‘Open wide,’ she instructed.
He sank his dark curls on to the white pillow, Lips parted greedily. Mandy, instead of placing the sweet on his tongue, gently lowered it down on to the tip of his glistening erection. He groaned, his wide eyes staring in fascination.
‘Keep your mouth open,’ she warned. ‘Two strokes of the cane for every one you miss.’
His penis quivered, almost but not quite dislodging the perched sweet. Mandy eased herself down, squashing her naked breasts into his lower thighs, and positioned herself at the thickened shaft. Aiming carefully, she curled her second finger into her thumb tip. Judging the angle, she flicked. The Liquorice Allsort vanished into his mouth. His teeth worked busily at the sweet as, down at the base of his belly, his shaft twitched.
‘Another.’
He shook his head, refusing more.
‘It was not a question, it was a command,’ she whispered.
He swallowed quickly and parted his lips.
There were eight sweets left in the box. Mandy took two for her own enjoyment and placed the remaining six on the sheet. One by one, they were positioned on his penis and flicked into his mouth. He had to strain to catch them and, fearful of the sweet severity of the cane, was careful not to miss. Each time Mandy flicked a sweet, she deliberately brushed his throbbing shaft with her fingertips.
‘All the sweets have gone,’ she observed. ‘Nanny thinks it’s time you went beddy-byes.’
As she tucked him in tightly, she spotted his right hand stealthily inching down beneath the coverlet to his erection. Inching down, she knew, to relieve his pent up, unexploded orgasm.
‘No,’ she chided, slapping his wrist. ‘Nanny thinks that is a naughty habit so Nanny is going to make sure that her little man doesn’t play with himself during the night.’
The thunder had rolled away to the north. Norfolk was getting it by now, she mused. Through the rain-speckled window pane, she saw that the sky was washed out: the pale-blue air had been rinsed by the sudden summer storm. It was late afternoon. Teatime in London, though nobody she knew ever actually had tea there. In the House of Commons, sober-suited statesmen would be whispering their strategies over buttered scones, concealing their true intentions as they spread red jam with silver knives, smiling as they lied candidly over large wedges of date and walnut cake. Here – she smiled to herself as she bound both of his wrists to the bedposts with her nylon stockings – their future leader was wriggling in his sweet restraint.
‘Not too tight?’ she inquired. ‘Nanny wants you to be comfortable.’
He strained at the bondage.
‘Well?’ she insisted.
‘Mm,’ he grunted, attempting – but failing – to kiss Mandy’s naked breasts as they brushed his face momentarily.
Her task of binding his wrists to the bedposts completed, she took the pillow from beneath his head and, stepping down off the bed, wedged it between her parted thighs.
‘Nanny is going soon. It is time for you to get some rest. But Nanny will return.’
He groaned aloud as she dragged her fingernail up along the length of his erection. He was swimming in ecstasy – an ecstasy she sternly denied him to spill.
‘When Nanny returns, she will inspect you. If you have wet the glass, you will be whipped.’
‘The glass?’ he echoed, uncomprehendingly.
‘The glass,’ she repeated firmly, taking an empty tumbler from the bedside cabinet and inverting it over his erection.
‘But, Nanny –’
‘Silence. I will give you your pillow back when I have made good use of it.’
With one hand grasping the corner of the pillow that jutted out below her belly and the other hand grasping the corner emerging beneath her buttocks’ swell, Mandy dragged the plump white softness back and forth between her thighs. It took less than two and a half minutes of concentrated fury to bring herself off – she came, sweetly and loudly and was quite wet.
‘There,’ she gasped softly, approaching the bed.
His blue eyes gazed up, hypnotised.
She positioned his pillow so that the wet patch greeted his lips. He swivelled his head, but the wet patch was broad enough to greet them again on the other side. He writhed.
Bending down, Mandy kissed his forehead tenderly. The tumbler danced on the twitching shaft.
‘Goodnight, my little man, but be careful how you dream. And don’t you dare dream about Nanny. No naughty dreams of Nanny getting dressed, or Nanny spanking you on the bare bottom.’
His erection jerked. The tumbler trembled.
‘Remember,’ she whispered darkly, stroking each of his stocking-bound wrists, ‘Nanny will return. And if the glass is wet?’
