“You fat old whore, get your hands off of me!” the girl shrieks. But she’s going nowhere, pinned to the table by Marmy’s thick hip.
“Ah, think I’m a fat old whore, huh?” She pelts her with spoon until the two ass cheeks glow bright red. No manner of struggle works to wrench away from the big woman; she’s had experience spanking young girls like this one.
“My, what have we here,” the master enters the room, while Marmy is in mid-swing of another potent strike.
“The brat deserves every stroke, sir,” Marmy defends herself.
“On your knees, Evie,” the man barks.
The girl drops immediately, bowing her head.
“Yours hands…” he reminds her of the training and the girl alters her pose, clasping her hands behind her neck, head raised, eyes lowered, lips parted as if she’s praying. “You’d best not forget what you’ve been instructed. A smart mouth gets you muzzled. You tangle with Marmy, you get exactly what you deserve and I won’t stop her. Get that straight right now.”
Marmy’s smug, Evie quiet.
“Go on with what you were doing,” he says as he turns away.
Triumphant, Marmy drags Evie to her feet. “Ya think ya kin mind your manners?”
“Yes,” the girl replies.
“Yes, what?”
“What do you mean, yes what?” She tries not to sass.
“You can call me ma’am, just like you call the gentlemen ‘sir’.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Evie struggles to say.
“I been here years before you and will be here years after you leave. They respect that about me, if nothin’ else. You got a lot to learn. You may be pretty now, but in a few years, that’s all gonna fade and you’ll need more than a sweet, innocent face to woo your men. The last thing you want is an enemy of the house staff. They might just be your only salvation.” She decides against a longer spanking, let’s go the girl and starts back to work, while Evie waits for further others. “Polish the silver set,” she says.
“But I—” Evie starts.
“Don’t!” Marmy stops her in an instant. “I know you just finished polishing it. Do it again, and don’t miss a lick of tarnish, or I’ll take the spoon to your ass again.”
Evie remains demurely watchful that evening as she respectfully performs her duties. She serves drinks to the houseguests, bowing deferentially; ignoring the many lewd looks that come her way. Her corset is so tight, so strictly tied off by an ambitious Josette, that at any moment her nipples threaten to pop over the edge. She guards this carefully, afraid that in this formal setting, that would be an unforgivable flaw in her performance. When she bends down to serve hors d’oevres, the slit behind leaves little to the imagination of a horny man. But there is nothing she can do about the circumstance.
Through dinner the night goes on without a hitch. Her trainer and the master often eye her with critical inspections, looking for the flaws that are not there. She’s even pleasant to Marmy. Her instincts are acute, her awareness high. She is on guard, and anyone educated to view a trainee with careful scrutiny understands this.
“Evie, step forward,” the master of the ranch invites her to his side toward the end of the dinner meal.
“Yes, sir,” she curtsies, trying to be polite. This alone of the demands on her is carried out awkwardly. She thinks the practice is a silly waste of effort.
“I am quite pleased by the way a girl as fresh and untried as you are conducts herself in this setting after just two days.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Ah, no thanks necessary,” he continues. “For while you excel in some ways, I’m afraid you fail horrendously in others.”
She starts to worry and bows her head humbly, wondering what err she might have committed.
While she worries, he addresses the room of twenty guests, ten men, ten women, dressed comfortably but well, in suits and ties, ladies in cocktail dresses. “We respect the fact this one is a new trainee, that the girl comes from a formidable climate and circumstances that will take some time to breed out of her, but there are certain matters of discipline that must be adhered to. I’m sure you agree.” The nods around the room are convincing. These twenty are privy to the man’s secret life—a fact the girl did not expect. Maybe in this country, girls in her position are accepted among civilized people—this is what she must think as the formal night turns all of a sudden strange to anyone not familiar with the ranch and its clouded purpose.
“Tell us how you’ve erred,” he turns, asking her directly.
“I have no idea,” she answers timidly. Fright takes a hold of her mind and shakes it hard.
