The young woman stood looking out of the tall
Georgian-style window to the London street below, the
grey tints of which were bathed in the pale light of afternoon sunshine. There was a faint smile on her rather thin
mouth; a smile that seemed simultaneously smug and yet also cruelly
derisive. Dark eyes that carried a hint
of the hardness of her mouth as she glanced down at a small, golden wrist
watch.
"Late
... " she murmured to herself, and the regular
white teeth showed in a wider and rather tigerish
smile.
Then
the young woman turned from the window and moved across the room. Her figure was trim and well formed - a fact
emphasised by the close-fitting dress she wore.
Her stride was easy and graceful, with a certain
arrogance in it - and this, too, was emphasised by the fact she wore a pair of
gleaming black boots of calf leather, with very high heels.
These
boots did not look quite as bizarre as they might have done a few years ago -
for such items of footwear have become the fashion and are quite
commonplace. However, it must be added
that, even today, it would have been most unusual to see any woman wearing such
boots. For the heels were tapering,
six-inch spikes.
When
she reached the side of an elegant Louis Quinze desk
there came again that faintly tigerish smile from the
young woman. Her small hands, with their
red finger nails went to the drawer.
From it, one hand drew a rod, smoothly rounded and of a yellowish
colour. The two and a half foot length
tapered finely to its tip and, at the other, thicker end, it was reinforced by
what looked like white leather but may have been plastic material. With a look of considerable relish, the young
woman ran her left hand along the length of the rod. A glint seemed to come into those dark eyes
of hers, set in the high cheek-boned face.
Then, effortlessly, the fingers bent the rod into a near semi-circle -
clear evidence of its extreme flexibility.
The fingers released the tip and the rod sprang up, swaying whippily for a few moments.
"Late
..." repeated the young woman. Then
she replaced the rod and closed the drawer.
The
young woman's name was Vanda Raven, her age was twenty-three, and she was
currently residing in one of the smaller, more exclusive squares in Belgravia.
*****
***** *****
"Oh driver ... can't you hurry more ...
please ... "
There
was a note of desperation in the cultured voice of the woman who leaned forward
in the taxi. Full lips trembled so that
they had to be bitten to be restrained; well-manicured hands twisted a pair of
gloves to near ruin.
"Doing
my best, lady," replied the driver in typical, taciturn fashion. "Can't think what's so important it
can't wait a moment. Don't want us both
written off, do you?"
Perhaps
that might be the best solution, thought the woman. But even as she did so, the idea of
mutilation and death filled her with dread.
No, I'm too much of a coward, she said to herself. Too weak in every way. Otherwise, why would I be doing what I am?
The
woman sat back in the taxi and looked out with hate at the cars jamming the
small West End street.
How could they know - how could the driver know - the importance of
speed? Oh God, why hadn't she left her
home earlier? But then, how was she to
know she would run into Muriel Branksome? Muriel was not the sort of person one could
afford to cut.
One
long and shapely limb crossed over the other as a hand brushed back a strand or
two of deep-dark auburn hair that fell to her shoulders. It was hot in the cab and the woman opened
her light summer coat ... thus exposing beneath an expensive-looking pale blue
dress and a pair of full, high breasts.
"Oh
God," she moaned, just above her breath, striving to hold back the tears
that came into her eyes. Despite trying
to check herself, she stole another glance at her wrist watch. There was that now familiar tingle of fear at
the nape of her neck. The hands stood
ominously near three ... and she must still be all of five minutes away, even
if the traffic moved soon. "Oh God
... " repeated the woman and, burying her face in
her hands, she added, "please God ... make the traffic move ... soon ...
please ... "
As
always, when she was on her way to her Hellish weekly rendezvous, her heart was
beating unnaturally fast and she felt a sickness in her stomach. The sickness of shame and
dread. How could anyone - above
all her friends and acquaintances - have believed she was doing what she
was? They would probably have laughed and
considered it a joke in rather bad taste.