‘I will be whipped,’ he murmured in tones of dread delight.
Seven
Through the large sash window, the panes still speckled with raindrops, Mandy glimpsed the last of the sunset. The sky over Suffolk was streaked with lemon, the night clouds ominously dark with the promise of rain.
Mandy saw, but could not hear, a scattering of rooks in ragged formation returning to roost in the distant elms. As a maid, confined to the noise and the heat of the busy kitchens, she had seen little of the world outside. As an angel, more windows were open to her. Of all the new perspectives revealed to her since becoming an angel, two were of the greatest significance: her appreciation of the scale and scope of the financial potential of Sternwood Grange, and her growing awareness of her appetite for discipline and punishment.
Mandy pushed these thoughts aside and fingered the array of expensive clothes. As an angel, she was expected – indeed instructed – to help herself and dress from a gorgeous wardrobe. The only stipulation was that she had to dress to please. Not herself, but any residents she might encounter. All the clothes were cut with erotic chic, and were designed to entice and inflame. She fingered an ice-blue leather mini-skirt then weighed the sheer silk of a scarlet blouse before wriggling her left foot into the tight leather of a red stiletto.
These were not the angels’ working uniforms: the crisp outfits, starched and laundered for the Games Room. These were not the uniforms for Nanny or Nurse, donned to discipline and delight the submissive residents. The clothes Mandy was selecting were for informal wear when off-duty.
Deliberately, Mandy rejected several delicious items before selecting a beige polo-neck jumper, in clinging cashmere, a lightweight leather jacket, a ribbed and belted camel skirt and a pair of calf-length black leather boots to go over her chocolate-brown tights.
She dressed. The cashmere clung to her breasts, shaping and cupping their firm swell. She plucked at its softness, but on release it sprang back to hug her bosom amorously. The ribbed camel skirt felt good. It flattered her thighs and buttocks, managing to reveal more than conceal her superb curves. The boots perfumed her nostrils with the raw tang of virgin leather. She thrilled to the whiff of hide, instantly recalling warm belts she had pressed her dry lips on to after punishing a bare bottom. She eased her feet into the boots. The kiss of leather haunted her imagination.
There was no mirror in the room, to Mandy’s surprise, so she had to dress by touch alone. Mandy palmed her jumper and skirt several times, smoothing her clothes intimately and firmly. Satisfied with her selection, she left the small room quite moist with arousal for her appointment with Erica.
Why had she, she wondered, been ordered to attend a debriefing? There had been no witness to her session as Nanny. Rowena and her Pentax had not been in attendance. Would Mandy have to give a full verbal report on her day, recounting every spank, stripe and stroke. What words would she find to describe the most intimate moments of dominance and punishment.
‘Come in.’
Mandy entered, obeying the cropped blonde’s command.
Erica glanced up from the flickering screen. Mandy caught the brief frown. My choice of clothes, probably, Mandy reasoned. Too dull and dour for the residents. And what had Erica been watching on the video, Mandy wondered.
‘
You’ve had an interesting day, I see,’ Erica remarked. ‘One of mixed success, though.’
Mandy joined Erica in front of the screen, but remained standing. ‘How do you –’ she began.
Erica replied by jabbing the remote. Images of Mandy, dressed as a nanny and spanking a reddening bare bottom, filled the wide screen.
‘Video. Three hidden cameras have recorded everything that happened in the nursery today. If he ever makes it to Number Ten, the Mistress will be in possession of a nice little extra source of income.’
Blackmail. Mandy grew hot with anger, and then burned with shame. Aunt Clare would never have approved. Besides, Mandy thought, her triumph in pleasuring him, and his memories of the pleasure, would be tainted by any future attempts at blackmail. She felt used and bitterly resented the ploy.
‘I’ve seen this through twice,’ Erica continued, fast forwarding to the end. Consulting a piece of paper, she knelt down and peered at the counter. ‘We’ll take a look at the three most successful sequences first.’
The video blinked and clicked. In a big close-up, held in freeze-frame, Mandy saw her own hand applying the soaped nail brush to her victim’s cleft.
‘Total dominance,’ Erica murmured approvingly. ‘You have rendered your subject into a helpless infant having his bottom cleaned. A brilliant piece of severe nannying. Well done, girl.’
