The Science of Submission

by Victoria Winters

  “What are you doing, Nanny?” she asked as respectfully as she could.

  “I am shaving away all of the hair between your legs and under your arms. Little six year olds do not need hair on their bodies.” Margie blushed a deep pink and instinctively clenched her legs together and tucked her hands under her pits. Nanny became still and studied the suddenly uncooperative little one.

  “Are you resisting me, child? Do I need to call in some able-bodied sailors to hold you down as I shave you?”

  Marjorie’s eyes widened in horror at the thought of young men being in the room, watching closely while she was being attended to in such an intimate manner.

  “Oh no, Nanny, please no. I’ll be good,” she begged, putting her hands by her side and relaxing her legs.

  “Spread your legs for me then, child, widely apart.”

  Margie did as she was told and spread her knees open, her eyes growing wide as Nanny extended the metal finger that she’d been using to whip the soap into a lather. In front of Margie’s eyes, she watched something snap from the finger and realized it was a straight blade. She held perfectly still as her nanny shaved her quim with the blade protruding from the tip of her finger. She held her legs apart and then up over her head as her nanny shaved her clean between her cheeks. Then, as instructed, she lowered her legs and lifted her arms, folding them behind her head as her nanny shaved under her arms. When she was pronounced to be “clean as a whistle,” Nanny took out some lotion and began to rub it under her arms. Then she had her once again spread her legs as Nanny rubbed it into the apex of her thighs. This time she relaxed since Nanny was using her human hand.

  Nanny carefully spread the lotion over her mons and then down along both of her nether lips. Then Nanny kept spreading the lotion more deeply, parting her lips and rubbing into the delicate tissue between her legs. Margie began to moan, it felt so very good. She didn’t even tense when Nanny’s finger slipped up inside her until she felt a pressure. Something began to hurt and she whimpered and grimaced. Nanny withdrew her hand and rubbed her some more in a place that made her feel very tingly. In spite of all attempts to stop herself, she began to buck, to rise to meet her nanny’s hand, wanting more of whatever the woman was doing to her, but suddenly Nanny stopped, to Margie’s disappointment.

  “Now it is finally time for a proper bath,” Nanny announced.

  To Marjorie’s astonishment, the ship had running water. Nanny simply turned a nozzle and the tub in the room filled with steaming hot water. Margie shook her head in wonder. All this time that Nanny had given her sponge baths, diligently and thoroughly washing her private places, she could just have been given a bath? As she was being bathed, her nanny was behind her, washing her down and whispering in her ear.

  “All of this has been for your master. When you meet him, you will give him the best little girl curtsy you can manage. You will call him Papa and thank him for gathering you up and taking you on his magnificent yacht. You are a very lucky little girl to have a papa who takes you on fancy vacations. He has bought you all of these nice clothes and toys and he already loves you very much. When I put my hand on your shoulder, I want you to go up to your papa and put your arms around his neck and tell him how very much you love him too. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Nanny,” Margie automatically answered. She began to tremble at the thought of meeting her master. He must be a very powerful and wealthy man. And she was his little one. She began to wriggle with pleasure at the thought of belonging to someone like that. “Nanny?” she whispered in response.

  “Yes, child?”

  “How does my papa already love me? He doesn’t even know what I look like.”

  “Oh, but he does, little one,” Nanny replied. “He has been watching over you ever since you were brought aboard this ship. Why, he can see into this room, he has seen everything.”

  Margie’s mouth formed a little “O” and her hand went to her cheek as she blushed a deep scarlet.

  “He has seen me?”

  “Yes, darling, your baths, your spankings, even your enemas. In fact, he is watching you right now. And he knows everything, little one, even your thoughts. So you be a good little girl for your papa, all right? And then he will be good to you and always and forever take care of you.”

