Summer at Weatherby's: Weatherby's School for Young Women - Book 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer at Weatherby’s

 

Weatherby’s School for Young Women

 

- Book 2

 

 

Dutch Mark

 

 

Copyright 2025 by Dutch Mark

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means ֠electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise, ֠without prior permission in writing from the author.

 

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental, and for which the author and the publisher shall not be held responsible. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

 

Printed in the United States of America

 

 

 

 

Adult Content Warning

 

Please be advised that this is a very adult story, and is not intended for purchase or reading for any person under the legal age for such purchase and reading within their own country. There are many unusual sexual situations and graphic descriptions of sexual acts between men and women contained in this story, including many elements of BDSM. The story is intended solely for the enjoyment of individuals who enjoy reading about such activities, and is not meant to be advocating such activities nor instructing the reader in any way. If such acts and language offend you, please do not purchase this book.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

At the end of my first year as a school master at Weatherby’s School for Young Women, Mr. Weatherby had explained that very shortly some of the school masters and mistresses would be assigned a small group of the tuition students who would be graduating. As the actual tuition graduates were few, the groups would be filled out by girls who were close to graduating as their skills and the needs of the group dictated. During the late spring and early summer, the small groups would be having various social functions – picnics, high teas, dinners, luncheons, dances, etc. – to polish their various social skills.

Needless to say, the older poor girls being trained as servants, who paid no tuition to attend (although we later charged a training fee to the household who employed them), would serve the tuition girls in many capacities, including personal maids, cookery assistants, laying out required crockery, and naturally serving the food and drinks.

We masters would serve as chaperons, participants, and evaluators in equal proportions. As using correct language and understanding nuances of polite social conversation and properly responding to those would be critical to acceptance and advancement in the upper crust society, we English masters would be in charge of the events. We would have a social master to monitor decorum and proper etiquette, including correct dancing and decorum.

The first event of the season – potential rain notwithstanding – would be a picnic. We were soon to hold that picnic in a lovely little glen on the grounds not far from the buildings, but secluded enough that we would be able to enjoy the sights and sounds of Nature without the reminder that this was just one more lesson In their matriculation. We were all eager to begin these concluding preparations, and all in a twitter as to what Nature would provide for us in the way of suitable weather.

On that wondrous English morning the sun hung high in the cloudless sky, its rays casting a golden glow over the meticulously manicured lawns of Weatherby’s School for Young Women. It was the beginning of summer, and the air was thick with the scent of blooming roses and the quiet hum of polite chatter. The school’s annual graduation picnic was in full swing, a carefully orchestrated affair designed to reinforce the social graces expected of both the wealthy students and the poorer girls being trained as servants. I stood at the edge of the gathering, my hands clasped behind my back, observing the scene with a nervous eye. It was my duty to ensure that today’s event proceeded successfully, at least for the members of my small group.

The picnic was divided into several groups, each a microcosm of the rigid social hierarchy that defined our world. Wealthy girls, dressed in their finest silks and lace, sat at ornate tables, their manners nearly impeccable (some of the fill-in girls were still a bit at a loss as to ‘impeccable’ behaviour) as they sipped tea and nibbled on delicate sandwiches. Meanwhile, the poorer girls, dressed in plain, serviceable uniforms, moved quietly amongst them, their every action scrutinized. I had been assigned to monitor the group that included Miss Cecelia Montrose and Miss Sandra Woodly, as well as two other tuition girls.

Assisting me were Sarah, Darcy, and Maude, three experienced servants who had been tasked with correcting any technical errors the serving girls might make. As they themselves had been ‘scholarship’ graduates of Wetherby’s School, their presence was a reminder of the fine line between potential grace and disgrace in this world in terms of what positions they had obtained through their successful matriculation.

One of the serving girls was Emily Watson, my secret pet (although I had done nothing more to her than a good spanking in my classroom on one occasion), her dark brown hair pulled back in a simple bun, her hazel eyes downcast as she carefully poured tea for Miss Montrose and Miss Woodly. Emily’s smile was as bright as ever, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the weight of her nervousness at doing things correctly pressing down on her, having had less than two years of training. She was one of the brightest and most charming girls at Weatherby’s, but her status as an orphan meant she was destined for a life of servitude. I felt a pang of sympathy for her, though I knew better than to let it show. My role here was to maintain diligence regarding the linguistic proceedings, not to indulge in sentimentality.

