The woman known only as Girl Ten
looked out of the window at the silver birches bending in the early spring
gales, the whippiness of the branches so accurately mimicking their frequent
use on her that she felt a sudden surge of heat in her belly. Despite the
weather and fact that the house was old and so very big, the room was warm and
she lay almost naked on her bed.
The Masters were meticulous about
that. Their women were kept in comfort until they were required not to be
comfortable: until they were required to serve their Masters by undergoing
whatever pain the men chose to inflict on them.
To distract herself from forbidden
pleasures which that thought inevitably led her towards, Ten looked down at the
silver chain she wore round her neck, just below her tightly buckled leather
collar. It had the numeral that signified her suspended from it. She had no
name now, not while she was here, she left her name behind – her name and
everything else that marked her out as a thinking, rational human. Here she
became what her Master wanted her to be, a beautiful, compliant, unthinking and
uncomplaining slave, absolutely subject
to his will.
Her entire reward for every humiliation
and agony that she underwent here was simply the knowledge that she was serving
his pleasure. And for the deep joy that that knowledge gave her, she could
never thank him enough – and so she gladly threw herself into everything he
decided for her as a way of fulfilling her debt to him.
Just now she was waiting. She was good
at that, she was often left to wait for hours and she had grown patient through
long practice – her Master said it was good for her and she agreed. She was
proud, beautiful, passionate and patient.
But she hadn’t always been. Ten idly
ran her fingers through the fleece of the throw on top of the quilt on her bed.
She was chained to the bed by a heavy, brutal looking chain that ran from her
padlocked anklet to the wall above the low bed head. She sighed quietly, making
her pale breasts heave above the quarter cups of the corset she wore. She
longed to be ordered to take it off by her Master – she could never be naked
enough for him! She wanted to bare her very soul for him every time he looked
at her. And every time he beat her or let others use and beat her, it seemed to
Ten that that was part payment of a debt she could never fully repay.
She loved her Master with every fibre
of her being.
Ten looked at the wall beyond the foot
of the bed. There was a riding crop, a dog whip and a flogger hung there. Her
Master had said he would come and beat her this afternoon, but there were so
many distractions for the Masters – a whole houseful of semi-naked utterly
compliant and well trained slaves that she was not surprised he was late – or
he might not come at all. It was none of her concern, she would lie and wait
like the obedient slave she was.
She let her thoughts wander in case
she was tempted to masturbate at the prospect of being whipped by him – an
offence that would see her put into solitary confinement for a week, something
she could not countenance quite apart from the displeasure on her Master’s
face. And that thought reminded her of how, long ago, she had first learned to
fear seeing displeasure on his face.
A saying she had heard a long time ago
popped into her head, it was to the effect that even the longest journey had to
start with a single, first step.
She smiled to herself. Hers had been a long journey but she knew
precisely where it had started. She knew the day, the hour, the minute...
The door handle turned and a man
entered. It wasn’t her master but that didn’t matter here. Any of the men could
do what they pleased with any of the girls. The man had another slave with him,
a naked girl on a collar and leash. He smiled at Ten then gave the other slave
her, then tie her face
down to start with. I’ll begin with the dog whip then turn her over to do her
tits with the crop. Her owner says she goes well under tit whipping, unlike
you!” He gave the girl a kick to her rump.
The other slave was a black haired
oriental beauty with savage welts across her own breasts and stomach. She came
over to Ten, who noted that she had the numeral twenty five on her chain. With
feelings only of the deepest peace, Ten turned over and lay face down, once her
corset had been removed, while she was chained. Her master had sent someone to
use her, so even with all the distractions he hadn’t forgotten her. Afterwards
she might be allowed to play with Twenty-Five while the stranger looked on.
It had indeed been a long journey.
Gina stood uncertainly in front of
Doctor Rossiter's desk. It was a large, two pedestal antique job in aged mahogany
and with a red leather panel inset on its top. A lamp stood on one corner, a
holder for pens and pencils and paper clips stood on another. A laptop stood
open just beside him and apart from that it was bare, and spotlessly clean, she
would bet. The rest of his room was similar - spare, tidy, organised. There
were bookcases on most walls and their shelves were packed tight with volumes
on Anglo-Saxon, Old English and Middle English literature - some of them
written by Doctor Rossiter himself, she knew. She had quoted him in her first
paper for her MA. She thought a bit of flattery might help things along, but
now she wasn't so sure, he didn't seem to be too impressed with her thoughts on
Chaucerian use of metaphor in 'The Pardoner's Tale'.
She tried not to fidget but he had
taken the sheaf of papers from her - and why couldn't he just accept an
attachment to an e mail for goodness sake? - and left her standing in front of
his desk, hadn't even invited her to sit in one of the comfortable old
armchairs that faced the desk.
Instead she tried to focus on the
trees outside the tall window behind him and the view of the main college
building beyond them, set in its rolling lawns.
However, her thoughts were drawn back
abruptly by the doctor setting down her paper with a flourish and sitting back,
snapping off his reading glasses and glaring at her.
