This will make more sense if you have read the previous part of Justine.
Southern France, Decision Day minus 5
The next morning was hard. The events of the previous day seemed unreal - somehow the erotic dreams of the night were more believable, so that I was half convinced, half wanted to believe that nothing had happened, in reality, that everything I remembered was in the dream, that I had not allowed a man older than my father, a virtual stranger, fat and old, to push his fingers into my sex, that I had opened myself to him.
Inside myself, though was the truth, and everything was hard; I couldn’t shake the idea that everyone knew, the staff, Mme. Creux, the guards, the others. At the same time, desperately hoping that they did not know, telling myself there was no way he would have told anyone, I was determined to act as if everything was as it had been, to be as normal as possible.
The product of these two powerful feelings was that I was decidedly not the same as I had been. I found myself almost pathetically eager to please - giving Mme. Creux a weak but eager smile, curtsying to her, which I had never done before, rushing to offer to carry a heavy jug for her, to help with the flowers (fresh cut flowers arrived every day, large boxes of them, delivered into the cool of the cellars. Mme. Creux was a master arranger, it seemed, as the displays were marvellous).
I was allowed to help, but there was no acknowledgement, no thanks. Did this mean she knew? Or not? It was impossible to know. All I could do was hide my blushes and serve.
When it was time to prepare the Salon, Mme. Creux, as always, was there to direct me as to any special requirements, to check that everything was laid out as required.
She had something new for me, too;
“Mme. Danica finds the way your approach the coffee table inelegant. You will bend from the hips from now on, rather than squat down. She doesn’t like the tray on the floor, either. Practice now!”
The table they worked around in the salon was like a large coffee table, rather low, and very awkward for delivery of drinks and so on, especially as the day wore on and it became cluttered. I had discovered that it was safer, and more controllable, to squat down beside it, knees clamped tightly together to prevent views between my legs in the short skirts.
This new instruction would remove that concern, but add a new one - the ruffled underskirts of the maid uniform, and the stiff overskirt, made it certain that I would be offering views of my thighs, naked above the stocking tops, to whoever was behind me; and since I delivered and collected at all points of the table during the day, this would be all of them, in the end.
Again, the thought presented itself; was this anything to do with what had happened yesterday? Or was it coincidence? Did Danica want me to display myself, or was she genuinely fussy about my serving style? More impossible questions, racketing around in my head as I worked to satisfy Mme. Creux’ standards.
“If the table needs clearing, you will set the tray on the side, then approach the table, bend and remain bent as you tidy. No up, down, up, down, do you understand - that will be distracting. Only when a space is ready will you straighten, take whatever is to be removed to the side, then return with the tray and bend again. You will remain bent until all cups have been prepared for delivery. This will require added stability - your feet should be at least 50 centimetres apart as you bend. You will need to spread your legs as you bend in one elegant movement.”
I managed to deal with the unanswerable questions by burying them in discovering how to make this bend and spread move elegant, to make it a dance move, make it work. Mme. Creux insisted that my back should be curved, to bring my head and shoulders back up from the bend, so that I could be alert to any requirements; you must always be ready to receive instruction, to notice a need you could meet. The resulting pose was, to be sure, rather provocative, but it was also elegant and required something of the skills I had used so much of my childhood in learning.
Five minutes later, stupidly happy at the merest hint of approval from Mme. Creux, I knew that I was eager to show Danica just how good I was; and if the men wanted to look up my skirts, well, maybe I wan’t entirely unhappy about that.
The reality was a little different, of course, and I found myself blushing more than once during the day, as the positioning meant that I had no option but to bend over almost directly next to one man, and then another; within arm’s length, for extended periods, as I sorted piles of paper from notebooks, dealt with tangled laptop cables. I fully expected Habib, the Arab, to simply grab my sex when it was him I was next to, but once again, there was zero evidence that any one of them had even noticed a difference; least of all from Danica, who had instructed the change.
I was nothing. It went back and forth in my head, destructively, all day. Were they playing sex games with me? Or did they not even see me? If they saw me as a sex object, what did I think about that? Why had I not raised a fuss about yesterday’s incident? Why had I accepted this bending at the hip thing as if it was not deeply demeaning? Why was I almost happy at the idea of bending over in front of Sir Stephen?
