I knew how I wanted to mark it as my territory, I thought. And knew I had found the right plaything to do so. There was always one, hidden amongst the ones flashier and bigger and louder, always one who had the potential to become a piece of art, if given the chance.
And here was hers. Let us see what she was made of, shall we?
"Do it," I said.
I let her squat there for a good minute or two, allowing her muscles to burn, that muscle burn to spread throughout her whole body as she strained, still unsure what exactly it was her new mistress wanted from her.
Then I clapped my hands, calling for James.
The mansion's major domus had been waiting outside, on the other side of the door, always close enough to hear my voice or respond to a command. And he entered quietly, that hulking man in his uniform, with barely a raised eyebrow at the display that was unfolding in front of him.
Being mother's lover and favorite, he thought that he had seen it all, had partaken in most things that had happened in this office.
And that is why I wished for him to be here.
I wanted that particular audience.
To show how wrong he was.
"Fetch me a whip, James," I ordered. He nodded slightly and opened one of the office's cabinets.
I knew, of course, where mother had stored her toys, but not only did I not wish to divide my attention between sweet, sweet Caroline and such a mundane task, I wished to show James what exactly had become of that 20-year old boy he had known prior to my wander years.
"The cat," I ordered him.
With another nod, his large hands took out one of the heaviest whips, a bushel of tight leather strips that hang down from a long grip shaped like an ebony, uncut cock. It looked small in those mighty hands, was not made for somebody his size to handle.
It was perfect for me.
I stared at the squatting Irish girl. Sweat had formed on that beautiful, ghostly skin of her, dripping down her body, gathering between her legs before falling down, droplet by droplet, onto the office's carpet.
Advertisment