Miss Montrose, the daughter of a powerful duke, sat with an air of effortless superiority. Her golden hair was coiffed to perfection – no doubt the work of one of the serving girls – and her light blue eyes scanned the scene with a mixture of boredom and disdain. She was a spoiled girl, accustomed to getting her way, and I had no doubt she would find fault with at least one of the girls’ service, no matter how flawless it might be. Beside her, Sandra Woodly, a middle-class girl with aspirations of climbing the social ladder, mirrored Miss Montrose’s demeanour, though her hazel eyes betrayed a hint of nervousness. She was eager to impress, and I could see her subtly adjusting her posture to mimic the wealthier girl’s grace.

As I observed the proceedings, Fraulein Steinhertz glided through the groups, her tall, commanding figure a stark contrast to the delicate scene. Her steely-blue eyes missed nothing, and I knew she would ensure that any discipline meted out by the wealthy girls was done so properly. A classic Teutonic beauty, her presence was a constant reminder of the school’s strict code of discipline between master’s and students and tuition girls and the poor girls. It was a code that I, too, was bound to uphold regardless of my somewhat ambivalent views on severe corporal punishment, even though I was acutely aware that my own father had practiced such discipline strenuously within our household.

Marie Renault, the foreign language teacher, moved with a grace that accentuated her tiny frame. Her dark, luminous eyes scanned the seemingly idyllic sylvan scene, her lilting French accent carrying across the immaculately groomed lawn as she offered gentle corrections to the wealthy girls. She was a woman of smoldering passion, though she kept it carefully hidden beneath a composed exterior. I had seen the way she looked at Fraulein Steinhertz, a mixture of admiration and something deeper, though I knew better than to dwell on such things. My focus had to remain on the task at hand.

With her usual bold, masculine strides, Fraulein Steinhertz joined us, her presence commanding our attention. “Mr. Brown, Miss Renault. I trust everything is proceeding as it should?”

“Yes, Miss Steinhertz,” I replied, straightening slightly. “The girls are performing admirably.”

”That is as may be.” Miss Steinhertz’s gaze swept over the scene, her expression unreadable. “However, I have no doubt there may be some … corrections needed before the day is out. Please see that they are made promptly. Discipline is the cornerstone of our institution, after all.”

With a nod, she turned and continued her rounds, leaving Miss Renault and me in silence.

I glanced back at Emily Watson, who was now offering a plate of scones to Miss Montrose. The wealthy girl’s expression was one of haughty indifference, her tone sharp as she pointed out a perceived flaw in Emily’s presentation. Emily’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered, her movements becoming even more obsequious.

Before I could respond, Sarah approached, her brown eyes downcast as she murmured, “Mr. Brown, Miss Montrose is requesting that Emily be reprimanded for which side the scones had been offered. She insists it’s a sign of insolence.”

I sighed inwardly, certain that Miss Montrose was likely looking for any excuse to assert her dominance. “Very well, Sarah. I’ll have a word with her.”

As Sarah nodded and moved away, I turned to Miss Renault, who was watching the exchange with a knowing glint in her eye. “It seems the day’s first correction is upon us,” I said, my tone wry.

Miss Renault’s smile softened. “Then let us hope it is a lesson well learned, for all involved.”

With that, I stepped forward, my presence immediately commanding the attention of the group. Miss Montrose’s eyes narrowed as I approached, her posture stiffening in anticipation of the discipline she expected me to deliver. But as I looked at Emily, standing quietly beside her, I felt a resolve harden within me. Today’s picnic was not just about manners and service; it was about navigating the complexities of a world that demanded both strength and subtlety.

“Miss Montrose, I understand you have found fault with Miss Watson’s service. Is that correct?”

“Yes”, her eyebrows lifted haughtily as she responded. “She was serving from the left side. I insist that she receive a paddling on the bare for such discourtesy.”

“I see,” I nodded, although I did not see at all. “Well, I’m afraid that is not within my purview. Miss Watson, have you been taught formal serving etiquette yet?”

“No, Sir,” she replied meekly. “Not until next year.”