  Margie thought about this for a moment. Her own father had died when she was very small. The idea of belonging to a great and powerful man who loved her very much was very appealing. But the knowledge that her papa had seen her naked and being tended to by her nanny was most unnerving. If her papa knew everything, he must know what a naughty little girl she was. She was frequently consumed with the most lascivious of thoughts, of being touched in naughty ways, of being secretly watched while she attended to private business, of doing the most perverse acts. She blushed to the soles of her feet as she remembered the time her former fiancé, Dr. Davenport, had asked her to take his member into her mouth. She had not done so, had taken his manhood in her gloved hand instead, but she had never forgotten that. What would it have felt like to have his member between her lips, lolling on her tongue, tickling her throat? She’d thought about that for a very long time afterwards. Did her papa know?

  Luckily, her nanny apparently did not know her thoughts. The woman was industriously cleaning her from head to toe. She sighed with delight and laid back in her bath, relaxing. Her knees fell apart of their own accord and her nanny took advantage of the situation to bath her between the legs very carefully with her human hand. After her bath, little Margie was wrapped in a big warm bath towel and patted dry. She stood there cooperatively as she was dressed in a chemisette, petticoats and the little white dress, trimmed in blue, that she was buttoned into. She was most embarrassed to realize that her pantaloons hung below her skirt, visible to all.

  Nanny sat her down on the little stool and started working on her blond hair. She wound the curls around her finger until she had dozens of ringlets that would bounce as she walked. She pulled the hair to one side, affixing it with a big blue bow to match the one on her chest. Finally she allowed Margie to don her shoes and stockings. Margie was so pleased to finally be allowed clothing that she didn’t utter a single objection. Her mind was awhirl that her papa had been watching her all this time. He’d seen, he’d seen, why, he’d seen every part of her. It made her feel funny in her tummy to think of this. Her nanny stopped fussing and stood back and looked her up and down, pronouncing her ready.

  “Ready for what, Nanny?” Margie asked, eager to get out of the cabin and into the fresh air.

  “I am taking you to meet your master, child.”

  Little Margie’s eyes grew wide. She looked so panicked that Nanny grabbed a rag doll and placed it in the child’s arms. Margie grabbed hold of the doll and clutched it to her chest for dear life. Instead of heading up on deck, Nanny led her down some stairs and through a labyrinth of corridors until she came to a set of large double doors. Her nanny knocked on the door and then turned to her and adjusted the bow in her hair and on her chest one more time.

  “Remember all that I’ve told you, child. When your master looks upon you for the first time, you are to curtsy and then go to him and tell him that you love him.” The doors opened and there was a manservant standing there looking down at her. He stepped aside and let her and her nanny into the room.

  “We are here to see the master, Higgins,” Nanny said. Margie looked up at Higgins, he looked like a very distinguished butler. Then she began to look around the room in awe. It was the most lavish room she had ever been in. She began to tremble as she waited, the enormity of this moment crashing down upon her. She was about to meet the man who had arranged to have her brought aboard this yacht. Why, he held her very future in his hands.

  Chapter Six

  Back in London, Lady Marjorie Hamilton appeared to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Scotland Yard searched for the young woman in vain. The only eye witness, the homeless, limping boy on the stoop that night, was never seen again.
He seemed to have disappeared into the same mist that had swallowed Marjorie.

  Archie was bereft to the point of distraction. He felt completely responsible. If she hadn’t been coming to see him—a defenseless young woman walking alone on the London streets at dusk—she’d have been safe and sound at home. He laid awake most nights tormented at the thought of what tragic end his Marjorie might have met. Sometimes he believed she was dead and gone and he would fall asleep sobbing into his pillow. Other times, he would convince himself she was still alive but then be tortured by the thoughts of what her nefarious captors were doing to her.

  Lord Stefan was away at sea and therefore not around to help calm his frayed nerves, even Professor Pretzer was gone. She had taken herself away on a train trip to visit family in Germany. Suddenly Archie’s life became very insular indeed, his fear for his fiancee’s safety consuming his every waking thought.