Mandy gazed at the bare buttocks, frozen in a clench of anguished ecstasy. She saw how her knuckles dimpled the soft cheek as the nail brush skimmed along the exposed ribbon of the cleft. She could only imagine the sweet, delicious torment. Drinking in the image of her fierce dominance, her labia parted into a sticky pout.
Erica fingered the remote, her eyes monitoring the counter. The video whirred, clicking to another freeze-frame. Mandy saw her hand captured in the moment of wiping a stray dribble of soup from her baby-victim’s chin. No bare buttocks, straps or canes were visible, but the image of power, dominance and supreme control proved to be highly charged. Mandy’s slit grew juicy. Erica studied the picture for a full minute, again pronouncing her approval. She took up the remote once more.
‘Your most accomplished moment was, I believe, this.’
Erica showed a three-and-a-half-minute sequence of Mandy punishing the bare buttocks with the hairbrush during the thunder storm. At least seventeen searing strokes were administered during the clip before Erica pressed the pause button, leaving the reddened bottom quivering on the screen.
‘But there were mistakes, my girl. Errors of taste and judgement. Watch.’
The cropped blonde glanced down at her sheet of paper, pressed rewind and squinted at the backward flow of the numbers on the video counter. Click. Another short sequence flooded the screen: Mandy riding the punished buttocks, dragging her pantied pubis across the crimsoned crowns.
‘Too intimate, girl. He can sense and feel your wet flesh. That is wrong. Flesh must not normally touch flesh – except for the punishing hand – between a dominatrix and her submissive. And look. There.’
In a big close-up, Mandy saw herself gripped by her own ecstasy. Eyes tightly closed, she rode the hot buttocks with gathering frenzy.
‘Altogether wrong, girl. You should be cool, detached and seemingly indifferent. That is what fuels their dark delight and feeds their sweet despair. Understand? Never allow your own feelings to spill over.’
‘Yes,’ Mandy murmured dutifully, secretly resenting the presence of the prying camera in the nursery. Suddenly she blushed. Had she come? Had the camera recorded her orgasm? Had Erica already seen her jerking in the paroxysm of climax? She squirmed at the thought of the cropped blonde perusing the images, gazing steadily at intimate close-ups of Mandy in ecstasy.
‘Second mistake,’ Erica continued crisply, ‘was this.’
Mandy looked at the screen and saw herself flicking the Liquorice Allsorts from the erect shaft into the submissive’s mouth.
‘No, no, no. All wrong. Deny your victim any such reward. You should have taken up each sweet in your teeth and enjoyed them yourself, understand? Never weaken and indulge your victim. The dominatrix must be cruel and ruthless.’
The video revealed Mandy’s third mistake: using the pillow between her naked thighs until she came. This lapse was summarily criticised and dismissed. Mandy hung her head in shame – but her slit seethed, fired by the potent images on the flickering screen.
From the shadowed outbuildings came the thin chime of the stable clock. Midnight. Mandy, without a watch, had thought it was later. She sighed, resigning herself to at least another hour’s wait. She had secreted herself in a ground-floor storeroom at the rear of the building, from where she hoped to make a bid to escape when the vans arrived. They were due tonight, three of them. Mandy planned to return to London in one of them as a stowaway.
An hour to go. She was still deliciously disturbed after the video debriefing with Erica. Outside, the moon broke through the rain clouds, filling her hiding place with silvery light. The storeroom revealed its contents to her gradually: she saw the glint of the canes, the curved shapes of spanking paddles, the gleam of oiled whips and the sinuous coils of leather straps. As her eyes became accustomed to the half-light, she saw the handcuffs; chains and restraints; hoods and masks; harnesses and other instruments of punishment, humiliation and bondage.
The heat at the base of her belly ignited and a slow trickle of lava seared her slit. Mandy reached out and carefully selected a cane. She held it reverently between inquisitive fingers, thrilling to its supple touch. Thrumming it softly through the silver moonbeams, she relished the low note from the hymn to suffering as the wood sliced down. Her fingers tightened around the cane. She drew it up to her mouth and kissed it, then licked its gleaming length. Replacing the cane, she inspected a whip, feeling the full extent of the lash between a trembling pincer of finger and thumb. Her nipples burned as they peaked stiffly in response to the oiled hide. She dared not risk snap-cracking it, but closed her eyes and imagined it caressing a naked bottom, kissing the creamy flesh with crimson.
