by Ava Sinclair
I renew my struggles as I try to control my terror, which only increases when I look back to see his square jaw set with resolve as his hand continues moves downward in forceful, punishing arcs, each blow strategically placed to cover the expanse of my backside.
I writhe and twist, the sound of his hand smacking my bare flesh nearly as unsettling as the gasps and cries I emit in my helpless state. He’s punishing me as if I were a child. Humiliation courses through me even as the agony of his persistent correction continues.
I bite my lip to keep from begging. I consider biting his leg, but judgement prevails over rage. I’m held facedown, my kicking legs spread, my pussy exposed. I feel heat flush my face, my body. Shame. I’m ashamed of my exposure, my weakness.
It would be enough to move me to tears if I could remember how to cry.
Seven
Roman
It would be easy to underestimate someone so slight. In retrospect, I did just that. She’s like a wild cat. Angry. Cornered. Desperate for any means of escape.
I’d intended the ruse with the key cards to be a teachable moment, one that showed her someone was always watching. It turns out to be a lesson for both of us. She’s learned I mean business. I’ve learned that she’s not only tough, but maybe too tough for her own good.
By the time I finish spanking the young woman, her bottom is cherry red and bearing faint impressions of my long fingers. She’s still squirming, although her wriggling is more subdued by exhaustion. The crisp white shift is stuck to her back by a sheen of perspiration. Her screams of pain have given way to gasps, yet when I lift her to stand between my legs and turn her to face me, there are no tears.
I study her face. She’s not crying because she’s fighting it.
She’s not crying because she can’t.
Her breathing remains ragged, her body rigid, as she stares down through her curtain of hair. I have hold of her wrists and wait. Still the tears don’t come, and somehow, this is worse.
The correction served its purpose. She is overwhelmed, but rather than facing a woman broken open by cathartic tears, I see one who has learned to protect herself by retreating inward.
What kind of life has she lived, to affect this manner of self-preservation? My desire to comfort her is overwhelming. It’s not time, though. Not yet.
“Look at me. Look at me.” I time my order between her heaving gasps, forcing myself to add more weight to the command. “If you don’t look at me, I’m going to put you back over my knee.”
This gets her attention. She tilts her face up just enough to raise her eyes to mine, until I’m staring into her feral doll’s face; the heart-shaped visage would appear vulnerable were it not for the murderous rage in her eyes. She’s shaking with it.
“You can’t hit people,” I say. “Especially not here. And especially not with chairs.” There’s no reaction beyond the deepening of her glare. “You especially can’t hit your daddy.”
The angry eyes flicker. “I don’t have a daddy.” She delivers the words through gritted teeth.
“You do now. From this moment on, you’re to think of me as your daddy. Any needs or wants, I will supply. All you have to do is ask. I’ll feed you, clothe you, keep you safe and warm. I’ll spare no expense to school you in any subject you’d like to know—reading…”
“I can already read…”
“Very well.” I go on. “That’s good. But there are other things. Art, music, science.”
I feel her muscles tense. She wants me to let her go. I grip her more tightly, just enough to make her aware that I’ll decide when to release her.
“The most important thing you’ll learn here is order. I know you are confused and angry. But if you are civil and willing to learn, you’ll be treated well. If not, I will not hesitate to correct you.”
“You mean beat me?” Her voice is shaking, but still there are no tears.
“I didn’t beat you. I spanked you. You deserved a spanking for what you did, and just so that you understand, there are other ways of spanking you. Lots of ways, in fact. I can bend you over my lap as I just did, holding you so that you can’t move. I can restrain you over a chair or sofa or table. I can use other things besides my hand. A sturdy ruler. A strap. A cane.” I pause. “You’re to live as my ward, my little girl. From this point on, any liberties you enjoy will be earned. Do I make myself clear?”
I lighten my grip by degrees. She is tense but still as I finally move my hands away.
