I knocked at the door of Anne-Marie’s chambers and waited. The summons had been delivered by a maid to the sleeping quarters where I had been resting; an elegant, feminine script on a lightly scented note, gold edging adding a touch of the inevitable class. The invitation was simple and imperious: “Come to my chambers, now! Attire: Dressing gown.”
I felt vulnerable, yet enthralled. What good could come of a meeting with Anne-Marie? Despite her elegance, her calm demeanor, her lovely appearance, I had witnessed the cruelty that lurked inside. Yet I could not deny her innate sensuality and the erotic allure of her domineering character.
I knocked on the dark cherry-wood door again and waited. The floor felt cool under my bare feet, and I shivered slightly, possibly from the lack of protection that my lacy gown offered, more probably from the sense of imminent threat laced with the potential of an impending encounter that was contributing to my own mounting excitement.
Her voice was sultry yet muffled when it came; her “Enter!” had me reaching for the heavy brass handle and slowly pushing the door ajar.
It was as if I had walked into a picture; perhaps one of the most erotic visions that my mind could possibly have conceived. The entrance lobby of her chambers opened directly into a sunny dining room; wide windows overlooked the cliff and the waves hurled themselves on the rocks way below.
A round mahogany dining room table commanded the center of the room; it was a piece of furniture that instantly transported the room back to a more elegant era. A heavy Victorian sideboard was set on the one side of the room, a bundle of canes stacked neatly on top. Each cane’s handle was neatly bound in colored leather; the coding was obvious at once. The black handled cane looked monstrous, the deep blue marginally less serious. The powder blue was light and whippy, not intended to leave deep bruises, yet the welts it could raise made my skin tingle with fear.
Anne-Marie was standing next to the side board, a pink handled cane grasped lightly, seemingly comfortable handling an instrument of pain. She looked ever so genteel, an ankle length white gown flowing down to the floor. A silver choker graced her slender neck, gold earrings dangled alongside, their sapphire and ruby gems let out from the vault for the night.
She glanced up at me, and then resumed her study of the cane. A highly polished silver hilt graced the thick end, a bold pattern was engraved around the knob at its base. She held the cane delicately in her long and slender fingers; her beautifully manicured nails which were painted a vibrant red, were set off against the pink cane handle, both telegraphing messages of dominance and femininity, danger and seduction.
She gripped both ends of the cane lightly with the tips of her fingers and bent it into a graceful bow; backwards and forwards, up and down. She tested its suppleness, assessed its flex. I was mesmerised, taken in by the elegance, terrified by the menace and I sensed my arousal flickering to life in the sexually charged scene.
I looked up to find her watching me, the hint of a smile flitting across her cherry red lips. I thought I could detect a faint blush on her cheeks, a flush on her neck, a pulse in her breast. Her perfume, ever so light, ever so intoxicating, drifted elusively in and out of my awareness; her eyes sparkled brightly with amusement – or arousal?
I glanced away, taking in the sexy scene in the room. Justine, naked Justine, was bent across the table, her elbows resting at its center, hands cupped to support her dainty chin. She stared straight ahead to the opposite wall, ignoring the interruption, lost in her thoughts. Her breasts looked incongruous, delicate and pale, flattened by the unrelenting pressure of the harsh wooden top. Her back arched sleekly down from her slender neck, sweeping up at its middle to push her bottom up and put it on show. Long legs spread slightly apart , her thighs were quite taut framing her love lips between. Depilated or plucked; cream or epilator? The lips were smooth and hair free, a constant symbol of lust, we all knew by now that this was the way of the ladies of Majesta.
I noticed no sign of arousal, detected no hint of emotion, but there was a steeliness to her demeanor indicating that still waters ran deep. Her bottom was firm, almost tomboyish in shape. Porcelain smooth, it displayed no cane marks, no signs of abuse. Justine preferred to be the one to swish rather than be swished; perhaps now was the time the tables would be turned?
Anne-Marie had moved in while my concentration on her had lapsed. The stroke came without warning, without giving Justine a chance to prepare. It was the pink handled cane, one that made a terrifying swish in the air. I don’t believe Anne-Marie swung it with undue force; as could be expected of her, the cut was delivered with grace and panache. It was more of a flick than a viscous slash, the effects resulting more from timing than force of her blow . A welt materialized instantly on Justine’s skin, a painful tramline line that perfectly bisected her cheeks .
“I love to paint on a clean canvass,” Anne-Marie swooned.
“You know, Cara,” she said addressing me in a conspiratorial tone, “I like to keep Justine pristine for moments like this. She does not get it often, but when she does, it is a delight to observe.”
This was so in keeping of Anne-Marie’s way; dispassionate and uncaring for the pain that she caused. I looked up at her, and was sure that that flush I had detected earlier had taken on a deeper hue; despite her calm outward appearance, I was now convinced that she was becoming aroused.
Anne-Marie flicked again, the strike of a serpent imparting a venomous bite. Justine yelped, but did not react in any other way. She neither kicked back nor swayed but continued to stare straight ahead, a frown of concentration creasing her pained face. There was no follow-through in Anne-Marie’s stroke; she pulled the cane back immediately on impact and held it up straight like a sword in her hand. To a virtuoso conductor, timing is all; Justine played both soloist and conductor in this orchestral score.
