A LESSON IN MANNERS
By
Fidelis Blue
Octavia took the pretty pink box from the chest of drawers and removed
the lid. She reached inside and drew out the bra, the encircling tissue paper
rustling enticingly. The black satin felt deliciously sleek and smooth under her
fingers, contrasting with the rougher sensation of the purple lace which trimmed
the edges of the cups. She held them up to her naked breasts, then put her arms
through the straps. The bra fastened at the front. That was the rule for all her
bras now; rear-fastening did not provide the instant access which was required.
She did up the cunningly designed little catch, which was almost invisible when
joined. The straps were positioned at the side. This was also now a rule; only
the balconette fitting was permitted, since it not only allowed for an unimpeded
decolletage but rendered them 'accessible', as Stefan had put it. The bra was
cut very low, no more than a half-cup really, so that the upper part of her
aureoles were plainly visible, nut-brown against her creamy white skin, and she
could even, if she stretched her arms upwards, catch a glimpse of her nipples, a
darker, almost mahogany colour.
Next from the box she took the matching belt, with its two elasticated
suspenders on either side culminating in little silver clasps. The belt, like
the bra, was trimmed with purple lace. She held it against her belly, then
turned round and craned her head to look at her bottom in the full-length
mirror. All the marks had gone now. It was a full three weeks since the cane had
last set its livid red signature across the ivory flesh of her full, rounded
buttocks. When he had laid it down Stefan had said that her training was now at
an end. There would be no more of the regular beatings designed to instil
discipline. Henceforth she would be chastised only if she was disobedient.
'At least, that is probably so,' he said, with one of his enigmatic
smiles. 'Though I reserve the right to indulge a whim, if one should come upon
me.'
Octavia fastened the strap of the satin belt behind her. On each side
the belt tapered down at the front of her thigh before culminating in one of the
suspenders supporting her stockings. There were two other suspenders at each
side, making six in all. The centre of the belt was cut high, the top ending
just below her navel, the lower part leaving bare her mound of Venus. The thick
curls of her bush had recently been coiffed according to Stefan's instructions.
The lips of her sex were denuded, the dark hairs removed by a strong-armed
assistant at the beauty salon who grinned unsympathetically at Octavia's gasps
of pain as the strips of wax were pulled away.
'Can there be beauty without a little suffering?' she joked. Little does
she know, thought Octavia.
The girl had then trimmed Octavia to a neat little delta just above the
apex of her sex, the edges sharply manicured, the remaining hairs snipped to a
length of one third of an inch, exactly as Stefan had specified. Octavia put a
hand to herself as she stood before the mirror, feeling the smoothness of her
stripped labia, the prickliness of the newly cut hair above. Stefan said he had
further plans. He was contemplating a tattoo, an elaborate letter S in the
centre of her mons, just where the tuft of hair now was. And maybe, he'd said, a
piercing, though he couldn't decide if it should be in the hood of the clitoris
or a ring through one of her labia. She shivered at the thought as she held
herself protectively, her palm pressed close against the delicate place between
her legs. Perhaps he'll never do it, she thought. He had a horror of anything
vulgar. If she showed him that every porn star now had something similar,
perhaps he'd relent.
From one of her drawers she took a packet of brand-new stockings,
wrapped in cellophane. She'd selected them carefully, the sheerest she could
get, delicately flesh-coloured, with a lace trim around the top. Lifting one leg
on to the stool before her dressing table, she slowly drew on the first
stocking, taking pleasure in the texture of the gossamer-like material as she
unrolled it up her thigh. Carefully she fastened the clasps, one at the front,
two at the side. She stood up to take a look.
Good legs, she thought. It was the first compliment Stefan had paid her,
that her calves were a perfect shape, not too muscular but not too slim either.
He'd liked her knees too. You have such good bone structure there, he'd said. No
one had ever mentioned her knees before, but now she liked to look at them.
She drew on the other stocking, making sure that the tension was just
right, tight enough so there would be no sag when she stood up, but loose enough
to let the material cling to the contours of her legs.