  He took himself to Marjorie’s home and tried to find comfort in the bosom of her family, but it was impossible. He felt that they blamed him too, although no one ever said anything of the sort. Her mother was bereft, at times inconsolable. Marjorie’s younger sister, Hilary, was very kind though. One memorable night, she held his head in her lap as he knelt before her in the parlor, sobbing. She looked nothing like her sister, she was tall and plain but had a sweet and patient, gentle nature. That night as she stroked his hair while he wept, under her kind touch he was able to find a modicum of comfort.

  Back at 51 Windsor Court, he began to keep strange hours. Stranger than usual, that is. Sometimes Mrs. Marsh could hear him upstairs hammering away in the middle of the night. He began to stop coming downstairs for meals. She would take them up to him, preparing fragrant dishes and fanning the scent in his direction so he would hopefully stop to eat. He became slender and wild-eyed, and she began to fear for his sanity.

  One day he came downstairs babbling about a self imposed deadline, announcing that he needed to finish the time machine post haste. He was certain that he could return to the night of Marjorie’s abduction to prevent it from happening.

  “There, there, dear,” she said, patting his hand. “Miss Marjorie may be safe and sound, we don’t know. Perhaps whoever took her was in love with her and has taken her off to a beautiful place where she is very happy.”

  Archie looked at her through eyes that were bleary with exhaustion. “Nothing would make me happier, dear Mrs. Marsh, than to think our Marjorie was safe and in good hands. Oh, if only it were true,” he whispered as his eyes filled with tears.

  Mrs. Marsh decided to point something out to the lad that had recently occurred to her. “Don’t you think it curious, dear, that Lord Cavendish and Professor Pretzer both disappeared at exactly the same time that our Marjorie did?

  Archie looked at her, confused. “What are you insinuating, Mrs. Marsh? We know where they went, they told us. His lordship is at sea and the professor has taken the train to Germany. They are not even together.” Mrs. Marsh smiled at him kindly. Young Archie may have been a genius in the scientific world, but he possessed not a modicum of common sense.

  “What I’m saying, dear boy, is that Miss Marjorie may be somewhere where she is being well taken care of, safe and sound and you may very well see her again someday. Why I wager you will.”

  “Oh, if only it were true,” Archie sighed, “I want to believe, but I’m not certain that I can.”

  “We have to, dear,” she said patting his hand. “As long as there is no evidence that she met with foul play, we can choose to believe whatever we want. Now go upstairs and get back to work. Lose yourself in your tinkering and stop worrying so. After all, the sooner you finish that time machine of yours, the sooner you can go back and prevent her capture.”

  She watched Archie climb the stairs looking more determined than ever. She did not know if she believed that his time machine would ever work. And even if it did, she wondered, would it truly be possible to change something that happened in the past? But it was best that the lad kept himself busy.

  Mrs. Marsh suspected that Lord Cavendish had taken the young woman away on that yacht of his. His lordship always dismissed her as a silly old woman but she had eyes. She saw his unhappiness that Archibald had acquired a fiancée and she had also seen the covetous way he had looked upon the beautiful young woman. It would be just like him to decide that the logical thing to do was spirit her away to free Archibald from distraction. Professor Pretzer could have gone along to serve as a proper chaperone. Oh well, only time would tell. But, it was a scenario she found comfort in imagining whenever she became concerned about Miss Marjorie’s fate.

  Archie stood in his laboratory and inspected the Time Trekker. It was quite different than when he’d last shown it to Lord Cavendish. It was now not a vehicle at all, just a chair surrounded with intersecting circles. The chair tipped and could pick up speed as it spun, left to return to the past, right to go forward into the future. The goggles were working splendidly and he felt almost ready to take The Time Trekker out on its maiden voyage, definitely before the end of the year. He proceeded to do just as Mrs. Marsh had suggested and lose himself in his tinkering.

  One day, Inspector Wilkinson of Scotland Yard came to call with sad news. The body of a young woman had been found in Trafalgar Square, hidden under some rubbish in a back alley. Archie froze, not wanting to believe it was Marjorie. When informed that her family was on their way to the coroner’s office to identify the body, he had the Inspector take him there as well. They all gathered around the corpse as the coroner lifted the cloth covering the body. The women in the room, Hilary and her mother, Angela, recoiled in horror at the dark, destroyed face.