With the fingers of her left hand, Anne-Marie reached forward to assess her perfromance. Gently, with infinite care, she traced the wicked lines that ran from the west to the east. Her finger tips traversed the welts, sensed the pain, luxuriated in the texture, admired the effect. Her blood red nails traced deep patterns on the drum tight flesh, testing Justine’s submission, enhancing her pain.
I admired Justine’s stoicism for just a moment, but then rationalised it away; she hadn’t been punished as severely as when she had layed into me, and two strokes was hardly a punishment for Majesta at all.
All is not always as it seems
Anne-Marie eyed me and sensed my misgiving.
“All is not always as it seems, Cara” she counseled.
Anne-Marie had a way of talking down to me in a patronising sort of way. It annoyed me intensely, but reflected the reality of the relationship we had. She was a natural dominant and I a submissive; a relationship like this was bound to occur.
I stared back quizzically; what could possibly not be as it seems?
“Cara, have you ever heard of a bite-stick?”
I shook my head; it was definitely outside the scope of my limited S&M knowledge.
“A bite-stick,” she informed me, “is a stick that a submissive may be required to grasp in their teeth, a wonderful test of self-control during times of punishment. Drop it, and the punishment is doubled.”
She waited for a moment for the point to sink in; Justine was definitely not chewing into a bite-stick, though based on the look of intense concentration on her face, there was something amiss.
Anne-Marie continued to look at me, a sardonic smile playing across her lips.
“What if I told you Justine was grappling with a bite-stick? Would your opinion of her self control change?”
“But she isn’t!” I retorted.
“Justine, stand up!”
I watched as her slender body struggled up straight. It struck me then that she had probably been bent over the table for quite a while, possibly from before my summons had been dispatched. She stretched, then settled into a rigid stance, her fingers laced behind her head, her eyes once again focused at a spot on the opposite wall.
Anne-Marie whipped the cane across her bottom once more, then stood back to watch the electrifying effect.
Justine contorted in a most delicious way. Her upper thighs turned inwards, her bottom pushed out. Her hands flew down, but rather than to her flaming bottom, she jammed them between her well toned thighs. I felt my own arousal build; I at once wanted to comfort her yet to revel in her distress, wished for the same treatment but was petrified that I too would be whipped in cruel way. In a state of confusion and arousal, I watched Justine regain her composure and stand up straight.
Anne-Marie flexed the cane again, and once again addressed Justine in that maddening, reasonable voice of hers.
“Well held, Justine!”
I was lost; I was sure that there was something that was passing over my head.
“So Justine,” she continued, “should we try one more? Or perhaps a few squats and star jumps instead?”
Justine’s voice was muted, her eyes tearful.
“Please swish me just once more. That’s all I have to get through, isn’t it now?”
“Of course my dear, if that is what you want. It will be with the powder blue though, my favorite of course. Do you want to take it bending over or standing up straight?”
There was always a hidden agenda to Anne-Marie’s seeming kindness. As she said to me: “nothing is quite like it seems”, and with Anne-Marie, it is always seems that nothing is quite how it sounds.
Justine paused and then whispered her choice.
“I will take it standing, please.”
Anne-Marie toyed with her, seeming to enjoy her distress, loving the humiliation she was making her endure. She took her time, selecting her cane, whistling it through the air, flexing its shaft. She took a few tentative taps on Justine’s punished rear, then stepped back, a wicked smile creasing her face.
“Squat Justine, now!”
Justine looked at her in terror, her feet rooted to the ground.
“Swish me please Anne-Marie, please! Don’t make me do this! Spare me, please!”
Her distress was real, and as it built up, my confusion and arousal rose too in equal parts.
Her pleading fell on deaf ears, and finally Justine submitted. Her thighs parted, straining as she squatted down; a humiliating action that drove me right to the edge. As she moved lower, her thighs parted, her labia glistened; I was gratified to see that she too was now aroused.
Poor Justine, my heart went out to her! As she lowered herself down, I noticed her jawline tense and her teeth grit. The tension in the air was palpable, and it was cut by the sudden flash of Anne-Marie’s cane. The stroke wasn’t vicious in any sense, although it was whippy enough to raise another weal. Justine yelped again, and for a moment seemed to lose control. She made as if to rise, then suddenly sank lower.
All of a sudden, the unexpected happened; suddenly Anne-Marie’s cryptic comments all fell into place. I was startled as a green jade egg, glistening with her juices, popped out from between her lower lips, clattered onto the floor and finally rolled to a stop.
“The Majesta version of a bite stick, my dear,” Anne-Marie took pleasure in announcing. “Justine did so well in holding it in for her swishing, but I am sorry to see that just the slightest bit of physical exertion has caused her to lose control.”
Anne-Marie’s cruelty seemed to know no bounds. “Tonight Justine, you will join Monique and Cara in the punishment room. Go Justine, I am deeply disappointed in you.”
She dismissed the poor woman with barely a glance, then in the unpredictable manner of the lady she is, Anne-Marie took me by the upper arm and led me away.
“Cara, my dear, I am sure you found that enlightening, yet that is not what I brought you here for. Let’s retire to my bedroom; I too have desires that I need fulfilled.”