From the box she drew out the final piece of lingerie. She'd bought the
ensemble last week, at a specialist shop where Stefan had opened an account for
her. She'd never let a man buy her things before. She was too proud, and besides
she had money of her own. But Stefan had insisted:
'You will always wear exactly what I say. Not only must you patronise
none but the best boutiques; you must never consider the cost when making a
purchase. The only criterion must be whether it would please me. I don't think
it unreasonable that I should be allowed to pay for this stipulation.'
Octavia held the french knickers up to her cheek. The black satin was
slippery against her skin. The repeated motif of purple lace trimmed the bottom
of the legs. Slowly she slipped them on and pulled them up to her waist. She
liked the effect. The knickers came up to just under her navel, but hid the belt
except for the suspenders beneath. The wide-cut legs were quite short, only an
inch or so below her crotch, but they gave a touch of old-fashioned elegance
quite unachievable by briefs or a thong.
Octavia glanced at her watch. She'd been so engrossed in the ritual of
putting on her new underwear she had let time slip past. With more urgency she
took a grey woollen dress from the closet and pulled it over her head. It
buttoned up the front, as all her clothes now must. The neck was high and the
fitting loose enough that the outline of her bra did not show though. The
hemline was a couple of inches above the knee, short enough to be fashionable
and show her knees plus a glimpse of thigh, but not enough to raise an eyebrow
in the boardroom.
Quickly she selected shoes, of soft brown leather, the heels of a
moderate height. She put on her make-up, a little eye shadow, a hint of
lipstick. Before she arrived at Stefan's house the lipstick would have to be
reapplied. He specified a lip-gloss of a particular hue, a forceful shade of
scarlet that would match the varnish on her nails. Thank goodness she'd done the
nails last night, she thought, glancing again at her watch, then sat at her
dressing table to do her hair, pulling the luxuriant dark locks back, pinning
them at the back in an effect that was elegant if a trifle severe.
She was pleased with the general effect. She knew that men found her
attractive. Ever since her teens most of them had looked at her in that certain
way, a look of longing, a look that so often belied the smooth talk on their
lips, the polite manners. She knew what they wanted. But very few had ever been
lucky enough to receive it. Most of her life she had found men not worth the
effort. She could satisfy herself better than their clumsy efforts, and even the
rare one who had finesse so often proved to outstay his welcome. Men pretended
they were predatory creatures, that they wanted pleasure before all. But mostly,
she found, they were needy, they wanted reassurance, attention, even love.
Driving through the early morning traffic she made a little face at the
mere thought of the word. Love she could do without. On the rare occasions when
masturbation would not suffice she preferred to pick up some inconsequential boy
whom she could toss aside after he'd been used, rather than call on one of her
men-friends. A year ago she'd discovered a web site which offered a selection of
handsome youths at reasonable charges with no questions asked. She had wondered
whether this offered the perfect solution. Until, that is, she met Stefan.
She parked the car in the underground garage, waving to the uniformed
security man. She checked her appearance once more in the mirror of the lift.
Then she swept into her office, with a brief greeting to her secretary, who came
teetering after on her impossibly high heels.
Octavia stared down at them as Tracey stood by her desk, waiting for
instructions.
'Can you really walk in those things?' she said brusquely. 'Aren't you
doing your feet some damage.'
'No, not really,' Tracey answered in her little girl voice.
Octavia rattled off a stream of orders. Tracey made notes.
'And,' said Octavia finally, 'half a grapefruit, a yoghurt and some tea.
Straight away.'
'Yes, Miss Trenton,' said Tracey.
Octavia watched her walk away. Tracey's skirt was, as always, of such
brevity as to be indecent when she bent over, though undeniably she had the legs
for it. Octavia was at least glad that her own did not suffer in the comparison.
Tracey's breasts were prominent, and usually visible to some degree. Octavia had
had more than once to insist that a couple more buttons on her blouse be done
up. Her work was efficient enough, but Octavia had begun to feel that in some
way her dignity was not enhanced by being served by a blonde bimbo, however good
at her job. Recently she heard that the really smart women executives were
getting themselves male secretaries. It would be so much more satisfying to have
a young man at her beck and call. He would have to dress well, and if he had
long eyelashes or a trim bottom, so much the better.
