Macho Sluts, page 12
Berenice stroked the inside of Clarissa’s thighs with the fur glove and allowed her to feel the first few contractions of an orgasm. Then she withdrew and removed the blindfold. Clarissa protested vociferously. “There’s no pleasing you,” Berenice laughed. “You don’t like it on and you don’t like it off. Perverse little monkey.” She fondled her. “Pretty thing. I’ll do as I like with you. Won’t I? Won’t I?” And she forced eloquent, clarion agreement from her chained virgin slave. Her caresses wandered near the most sensitive areas of the poor child’s body. “Can you guess what I want to do? Hmm? My almost-grown-up girl? Something we don’t do very often, you and I.” Her fingers trespassed, tempted, retreated. “A little serious flagellation, my pet. A really good, thorough beating. Can you, for me?”
“Oh—please,” panted Clarissa.
Berenice selected a short cat from the umbrella stand and began to lightly switch Clarissa’s shoulders and backside. The lashes flicked her tender thighs as well, leaving red stripes that quickly faded. She alternated the blows with moments of loving praise and encouragement, during which time she would tickle Clarissa between the legs with a whip handle. She soon had her writhing upon the horse, her behind plunging up and down like a lusty mare. The girl gasped for breath and clenched and unclenched her tiny hands.
“You’re blushing,” Berenice said. She ran a cool hand over Clarissa’s hindquarters. She struck again, harder. “Hush. This is nothing. Hush. Nothing.” She walked to the head of the horse and took possession of the bound girl’s mouth. “More? Yes. More.” She resumed her position at the foot of the horse and landed several well-aimed blows. “Now you can go ahead. Sing. I like to hear you. God, I’d love to flog the skin off your dimpled, pink behind.” The cat whished through the air, creating a small breeze that stirred Berenice’s curls.
Clarissa snorted and snuffled. Her hair hung in wet strands, and her body was shimmering with perspiration. A streak of more viscous moisture stained the division of her pubic fleece. “I can take more,” she said as Berenice appeared by her head.
Berenice smiled. “So sweet,” she murmured. “You are so sweet.”
“Kiss?”
“Oh, yes.”
Berenice’s penetrating tongue was so strong! Clarissa forgot herself and began to nip and swallow at it. Berenice laughed at her and withdrew.
“Oh—more!” Clarissa wailed. “I’m on fire from head to toe. Don’t leave me!”
“Naughty girl,” said Berenice. “Salacious little slut. Biting at my mouth like a common streetwalker. We must punish the baggage, or she will go from bad to worse. Isn’t that so, my darling?”
Clarissa fought back her agreement and remained silent.
“Oh? She wants to argue with her betters. Impudence on top of a sensuous disposition. This is a frightful combination. Tell me this, rebellious miss, did you or did you not nip at me? Eh?”
“I—I did,” Clarissa confessed.
“And was it out of pain or fright?”
“Nooo.”
“Then we must conclude that you were overwhelmed by carnal impulses. And you know that cannot be tolerated.”
“Yes,” Clarissa admitted, defeated. “I know.”
“Well, then. Let’s have no more vain attempts to avoid punishment. Ooh, just you wait till I get my hands on you. Baggage! Tart!” While calling the wrath of heaven down upon her disobedient child, Berenice gave her a sip or two of brandy, then she visited the lacquer chest again. She glanced quickly over the tray that perched on top of its other contents, a tray that originally had contained velvet boxes full of strands of pearls, earrings, diamond brooches, and the like. Now it held another sort of jewelry. She selected one of the trinkets, diabolical miniatures that winked at her. Then she took it over to Clarissa, for her inspection. “My grandmother brought these back from the Orient,” she said. “She used them to fasten her opera cape. Aren’t they pretty?” She showed Clarissa a pair of silver clasps, each in the form of a dragon whose jaw moved to grip the edge of a cloak … or whatever was placed in its rapacious mouth. The clasps were connected by a few inches of chain.