"I am unable to even consider
Geoffrey Chaucer's use of metaphor in 'The Pardoner's Tale' when I am
constantly distracted by Gina Worthington's inability to use the apostrophe in
her submissions," he said pushing the papers towards her.
"Go away young lady and do not
waste my time again with half-baked drivel masquerading as academic
theories!" He turned to one of the drawers on his side of the desk and
pulled it open, took out a folder, placed it in front of himself and became
Gina just stood and stared; rooted to
the spot for the moment. When her proposal for a study of figurative language
in 'The Canterbury Tales' and 'Piers Ploughman' had been accepted and she had
obtained the bursary for the MA. after her First Class Honours BA. in English
Literature from one of the foremost universities in the country, she had been
overjoyed. It gave her time to do what she loved doing while she figured out how
she was going to make a career for herself.
And when she had attended for
interview and found that she was to be taken under the wing of none other than
Doctor Hubert Parsifal Rossiter himself, it had all seemed perfect.
She had turned up that day wearing a
dark blue skirt that was a prudent but attractive two inches above the knee
over tights and an actual set of matching bra and knickers in ivory lace. They
had had to be rummaged for in her underwear drawer but she felt she was looking
good and that helped her in interviews she found. She had put a simple pale
yellow sweater over the bra and wrapped a light grey scarf around her neck. The
neckline of the sweater was not too plunging and the hem on the skirt wasn't
too short, she felt. And with a pale lipstick and not too much foundation or
blusher and her blonde hair left to lie on her shoulders, she felt she
presented herself as the very image of a smart and self-confident young woman.
Then she had found the office she was
directed to, knocked on the door and entered to find Dr Rossiter was actually
going to interview her himself and was sitting behind his large desk with his
hands steepled under his chin and his piercing blue eyes focussed directly on
her. She recognised him instantly of course from photographs on book covers and
from his many TV appearances. He was in his mid-fifties and had thick, dark
hair brushed back from his broad forehead. His nose was prominent but not beaky
and his chin jutted almost fiercely. But it was his blue eyes that struck her.
They seemed to bore straight into her as she walked across the office to put
out her hand to shake his, but he remained seated and made no reciprocal
gesture. His steady, considering gaze made her feel as though she was a
butterfly and he was a collector. His piercing eyes were about to pin her down
so that she would join his collection.
Rather desperately she had continued
to hold out her hand and tried to maintain her winning smile.
she had said with rather pathetic hesitancy instead of the forthright and
confident manner she tried to maintain at interviews.
"I know," he said simply,
his voice deep and resonant. "Sit down."
She withdrew her hand and sat in the
armchair on her left, taking care to smooth her skirt demurely down the backs
of her thighs as she did so.
"Not that one. That one!"
His voice was cold and calm and his hand pointed imperiously at the other
chair. Awkwardly she rose, walked across in front of him and sat in the other
chair, now thoroughly off balance and flustered.
That set the pattern for the rest of
the interview. Dr Rossiter barked questions at her, interrupting her replies on
some occasions and on others seeming to dismiss her answers as being simply
stupid. By the end of it Gina had been certain that she had failed miserably
and was resigning herself to finding a job while she tried to do her MA.
elsewhere when he announced; "That is satisfactory. I shall see you on the
first day of the term when we shall discuss how best you can approach your
She had been astonished and once again
completely off balance so when he had produced a piece of paper and told her he
needed her to sign it. She had gone to his desk gladly and leaned over it to
sign...well she wasn't sure what it was, it didn't seem to be anything more
than something about him being her personal tutor. It hadn't struck her until
some days later that he had laid the paper on his desk so that she had had to
come and stand alongside him and lean down close beside him to sign it.
And when it had occurred to her, she
put it down to the fact that she was an attractive woman and he was probably a
lonely old man trapped in a world of academics and starved of good looking
female company. She had been in the gym when that thought struck her and she
had grinned at her reflection as she pounded out the miles on the treadmill and
then worked on her abs and pecs. She was fairly tall, over five feet five, and
her efforts in the gym had given her a trim waist and a flat stomach which made
her 36D breasts stand out quite noticeably, her hips were wide and smoothly
rounded above her long legs. Before she went to change she had a quick look at
her reflection from the side and admired the fact that her bottom stood out
high, rounded and firm. No wonder Dr Rossiter had been a bit smitten, she
Now a fortnight after starting she was
faced with a Dr Rossiter who had trashed her first paper and had seemingly
dismissed her out of hand.
She gathered her wits and went forward
to claim her papers.
“I will expect a completely re-worked
essay on my desk immediately after lunch tomorrow. Without fail.” He spoke
without taking his eyes off the folder in front of him.
“But if it was just some errors of
punctuation Doctor-” she began, her voice quavering.
“With-out. Fail.” He interrupted her
and pronounced each word as if passing sentence.
“Yes, Doctor.” The words were out
before she realised she had spoken. And as she closed the office door it dawned
on her that she had to re-read, guess how much he had read and would therefore
remember tomorrow, re-write and had better check up on the correct uses of the
apostrophe. And all by tomorrow.
She wandered morosely back to her room
and then made herself a coffee in the communal kitchen of the corridor in her
hall of residence.