At 10.30 she went up to the boardroom for a meeting. She was to give a
presentation on the future investment programme. Her proposals were
controversial and she knew there would be opposition from certain quarters, but
Octavia relished any opportunity to parade her logical mind and powers of
expression before people of influence. She spoke for twenty minutes, making her
points crisply with the help of some well-designed charts. Then she sat down on
a chair at the front of the room. She crossed her legs. The swish of her
stockings against each other caused several of the men to look at her. She
stared back coolly. There was a brief discussion, during which she dealt deftly
with the questions thrown at her. When the chairman put it to a vote, Octavia's
proposals were carried with only three dissenting. She made a mental note of
their names for future reference. It was always as well to have one's enemies
flushed out into the open.
She lunched in the executive dining room. The chairman sat down beside
her and complimented her on her presentation. She smiled demurely. She knew some
women managers used their femininity to court advancement. She'd seen them
openly flirting with the senior executives, and knew of at least one who had
slept her way to her present position. Octavia refused to play this game. She
had enough confidence in her ability not to think it necessary, and she
disdained to use her sexual appeal as a bargaining counter. No man would have
access to her body unless she freely chose to give it. And in general she did
not.
She worked hard at her desk for two hours, trying not to think of what
the rest of the day would bring. At one point she went to the bathroom and in
the seclusion of a stall enjoyed lifting her skirt to look again at the luxury
of her knickers. She knew if she allowed herself to think about what would
happen later, she might be tempted to touch herself, but this was now forbidden.
Of course Stefan could no know for sure if she had done so. Yet such was his
power over her, such was his insight into the hidden secrets of her mind, that
she feared somehow he would know the truth. Primly she wiped herself, pulled up
her knickers and smoothed down her skirt.
It was a Friday. At lunchtime she'd heard Tracey on the phone to her
boyfriend. She soon put the phone down when she saw Octavia observing her, but
not before Octavia heard her arranging to meet him straight after work. So when
Octavia left the office at four, she gave Tracey a long list of instructions
which would keep her busy till at least half an hour after the official
finishing time. If her boyfriend had to wait, that was just too bad. Octavia
wasn't going to start getting sentimental just because she was going to replace
her.
It was an hour's drive out of the city to Stefan's house in the country.
She put some Bach on the CD player to help soothe her. At this point just before
an encounter she was apt to get over-excited. Stefan didn't care for that. Once
he'd inspected her as soon as she arrived and found she was wet between her
legs.
'Did I ask for this?' he demanded.
She was silent.
'I repeat, did I ask for this? Did you have permission to think the
thoughts that have stimulated you?'
'No,' she whispered.
'What?' he snapped.
'No, sir,' she said.
He had chastised her with a new whip he had bought. It was made of
plaited buffalo hide, short but heavy. She could not have borne many more than
the six strokes he gave her without begging for mercy, something she deeply
disliked doing. She hated to show weakness before him. She preferred to take her
punishment 'like a man', as they said. It added to the humiliation if she could
not suffer in silence.
She turned in at the gate. It was just five o'clock. As she drove up the
drive she saw the gardener's wheelbarrow on the grass. There was no sign of the
man himself. Perhaps he was keeping out of her way after their altercation last
week. She smiled to herself. She'd put him in his place; she wasn't going to
accept insolence from a mere servant.
She rang the bell. Jackson answered the door. He was the butler and also
Stefan's personal manservant, a saturnine figure with greying hair, fortyish,
who never smiled. Octavia had not felt comfortable in his presence ever since
Stefan had tied her naked over his desk one day, then rung for some tea. She had
watched Jackson's eyes as he entered the room with the tray, saw how they took
in her naked body, running over her breasts, her belly and buttocks. She
couldn't tell from his expression whether he felt lust, contempt or amusement.
But she knew what her own emotions were: shame, but mixed with a perverse form
of pride.
Jackson showed her into the study. It was empty. She stood before the
mirror over the hearth and inspected her hair and make-up. She went and sat on
the couch, crossing her legs, looking out of the window. The clock on the
mantelpiece ticked slowly. She kept glancing at her watch. It was just like
Stefan to keep her waiting. It was all part of his tactics. She wondered if
perhaps even now he was watching her through some secret spyhole. It was the
sort of thing he liked to do.