Why didn’t he seem even to notice me when I did?
I found out, though, later that day, that at least one of them had noticed.
Almost as soon I had started, Chanxin had been having me deliver to her room, immediately after the salon had been cleared, a pot of green tea and some little snacks; it was her custom to withdraw and relax for a few hours at this point in the day.
It was a simple thing, and no trouble. I would knock at the door, she would say something in Mandarin which I had learned to interpret as Enter!, and I would go in and place the tray on the little side table. Rarely did she even acknowledge me; I would place the tray and leave. One of the housemaids presumably fetched it away later on. That was it; routine, meaningless, like everything else.
That day, though, entering as usual, I found Chanxin in her dressing gown, sitting on a low boudoir chair, painting her toenails.
“Put the tray down and come here, girl; you can do this for me.”
Picture: Chanxin
There was a low dressing table, and I put the tray there, before turning toward her, but;
“Do it properly, girl; I know you know how, you’ve been doing it all afternoon.”
She didn’t sound cross, or mean; her voice was almost friendly, but just being put right like that unsettled me completely. She was correct; I had not bent from the hip in the way I had done in the Salon, just casually put the tray aside.
But there was something happening; I felt it, but I had no idea what it was. The only safe thing to do, though, was to please, so I made sure to perform the bend very elegantly, first, to retrieve the tray, straighten up, feet together, then, bend again, spreading feet apart, to place the tray, then straighten up, all the while very conscious indeed that, from the low chair, should she wish, she could be looking at my crotch each time; facing away from her, I had no way of knowing if she did, but I was certainly blushing as I stood up, uncertain, not knowing what to do for a moment.
The same, even, smiling tone of voice;
“It’s the curtsey next, since you seem to have forgotten that, too, pretty girl.”
Curtsying directly in front of her, so close, was a totally different thing than doing it for all of them in the Salon; it felt personal and intimate, and humiliating, not to mention vulnerable - again, the low chair and the closeness seemed likely to give her a view of my nickers if I lifted as high as they wanted me to; and I dared not slack off, not this time.
Picture: Justine curtsies
Her superior little smile made it clear that Chanxin knew exactly how uncomfortable I was with this enforced little performance, and that she was enjoying my discomfort. The stupid thing was, that, starved of personal interaction as I was, I let her catch my eyes, so that she could see just how I was feeling it, let her see that I knew she was doing it to me, that I knew I was submitting. Her smile grew, a little question in her eyes, and I recalled that I was not supposed to look directly at anyone while curtsying, but to look respectfully at the floor in front of me; she was challenging me, asking me, archly, if I really wanted to be doing something else wrong, but there was complicity in her eyes, too, and my blushes deepened, wondering where this was going, almost breathless with anticipation of ..
.. nothing.
That was all that happened, then, as she indicated I should kneel at her side, the little footstool with the polish and the protective pads. I knelt, and recovered my composure over the next minutes as I concentrated on the task. I was not at all expert, my mother having disapproved of young girls wearing nail varnish; I’d been teaching myself over the summer, getting tips from the other waitress girls, but I needed to concentrate.
And because I was concentrating so hard, I did not notice, until I looked up, that she had parted her legs; and when I did look up, presented with her open, red sex, with its neat little patch of black curls, so close in front of me, so brazenly, I started, shocked, and spilled the nail varnish onto the rug.
I froze at first, while she reacted very smoothly, but not at all predictably. Rather than fussing about the rug, insisting I do something, anything like that, she captured my shocked upward look with her own superior, smiling gaze, and leant forward, to take my chin in her hand; ever so softly, but allowing not the slightest suggestion that she was not now controlling me.
Her voice was as calm as ever;
“Oh dear, silly girl. You have ruined the rug, and wasted my rather expensive and very hard to get nail varnish.”
“Now, you have to decide something. Do you want me to punish you, in which case I will take all responsibility, or do you want me to call Mme. Creux and tell her of your several failings?”
Several failings?
Oh! She was going to complain about the bending, too, and maybe about me looking at her disrespectfully during the curtsy.