“No? Well, that surprises me. Kneel now.”
Evie drops to the floor at the man’s side.
“Are you a forgetful child?” he wonders aloud.
“No, sir,” she immediately answers.
“Unbutton your dress.”
Her hands shake, but they do not fail her. Even as absurd as this seems, she thoughtlessly unbuttons each one in a row, from the scooped bodice to the hem of her dress, bunched at her knees.
“If you’re not forgetful, then how did you forget the cardinal rules of your training…”
“I do no know what you’re speaking of, sir.”
“Take off the dress.”
She works her torso from the dress, and lets it fall behind her. Remaining is the cinched corset, and the thigh-high stockings, black, like nighttime, and nightmares and the source of pure lust.
“Your body is your temple, that temple belongs to me. And as long you’re in my house, your physical pleasure belongs to me, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ve violated that rule.”
She cannot reply.
“Free your nipples from the corset,” he continues in his clipped monotone.
She does as told, making the two brown buds peek over the top of the lace.
“Your hands behind your neck,” he adds.
She does as asked.
“You’ve come twice without permission. Even with the strict measures taken to prevent the possibility of orgasm, you’ve made you way around the uncomfortable situation, bringing yourself off.”
She remains beside him, perfectly affecting the pose he’s ordered, hoping, trying to right the terrible wrong by her posture, her humble demeanor alone.
He slaps her face because she has no answer.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
“I am sorry, sir.”
“What excuse for your fault?”
“I don’t have one.”
“No reason, no driving force, you simply come because you have nothing better to do in bed at night?”
“No, sir. It was my body. I couldn’t stop it. I tried, sir, but I failed.”
He slaps her face again on the other cheek. “I don’t think you ‘tried’ at all,” he snaps. “The act was willful and deliberate. It required planning, conniving. It was as premeditated as any crime.”
“I am sorry, s...”
“And I don’t believe you,” he rejoins before she can finish. “You say the words, but no one here believes you. ‘Sorry’, you don’t understand. You have no conscience, no guilt. Life is only what is expedient for you, what’s easy. You think you can lie your way out of this one, you are sadly misguided. You are accountable for your actions, accountable for your mistakes, your behavior, your attitude. In many respects, you determine what will happen after you leave, where you will go. Hellions get hell. Brats get punishment. Incorrigible brats get punishment freaks in their life to keep them tamed. And liars and cheats who think they can beat this system earn the twisted minds of sadists who best them at their own game. You’ll spin in worlds that will make no sense, and wind up a senseless old fool in the end, with your looks shot and your spirit too whipped to care. If you’re smart at all, my sassy little fool, you’ll let the lesson you learn tonight stick for the rest of your
life. Now, get to your feet, keep your hands where they are and follow me.”
Rising to his feet, he nods to his guests. He has her trembling and feels the joy of that deep in his gut.
“I trust the whipping post is ready?” he refers to Jacob, who stands at the side of the room, there, observing; now with collar and leash to take charge of the girl.
“Yes, sir. You want me to collar her?”
“Indeed,” the old man replies.
With a thick leather band tightly buckled around Evie’s throat, Jacob leads her with the leash in hand, out the door on the heels of the master, while guests, in a visibly somber mood, though with a subtle streak of gaiety in their quiet whispers, follow.
Outside, in the yard between the stables and the house, the whipping post, like a warning sentential of all that goes on inside, stands waiting. The ten-foot beam of wood was driven into the ground over sixty years before, and was later anchored at the base with cemented stone. It never creaks, never sways, never changes—except for the weathered exterior that slowly, over time, has begun to age. Every spring, it’s oiled, so that it faces the elements of another year with a strong new layer of endurance to ward off blight and water damage.
Evie approaches it now, as the wind in the air whips at her feet. They are still tucked into four inch high-heels, which look odd now, considering what’s about to happen. Jacob takes them from her before he pushes her face forward to the post. Then raising her arms, he fits her wrists into the cuffs on either side of the wood, snuggly. She’s held firmly in place, no slack, and little way to twist and turn. To make the bondage even more stringent, a broad leather belt circles her waist, and fits through a ring on the other side of the wood.