The door opened. Stefan entered, closing it behind him. Without a word
Octavia knelt on the floor, leaning forward and pressing her forehead to the
carpet, her hands on each side of her head.
Stefan stood over her.
'Has any man touched you since last we met?'
'No, sir,' she said.
'Have you touched yourself?'
'Not in that way, sir,' she replied.
'Make a confession of your lustful thoughts,' he said.
She was silent. He put his foot on her right hand, pressing it hard into
the carpet with his shoe. It began to hurt. She started speaking, telling him of
a night last week when something she was reading started a chain of thought,
which she forbade herself after five minutes. She said also that she had seen a
young man on the train and fantasised about him.
'In what way?' Stefan demanded.
'I imagined his bottom naked. I thought about stroking it, squeezing it.
Putting my hand between his legs. But then he got off the train and I stopped.'
She recounted some other minor instances of erotic reverie. She said
nothing of her thoughts about a male secretary. She knew she would have to ask
Stefan's permission to make such an appointment, but that could wait.
'Stand up,' said Stefan.
Octavia got to her feet and stood with her arms at her sides, waiting.
Stefan sat down in an arm chair, looking up at her with a stern expression. What
was in store for her? She had not confessed to anything much, nothing which
would require more serious chastisement than possibly having her pleasure
postponed for a while.
'A while ago I pronounced that your training was complete,' Stefan said.
'It seems I was in error. Though I have taught you obedience, I omitted to teach
you manners.'
'Manners?' Octavia echoed.
'And respect for others.'
Respect for others? Whatever could he mean?
'So now you will receive a lesson,' he said, getting to his feet.
He opened the door of the room.
'Come,' he ordered.
Octavia's heels clicked on the polished wooden floor of the hall as she
followed Stefan to a large sitting room on the far side of the house. Stefan
opened the door and ushered her in. On the sofa sat a young man whom Octavia
instantly recognised as the gardener. He wore a sweat-stained white T-shirt and
grubby tight-fitting jeans. He was unshaven and his tousled black hair was in
need of cutting.
'This is Manuel,' said Stefan to Octavia. 'You have made his
acquaintance, though without learning his name. You should know that I observed
through the window the incident at the conclusion of your last visit. Manuel has
filled in some further details.'
Octavia's thoughts went back. She had been walking to her car. Just as
she approached it the sprinklers came on. In a moment she found herself in the
middle of a shower of cold water. Desperately she fumbled in her bag for her car
keys and in her haste she dropped them. She cried out in anger and frustration
as she knelt on the ground looking for them, the water continuing to cascade
down. Then, just as she got to her feet it shut off. The gardener came towards
her, scarcely concealing a smile, though he was muttering words of apology.
Octavia stamped her foot.
'Look at me,' she cried. 'I'm soaked.'
She was wearing a new silk dress, which now clung tightly to her skin,
the water rendering it almost transparent. Her nipples, hardened by the cold
water, were sticking through the dress and the thin silk camisole she wore
underneath.
The gardener mumbled another apology, but the humour of the situation
got the better of him and he could not refrain from smiling again. Octavia was
furious. Coming on top of the shock of the water and the undignified nature of
her appearance, this was too much. She smacked him a stinging blow across the
face with her hand.
'Damn you,' she said. 'Show some respect.'
His expression changed as he put a hand to his cheek. Octavia finally
got her car opened and drove off without a backward glance.
All this she now recalled under Stefan's stern gaze.
'I do not care to have my servants treated with such arrogance,' he
said. There was a menace in his voice that filled her with dread.
'I - I'm sorry,' she stammered.
'A simple apology will no longer suffice,' he replied. 'You must make an
act of restitution.'
'Restitution?'
'Turn around,' Stefan said.
She turned so that her back was to the gardener, whom she could see
reflected in the large mirror above the fireplace.
'Lift your skirt,' said Stefan.
Octavia hesitated for a moment. Surely Stefan would not expose her to
this unkempt menial.
'I said, lift your skirt,' Stefan snapped. Octavia shrugged as if to
disdain the action, but she raised her skirt as far as her stocking tops.
'Higher,' said Stefan. 'Up to the waist.'
Reluctantly Octavia pulled her skirt right up. Stefan put out a hand and
stroked her satin knickers.