The beam was so narrow that Clarissa’s breasts peeked out of either side of it. Berenice petted them, making the little girl so lascivious that she thought she must go mad if she were not granted some reprieve. A pinch on each nipple only increased her need. “You are so cruel,” she wept.
Berenice twisted the nearest nipple. “Mind your tongue,” she said, and pressed the cold, grinning dragon against her soft skin. “Do you know what I’m going to do with this?” she asked. “Have you already guessed?”
“No,” Clarissa lied.
Berenice opened one of the clamps, pulled slightly on Clarissa’s nipple, and left the mythical beast hanging from her breast. In another moment, its twin was swinging from the other breast. The chain was so short that it almost made her nipples touch.
Clarissa sounded as if she were crying, but no tears were coming from her eyes, and she was attempting to rub her female parts against the beam. The stiffness of her corset prevented her from achieving full freedom of movement, and the slight contact she was able to achieve with the leather only titillated her further.
Berenice went to the foot of the beam and petted her again, spreading her love dew from the clitoris up to the perineum, anointing each side of the inner lips, even rubbing it on her tightest, smallest hole. Then she bent down and blew on the moisture, and Clarissa groaned. “I feel as if I’m nothing but wetness, nothing but the thing between my legs. What are you going to do with me?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t—only don’t leave me—please take me, use me—oh!” she cried as Berenice once again spread the thick juices, smeared them onto her thighs and between the cheeks of her behind, and expelled her hot breath on the inflamed, liquid parts.
When Clarissa was quite incoherent, Berenice selected her third and final weapon: a long, flexible, yellow cane. Before beginning, she administered more brandy and a few sharp tugs on the grinning dragons.
Thus far, she had inflicted moderate pain and reddened the skin until it was warm and slightly swollen to the touch, but she had not bruised it. She was not in the habit of marking Clarissa, preferring her skin smooth and unblemished. Clarissa coveted the welts on Elise’s body and often reproached Berenice for withholding them. Tonight, she informed her young charge, she would leave her with visible tokens of the whipping.
“I have to give you enough to last six months. Remember that, if you think you’ve had enough. Six long, lonely months.” Though she seriously doubted Clarissa would go without comfort, company, or chastisement at this particular school. Sternly, she repressed a pang of jealousy. She had kept Clarissa all to herself for years. The love between them was genuine, but might not survive her adolescence. Even this sweet submission might fade and something hostile, domineering, or indifferent grow up in its place.
Clarissa was waiting patiently for her to resume talking or begin the caning. Berenice collected herself, and returned to the task at hand. She must think of nothing else. No scattered concentration could be allowed to make her hand waver.
“The marks will move up your legs from the back of the knee to the top of your hips. They will be evenly space and parallel to each other. You will not move.”
Berenice’s voice was calm and deadly. Clarissa froze. Training exercises performed in previous sessions had convinced her that, when explicitly ordered not to move, she had best not stir even one-eighth of an inch.
A few seconds to allow tension to build, to gather and slow her breathing, to take the most careful aim—then—swick! swick! swick! Each stripe was awful. Berenice alternated sides so that each thigh would match. She paused before marking Clarissa’s behind, to give them both a chance to take courage. Then she struck out like a tigress and left her with a perfect row of weals from the tender roll of baby fat just beneath the buttock to the thin, tightly stretched skin at the tip of her tailbone.
Clarissa babbled pleas for forgiveness and release. Berenice fingered her lightly, evoking a painful moan. She repeated her caress, more insistently, and Clarissa’s whole body begged for more. “Please go into me,” Clarissa cried. “Take my maidenhead. I don’t want to give it to anyone else but you, Mother. Elise says she loves having you inside her, more than anything. I can’t stand it when you won’t give me what you give her. Please! Please!”
Berenice frowned. “You’re jealous,” she said. “I find that very unattractive. Do you think you can coerce me into anything? Hmm?” She tickled her pudenda, applied light pressure over her hymen, but would not enter. Then she returned to Clarissa’s pink pearl and took her to the brink of orgasm. “Apologize,” she said through gritted teeth. “And you’d better make me believe it, or I’ll deny you satisfaction and send you to school in a chastity belt!”
