Bad Girl (Les Pétales)

by Samuels, Kailee

Up to this point, everything led to my belief of Jake seeing the submissive in me even though I was oblivious to her presence. It only compounded my conflicted feelings about the man.

  On the one hand, I needed to talk to him and ask a million questions, but on the other, I didn’t even want to see Jake because of his betrayal.

  Was keeping my innate slave-like mentality a lie as well?

  At that point, I didn’t know as I scrubbed away at the porcelain. “You missed a spot,” Lele pointed out with a snarl. I gave her the evil eye on my shriveled hands and banged up knees. “Don’t worry; it won’t last forever. He likes you.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Sir Dane is one of the head Dominants of the school, and the entire reason you are here. He, shall we say, favors…Jake Ballister.”

  After all I had witnessed in the library, I imagined the possibilities as I finished wiping down the seat and hobbled up. “How many more?”

  “There are six more, but you should hand your cleaning supplies over to me and go shower. Get some rest so you will be ready for your appearance tonight.”

  She made it sound like I was taking on the prima donna role in a show.

  “How many people will be there?”

  “Sir Dane has closed the dungeon for tonight’s activities. Only you and whomever he invites will be present.”

  Handing over the items, I caught her eyes with mine and leaned forward to kiss her lips. “Thank you.”

  “… For?”

  “Being my friend.”

  With a hushed giggle, she smiled. “I’m not your friend, Anna; I’m your lover. I’ve tasted the sweetness of your swollen fruit and dunked my tongue into its succulence. I’ve heard you come and seen you writhe; we are not friends. You need to learn this concept before it stings you so hard that it leaves a permanent scar.”

  I quickly exited the bathroom on the fourth floor and ran through the hallways of the cold and empty home. I wondered where everyone was. If this was a school, why did it seem as though I was the only student in attendance?

  Running the main steps to the third floor, I was met by a woman in a gray dress. “Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked with a very British accent. Her dark brown and gray-streaked hair was tethered up into a tight bun, and she wore little makeup. “You must not run in the manor, Anna! Get to my office now!”

  I had no idea who she was.

  But I knew I was in real trouble.

  * * *

  Her name was Wilma Manley, Headmistress of L’Académie de France. I noticed her nameplate on the door as she dragged me to her office on the first floor. Her office sat kitty-corner from the library across the outside garden.

  Upon being tossed inside—which may be a bit of exaggeration, but it certainly felt like it at the time—I noted the gardeners working in said garden and saw Sir Dane standing in the library window. They were planting shrubs and bushes and flowers galore.

  While getting acquainted with the layout of the place was important, I knew my navigation skills couldn’t save me from whatever the giant-sized Wilma Manley had in store for me. She was tall, the height of an average man, with husky shoulders and a scathing, icy scowl. Without a doubt, she was my arch-enemy. She hated me from the moment she set eyes on me.

  “There will be no running in the manor!”

  You said that already once.

  It is rare for a top to have a worse bark than bite, but heaven help me if Wilma Manley didn’t. Opening her desk drawer, she pulled a wooden ruler from its recesses and smacked my cheek hard with it, and then she pointed to the chalkboard behind me.

  “There will be no running in the manor!”

  I understood what she wanted me to do, but I had to ask, “How many times?”

  “Until I say stop.”

  I pivoted on my toes and headed to the board as she interrupted and said, “Stop. Turn around.”

  Again, I swiveled back. “Yes, ma’am?”

  I was learning—when I wanted to.

  “You are a dancer.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m a… I was a showgirl in Las Vegas.”

  Sitting her robust frame into the somewhat minuscule chair, she queried, “Do you always lift on your toes when you turn?”

  “I don’t really know.” I shrugged, truthfully not knowing the answer. “Maybe?”

  “Hmm,” she said, tucking her finger beneath her chin. “Walk around for me. I’d like to see your gait.” My time at the bizarre mansion in the French countryside seemed to be getting weirder by the minute. I made several loops around her office. “Stop hunching up. Shoulders back. Breasts out. Keep everything nice and straight.”