  “Her face has been eaten away by small animals,” the coroner offered, not wanting the women to think that someone had done this to her. Angela began to sob as she and Hilary lifted their hankies to their noses. Hilary escorted her mother out of the room. Archie stayed however, and stared at the body. He had studied anatomy at one time and was no stranger to corpses.

  The coroner began to speak. “We have ascertained that this is the body of a young woman of small stature, not much taller than five feet. We can tell by her teeth that she is in her early to mid-twenties. And as you can see, her hair is blond and curly. I understand this fits the description of the missing Miss Hamilton?”

  Archie nodded, she did indeed fit Marjorie’s statistics but that was where the similarity ended. It did not feel like it was Marjorie. He was appalled at himself and didn’t even voice those thoughts. As a scientist, he did not give credence to “feelings” but as her fiancé, he was certain he would know in his heart if it was Marjorie.

  “One way to ID this body is by the breasts. Her nipples are intact,” the coroner continued. He lowered the cloth to the body’s waist. “Does this resemble your fiancée?” he asked. Archie flushed.

  “I don’t know. We never … “ his voice trailed off. He had an idea. “Let me check with her sister.” He went out into the hallway and found Hilary comforting her mother. He asked her to step away with him for a moment.

  “Hilary, I don’t wish to be indelicate but have you ever seen your sister completely undressed?”

  Hilary nodded slowly, trying to recall the last time she had seen Marjorie in the nude. “Yes, Mr. Westerly, I shared a room with my sister our entire lives. I have seen her in various stages of undress often throughout the years.”

  Archie flushed. “The one part of your sister’s body that might be identifiable is her bosom,” he finished, unable to use the word “breasts” in the young woman’s presence.

  Hilary looked at him as all color drained from her face. “You mean that I have to go back into that room?”

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Hilary. We need to know for certain, all of us, for our own peace of mind. Do you wish to bring your mother?”

  He watched with admiration as Hilary looked at her grieving mother and shook her head no. She stood up straight and walked back towards the room the body was in. He opened th
e door and took her by the hand and led her inside. The coroner had thoughtfully covered the body’s face with a towel. He once more lowered the sheet to its midsection.

  Hilary studied the breasts on the corpse. She almost collapsed but managed to remain on her feet as she reported, “No, that is not my sister.”

  Archie gasped, relieved.

  “I’m sorry, my dear but I need you to be specific,” Inspector Wilkinson said kindly. “Take your time.”

  Archie watched Hilary grow up at that very moment. She pulled herself up to her full height and began to discuss the corpse almost clinically. “The tips of my sister’s…breasts…are pink and small and her breasts are large and round. As you can see, the corpse has cone-shaped breasts with large nipples that are a dark rose color.”

  “Thank you, my dear, you have been most helpful.” The inspector said. He went on, “I can assure you that we will definitely continue to search for the family of this poor, unfortunate young woman.”

  “Thank you, Inspector, for not referring to her as a ‘body’,” Hilary said. “Do you know the cause of death?” she turned and asked the coroner.

  “She was stabbed,” he said, sparing her any of the grizzly details. He carefully covered the body back up again.

  “Come, come, my dear. That is all you need to know,” the inspector said kindly, ushering her from the room. “Just a poor unfortunate young woman, undoubtedly not one of noble blood. We may still locate your sister one day, safe and sound. The fact that we have found no evidence of foul play in her disappearance is a very good sign, indeed.”

  Archibald escorted the ladies back to their townhouse.

  “I intend to pray for the soul of that poor unfortunate young woman,” Hilary informed them as they sat around the table, taking comfort in a late night pot of tea. “Whoever she was, she didn’t deserve to come to an end like that.” Her mother, Lady Angela, wept into her handkerchief, once again overcome by tears of relief and sorrow.