“Ah! Well, then, Miss Montrose, you see it was simply from lack of knowledge on her part, not any intended insolence.” Miss Montrose was about to give a retort when I turned to Miss Renault. “Could you please enlighten both Miss Watson and myself as to what should have happened?”

“Certainly,” Miss Renault replied sweetly. She turned toward Miss Watson. “You see, my dear, most people are right-handed. Thus, when a server approaches from the right, it allows them to maintain their dominant hand towards the plate to facilitate seamless serving. Dishes should be presented to the guest from the right. This ensures that the guests can receive their meals without obstruction, enhancing their experience. Similarly, clearing empty plates and utensils should be done from the right. This consistency helps to reinforce a seamless dining rhythm.”

She smiled at Miss Watson, and then beamed even more brightly toward Miss Montrose.

Miss Watson curtsied. “Thank you very much for the instruction, Miss Renault. I shall remember in future.”

“There!” I said, giving a small clap of my hands. “Instruction instead of punishment. May we resume our picnic, Miss Montrose?”

She glared at Miss Watson, then at me. Evidently she could think of no further argument for punishment, so she tossed her head haughtily and made a small ‘humph’ of disdain.

“Thank you for being so agreeable,” I told her with a bow.

The afternoon stretched on, a delicate dance of social expectations and unspoken tensions. A couple of times there was a small mistake at one of the other tables, which was both times corrected by a slap on the hand of the offending server with a spoon. I wondered why Miss Montrose had insisted on such a relatively severe punishment for such a silly mistake by Miss Watson.

As Miss Renault and I continued to observe the proceedings at our assigned table, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this tiny episode was merely the beginning of something far greater.

 

Chapter 2

 

The next formal event took place two days later. It was high tea, a ritual as rigid as the spine of a new book, and the wealthy girls sat with their own spines straight, their fingers curled delicately around their teacups. The poor students, like shadows in their plain attire, moved silently amongst them, their every action scrutinized. I stood near the window of what was normally the staff dining room, my hands clasped behind my back, observing the scene with a blend of approval and unease.

The room was a tableau of contrasts. The wealthy girls, in their silk gowns and pearl necklaces, exuded an air of entitlement. Cecelia Montrose, with her perfectly coiffed hair and condescending smirk, sat at the center of it all, her every movement calculated to assert her superior station in life as well as her beauty. At the end of the table sat Miss Woodly, who tried her best to blend into the background, her hazel eyes darting nervously between the masters and her fellow tuition girls, although by no means her peers.

The poor girls, dressed in their simple uniforms, moved with a quiet efficiency, their heads bowed as they poured tea and served various delicacies. Emily Watson was, of course, amongst them, although I had requested of Miss Steinhertz that she be assigned to a different group. Miss Steinhertz stiffly explained that Mr. Weatherby had determined the members of each grouping as well as the staff assigned to monitor them, and that was that.

The school masters, including myself, were scattered throughout the room, offering corrections and guidance. Miss Steinhertz stood near the fireplace, her steely-blue eyes scanning the room with an air of authority. Her tall, full-figured frame was clad in her usual riding attire, a stark contrast to the delicate dresses of the wealthy girls. Marie Renault, the language teacher, stood at my side, her amber eyes sparkling with a quiet intensity as she observed the proceedings.

The tension heightened when Miss Watson approached Miss Montrose to serve her tea. Miss Watson’s hands trembled slightly as she held the teapot, her smile faltering for just a moment. Miss Montrose, sensing an opportunity, leaned forward, her light blue eyes narrowing.

“You stupid cow!” she screeched, her normally well-modulated voice cutting through the air like a sharp blade. “You’ve spilt tea down my best gown and ruined it!”

The room erupted in gasps and murmurs, all eyes fixed on the two girls. Miss Watson froze, her face draining of color as the tea stained Miss Montrose’s gown. I stepped forward, my heart sinking as I saw the fear in Emily’s eyes. Ingrid Steinhertz immediately left her post and strode toward the commotion, her presence commanding attention.

“What happened here?” she demanded, her voice cold and authoritative.

Miss Montrose, her face flushed with anger, pointed at Miss Watson. “She clumsily poured tea on my dress and ruined it! I demand she be punished for her stupidity!”