'The lady has good taste in lingerie, Manuel,' Stefan said. 'But what is
concealed is even more appealing.'
He put his thumbs in the waist of her knickers and pulled them half-way
down her thighs. In the mirror Octavia could see both men stare intently at her
naked bottom. Stefan put out his hand again and stroked her right buttock.
'Very fine, is it not?' he said to Manuel in a tone of friendly
intimacy.
He beckoned him forward and turned Octavia round to face him. As she
held up her skirt, they looked at her belly and her mons, naked below the
suspender belt. Stefan ran his hand lightly over the little tuft of cropped
curls, then put his hand between her legs. Octavia blushed with shame. To be
treated so in front of a mere servant, as if she were some farm animal at a
market! Stefan pushed a finger between the lips of her sex and up inside her
cunt. He moved it around, from side to side. Octavia looked at Manuel, who
stared her straight in the eye. She looked away in humiliation. Stefan took his
finger out of her and held it under Manuel's nose.
'Do you like the smell of a woman?' he laughed.
Manuel smiled in return. There was a glint in his eye. Stefan reached
out and yanked Octavia's knickers down to her ankles, lifting each foot in turn
as he removed the garment. Octavia let her skirt fall to cover herself. Stefan
went behind her and loosened the fastenings in her hair, which cascaded down to
her shoulders. He grabbed a handful of the dark locks and twisted hard. Octavia
gave a little cry as Stefan pushed her over towards the sofa and made her kneel
on the carpet.
'Please take a seat,' Stefan said to Manuel, indicating the sofa.
Stefan relinquished his grip on Octavia's hair. Standing behind her and
leaning down, he began to undo the buttons on the front of her dress. Then he
unfastened the hook at the front of her bra, exposing her breasts. He fondled
them.
'Do you like tits?' he said to Manuel.
'Si, senor,' Manuel replied.
Suddenly Stefan took each nipple between finger and thumb and twisted
hard as he lifted them upwards. Octavia gasped. Stefan held her nipples tightly
for half a minute. Octavia breathed in deeply, trying to absorb the pain. When
at last he let go, the blood rushed into her nipples so that they stood out
proud from the brown aureoles.
'Now,' said Stefan. ''it is not enough that you apologise to Manuel. You
must atone for your insulting behaviour by being of service to him. Do you
understand what service I wish you to perform?'
Jackson had seen her naked and bound , but never had Stefan made her
touch another man. To do such a thing, on her knees to a gardener! Yet she had
no doubt what it was that Stefan intended.
'I think so,' Octavia answered in a low voice.
'Do it then,' said Stefan.
He stood and watched as she bent forward and took hold of Manuel's belt.
She undid it, then unbuttoned the flies of his jeans. He wore nothing
underneath. She reached inside and pulled out his cock. It was half erect
already, thick and heavy but not yet quite stiff. Holding the shaft in her hand,
she peeled back the foreskin. She could smell his pungent male odour. She
lowered her head and took him in her mouth. Until she had met Stefan her efforts
at fellatio had been tentative. It was an act she had rarely volunteered,
performing it reluctantly only when requested. It was not consistent with her
image of herself; it was too passive. But under Stefan's tutelage she learned
how to use her lips, her tongue, even her teeth. He had showed her the sensitive
spots, under the rim of the glans, and the ridge down the back. She had been
taught how to cradle a man's balls, how to stroke the perineum, encouraged to
slip a finger into the anus.
None of these refinements had she performed for any man except Stefan.
Now what she had regarded as almost a sacred ritual was being squandered on a
mere servant. But Stefan was watching her intently. If there was the least thing
perfunctory about her performance, he would know it. And she knew she would pay
the penalty.
She wondered if she would have to keep the gardener's cock in her mouth,
receive his ejaculation, even swallow it? These questions never found an answer,
because Stefan ordered her to her feet. Once more grabbing her by the hair and
twisting it painfully, he led her to the end of the sofa and pushed her down
roughly so that she lay bent double over the arm, her face buried in the
cushions, her buttocks stretched taut. Stefan stood behind her and lifted her
skirt right up to her waist, exposing her flawless white bottom.
'Manuel,' Stefan said, 'do you know the expression an eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth?'