  I softly replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

  I couldn’t have imagined a stranger situation as she reminded me of my grandmother. Her eyes followed my nude body around the room, and I fully anticipated she would pounce any moment. Thankfully, she never did. “Stop. Go write.”

  Standing at the chalkboard, I proceeded to write—There will be no running in the manor.—until I ran out of the room. I heard her flipping papers as I sat the chalk in the tray and timidly awaited her ruling.

  She never looked up as she said, “Erase it and go again.”

  I sighed—not audibly, more internally than anything as I repeated the process. More pages shuffled behind me, but I never wavered from my assignment. I started thinking maybe that was the point of the whole thing. Perhaps this wasn’t a punishment but focus. With my hand cramping, I dropped the chalk in the tray and turned to face the verdict.

  A steadfast focus on the task at hand required no blinking, thought, or consideration.

  “Erase it and go again.”

  This time, I stomped my foot and sighed loud enough that I drew up her stern gaze. “… Do you have a problem, Miss Ford?”

  “If your point is to get my attention on a task, I have proven several times today that I’m capable of such. But what my real question is—does the manor not have a name?”

  Her left eyebrow shot up high into her wrinkled forehead. “The manor does have a name, Miss Ford. It is Les Pétales.”

  “… What does that mean?”

  “The Petals,” she said, returning to her work. “Please continue your detention, Miss Ford.”

  “My hand is sore,” I complained, rubbing my fingers. “Can I please be done?”

  She dropped her pencil and strode over to the chalkboard. After erasing the entire board, she wrote—Je ne vais pas courir dans Les Pétales. “Then perhaps it will be less sore if written it en français.”

  As she walked back to her desk, I mumbled, “Bitch.”

  Apparently, Wilma Manley could hear the sound of a pin drop. “Write it. One time. Right now.”

  Je ne vais pas courir dans Les Pétales.

  “Go to my desk and bend over, Miss Ford,” she calmly reprimanded. If I closed my eyes, I could hear those pacing footsteps coming up behind me for years to come. “Do you know why—Je ne vais pas courir dans Les Pétales?”

  “Because the Headmistress says so,” I smarted off as she struck the ruler against my bare ass cheek.

  “Non, try again,” she scolded as I rolled my eyes. She successively popped me ten more times. I wanted to cry, but not because of the pain. Her degradation tore me to shreds. “Since you are a know-it-all, tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” I whined with a smirk. Even in trouble, my smart-aleck reigned supreme. “Tell me.”

  She thumped the ruler four more times against my ass. They were hard, welting marks. “Answer me, Miss Ford. Right now.”

  After the morning—the scrubbing and the writing—I was exhausted and started sobbing as she broke through my outer shell. It was cathartic in the best way possible as I screamed, “I don’t know. I don’t know why Je ne vais pas courir dans Les Pétales. And I don’t know why he raped me. And I don’t know why I’m here. Or where Jake is.”

  With her arms crossed, she peered down at me. “You do not run in the petals because you sho
uld stroll through them, Miss Ford. Stop rushing and learn patience. Smell the flowers before you squish them. And enjoy the journey.”

  Patience was the golden pedestal on which everything glorious was built.

  I collapsed against her desk and cried the hardest tears I’ve ever felt. They were warm and huge and healing as she moved closer and laid her cold hand upon my middle back. I expected the swats from her vile ruler, but they never came.

  “I’m canceling your date tonight,” she said as I lifted. “You need to rest and recover.”

  “Please…”

  “No, Anna,” she whispered with a maternal comfort. “You are not prepared to go into a dungeon tonight with Sir Dane and Sir Jake. You will rest, and I will send Lele to entertain them.”

  The decision was final, and I knew there would be no changing her mind. But the disappointment I felt in myself was plentiful. I let not only them down but me.