Their voices raised to shouts, a disjointed cacophony of curses and humiliating confessions, they urged each other on. “I’m nothing,” Clarissa cried in ecstasy. “I deserve nothing but the most brutal and rigorous punishment. I beg your forgiveness, your clemency, your correction. I plead for the opportunity to expunge my guilt, to redress my failing. Oh—I am sorry, sorry, sorry!”
“Ah, yes, that. Will a little more of this do it? It usually does,” spat Berenice. “Yes, my little abused angel. Come to me. You will come to me. Now. Yes, now.”
The chains and the horse protested as Clarissa flung her body from side to side and drenched Berenice’s hand with profuse evidence of her pleasure. Then she was deathly still. Berenice moved to her head and petted her as one would a frightened animal. “There, there,” she said. Clarissa lifted her head. Her eyes were overflowing. “Am I still here?” she whispered. “Oh, thank you, dearest Mother. Please don’t leave me. Don’t ever stop loving me.”
“Hush, darling. I’m going to take you down.” As she plied her key among the tiny locks, Berenice instructed Clarissa on the behavior that would be expected of her at the school. “You must show your headmistress and teachers the same respect and cheerful obedience that you give me. I’ll read your reports every month,” she concluded, working on the chains that locked the spike heels onto Clarissa’s feet. “If they are satisfactory, when you return I will deflower you, if that is your wish and your maidenhead is still intact.”
“It will be,” Clarissa said. “I pro—”
“Hush. Don’t promise me anything. You’re too young to vow constancy. Wait until you’ve met the headmistress of Hightowers, then see if you bring your heart back to me in one piece—let alone your little oyster, my love.”
Clarissa could barely comprehend the woe and distress in that bitter speech. Before she could compose a reassuring reply, Berenice gathered her limp body up in her arms, kicked the door open, and called down the hallway, “Elise! Draw a bath for two. Lay out plenty of towels and birching ointment. I want a tray of cordials and a cold supper laid out in my room. Then you may retire for the night.”
“Yes, madam,” was the civil reply that floated back to her. The sound of running water came faintly from the other side of the house—Elise was adding boiling water to the tub she had already filled. Berenice took a fresh grip on Clarissa, who was patting her face and murmuring endearments in French, and carried her away from the room. Elise would clean up. Reliable, invaluable Elise!
By the time they arrived, the bath was prepared. Fresh, snowy towels were heaped on a little cart along with an open jar of ointment, two cakes of large fragrant soap, and a saucer on which chilled segments of tangerine had been arranged. Beside the saucer was a crystal pitcher of ice water and two cut glass tumblers. The tub— large, round, deep enough to stand in—was full to the brim and steaming. On the surface of the water floated a single gardenia.
Berenice eased Clarissa down, unlaced and removed the corset, then helped her climb into the tub. The little girl winced when the hot water made contact with her bottom, then an expression of happy pride lit up her face. “You marked me!” she exclaimed. “I won’t be able to sit down on the train tomorrow.”
“You may not,” Berenice said ruefully, hanging her robe on a bronze hook, “but I couldn’t resist your plump little hot cross buns. Let’s relax and refresh ourselves.”
She climbed into the tub beside Clarissa. There were marble benches inside the tub at the right height for them to sit down and still have their shoulders covered by the lovely hot water. While they soaked, they fed each other slices of tangerine and took tiny sips of the cold water. Clarissa recovered quickly, and was the first out of the tub. She dried herself, then held out a thick towel to receive Berenice. She dried her mistress carefully, daring to kiss her shoulders and the place between her breasts. She brushed against the older woman, hugged her tight, and whispered, “Will you take me into your bed tonight?”
Berenice considered this request. She felt a certain lassitude, the cynical melancholy that overcame her when she was exhausted. Then she contemplated Clarissa’s enthusiasm, her fresh face, her hope and affection, and could not bear to disappoint her. Perhaps the maraschino cherry mouth and the dove-like hands could arouse her interest and restore her contentment.