Not surprising, in view of the fact that she could sometimes hardly even
believe what she was doing herself.
The
taxi jerked into motion again, and the woman did not forget to murmur thanks to
the Lord. Even so she was aware that
even He could not check the inevitable march of time and the dread within her
increased. The dread. The rage. And the hate.
The
woman's name was Julia Pryce-Seymour, her age was twenty-eight, and she was
living in a two-room luxury flat in South Kensington.
*****
***** *****
There was a slam of a taxi door on the corner
of the square and Vanda Raven, moving to the window again, was just in time to
catch a glimpse of the hurrying figure, head bent, auburn hair flying. The sadistic pleasure of power filled her.
I
wonder what Julia's thinking and feeling at this very moment, she mused. The very idea was delicious in itself to
contemplate. In a muck sweat at being
late, I bet. Well, she had reason to
sweat. Wondering too, in what way I am
going to put her through her paces that afternoon. God, reflected Vanda, apart from the physical
pain of it, the mental side must be Hell on its own. How bitterly it must rile a woman of Julia's
temperament particularly ... how it must drive her to a near frenzy of rage and
hate ... that I CAN put her through her paces.
Well, such outburst of temperament had been in evidence during some of
the previous half dozen visits. They had
been appropriately dealt with. Just as
in the future they would be!
For,
thought Vanda, Julia will not turn back now.
She had already endured too much.
Now, she was sure, Julia would go on to the end of the road that had
been mapped out for her. What a
wonderful picture that conjured up.
*****
***** *****
Julia Pryce-Seymour pressed the large brass
doorbell and tried to compose herself ... to check the beating of her heart and
the trembling of her limbs. As she
waited, a pair of high heels clicked behind her on the pavement. There goes a free woman, she thought, with
envy. Not a woman like me.
The
wide door opened as suddenly and as silently as it always did. And there, half in the shadows,
stood Gavin, immaculate as ever as Vanda's 'manservant'. Lecherous, repellent Gavin, whom Julia knew
was Vanda's 'accomplice'.
"Good
afternoon, Miss," he said in that contrived, fruity voice of his. "Do come in ... I believe Miss Vanda is
already waiting your arrival,
but I will check ... "
Gavin,
in a dark suit from which his wrist seemed to protrude rather bonily, went to a house phone on the wall, depressed a
lever and announced Julia's arrival.
There were short, sharp but indistinguishable words from the phone and
then a click.
"You
are to go up, Miss," said Gavin, turning back. "May I take your coat?"
It
sounded like a polite suggestion, but really it was an order. She stood tense as Gavin moved behind her
and, putting his arms around her, took hold of the front of her coat. Lightly but deliberately, she knew, his
fingers touched the mounds of her breasts.
They lingered fractionally, moved to her shoulders, then down her back.
There was nothing she could do or say about it.
She shivered involuntarily at the creepy-crawly feeling it gave her.
"Thank
you, Miss," said Gavin with mock politeness as he folded the coat over his
arm and smiled thinly upon her ... eyeing her up and down. Lusting after her, she knew. Oh it was intolerable! Yet it had to be tolerated. Unthinkable!
But all too true.
Silently
Julia turned and made her hip-swinging way up the stairs, horribly conscious of
Gavin's eyes upon her still. She reached
the top and turning saw before her, at the end of the corridor, the wide
mahogany door. Julia reached it and stood
before it, her big breasts heaving, her palms sticky
as she sought to gain some measure of composure and control.
Control. Yes, it was
vital to have some of that. She must not
let herself be goaded by word or deed to breaking point - as she had been too
often before. For that was what Vanda
wanted. Somehow I must force myself to
control my hate, my fury, my bitterness, Julia told herself. I must forget my pride. I must submit. That was the way it had to be. But ... oh God ... how difficult it all was!
Sick
with dread, Julia knocked on the door.