Mandy was breathing heavily now, the cashmere at her swollen bosom stretched and straining. Reaching behind, she fingered the array of dangling belts, then turned to thumb the soft rubber aprons, hoods and basques pegged on the wall to her left.
A single red glove caught her eye. It had no partner, not being one of a pair. It was a single, elbow-length glove to be donned by a dominatrix: sheathing the hand that wielded the whip, swished the bamboo cane and fingered each burning stripe across the punished buttocks. Mandy rubbed the red satin glove, then clenched her fist and crushed it. It was for her a symbol of Sternwood Grange: exotic, expensive and supremely erotic. An enigmatic piece from a jigsaw puzzle which when assembled represented domination, submission, pleasure and pain.
She squeezed her fingers into the glove, dragging it slowly up to her elbow with her teeth. Tomorrow, in London, with the assistance of her own expensive but capable lawyers, Sternwood Grange would be no more than a few dry documents: xeroxed wills, title deeds and affidavits. After that, it would be no more than a delicious memory and a large sum of money in her bank account. Tonight, in the moonlight, the sense of the place was both urgent and powerful: the erotically charged atmosphere was intensified both by her memories and experiences, and by the canes, whips and instruments of bondage.
Mandy inched the ribbed skirt up over her thighs and let it ride up over her buttocks. Pushing her panties down to her knees, she parted her legs and surrendered her pubis to the satin-gloved fingers at her belly. Before the vans came, she would bid farewell to Sternwood Grange, and salute it in a manner most fitting. Her gloved finger sought out and found the wisp of her pubic fringe. Moving down gently, it traced the outline of her labial lips with delicate strokes. She brought the satin-sheathed fingertip up to the flesh-hood covering her clitoris: the love thorn stirred and stiffened beneath the probing satin.
The moon vanished behind a scudding bank of clouds, leaving the storeroom in complete darkness
. Mandy did not notice: her eyes were already tightly closed. Crushing her bare bottom against the line of dangling leather belts behind her, she worked the satin glove down at her hot slit, thumbing her erect clitoris expertly as she prised her sticky flesh-lips wide apart. Mandy paused, pacing her approaching climax. She lowered her gloved arm to drag her wrist against her labia, rotating it slowly to tease and torment the wet flesh with the rasp of satin. A cane rattled as it settled in its pile. The sound brought her memories of bamboo punishments flooding back. Memories of harsh pleasures and sweet pain: the delicious dread of a supple cane hovering over naked peaches, the cruel thrum of the slicing wood, the crisp stroke across upturned buttocks, the red stripe as the bamboo caressed the buttocks savagely.
The dangling belts behind her pressed their leather tongues into her bottom, one strap forcing its hide into her splayed cleft. Mandy squeezed her cheeks to capture and contain it, her bottom jerking in fresh delight. The leather at her flesh brought more haunting memories – of both punishments received and punishments administered. Her gloved hand flew across her weeping fig; the muscles at the base of her belly tightened. She conjured up the snap crack of belts and straps across her own –and others’ – suffering cheeks. She was coming now, her inner muscles spasming in sweet paroxysms as the climax gathered within her and exploded.
The moon emerged from behind the clouds, filling the storeroom once more with silvery light. It outlined the lengths of bamboo stretched out in obedient repose, the whips, rubber-wear and restraints. Mandy opened her eyes, drank in the symbols of fierce delight and sweet torment, and orgasmed violently. Buckling under the ferocity of her climax, she sank back into the belts and straps dangling behind her. At her right thigh, the wet satin fingertips of her gloved hand hung inert. Only the thumping of her heart broke the absolute silence of the night.
She saw the approaching lights before she heard the engines of the Transits. Slipping out into the shadows of the neglected kitchen garden at the rear of Sternwood Grange, Mandy gasped. It was chilly and dank in the darkness. She had chosen her clothes for the escape well. Inside the back of the Transit van it would be cold, and London was at least two hours’ drive away.
The Mistress of Sternwood Grange Page 18