no particular protocol but what he made up for the moment. Regan could live with that, but would Kurt? Was this request beyond the boundaries of her job? It seemed innocent enough. But what about the lust provoked in her?

  “Mr. Hallock, your lunch is ready,” she said, while standing at the library door. Having watched him work for several minutes without looking up, she discarded her training etiquette and spoke up without being acknowledged first.

  “Ah! Yes. I’m famished,” he exclaimed as he jumped to his feet.

  They were half way through the shrimp when Regan finally spoke again. “Is there something else that you need from me? It looks as though you’ve made all your decisions for the house.”

  He looked at her a bit bewildered. “You’re going to paint my mural,” he exclaimed.

  “I am?”

  “I thought that was decided.”

  Her eyebrows knit worriedly. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. And you’ll be, too. I’ll have the scaffolding put up tomorrow. This way I’ll have you here every day with me.”

  “And why would you want that?”

  “Why not? The company of submissive women is my favorite indulgence.”

  “If so, sir… if I might be so bold, why then are there no slaves here? I can’t be your slave, we both know that. I would think that a man of your experience would have a dozen waiting on him hand and foot.”

  “How do you know that there aren’t slaves about this house? Have you seen it all? Do you think it’s impossible that I could have them tied in my dungeon or in the attic, or chained to my bed? You haven’t even seen the upstairs of the house, nowhere but five main rooms. There are twenty in this grand Goliath. I could have a hundred slaves bound, gagged, whipped and caged in my den of depravity…” he snickered playfully, “… and you wouldn’t even know.”

  “I don’t believe you do,” she came back at him with a reasonable amount of indignant playfulness.

  “Oh?”

  “No I don’t. Show me.”

  “Pretty ballsy for a slave.”

  “I’d never say that to Kurt. But then, I’m not your slave.”

  He shook his head. “And that’s too bad.” He took a long gulp of his water. “Because I’d whip you right here. I’d take my bullwhip off the wall and feather it over your nakedness until every nerve was jumping with need; then I’d flog your backsides raw until you let loose. Then, I’d leave you hanging, your nails digging into the wood you’re roped to.” He smiled. “Too bad.”

  She was too agog to say another word.

  “Think about that, slave,” he answered her silence directly. “And clean up this mess.” He was finished with lunch, pushing himself away from the table and leaving her with the thought of his whip and flogger blazing trails across her mind.

  Regan left for home a half-hour later, after she’d cleared the table and washed the lunch dishes with her mind still in a daze of remembrance.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Miss Wheat!” The General’s breath was in her face with the aroma of cigar smoke and peppermint. She stood before him the first time, with his soldierly eyes glaring into her scared ones. There was a dishcloth in her hand, a puddle of soapy water at her feet.

  “Sir!” she shot off quickly, trying to keep her eyes from meeting his—bad protocol
in this world of rules.

  “Bend over.”

  “Yes, sir.” She wondered why but didn’t ask.

  “Raise the skirt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She dropped the cloth and with wet fingers pulled the maid’s dress over her bottom. Her ass was as bare as Jenna’s had been the day before.

  She nearly shrieked when she saw the cane in the General’s hand, but kept her thoughts trained on the scene at dinner the night before. Jenna’s calm got into her, inside her bones and blood and quivering flesh to make it strong enough to bear this punishment. Her sister slave was in the laundry room folding towels the last time she saw her, but even now that placid face appeared before Regan’s inner eyes. Inspiration.

  After the ordeal, when Regan had time to think again, she thought of the serenity in that placid face. Justice. Her punishment was accepted justice, as natural as rain and sun and bright blue skies in the world of a slave.

  Could Regan be that pure of form?

  Swish… Thwack!

  ‘Yeeeeeeouch,’ the inner howl was loud and angry, but she showed no outward sign of her distress.

  Thwack!

  And a silent ‘Yeeeouch’ again.

  Thwack! For the third time, and her silence went almost through the ceiling. Her body flinched, her eyes blinked with tears, and her heart raced with misery—but she didn’t utter a sound.

  “Very good, young lady,” the General told her when he was done.

  Something to be proud of, Regan thought—that he would recognize her hard work at containment. Yes, she was proud. “You may present yourself daily for the same,” the man went on, only to have Regan gasp, this time audibly.

  “Don’t lose your cool, now, Miss Wheat,” he warned.

  “No, sir.”

  “And see me in the morning. A good caning always sets the day off right. I think you’ll agree.”

  He had been right, despite the side of her that wanted to whine otherwise. For five days, she endured her morning canings, along with other punishments meted out when her performance was lacking. It took so little to breach the General’s lavishly outlined etiquette, that it was next to impossible for even the regular seasoned house slaves to remember every detail, let alone a lowly trainee with a mind too easily clouded by other kinds of thought.