“I’m sure you have questions.” I lean back in the chair, studying her. Her breathing has slowed somewhat. I have a question, too, but I’m not ready to ask it.
She turns away, her hands moving down to cup her bottom. The gesture is so vulnerable, so childlike, that I have to stop myself from reaching for her.
“I do have a question.” She turns back to me, tossing her head just enough to move the hair away from her flushed face, and I notice for the first time that she has a light dusting of freckles across the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her upturned nose. “What will happen to my people?”
I’m impressed. She’s been separated from all she’s ever known, and her primary thought is for those left behind.
Some in the government would have been happy to simply bomb what was left of her home. Prior to backing Paternas, I’d seen some internal memos indicating that things were heading in that direction. We’d picked off the men, then all the adults until no one remained who over thirty. We thought it would be easy to ferret the rest out. But the holdouts were resilient, and the Patriarchs were growing impatient.
“We plan to save your people.”
She smirks. “As you’re saving me?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Who are you?” she asks.
“Roman Daley.” It pleases me that she wants to know anything about me at all. “I’m a Senator.”
“A leader of men?” There’s a harsh edge of accusation to her question.
“Yes.”
“You’re the enemy.” She backs away.
“Yes.” I don’t deny it. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. You’ve gotten this far living in an environment that would kill half the men I know, so you’re adaptable. Adapt here and you’ll come out with a civilized existence, young lady.”
“I have a name.” She crosses her arms. “I told the matron.”
“For now, I’ll refer to you as young lady.”
“I have a name,” she repeats. “You’ve taken everything from me. You’d take that, too?”
I don’t have to yield to her. She is mine. Mine to shape and mold. And to heal, if she’ll let me. I can call her whatever I want. But the hurt in her eyes now is worse than when I pulled her off my lap, and despite Gavin’s warning, I feel that with this woman, this is one area where compromise can be allowed.
“What is it? Your name, I mean.”
She is eyeing me warily. “Kit.”
“Very well, Kit. That’s what I’ll call you unless you displease me. If that happens, I’ll call you ‘young lady,’ and you’ll know you’re in trouble.” I stand and walk to her, tipping her face up so that she has to look at me. “And, no, I’m not going to pretend that this is some magnanimous gesture. The name suits you. I could not think of one better.”
“Am I supposed to thank you for using my name?”
“No. But there is something I want from you.” I’ve timed this perfectly, as it turns out. There’s a beep and the light above the door comes on. A moment later, Matron Lang walks in pushing a cart with a domed tray on top.
“I see you found each other,” she says as she puts the tray on the table. “Getting on well, are we?”
“You arranged it nicely.” Kit glares at the matron. “Cowardly cunt. You should be ashamed. In the Warrens, women stand up for one another.”
I could punish my ward for this. I should. But when I move towards Kit, Matron Lang gives me a small shake over her head as a rare flush comes across her face. She walks stiffly to
the door and leaves without a word. Only I detect the hurt on her face just before it closes.
“That was unkind of you,” I turn back to Kit. “Don’t ever speak to Matron Lang like that again. Ever.”
My little ward doesn’t reply. She just watches as I walk to the table and lift the dome from the tray.
“Braised beef, potatoes with herbed butter, Swiss chard, and for dessert a blueberry trifle.”
I don’t order her to come over. I don’t have to. The expenditures of energy and emotion have drained her. She approaches the table, staring at the food, then sits down, wincing, as she reaches for the bread. I catch her hand before she can grasp it.
“Rules.” I say. “They start now.” I pick up a cloth napkin and put it in her hand. “Unfold it. Spread it in your lap.”
Her eyes narrow in resentment, but she obeys as I point to the utensils. “And we don’t eat with our hands here.”
“We didn’t eat with our hands in the Warrens, either.” There’s umbrage in her tone. “We aren’t animals, even if your kind thinks of us that way.” She picks up a fork, stabs a potato hard enough to reveal that while she knows what utensils are, usage is awkward for her. The tender potato falls apart. She stabs one half, gentler this time, and lifts it clumsily to her mouth.
