Dark Storm Part 1V – The Trapeze

Before reading this post, you may like to read:

 Dark Storm Part I

Dark Storm Part II 

Dark Storm Part III

In this episode, I conflate scenes and ideas from three works of erotica: L’Image, The Story of O and The Yellow Room. If erotica offends you, please stop reading now.

For an introduction to the characters, take a look at the foreword to Part 1 of this series.

Catherine’s Office

It was gorgeous outside on the Sunday morning when I walked across from the library to her office, and my spirits were high. Catherine was seated behind her desk when I walked in to the office. She made no mention of the punishment that she had dished out to me the previous day, nor of the tender after-event activities that had taken place straight afterwards.  I sat down on the low stool which was placed on the platform in front of her desk; I battled to maintain any dignity and realized that was probably the point.

Under her gentle guidance, I was now dressing and carrying myself more like Anne every day. I wore dresses and heels rather than jeans and flats; I might have stepped out of a sixties movie. Softly feminine styles, deep rounded collars, emphasized waistlines, full skirts that flowed down to my knees. Gaily colored floral patterns, bright yellow polka dots, baby blues and pinks, the colors were summery like the weather we were enjoying. Silky slips and petticoats that caressed my legs, a frilly lace garter belt that was for decorative purposes only; my underwear was all sensual and seductive, designed for pleasure and little else.

She was reading from a manuscript that looked like it had been printed right here in the office and bound in a clear plastic folder. Despite the way she had folded the back cover towards the front, I could make out the title: “The Story of O”.

Catherine barely acknowledged my presence, but eventually she flipped the pages back, looking for something, and then read aloud from her manuscript: “You shouldn’t sit on your slip and skirt. Pull them up behind you and sit directly on the seat.”

She waited; the air seemed to grow cold.

“Well?” she prompted.

With difficulty, I raised myself off the stool a bit, and complied.

I watched her eyes track down the page, searching for a phrase. My own breathing seemed to have stopped. At last she found what she had been searching for further on in the text.

“You will remember at all times, or as constantly as possible, that you have lost your right to privacy or concealment, and as a reminder of this fact, in our presence, you will never close your lips completely, or cross your legs, or press your knees together.”

A deathly silence filled the room.

“Anne, do I make myself clear?”

I flushed at her admonishment; it was partial instruction, partial rebuke. Self-consciously, I drew my feet apart and spread my thighs. My jaw dropped slightly and I hoped I looked as pretty as O and not like some imbecile.

Catherine suddenly glanced at her watch and rose quickly from behind the desk. Taking me by the upper arm, she urged me to stand and then steered me out the door.

“Come on Anne, we are meeting Camille at the park and I don’t want to be late.”

“I need to go to the washroom, before we go out,” I responded to her. Perhaps I didn’t ask deferentially enough, perhaps it was because she felt that I had assumed it was my right, but her answer was totally unexpected.

“No Anne, you can just hold it in!”

I bit back a retort and said nothing. On the one hand, I felt peeved that she so easily put me down, yet on the other she had just made my day! She had been calling me Anne!

The Park

We met Camille at the entrance to High Park. She had obviously come from the lingerie shop where she worked. She was dressed for work and carried a handbag slung from her forearm. Most intriguing, was the beautifully presentation box she held at her side; about eighteen inches long and three inches wide, it was black with the name of her lingerie shop embossed in gold. A pale blue ribbon with a crisp bow on the top tied it all up.

She greeted Catherine effusively; they did that cute continental cheek to cheek kiss which I find so alluring, and then she turned towards me and nodded hello. The downturned smile on her lips, the slight tile of her head, the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her mouth; the body language said it all. “You are Catherine’s submissive; you and I have different status, so let’s keep it that way.”

Catherine took Camille’s arm and led her into the park. Rose bushes lined the paved way, people walked past, coffee cups in hand, soaking up the summer weather. I held back a few steps; I was obviously not to be part of the Catherine / Camille conversation. The further we walked, the more downhearted I became. I felt jealous of Camille’s relationship with Catherine, angry at the way she was monopolizing her attention, upset that I seemed now to be nothing but an after-thought.