But they could not go like this, like a pair of simple-minded, medieval shepherdesses slipping hand-in-hand into the nearest patch of willows. She seized Clarissa by the hair and dragged her closer, until the tips of her toes barely touched the thick white carpet. “Oh yes,” she threatened. “I’ll take you into my bed tonight. And you won’t get any sleep at all—not a wink.” Forgetting her robe (but not the birching ointment), she hauled Clarissa out of the bathroom and pushed her toward the stairs. “Let’s see what your gratitude is worth,” she sneered.
They got as far as the landing before Clarissa broke away, sank to her knees, and buried her face between Berenice’s thighs. From the bottom of the stairs, Elise (on her way to tidy up the disciplinary chamber) caught a glimpse of the beautiful pose. She smiled wistfully, shook out her feather duster, and went in solitary pursuit of her domestic duties.
Berenice did not quite keep her word. She fell asleep an hour before dawn. Clarissa watched the first light of day suffuse the room, and contemplated this small betrayal of her love. Her eyes seemed to be full of fine sand. Invisible wrinkles in the bedclothes plagued her, and she was afraid her backside would hurt in an ugly way if she thought too much about it. It was odd, how little it took to satisfy Berenice’s lust once the whipping or other punishment was over. She, Clarissa, could not say, “Remember you will be six months without me. Surely you need a little more of me to last those six long months.” She wore two dozen welts, some of which were bleeding, but she had not dared leave a love-bite in the hollow of her lover’s shoulder. Clarissa could not swallow her indignation. It left a dry lump in her throat. She had tried to prolong the sweetness, reaching for Berenice’s breasts with her lips and hands, but Berenice had pushed her down between her thighs, relegating her to genital service, withholding her breasts. Even then, Clarissa had teased and toyed with her, postponing the particular tongue-flickers that would bring her mistress to the peak of pleasure. But Berenice had grown angry with her and threatened to bring herself to climax if Clarissa did not give immediate satisfaction. Now she could only sigh and twist the sheet in her hands and try to fend off the miserable thought of leaving home. She could not even find a trace of Berenice’s musk on her fingertips or beneath her tongue.
“Be still,” Berenice ordered her. Her voice was surprisingly clear for someone who had just been awakened. Clarissa froze, appalled at herself. Berenice drew her closer, put one arm beneath her shoulder, and used her other hand to trap Clarissa’s wrists. It was not long before both of them slumbered, after that.
But it seemed to Clarissa that this deep peace lasted only a few moments before Elise reached under the covers, scooped her up, and took her away from Berenice’s side.
“I’m to get you dressed and ready for the train,” Elise explained in a whisper, putting her down so she could close the bedroom door.
“But Elise—”
“Hush, child. The mistress isn’t coming to see you off. She said so herself. I’m to see you packed and on your way. Your aunt will be motoring up for you shortly. Her niece will be going to school with you.”
Clarissa nodded, dumb with shock. Elise sighed in sympathy. “I’ll make you strawberry waffles,” she said. “There’s even whipped cream. And you can have coffee this morning, since you were up so late.” She took Clarissa by the hand and led her toward the kitchen. “Do you want to wash up and dress first? I’ve already packed your bags.”
“Would you mind if I just ran around this way for a little while? I’ll wash my hands and face at the kitchen tap.”
“Well—it’s a fine, warm day. No harm in it I suppose. Let’s go, then. You and I don’t often have the morning to ourselves.”
Clarissa brightened. “Oh, Elise,” she said, flinging her arms around the maid’s neck, “you are so good to me.”
They embraced. Then Elise drew her down the stairs and into the sunny kitchen. Strings of garlic and peppers hung from the rafters. There was a big, cast-iron, wood-burning stove, the huge white sink with its brass taps, the shelves of glass mixing bowls (each a different color), the racks of herbs and measuring cups and knives—all the magic implements of the chef’s art.
“She did you with quite a heavy hand,” Elise said enviously.
“Ooh!” Clarissa squealed. “Does it show?”
“Look in the mirror by the china closet. Here, climb up on this chair. See?” Elise’s fingers traced the perfectly even stripes. The center of each weal was raised a little.