She shivers from the cold.
Almost as an afterthought, Jacob stuffs a wadded handkerchief into her mouth. Her head falls back and her blonde curls dangle over her shoulders, while her cinched waist augments the fields of battle—the firm and muscled shoulders and the heart-shaped rounds of her behind.
With the beauty in captivity, the trainer moves on to remove his shirt and toss it over the porch railing. Despite the brisk autumn air, his muscles gleam with sweat that comes from nervous energy, pent-up lust, repressed desire. He won’t be cured of the sexual ache in just one night. It will take more than just a single session with one bad girl to treat his inner evil. But this will surely curb his appetites for a time, squelch their power, and put the beast back in its cage. This done, there is only one other cure to seek for what’s lodged inside his bones and blood, and that, too, will come later in the evening.
Above the scene, a bright beam of light floods out of the darkness—as if the whipping post is a stage, and the girl and her travail the show of shows. As the crowd of guests looks on, Jacob takes the leather razor strop from his mentor, the awesome piece oiled for the occasion, and begins working it from the girl’s shoulders to her thighs. It snaps and whales across her skin. Smacks the flesh, burning swathes of red into her skin. The skin glows as she begins to shriek, as the strength of Jacob’s blows prevent her from deriving any pleasure from the pain. The pain consumes her; while the repeated strikes give her no chance to recoup. Her breathing is labored. She gasps with hope when he dares to pause, then lifts her head with another terrible cry when he starts again.
Jacob works himself into a frenzy, as if this is some divine justice being served. As if he’s one with this creature before him, tied to the post, crying from deep inside her core. In this space he is content; this is his right, his purposeful function. He cuts through the last of her defenses with pain, until she sobs without stopping, uncontrollably.
Exhausted from emotion and the power of his work, Jacob finally rests, while his mentor moves beside the girl. He jerks her head, grasping her hair in his hand and pulling down. Her white throat is taut, glaring in the light, underneath the collar.
“I suppose you think you’ve had enough?” he whispers in her ear.
She has no strength to reply.
“Answer me,” his voice is louder and he pulls her hair a little harder.
She finally gasps, “I wish it were so, sir.”
Good reply, he thinks to himself. He turns to Jacob, “Release her, dress her and have her serve us our coffee and cake in the great room.”
The evening adjourns to the casual elegance of the ranch house, returning to its previous, civilized state of etiquette—as if there were no whipping posts or archaic punishment rituals. Evie, clothed again in the plain black dress, serves coffee, tea, and a rich chocolate layer caked encrusted with pecans and topped with smooth whipped cream. Observant, but not part of the festivities, Jacob stands on the sidelines, nursing his resentment with a stoic gaze no one will ever see beyond.
With the very last course of this remarkably fine meal about to proceed, Evie, unwittingly collects desserts plates and smiles as she refreshes the coffee, or hands a guest another bottle of German beer.
Jacob no longer expects to run the game. That is squarely in his mentor’s corner. He doesn’t give it another thought, except to let his anger gestate, waiting for the appropriate time to show its force.
When the host of the evening, interrupts his guests again, it is with the same fixed eye on the serving girl.
“Now that we’ve established the fact of your crime, I think it’s time to show us all exactly how you managed to ‘get off,’” he uses this vernacular disdainfully, “with so many things intended to deter that possibility.”
Evie stands in the center of the room with an empty cup and saucer in her hand. Realizing she’s being spoken to, she stops, stands up straight and stares the man in the eye, trying as she does to determine exactly what he’s said. Sometimes her command of formal English fails her.
“Sir?” she finally thinks to clarify his thoughts with the question.
“Having trouble understanding?” he asks.
“I think so,” she says, cautiously. At her side, her free palm opens wide, then she nervously clutches the black skirt and twists it in her fingers.