In that instant, her expression changes. I know from gathered intelligence that women in the Warrens were resourceful. They trapped any animal they could for meat. They grew their own vegetables in gutters and courtyards, gathering and propagating seeds year after year. They farmed mushrooms in the damp earth of cellars. They made do with what they had, and what they had was little. Proper food is new, so I cannot blame her when she begins to eat in haste.
When I quietly remind her to use her utensils, she does. It’s satisfying to see her expression as she experiences new flavors. Her eyes widen when she gets her first taste of the trifle. It occurs to me as she devours it that this is the first time I’ve ever seen a woman really eat. In New Bethel, it is considered unseemly for women to do more than nibble, especially in the presence of men who are encouraged from boyhood to indulge their appetites.
I point to the drink. “Don’t forget the milk.”
She eyes it warily. “The last thing I was given to drink was drugged.” Her eyes meet mine. “Is this?”
“Yes. But you’ll drink it anyway. You have had a long day. You need to sleep.” When she doesn’t pick up the milk, I sigh. “It’ll be a deep sleep. Consider it a temporary reprieve. For both of us.”
She picks up the cup. I had the matron add a sweetener to the milk. Kit takes a sip, then another. Soon it’s gone.
“How long before it knocks me out?” she asks.
No sooner is the question out of her mouth than she starts to slump. I move forward, grabbing her. She’s limp and light in my arms. I hope it’s a peaceful sleep. She’ll need her strength for what will come tomorrow.
Eight
Kit
“Rise and shine.”
I open my eyes to a warm glow.
Light. Not just any light. Natural light. Sunlight.
I raise myself to sitting, vaguely aware of a throbbing hurt in my backside. The ache is accompanied by feelings of deep humiliation as memories of the previous evening come rushing back.
My shame, however, is mixed with a sense of begrudging amazement at my surroundings. I know rooms like this existed, but I’ve only seen them in books. This one looks like the room in The Secret Garden, a book salvaged from a bombed library when I was a child, a book I selfishly hoarded in my cooler room and refused to share.
Wallpaper blooms with a print of delicate roses, the flowers the same shade as the comforter and canopy of the bed that’s softer than anything I’ve ever felt. A towering wardrobe sits in one corner. There’s a bookshelf. I have to drag my gaze away from the row of colorful spines when I hear a noise by the marble fireplace.
Matron Lang is placing a tray on the table that sits in front of it. More food.
“Your daddy ordered a full English breakfast – eggs, bacon, sausage, buttered toast, mushrooms, tomatoes and potatoes. And juice, of course. He’ll expect you to eat all of it.”
I’m surprised that I’m hungry again. I’m surprised that I slept so heavily. In the Warrens we always worried, always slept lightly. I rarely dreamed because I rarely fell into a deep enough slumber. I did dream last night but can’t remember what. I just recall wispy images that are already fleeting.
“You’re quite lovely now that you’re all cleaned up.” Matron Lang assesses me. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you yesterday.”
She’s not forgotten what happened yesterday, either. I wonder if she knows what Daley did to me. A senator. A leader of men. Why would a man like him want a woman from the Warrens?
I shoot the matron a scowl that conveys my unwillingness to make small talk as I settle in my chair at the table.
“Napkin.” Matron Lang says.
“Yes. Senator Daley told me I had to use one.” I glance up at her, making sure she got the unspoken message that I’m not about to call him Daddy. I put the napkin in my lap and pick up a fork. “Senator Daley also told me how to use one of these. What’s it called? A fuck?”
“A fork.”
“Ah,” I say. “I have so much to learn.”
“Yes, Kit. You do.”
When she turns her back, I suppress a smile. A petty victory is still a victory, and I’ll take it. I start to eat as she walks to the wardrobe.