  The stakes were more than just my selfish desires.

  “Return to your room now.” She sat down and shuffled through her paperwork as she added, “And do not run through Les Pétales.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered as I swiveled up onto my toes and headed towards the door.

  “Miss Ford?” she called, dropping her glasses on the papers and turning to face me. “I am serving as interim Headmistress here. I will not be here after the Grand Opening Gala, but I kindly ask that when you complete your term here, you call me at Highlandale Hawthorne.”

  I didn’t understand. “… Ma’am?”

  “I own Highlandale Hawthorne, Anna. It is my school.”

  * * *

  I never realized how much one old bag with a sharp ruler could change my entire way of thinking, but she did. The rest of the day I spent thinking—in the shower and my bed—about a woman owning such a school. It seemed so—backwards. While I had never been one for conformity, I also understood the implication of such an undertaking and my respect grew into a mountain for Wilma Manley.

  Although I didn’t know it at the time, she was the top tier of her game. There was no one better. She had come to L’Académie as a favor to some of her favorite students, now Dominants themselves when they wanted to start their fetish school. At the time, L’Académie was owned by Dr. Phillipe Kerris, Jake Ballister, and four of their friends. There were three men and three women owners.

  I was the original practice slut.

  Jake had brought me to L’Académie for many reasons, but what was important was knowing he brought me there as the first student. The manor—Les Pétales—had been purchased cheap in derelict condition. It was a stately piece of history suffering through the ravages of war and crumbling to the ground. The founding members saved the house and planned on saving many lost souls.

  The house had been in restoration for over two years before I arrived. The gardens were being cleaned and planted for the Grand Opening Gala which was less than three months away.

  L’Académie would serve the fetishists with an exclusive membership—a safe place to practice their sadomasochistic art. They did not start accepting applications until January 1, 1972, when Dr. Phillipe Dane Kerris married Desirée Marciela Tolan. Before then, admittance was by invitation only. Their marriage on the property culminated after his fifteen years of dedicated work, and he bought out the remaining owners, including Jake.

  Two weeks later, Desirée gave birth to a son, Jackson Phillipe Kerris—now, Dr. Jack Kerris. The elder Kerris ran the school and raised his family, including the second son, Tristan Julian, who was born in 1984.

  I cannot say how many students have passed through the doors at L’Académie, but I know one of them was the Maestro, who would eventually take over the school in 1990. His untimely death from a massive heart attack led to a string of bad decisions, including leaving the school in limbo. It was now owned solely by his illegitimate son with Kate Capri, Sebastian Dubois.

  None of this may seem important, but L’Académie shaped the woman I would eventually become. And my continued need to honor those who traveled before me has always been great. They paved the way—from Wilma Manley to Sir Dane—and this story would not be complete without mentioning what I have learned over the years.

  I remember that day with Wilma Manley like it was yesterday. In a brief hour of my cursing her name, she taught me to have focus, patience, and responsibility. And those basic principles carried through in my new way of thinking.

  It was only with retrospection that I could mark the chapters of my life. Scrolling Je ne vais pas courir dans Les Pétales ended one, but the very best was still yet to come.

  A River of Dreams

  CHAPTER 7

  Days and weeks passed with little interaction from anyone, and homesickness—for my things—was starting to become a real problem. I missed my clothes, my makeup, my shoes, my books, and my journal that I never wrote in very much. But it was such that when my things were out of reach, I missed them more.

  … Including the prick.

  My chore for the day was dusting the library. It didn’t sound like much, but the fourteen foot high ceilings and subsequent shelving which reached from floor to ceiling was a lot. It required going up and down a wooden ladder, moving the ladder over, and repeating the process throughout the enormous room. Also, I was to condition the leather, dust the furnishings, and vacuum the floor. I felt more like a maid than a sex slave.

  Around noon, I skipped through the house—because I was no longer allowed to run—over to Manley’s office. Initially, I wanted to ask her for a journal because I missed mine—a lot. But what I ended up asking for was Jake.