My answer was reflex, unthinking;
“Please .. please don’t .. don’t tell Mme. Creux!”
“So, you’d like me to punish you, would you?”
I was like a deer in headlights. I very much did not want to be punished at all, and definitely not by …
I was overcome by blushes, then, as, once again, I could see that she could see what was in my mind, what was in my feelings, and I stopped breathing.
“O-oh; interesting; it appears that little Justine is not quite sure what she thinks about me punishing her. Let’s have a see, shall we?”
She became businesslike, then, controlling me without effort, without vehemence, just carrying me along with her certainty and superiority.
“Up with you, now. Into the bathroom, fetch tissues, lots of them, cover this mess up so it doesn’t spread. Then I think you need to straddle the chair so that it keeps your legs apart, and lean onto the back. Cross your hands behind your back, and reach up with each - grab a handful of hair, hold it tight. I don’t want to see your hands flapping about even once.”
Suppressing panicky feelings, I hurried to obey, so that I was soon helpless, not knowing what to think; too worried about what I might find myself thinking to even let myself think, my shoulders leaning into the seat back, legs straddling its arms, Chanxin behind me. It was only when she put her hand on my sex did I realise that I was hot, down there, and moaned my shame, helplessly, as her clever fingers explored me.
Her hand between my legs, on my sex, was a revelation; unlike the boys I had been with, she was confident and knowing; unlike Habib, she was subtle and specific; unlike me when I touched myself, it was not my experience she was interested in, but hers, and the combination made it feel as if she owned me, immediately; mastery over my pussy by right, and I gasped, all resistance evaporating. A few simple, almost brutally direct manipulations and she had my hips working for her, making soft, helpless little cries.
“Quite advanced, for such an innocent looking young girl. I am surprised. Perhaps you are surprised yourself? I think you are.”
“No matter, punishment is punishment. We’ll have this skirt up, I think.”
She tied the dressing gown cord around my waist, trapping the skirt high on my midriff, so that I felt horribly exposed, and then, without pause, simply started spanking me; not play spanking either.
It took everything I had not to let go of my hair and use my hands to protect myself from this outrage, but I simply dared not give her any more excuses to push me around.
I did, though, cry out, in pain and shock, shame and despair, before suddenly clamping my mouth shut. The last thing I wanted was for anyone else to know about this.
I managed to suppress most noise for the next few minutes, which meant that the loudest thing was the slap of her hand against my naked buttocks; it got harder and harder, though, and I began to cry, almost more from the shame of it than from the pain.
My mother had spanked me, often enough, and hard enough, until I was thirteen, when I had managed to convince her that I would listen to her words, conform to her requirements, without the threat of violence. I had hated it then, and I hated it now; except that there was something different. Something which changed everything; the knowledge that this woman was sexually interested in me, and the knowledge that she was one of Sir Stephen’s circle. Would I have let Sir Stephen spank me, in similar circumstances? I had certainly had masturbation sessions thinking about it. It was very different indeed from when my mother had spanked me. The strong sexual response I experienced from Chanxin spanking me wasn’t pleasurable, but drowned me in humiliation and misery, and when she stopped and once again investigated the state of my sex, I could have died for shame; wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.
It was impossible, though, to hide the way my hips surged when she touched me, impossible not to moan when she stroked along the length of my pussy lips with her long hard nails, impossible not to buck when she sought out my clitoris with two of those nails, gripped and tugged at it, panting and gasping at the excess of cross-cutting feelings that crushed all thought, all self-respect, that became a single sensation; one of my own sexuality being entirely controlled by another; she was playing me like an organ.
“Clearly, spanking is not really a punishment for you, pretty. I’m going to have to go further to make a real impression I believe.”
She stood, walk some steps away, there was a drawer opening, another. I was in no state to speculate, all thought suspended, consumed by fear and desire and shame.
“First, we’ll have these panties off you; they’re soaked, and we’re going to need something to keep you quiet with.”
Cold metal slid over my hip, then a familiar sound - scissors! she was cutting my panties away!