'Si, senor,.' Manuel answered.
'She struck you, did she not?'
'Si, senor,' he replied.
'Then you shall strike her in return.'
Stefan went to a cupboard at the end of the room where he kept a
selection of what he called 'instruments of chastisement'. They include a
variety of whips, two heavy leather straps, a riding crop and several thin
bamboo canes of varying length. Octavia had experienced the effects of several
of these in the preceding months. She knew which she feared most, and her
stomach turned to ice when she saw that Stefan had selected one of the canes,
about three feet long. He walked back across the room, swishing it from side to
side. The sound filled her with dread; had she not been supported by the sofa
she was sure her legs would have given way.
'Did you ever use such a thing?' Stefan asked Manuel.
'No, senor,' he replied.
'The main thing,' said Stefan in a matter of fact voice, as if he were
giving instruction at tennis, 'is that you must deliver a blow equal in force on
both cheeks of the ass, favouring neither one side nor the other. To do this it
is essential to stand in the correct position.'
He took Manuel by the shoulders and placed him just behind Octavia,
facing her at right angles. She could see that he had returned his cock inside
his jeans, but a bulge indicated it had retained its stiffness. Putting the cane
in Manuel's hand, Stefan raised it and brought it down slowly until the cane
just touched Octavia's behind. She shivered.
'Like that,' said Stefan. 'Please proceed. And strike hard. She lacks
manners, but not courage.'
Octavia could scarcely believe that a common servant, an ignorant youth
who could barely speak English, should have the effrontery to beat her. She
half-expected him to lay down the cane, unable to carry out the act. Then
suddenly she heard the cane hiss through the air and crack against the soft
flesh of her buttocks. The pain seared through her, so bad that she clenched her
hands and forced the cushions against her mouth so that her cry should be
muffled. The urge to put her hands behind her, to rub the pain away, was almost
irresistible. Yet she dare not. She had been taught to endure without complaint
and without the least attempt to mitigate whatever pain it was decreed she
suffer.
The second blow fell before the effect of the first had ebbed away, and
in almost exactly the same place. Whatever other qualifications the gardener
lacked, he had physical dexterity and timing. Nor was there anything in the
least tentative about the strokes he administered. She had hoped that perhaps if
he summoned up the nerve to beat her at all, that he would do so only in a
half-hearted manner, just for show. But the blows that struck her at regular
intervals were in deadly earnest, so much so that she fast approached the limits
of what she could bear. Yet it would be too humiliating to beg for mercy, and
she feared that if she did so Stefan would extract his own punishment later. He
admired her fortitude and would not take kindly to, as he would doubtless see
it, being let down by her before another man.
She had counted a dozen fierce strokes when at last, out of the corner
of her eye, she saw Manuel toss the cane aside.
'Are you content with your retribution?' Stefan demanded.
'Si, senor,' Manuel answered.
'But doubtless there is a further act you would wish to perform in order
to bring closure to this episode?'
'Senor?' Manuel inquired, not following his meaning.
'Do you wish to fuck her?'
There was a momentary silence. Manuel looked at Octavia's naked rump,
criss-crossed with angry red lines.
'Si, senor,' he said.
'Proceed,' said Stefan.
Manuel stood behind her and took out his cock once more. Octavia felt
him enter her, the cock placed tentatively between the wet, swollen lips of her
sex, then suddenly rammed into her, right up to the hilt. Stefan began to fuck
with a regular rhythm, gripping her hips with his hands as his cock pounded in
deep. She concentrated hard on not coming. It was a rule that she must never
orgasm unless and until Stefan gave her permission. She was not allowed to ask
for pleasure, and woe betide her if she came to an unsanctioned climax. Soon
Manuel ejaculated and withdrew. Octavia stayed bent over the sofa. She could
feel Manuel's sperm beginning to trickle out of her.
Stefan shook Manuel by the hand and led him to the door. Then he
returned. He fondled her behind affectionately.
'Poor Octavia,' he said. 'Such a hard lesson. But I think you have
learnt it well.'
She was silent.
'Have you not?' he asked.
She knew the slightest attempt at cockiness would be dealt with firmly,
but she couldn't resist.
'Si senor,' she said.