I felt a surge of frustration. Miss Montrose’s accusation was harsh, and I knew Emily well enough to know that clumsiness was not in her nature. As I opened my mouth to intervene, Sarah once again sidled up to me and whispered, “I saw Miss Montrose deliberately nudge Miss Watson’s elbow, sir.”

My eyes widened, and I glanced at Sarah, who nodded solemnly. I turned back to the scene, my mind racing. I couldn’t accuse Miss Montrose of such an act without proof, and even if I did, her family’s influence would likely shield her from any consequences. Ingrid Steinhertz, however, was already agreeing with Miss Montrose, her expression stern.

“Such clumsiness cannot go unpunished,” she declared. “Miss Montrose, you may decide the punishment.”

I stepped forward in an attempt to calm the situation. “Perhaps it was an accident, Miss Steinhertz. We should not be too hasty in our judgment.”

Miss Montrose smirked, her eyes glinting with triumph. “An accident? Hardly. The girl is incompetent, and she must be taught a lesson.”

Ingrid Steinhertz turned to me, her gaze unwavering. “Mr. Brown, while I appreciate your concern, Miss Montrose has the right to discipline her current and future servants. I suggest you step aside.”

I clenched my fists, my frustration mounting. I knew I couldn’t challenge Miss Steinhertz’s authority in such a matter, regardless of my own position. Reluctantly, I nodded and stepped back, my eyes never leaving Emily’s fearful face.

Miss Steinhertz turned to Miss Montrose. “What punishment do you deem appropriate?”

Miss Montrose’s smirk widened. “A caning, of course. Twenty strokes should suffice.”

The room fell silent once more, the weight of the impending punishment hanging heavy in the air. Miss Steinhertz nodded and turned to Maude, another one of the household servants of my group. “Fetch the cane.”

As Maude hurried off, I felt a knot form in my stomach. I knew I couldn’t stop what was about to happen, but the thought of Emily being punished for something she hadn’t done was unbearable. I glanced at Sarah, who stood nearby, her eyes downcast. She met my gaze briefly, her expression a mix of sympathy and helplessness.

The cane was brought in, and Miss Watson was led to the front of the room. The wealthy girls watched with a mixture of curiosity and detachment, while the poor girls exchanged worried glances. I stood stiffly, my hands clasped behind my back, my mind racing with thoughts of what I might have done differently.

Miss Montrose stepped forward, the cane in her hand, her face a mask of cold satisfaction. “This will teach you to be more careful,” she said, her voice dripping with malice. “Miss Woodly, would you please assist me in making this servant ready for her punishment?”

Miss Woodly looked distraught, then slowly made her way to the front to obey the queen of the students. At a stern glance from Miss Montrose, she reluctantly lifted Miss Watson’s dress and petticoat above her head. This exposed her bare form save for the thin cotton knickers that Miss Montrose then tugged down with deliberate slowness.

The younger girl’s pale skin, marked by goosebumps from fear, was a stark contrast to the flushed face of Miss Montrose, who seemed to revel in her role as punisher. I stood frozen, one hand tightly gripping the wrist of the other as though to keep them from interfering, acutely aware of my impotence in this situation. Miss Steinhertz’s steely gaze met mine, as if daring me to challenge her authority. But what could I do at that moment? My position as a school master was tenuous enough without openly defying the discipline mistress.

“Hold her steady, Sandra,” Miss Montrose commanded, her voice sharp as she stepped back to assess her victim. Miss Woodly, her face pale and eyes wide, hesitantly placed her hands on Miss Watson’s shoulders, as if afraid to touch her. Emily’s body trembled, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she braced herself for the first stroke.

The cane whistled through the air, a cruel prelude to the crack that followed. Emily’s cry was immediate, her body arching involuntarily as the cane bit into her flesh. Miss Montrose’s face was a mask of cold satisfaction, her eyes flicking to mine as if to ensure I witnessed her dominance. I felt a surge of anger, but it was quickly stifled by the weight of my own helplessness.

The second stroke fell, and then the third, each one leaving a crimson welt on Miss Watson’s exposed bottom. Her sobs grew louder, more desperate, but Miss Montrose showed no mercy. She delivered each stroke with precision, her movements deliberate and unhurried, as if savoring the power she held. Miss Steinhertz stood nearby, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Was she approving of Miss Montrose’s severity, or merely observing the proceedings with detached interest?