  “I really miss him,” I pleaded at her desk. She never acknowledged me. This would never change with her—she had her focus—and everything and anyone else was an annoyance. “Can I please get a note to him?”

  “Miss Ford,” she mumbled rather angrily. “If you do not want to be filling my board with whatever whimsical phrase I can come up with, you will go. Now.”

  Sullen, I slumped out of her office and made my way back to the library. Lele was supposed to bring me lunch at noon, but I didn’t feel much like eating.

  I took a book off the shelf and flopped on the sofa as I tried to waste the hour. I couldn’t get into the story as the words scrambled about and every other one reminded me of Jake.

  The door creaked, but I didn’t bother to acknowledge Lele or her sandwich. The biting of my toe caused me to drop the book on my face. I flopped about wildly and saw Jake in his leather jacket and torn jeans.

  I sprung from the sofa and jumped into his arms. I latched my legs around his torso and never wanted to let him go. He was beautiful, my knight in shining armor, and the captor in these shenanigans.

  I was equally in love and hate, but I didn’t have time to consider my own emotions and their ramifications. Despite being apart for less than two weeks, I needed to talk to him about all of my experiences.

  “I can’t believe you are really here with me.” I wept. Tucked against his shoulder, I welcomed the tears in the safety of his arms. And then I realized how naked I was. Not just naked, but naked in front of the man who I feared wanted to Dominate my mind and body. “How long will you be with me?”

  “… Forever?” he sarcastically said, smirking from the corner of his mouth as my hands brushed over his face and hair. His beard had grown in the last week, and the stubble prickled my hands. I giggled with an amusement. I kept my hands on him, refusing to let go, as I rubbed back and forth against the scruff. “Anna,” he mumbled, setting me on my feet. “I know the others have talked to you, but I must know if you want to be here.”

  “You brought me here for other reasons,” I said desperately needing him to proclaim his love. My insides churned as I craved his love and appreciation. It didn’t matter if he had hurt my feeling or tore my existence from me. He was my best friend, my confidante, my soulmate…and even at his worst, not having him was an act of revenge I couldn’t seek.

  “No, Anna,” he call
ously said with his hands on either side of my cheeks as he lightly shook me. “I brought you here to study.”

  We were like leaves floating through the winding river, and the bubbles captured our shape and trapped our appendages behind rocks and debris as one escaped and the other remained imprisoned. We were in different places with different needs. I wished to be like the petals—free and easy—drifting to the ground with grace and beauty. But I was caught in the madness of his hurricane, a dying leaf to crumble and turn to dust.

  “To study for your own selfish needs!”

  He shrugged with a noncommittal stance as I stepped back and allowed his viewing of my body. My long waves of chestnut hair were falling from the clip as I straightened my back and pushed my breasts forward. My nipples were ripe, peaked and prepared for his touch. With ease, I elevated to my toes and offered a single pirouette with my buttocks out and my thighs inviting. I was not going down without a fight.

  “I’ll see you in the dungeon tonight, Anna.”

  I wanted to strike him—slapping his cheek—and make him see what all had changed in such a short time, but he was blind. I watched Jake turn and walk away from me that day as I was left in the company of books. Books. Books. And more books.

  Books—he had given me.

  Books—he had subliminally taught me from.

  Books—he offered as nothing more than a mirage to use my flesh as his laboratory.

  As much as I wanted Jake to romance me, I hated him. I had been halfway across the world, smacked with tools of their trade, cleaned their shit receptacles, and dealt with the marvelously wretched Ms. Manley—I deserved better.

  I deserved more.

  He made fun of me—a pesky innocent to his experienced man. He laughed at me, but I refused to cry because he no longer earned the tears from my eyes. So in lieu of his love, I would punish Jake by letting my dew saturate for Sir Dane.

  And I would become blind to Jake.

  * * *