“Hey! How’s it going?” A voice
interrupted her thoughts.
Gina turned to find Carol standing
behind her. Carol was the enigma of the hall. If Gina was regarded with some
awe, having graduated with such a spectacular degree, Carol was regarded with
disbelief by a lot of the other girls. How she could have arrived at university
at all was what puzzled everyone.
She dressed like a tart and behaved
like one, she had quite a few tattoos as well. But Gina had soon discovered
that Carol didn’t conform to anyone’s stereotype and there was a sharp
intelligence beneath the outer layer of sleaze. But just at that moment, the
sleaze was very much on show – as was a lot else.
She was in her baby doll nightdress,
which she often wore in the lounge and kitchen in the evenings. It was more or
less entirely transparent and came down only to her crotch. Over her more than
ample breasts there was a panel of lace which just about hid her nipples but
the neckline left the wide upper swells of her breasts completely bare and they
swung and jiggled as she moved in a way that even Gina found distracting. It
didn’t help that what she wore in the way of knickers was no better. They were
filmy confections of lace and satin that barely contained the ripe pouch of her
vulva. One could almost see how the thick outer lips were pushing against the
fragile fabric. And occasionally they had been so transparent as to allow
anyone who cared to look a glimpse of them as she appeared to shave her pubes completely.
What made matters worse was that she wasn’t running to fat, she was quite trim
below her large breasts and her thighs – though not as long as Gina’s - were
smooth and quite firm.
Gina had never even had a teenage
crush on a female teacher or a sixth former. Other women had never interested
her but there was something so openly available about Carol – Gina felt that if
anyone made her the most blatant invitation she would just nod and say; ‘Sure,
why not,’ - that even Gina found her unsettling.
“Hi, Carol. Coffee?” she said. Carol
was leaning against the side of the doorway, looking tousled and sleepy, her
dark hair loosely piled on her head.
“Yeah, thanks hun.”
She came forward and patted Gina’s
bottom as she did so.
“Y’know that’s a really bad habit
you’ve got there. And anyway why aren’t you in lectures, it’s half past
eleven!” Gina said.
“It’s just my way of appreciating the
finer points of the female form. And it’s Prussian aggression in the
mid-nineteenth century and I did that at school. Yawn, yawn.” She yawned
theatrically and put her hand over her mouth then grinned at Gina. “Anyway
weren’t you supposed to be closeted with Herr Doktor this morning?”
Damn her. She really didn’t miss a
thing, despite how she made you think she was just a dumb bunny.
“Yeah, I was supposed to be. But he
says I’ve made some basic punctuation errors and wants me to re-write the whole
Carol grimaced. “Well he does have a
reputation for being a stickler for correctness in all things.” She sipped her
coffee and then grinned at Gina. “Bit of a looker in the Daddy-type department
“How do you mean?”
“You know! The sort of Daddy most girls
would have liked. Handsome, authoritative and stern. A firm hand to guide a
girl through the storms of life.”
Gina laughed out loud but saw that
Carol wasn’t joking. She thought back to the first time she had seen Doctor
Rossiter. Yes, he was good looking and he was rather intimidating but in a way
that made her want to do what pleased him so that he wouldn’t be. She realised
that she was going to sweat blood on this paper over the next day because she
wanted him to look up and say; ‘Well done, Miss Worthington.’
She realised that Carol was looking at
her closely, a shrewd smile on her face. “Yes, you do see what I mean don’t
“Well! Yes, he is quite good looking in
a mature sort of way I suppose.”
“Yeah. A man not a boy. Not like those
guys on the Geography course I was out with last night. It was like being with
pissed up octopuses! Hands everywhere.”
Both girls laughed but Gina was aware
that Carol had hit the nail on the head. Undergraduate boys had never really
lit her fires. She had had a few flings and was certainly no virgin but even
despite the orgasms she had never felt entirely as fulfilled and ‘womanly’ as
all the magazines she read had told her she would in the wake of a good night
between the sheets.
“Well, whatever. But I’d better get
down to work,” Gina said before she could get too bogged down in examining her
sexuality on a Monday morning. She had more pressing problems, like where to
put these blessed apostrophes.
“I’ve got to shower and then go into
town to meet this guy I met on Friday,” Carol said, stretching languidly so
that the baby doll rode up to her stomach and her breasts lifted beneath the thin
veil of lace. And Gina couldn’t help noticing that her knickers were especially
filmy and she could almost see the cleft of her sex lips.
She grabbed her cup and made for her
room feeling almost as flustered and unsettled as she had when she left the doctor’s
Once back in front of her computer she
had to really cudgel her brain back onto the right rails of thought to tackle
the fourteenth century once more.
She googled all she could find and
realised where she had gone wrong regarding the punctuation. But then she had
to make sure that the actual content was up to the doctor’s standards. He
hadn’t been entirely complimentary about that either.
In the end it was the mental image she
had of Doctor Rossiter’s strong face breaking into a smile as he looked up from
her work and told her that he was pleased with what he had read which spurred
her away from thoughts about men sexually. Carol’s lush figure and talk of what
mature, self-confident men could provide for a girl receded eventually.