Catherine left the main pathway, and we soon found ourselves in a secluded grove of birches. I was a bit stunned when she turned on me; her language was harsh, her tone uncompromising.

“Well Anne, you wanted to pee, so now get down and pee!”

I was stunned. My heart seemed to stop and I wished the ground would swallow me up. I looked at Camille; she had a quizzical smirk on her lovely face.

“I don’t need to Catherine! I am so sorry for earlier.”

“Anne, get down now and pee! Now!”

I looked around to see if anyone was watching us but we were hidden in our secluded glade. Slowly, I bent down, raising my skirts and petticoat as I squatted.

“Spread your feet, Anne, you don’t want to mess on them.”

Burning with shame, I complied, looking down at the ground, desperately wishing the moment away. Nothing came; I there was no way that I could perform under those circumstances.

“Pull your skirts higher Ann!” She seemed out to goad me.

“Look at me, Anne!”

As I looked up, Catherine smacked me lightly across my face; humiliating but not hugely painful.

The flood burst and I looked down to see my waters spray down onto the dirt, creating a little stream that flowed away, around a grass tuft, soaking slowly into the baked, red ground. I felt the tears trickle down my cheeks; tears of humiliation, my shame on display.

The Garter Belt

Camille had accompanied us back to her office. I stood on my platform in front of Catherine’s desk while she opened the box that Camille had brought

The lid was lifted slowly and a smile crept across Catherine’s face, replacing her sullen demeanor with something that was far more scary to me. Slowly she pulled out the contents; it looked to be a wide, white belt with lacy edges. Four white ribbons were attached at intervals along the belt.

“Oh Cami, that looks perfect! Let’s try it on right now!” Catherine exclaimed.

Camille approached me with a smile; it was that same look that she had given me in the park.

“Anne, may I?” She asked, holding the belt up for me to see.

I nodded, almost imperceptibly, knowing full well where this was headed. I had read the same copy of The Yellow Room, a classic example of Victorian erotica, that sat on the corner of Catherine’s desk.

Camille reached under my skirts and secured the belt as high up around my waist as she could. Her fingers trailed delicately across my skin, caressing me under the cover of my dress. A tickle she gave me with her little finger sent shivers down my spine, flames of arousal caused by her closeness were instantaneously kindled. I breathed in the lovely scent that radiated around her; notes of orange blossom and  jasmine, hibiscus and cedar wood; light and summery, fresh and feminine.

She delicately threaded the ribbons under the elastic of my petticoat and let them hang down my legs. There were two in the front and two at the back, white ribbons that painted stripes down my thighs.

Standing up, Camille joined me on my platform. She tackled the right side first, pulling the ribbon up from the front and back, and tying them together in a secure bow on top of my shoulders. The left side followed pretty quickly. I stood still as she fussed around me, making my skirts that had been pulled up by the ribbons neat and presentable; it seemed that Camille also knew that Catharine was very particular about appearance and dress!

“Thank her, Anne!”

Camille and I knew the expectation by now. We leaned in towards each other, our lips touching. Her eyes lifted up to mine, her eyebrows raised in a smile. I felt the tip of her tongue trace a path across my lips, dart in for just a moment, and then she pulled back chastely. The coffee on her breath was so personal, her actions so intimate. I felt the telltale signs of my arousal, the promise of an encounter, the frustration of withdrawal.

With my skirts now pulled up and out of the way, Catherine’s version of The Yellow Room was under way.


There was a small, old-style school desk at the side of Catherine’s office. It was wooden with a slanted lift-up top and a hole for an inkwell at the top. I struggled to ease myself into the attached bench seat; this was furniture designed for lithe teenagers and not for middle aged librarians!  The wood felt cold and hard against my naked bottom, and I noticed a slick where my personals came into the contact with the surface. The glint of arousal was a reminder of my inner conflict: how could I, a rational person, subject myself to such abuse, and in my perversity, find it arousing?

At Catherine’s command, I removed a pad of paper and a fountain pen from the inside the desk.

“Fifty lines, Anne! I want no mistakes and remember that EVERY character must be legible and neat.”