Soon the bulk of them was in my mouth, elastic from the waistband used to tie the makeshift gag around my head. It was strange to taste my own sex juices; disturbing and shaming. And, so help me, arousing, too; the dirtiness of it.
I was almost hyperventilating, only saved by the gag forcing me to breathe through my nose, when the next shock came - something made of.. hard rubber, it felt like .. jammed up against my sex, something powerfully vibrating, something powerfully sexual; I’d never felt anything like it, never having liked the idea of a vibrator, even when my girlfriends talked about theirs as if they were people.
But this was impossible not to respond to; my back arched, my hips clamped, I jerked and shook, moaning through the gag.
“Here’s how this goes, little wanton; I’m going to beat you with my hairbrush now, really hurt you. The beating is over when you come for me. Look at me now, I want to see it in your eyes, that you know what I’m doing to you. Look at me or I’ll pull the vibe away and keep going with the hairbrush.”
As before, all this was said in friendly, complicit, soft tones, so at odds with the words she was using. It made it seem as if somehow this was all what I wanted, a gift almost.
Not that the hairbrush felt like anything but agonising. She really was hitting me. At the same time, her other hand was keeping the vibe powerfully forced onto my sex.
It was relentless, and I was lost, lost in the pain, and the sensation and the emotions - the last the most powerful of the three; the emotion of being mastered, humiliated, controlled, dominated, degraded; the emotion of finding no will to resist it. The emotion of deserving it. Of responding to it, of submitting. Of having her see all this in my eyes. I didn’t want her to see, but I couldn’t look away, because I needed her to see; needed her to smile her cool, superior smile, even as she hurt me, even as she made incredible things happen at my sex, until, unwanted, unasked for, unexpected, a terrible and glorious spasm overwhelmed me, and I lost awareness for a little while, unhinged by an orgasm more powerful than any I had experienced before.
When I knew what was happening again, her voice was in my ear, cool and amused as always, as if this were no more than a little game we were playing;
“My turn now, pretty, don’t let your hands loose, but let me help you stand. Lets get that gag off you. Over to the bed now; knees straight, that’s it, let me guide you, now you’re safe, you can just fall backwards.”
In fact she pushed me, and then I was lying on the bed, feet still on the floor, knees bent, legs still splayed, and she was suddenly kneeling behind me, from the other side of the bed, and then over me, and then my mouth was filled with her sex, a hand was playing with my nipples, and something was softly lashing at my sex; not really painful, but delivering extraordinarily powerful sensations on my sensitised labia and clit, so that I was bucking, hard, bucking with my mouth into her aromatic sex; the flavour alike, but different to what I had become used to of my own; she was jerking, thrusting herself into me, and I thought I would drown under her, desperate for air, until I found a way, occasionally, to gasp a quick lungfull.
I was probably supposed to be doing something to her sex with my mouth, my tongue, but in truth I was too far gone, and in any case the buckings I was subjected to were doing things to me, and my hands beneath me, hands somehow locked into death grips onto my hair, were screaming with the tension at my shoulders and elbows, my ass was a fierce deep underground fire, and I had forgotten my name.
She came into my mouth, I thought; at least there was a violent jerking, a flush of moisture, an extra-hard lash between my legs, and then she rolled off me, leaving me panting.
She must have let me sleep, then, because the next thing I knew was her waking me, softly enough;
“Time to fix yourself up, little maid girl. Here is tea; drink up, and then I’ll make you pretty again so you can show your face.”
And she was kind to me then, and softer, and smiled at me and laughed at me as she re-dressed me - apart from the ruined panties, everything went back together remarkably well. Then she washed my face for me, kissed me long and hard, her tongue deep in my mouth, me simply opening myself to her, loose limbed, weak as a kitten, her plaything. Lastly, she repaired my makeup;
“I will give you this red for your lush lips, this grey for the eyelids, you must use them. Much more obvious than you have been. You are a helpless wanton, pretty, a dirty slut; you need to be used. Let the men see it. They will want you, too.”
I was in a daze, overcome, unable to process, but I smiled and nodded out of desire to please more than agreement, and somehow I made it back to my room, where I simply lay down, closed my eyes, and gave in to the darkness.
Read the next part of Justine.