“So your daddy says he thinks eight is a good age to start.”
I look at her questioningly.
“Your Paternas age, how you’ll be treated. Eight is the age where little girls are old enough to speak up for themselves but aren’t yet as clever as they think they are.” Now she’s the one smirking. “I think your daddy is spot on.”
I swallow my retort along with a large bite of sausage. I eat quickly, enjoying the new flavors in spite of myself.
“Chew more slowly, young lady. I’ll be out of a job if you choke to death.” She pulls out a simple dress with a high-waisted bodice. “This will do. And panties. You’ll need those. And these slippers will be nice.”
“Some of that trifle I had last night would be nicer.”
“Trifle is a dessert. We don’t have dessert with breakfast. It’s out of order.”
“That makes sense,” I say. I put my fork down, having cleared my plate. “It’s important to keep things proper when your guest is an abducted woman.”
Matron Lang closes the wardrobe door. She’s fetched a pair of stockings and leather slippers from the wardrobe. “You’re a very cheeky girl, Kit. You’ll want to mind that tongue and remember your place.” She nods to the empty plate. “Put your dishes back on the tray, please.”
When I don’t move, she narrows her eyes. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Matron.” My words ring with false sweetness. “You said to remember my place. I’m apparently a little girl. And you’re a servant. If you want the dishes back on the tray, you do it.”
Matron Lang sighs and walks over. “You’re angry. I respect that.” She pauses. “Would you like to know a secret?”
“A secret?” I feel further emboldened, as if my show of courage is perhaps earning me an ally in this matron.
“Yes. But I need you to give me your hand.” Her words are barely above a whisper. I find myself complying. I give her my hand.
What happens next comes with surprising swiftness. Her grip is tight, and I only see the flash of the rod she pulls from the pocket of her gray dress for a split second before it slams into my exposed palm. I scream from the sting and try to jerk my hand away. She’s stronger than I am, and lands two more blows before letting go of my hand and grabbing me by the back of my hair.
“Stupid, stupid girl.” Unlike the sick glee I noted in Matron Blunt’s face when she struck me, Matron Lang seems regretful. She gives my head a jerk. “Listen to me. Listen good. Here’s the secret. Obedience in Paterna
s is more than a necessity; it’s a tool. Do you understand?” When I don’t answer she jerks the back of my hair. Her almond-shaped eyes intense as she searches mine. “Do you?”
I don’t understand. But I am afraid. I have mistaken Matron Lang’s patience for weakness. “Do you?” she asks again.
I nod as much as her grip will allow.
“Say it,” she commands. There’s an earnestness in her tone bordering on desperation that frightens me more than her grip.
“Yes.” My eyes are riveted on hers.
The matron breaks our gaze as she lets me go, dropping the wicked little rod back into her pocket. She smooths the front of her uniform down and turns away. “Pick up your dishes.”
I am shaken. What just happened meant something. I could feel it. But I don’t know what. I look at my hand. Three puffy welts crisscross my burning palm. I wince as I pick up the dishes and put them back on the tray. I can feel Matron Lang watching me without smugness nor animosity. When I’m finished, she gestures me to where she’s standing.
“Let’s get you dressed,” she says.
Nine
Roman
Perhaps I’m the one who should have taken a sedative. The night I spent after tucking Kit into bed was spent restlessly. I couldn’t stop thinking of her, of replaying every detail of our encounter. She’s as wild and defiant as one would expect, but there’s more to her. There’s principle behind her rebellion. There’s also fear, mistrust, and a deeply guarded layer of emotion I find myself longing to unlock.
And she’s passionate. I could see it in her eyes, feel it in her struggles. A woman who feels so deeply has a capacity to receive what I will eventually offer.
But we are not there yet.
I assess the room where Dr. Armand will soon examine Kit. It’s stark and antiseptic, with a table designed specially to restrain her, a medical cabinet, and a wall screen to display all the medical data.