This was like being back in detention, only worse. Camille watched with that amused look flitting across her gentle face. Self-consciously, I pulled my thighs together, desperately trying to regain my composure and show just a modicum of  self respect.

“Anne!” Catherine scolded, “I thought we had been through this already. Remember what I read to you?”

She picked up the Story of O manuscript from her desk; she had no trouble finding her place this time.

“You will remember at all times, or as constantly as possible, that you have lost your right to privacy or concealment, and as a reminder of this fact, in our presence, you will never close your lips completely, or cross your legs, or press your knees together.”

“…but it seems you have forgotten!” She continued, “I will give you something to help you remember after you have finished your lines.”

Once again, I flushed at her rebuke, complying immediately, wondering what Camille thought of me sitting there with my lips and thighs parted like those of a whore.

I waited expectantly for her to tell me what to write, but I already new from The Yellow Room what it was likely to be.

It came at last, pretty much as I had expected.

‘I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille.’ Fifty times Anne, and I want that done perfectly. No crossings out, no errors. When you have finished it, you may sign it and hand it in.”

With shaking hands, I started to write. I got to the fifth line when I made my first mistake. Looking up, to see if Catherine and Camille were  watching, I self consciously tore the top sheet off and started again.

Their tête-à-tête had resumed; I assumed that whatever had kept them so engaged at the park was back up for discussion. Every now and then I noticed them glancing my way; perhaps I was the subject?  I was half way through my lines when the realization struck: I was being told by Catherine to affirm in these lines that she was my mistress!! I felt a wave of elation, a rush of joy. Catherine was my mistress, I belonged to her. Our relationship had moved on to a new level. I WAS Anne, Catherine WAS my mistress. This was my new reality.

I wrote the last few lines and then signed my lines with a flourish.

“I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille

I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille

I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille

yours, Anne”.

Struggling out from behind my desk with my lines in hand, I walked across to Catherine and waited deferentially at her side until it was polite to interrupt.

The Trapeze

There were six willow switches standing in the tall, blue vase on the bookshelf behind her desk. Six switches that I had peeled and smoothed, switches which I had known all along would mark my body, make me cry, make me plead for her mercy. I walked across to the vase, feeling the eyes on my naked bottom, wondering what Camille was thinking, wondering if she was aroused by my shameful situation.

Catherine took them from me and laid them onto her desk.

“Kiss them Anne, and then go and stand between the posts.”

A rope had been slung between the two support  posts that were now at each side of her office, and two velvet cuffs were suspended in the middle. Catherine used these to fasten my wrists above my head, and she then pulled the rope taught until I was standing on the balls of my feet. With a switch in her hand, she walked around me, pacing herself, deliberate steps, each of which raised the tension. When I didn’t think I could take it any longer, she stopped right in front of me.

“I will teach you not to close your legs!”

She spat these words out venomously, her perpetual scowl taking on a more menacing look. I was vaguely aware of Camille watching from my side, but as my fear grew, my self consciousness dropped.

Suddenly Catherine slashed me across the front of my right thigh with the willow, leaving a burning stripe of pain. Squealing, I raised my leg in anguish, losing my balance, finding myself suspended my by aching arms. Catherine stepped behind me, and delivered a volley of cuts across the back of my legs. Wildly contorting, kicking out, twirling around; there was nothing I could do to avoid the whipping, nothing I could do to control my movements.

The tip of the switch cut my inner thigh, a new intensity of pain driving me crazy, causing me to cry out, plead for her to stop. Like an out of control puppet, I swung from the trapeze, her swishing teaching me a lesson I would never forget.

Catherine did stop at last when she felt that I had probably taken enough, and then she lowered my cuffed wrists to head height, but left them locked in their velvet restraints. She stood in front of me with the switch until my sobbing died down. My head hung down, exhausted, my arms racked with pain, and my thighs and calves burned from the punishment received.

All my doubt as to whether the relationship between Catherine and Camille was platonic or not evaporated in the next instant. Their arms encircled each other, their lips locked. I watched in shock as Catherine’s fingers burrowed their way up under Camille’s skirt, felt my own arousal growing as their passions played out. With my own body on fire, a wonderful blend of arousal and pain, I watched and waited patiently for my own release.


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