"Come
in ... " A
little muffled, came that cruel yet crackling voice. So hideously familiar. Julia opened the door and saw that Vanda was
seated at her desk writing. Her dark
head was slightly bent, the dark hair drawn back and tied in a bow at the nape
of her neck ... and there was that aura of power about her. It made one feel like a small child going
into the Headmistress's study.
"You're
late," said Vanda, not looking up from her writing. "Six minutes, to be precise."
"I'm
... I'm sorry, Miss," said Julia, her voice sounding a little dry. "But the traffic was simply impossible ... "
"That's
no excuse ... and you know it," said Vanda, fixing Julia with her
dark-glittering eyes. Julia felt herself
quail inwardly. This young woman in
whose power she was, was quite unrelenting. "You should have left earlier or, you
lazy bitch, you could have walked. It
would not have taken more than twenty minutes."
"I
... I'm sorry, Miss," she repeated lamely.
"It won't occur again."
But she knew the futility of making excuses.
"I
hope not ... for YOUR sake," replied Vanda acidly. "Of course, it's typical of your
arrogance that you should take a taxi.
Walking is too commonplace for you, I suppose? Well, I shall deal with this piece of
arrogance - which has resulted in your lateness -shortly."
Julia
was digging her nails into her palms and biting her lips. What she had expected was happening - indeed,
how could it be otherwise? She saw, with
mingled hate and creeping dread, Vanda's eyes roving scornfully over her as she
stood submissively 'at attention'.
Control, You MUST keep control, she told herself.
"Go
and get stripped off", ordered Vanda, turning back to her writing.
Felling
rubbery at the knees, Julia turned and made for a door which led to the small
ante-chamber which led off the main salon.
Obey ... submit ... obey ... submit ... her mind throbbed. Once again the afternoon's 'session' was
beginning to take on its nightmare quality.
With
gloating eyes, Vanda watched the shapely hindquarters swinging across the
room. One could see at a glance why she
has progressed so far with the 'right' men, thought Vanda. For Julia's beauty and sexiness was
undeniable. Then, as Julia disappeared
into the ante-chamber, Vanda returned to her writing.
This
writing was not a pretence. She was engaged in correspondence with an old
friend - an old and trusted friend who shared her interests. This woman, Pamela Fairhave,
was living in the United States and, for some years, they had written to each
other voluminously upon their favourite topics of correction and
discipline. Facts, fiction and fantasy
had made up their letters ... and Vanda's acquisition of Julia had added
tremendous spice to their communications.
Of course, for reasons of security, no names were ever mentioned. And, needless to say, Pamela Fairhave much regretted that she could not join Vanda at
that time.
It
was quite customary for Vanda to write to her friend before and after Julia's
regular Wednesday visits. Her
imagination and enjoyment seemed to be stimulated by it ... and she was sure
she produced a more thrilling letter for Pamela.
" ... my divine Miss X has just arrived," she
wrote. "She came late so she'll pay
for that first. I've got that deep, deep
quivering feeling inside. It's been
marvellous, as you can imagine. By the
way, G has been pressing me to let him take a bigger part, as I promised him at
the outset. Much as I can understand his
impatience, I am not going to let him go the whole hog yet. However, it has already occurred to me that,
this afternoon, I might well arrange for him to smack that lovely bottom of
hers.
"Imagine
how our hoity-toity Miss will feel about that!
I reckon, if she had the option, she'd prefer a sound caning from me
rather than G's hand on her bare behind.
However, she won't get any such option ... "
At
that moment Julia came back into the main salon. She was now quite naked but for a frilly,
pale blue suspender belt, flesh-coloured nylon and a pair of gleaming red
leather shoes with heels as high as Vanda's.
These were what Vanda referred to as her 'disciplinary shoes'.
Thus
ungarbed, Julia had obeyed Vanda to the letter - for
she had been told to get stripped DOWN.
She would have been permitted to retain in addition, her brassiere and
panties. If she had been told to get
stripped NAKED, she would have returned in nothing but her high heels. Thus, on such verbal niceties, was Vanda's
disciplinary course founded.