F Campbell - Golden Wrists

For a few moments I forgot my own nudity in mental contemplation of the small army of damsels I must soon distress. By the time Uncle Andrew escorted me to my own personal suite, and announced his need to hurry back to town, I was in a dither of outrageous excitement. His last act was medieval.

“You will kneel here and now and make you vows to me, young woman. Say what you wish but say it well.”

Before I had been whipped the second time I would have retorted with anger at his suggestion. But now my knees hit the carpet with a thud and I heard, “I will obey you. Master. I recognize your authority and my own dependence, I will not run away. I am not so foolish as to believe you could not recapture me. I will perform the task for which I am employed and I will do it well, Whip me if I fail.”

Uncle Andrew went upon his way and I realized he had faith in my ability to perform the bizarre service of his desire. When he was gone I quickly considered the means by which I might make good my escape but discarded them all in the realization I would be running from my heart’s desire. I had owned darling Ivory and had exerted authority upon Ava and Wilma Wright. But never anything like this! Suddenly I was on Uncle Andrew’s side.

As a test of authority, I summoned Constance and Bullock to the lovely office. I quite forgot I was naked but sat in my executive chair as if I had all my life. I motioned to them to sit down so I might explore the measure of my new authority. I was well aware they could easily overpower me and return me to the tower room and the collar and chain. But if it was in the cards, it was best I know.

They were mature and sensible women who knew a good thing when they had it. At the end of our conversation I felt several inches taller, I went upstairs to dress with an easy mind. For reasons of his own, Uncle Andrew had opened the door to my heart’s desire. Suddenly I knew happiness.

The frictioning of my whip marks became pleasurable on my second day. And it was then the influx of maidens began. The Rolls Royces and the Bentleys drew up to the door and the front steps of the great house with a discrete silence and unloaded their frightened cargo, one after another in a stream sufficient to keep Constance and Bullock busy. After a while I intruded my own presence upon the scene to pick up what I learned were the standard protests.

“Look, I don’t care what you do or say, I’m not going up those steps or in that door.” Or, “I’ll bet you this place is some sort of lousy school. Look, Mother, I want to go home with you! Please!” Or, more strongly, “I’m not going to stay in this place, no matter what you say about it! I’ll go to the nearest village and get on the first bus, You can’t possibly expect me to stay in such a place.”

Constance and Bullock were marvelous, enfolding each protester in arms both protective and authoritarian. It was rather like the collection of some rare pieces which were quickly popped into a cage to be examined and cataloged at a later time. Little did those girls know what they were getting into!

By this time I was involved. Had someone offered me a free ticket to New York, I would have not taken it. It appeared that Rockley possessed a considerable area referred to vaguely as ‘downstairs.’ And Constance and Bullock conferred with me as to the possibility of confining our dewy eyed delinquents singly in cells or as a group in one large cage, a facility already prepared. For the first time I used my executive chair and the lovely new office to hold a conference with these two woman.

“We have a dormitory ready and waiting,” said Bullock thoughtfully. “Each cot is equipped with a chair by which a collar, a wristlet or anklet, will make sure the girl does not stray. But for the first night I favor discomfort on the floor.”

“We can’t have them getting morbid on us,” agreed Constance.

“Leave them in the cage this first night. But there is also a compromise in the collars and chains already attached to the walls so the young woman will not be entirely alone.”

“When they are ready for a second shock, we’ll remove their clothes. Since they will be frequently punished, it is impractical to have them covered.”

“In your own role, Miss Durrant, we think you should maintain an isolated authority for the girls to fear,” Constance smiled warmly. “We will bring delinquents to you for sentencing, and perhaps for punishment if you should so wish. If they do not see too much of you, they will respect your authority with a proper sense of awe.”

“You must do exactly as you wish, Miss Durrant, but Constance and I have discussed the approach to punishment and decided that something old-fashioned and totally without dignity will be the best approach. These young trollops have been utterly spoiled and see themselves as colorful figures in a colorful world of night clubs, bars, and private parties. For them to bare their bottoms for the cane will be devastating.” It was unreal. The three of us sat comfortably discussing a group of girls I had not yet seen but whom we were holding prisoners. I shuddered to think of defending such an outrage in a court of law, but my whip marked skin had generated a faith in Uncle Andrew and his knowledge of blue blooded omnipotence. I still adored Ivory, but when I thought what I could do with fifty rebellious little tricks, my heart thudded so loud I could almost hear it. Not until that moment had I realized I was still naked. My two aides had a knack for failing to see the whip marks on my skin, or the skin itself. But it would never do for the head mistress to be seen by her pupils in such a state. I terminated our discussion and went to my apartment to make myself respectable.

Rockley had a considerable staff, and all of these servants shared the same gift of discretely failing to see whatever might embarrass the power who signed their checks. After only partly exploring the sights and delights of my private apartment, I was accosted in the passage by a tearful housemaid who followed me to my office, radiating sniffles.

“My name’s Amy, Ma’am. And it’s that there, Mary, the upper house maid, who keeps picking on me. Treats me something awful, she does,” Amy viewed me with tearful eyes.

“Can’t you cope with being picked on? It’s a fact of life.”

“Not with her, I can’t, Miss. I does my work real proper but she’s always finding fault.”

I pressed the appropriate button. When Mary appeared, she turned out to be one of those appalling English types who effect a superiority, based on nothing more than their desire to improve their social status. I sensed sport.

The dialogue was deplorable and Amy and Mary soon displayed themselves as belonging to what the English call ‘the working class.’ Both got flushed and abusive in their exchange of accusations which I soon realized arose out of nothing but the boredom of domestic labor. I put an end to it with swift decision.

“You are both being ridiculous. You will accept from me six of the best on your bare bottom, or you may seek other employment.”

It was instant shock. Amy stopped sniffing, and Mary clearly saw me as a traitor to a social strata she could not reach. I knew they were scared of my American voice and stared at each other and me in pure dismay.

“Six... On my bare skin... With a cane!”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“That ain’t done over here, Miss Durrant,” Amy provided. “Put a stop to it in the schools, they did. Them headmasters were caning girls real bad.”

“This is not a school. I have given you a choice.” I had to admit Mary showed a touch of class. Without argument she went to the magnificent display on the far wall and selected a yellow cane, beautifully polished. The sight of it made my heart sing with joy. I accepted the awful instrument in regal composure, and said grandly, “I am sure you know what to do.”