“Well then, let me describe this very clearly,” he goes on. “You’ll put that coffee cup on the table, takes us to your room in the cellar and show us exactly how you managed to pleasure yourself the past two nights.”
Her face turns pale with shock before she blushes… the rosy color rising from her chest, crawling up her neck, to her ears and cheeks.
“You’re having trouble understanding now?” he wonders aloud when she doesn’t move. The sadistic trill delivering his message arouses him.
“No, sir,” she replies quite readily.
Fighting him would be useless, everyone knows this including Evie. Although, she momentarily turns to the side of the room where the only other soul she really knows in this place stands with his eyes indifferently focused her way. He gives her no assistance. Does she expect that? Is there already some bond forming between the two? Does she think he’ll give her comfort?
Jacob bows his head, as though bowing out of the scene altogether. The master is unaware that he’s disgruntled, that Evie’s training is not going according to the wishes of his protégé. But no one will see the truth in his stoic expression. In reply to her vaguely pleading look, Evie receives another cold shot of apathy. The master sees her spirit sag; she is weary and afraid.
“Jacob take her to the cellar,” he speaks curtly, and the two both jerk, awakened by the request.
Jacob moves first, striding forward, pushing Evie between chairs to the back of the house and toward the cellar door. A scattering of guests follow them out—the men and two interested ladies, who sport lurid gleams in their heavily made-up eyes.
As they descend the steps, they find the cellar is as dark as the night outside. Jacob lights the lanterns, and leads the party through a short maze to Evie’s cell.
“You know what he wants?” Jacob asks the girl.
“He wants me to masturbate?”
“Do exactly what yo
u did last night and the night before.”
“I remove my clothes?” she acts confused, as if she can’t believe what she has to do.
“What? You suddenly dumb as a stump, or are you just stalling?”
“No, sir, I was just unclear,” she attempts to explain.
“The man was very specific. Take off your clothes and show them how you do it.” He pauses to see her expression clear. “Although, I suppose I should tie your hands to make it more realistic.”
Fidgeting nervously, she unbuttons the dress to remove it. Her eyes dart about the tiny room as if she’s searching for ways out of this horrid exhibition. There are none. Mocking faces appear outside her cell, peering inside, lechers all of them, waiting for her to ‘get them off’ with her tawdry show.
Once she has the dress removed, the corset is next, unlaced by Jacob and torn from her body, left in a heap beside the bed. He dismisses the stockings—they might add to the allure—and binds her wrists as he has the last two nights. Stepping back, he waits.
Evie falters. She looks them in the eye and blushes again, as a layer of sweat makes her body glow in the pale light. The only way to survive is to do the deed for them, to go inside, turn off their eyes by closing hers, and pretend it is the middle of the night and she’s alone. Does she have it in her?
She lays on the bed, breathing to relax, and finally twists her body into position, one foot on the floor, the other bent and on the bed. Her naked crotch caresses the side of the bed, slipping from the mattress to the metal frame, back and forth, teasingly. Her bottom bobs before them, garishly exposing her moist privates for their amusement. Despite their salacious grins, her body responds, as a swell of orgasmic sensation shoots savagely through her. She lets the bed become her lover as it has twice before. The hard, the soft, the scratchy surfaces arouse her pussy’s longings, letting her drag from deep within the same fantastic response that’s occurred before. In time, her erratic fucking movements become rhythmic. Her belly grinds within, spasming hard. She can’t stop herself for any reason. She slams herself to the rail and grovels as it massages her swollen clit. Seconds later, she groans, “Oh, my gaaaaaaaaaawdd,” circling her groin over the one lovely spot. Then there is that awesome jolt of ending, the one that seems to never end, the one that more stimulation expands, that comes in brilliant surges, passionate like a perfectly phrased symphony. Crescendo, crescendo, until the crescendo finally reaches its peak with its last powerful swell, and then fades away.
The Seller, Buyer, Girl and Her Master Page 7