By the tenth stroke, Miss Watson’s cries had turned to whimpers, her body sagging against the table. Miss Woodly’s grip on her shoulders tightened, her face twisted in sympathy and discomfort. I could see the conflict in her eyes: the desire to help, tempered by the fear of incurring the same punishment. It was a stark reminder of the power dynamics at play, the unspoken rules that governed this place.

As Miss Montrose once again raised the cane I briefly closed my eyes, then forced myself to watch. The sound of the cane striking flesh echoed through the room, followed by Emily’s sharp intake of breath. The punishment continued, each stroke a blow to my own sense of justice.

“Fifteen,” Miss Steinhertz intoned, her voice cutting through the heavy silence. Miss Montrose paused, her chest heaving slightly, as if the exertion of wielding the cane had left her breathless. She turned to me, her eyes glinting with triumph, before raising the cane once more.

The room was otherwise silent as Miss Watson’s sobs echoed through the dining hall. “Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’m sorry. Please stop.”

But Miss Montrose was unrelenting. The sixteenth stroke fell, and then the seventeenth, each one a brutal reminder of her authority. I could not help but look at the damage. Emily’s perfect bottom was a patchwork of red welts, a stark testament to the severity of her punishment. I felt a knot form in my stomach, a turmoil of anger and shame. How could I stand by and watch this? Yet, what choice did I have? To intervene would be to challenge not just Miss Montrose, but the entire hierarchy of the school.

As the twentieth stroke was at last delivered, Miss Watson’s body went limp, her sobs giving way to a low, keening moan. Miss Montrose stepped back, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her face flushed with exertion and satisfaction. She turned to Miss Steinhertz, who nodded in approval.

“That will be all, Miss Watson,” Miss Steinhertz declared, her voice cold and authoritative.

Emily, her petticoat still lifted and her knickers down around her ankles, hesitated for a moment before slowly standing. Her face was streaked with tears, and her once-proud posture was now slumped, as if the weight of the punishment had physically crushed her. Miss Woodly, who had been holding her in place, stepped back, her expression exuding both guilt and relief. I could see the conflict in her eyes; she had been forced to participate in this humiliation, and it clearly pained her.

Miss Watson’s still bared bottom flamed red, streaked with welts now marring that sweet, tender flesh. Her sobs echoed softly through the still air, mingling with the stifled gasps of the other serving girls. Miss Montrose stood tall, her face flushed with satisfaction, her light blue eyes locking onto mine for a moment longer before she turned away, as if to remind me of her superior position in life. My heart was pounding with a combination of anger and helplessness. This was not the first time I had witnessed such excess in punishment, but it felt more personal now, with Miss Watson – Emily – at the center of it.

“Miss Montrose, that should suffice. You may take your seat,” Miss Steinhertz said, her voice calm and measured. Her steely-blue eyes scanned the room. “The rest of you, return to your stations. The tea must continue.”

As the rest of the young women slowly regained their previous positions, Miss Steinhertz’s voice softened a trifle. “See that Miss Watson is tended to, Sarah.”

Sarah nodded, her hands steady as she helped Miss Watson lower her petticoat. She had clearly witnessed this type of punishment often. I watched stonily as Sarah led Emily away, her steps unsteady, her head bowed in humiliation.

“And you,” she added coldly, her relentless gaze fixing on Miss Renault, “ensure that such carelessness does not occur again.”

Miss Renault colored and curtsied to her mistress. Perhaps she would later be subjected to the same sort of punishment?

Miss Montrose approached me, her eyes gleaming with a both triumph and challenge. “A necessary lesson, don’t you think, Mr. Brown?” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “One must maintain order, after all.”

I clenched my jaw, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Indeed, Miss Montrose,” I replied, my tone carefully neutral. “Order is essential.”

But as I turned away, my mind was already racing, grappling with the implications of what I had just witnessed. The power dynamics at Weatherby’s School were more complex than I had realized, and the lines between discipline and cruelty were disturbingly blurred. Miss Watson’s punishment was a stark reminder of the fragility of those lines, and the consequences of crossing them.

At that moment I happened to spy Miss Steinhertz also returning to her previous position of observation. I moved to stand beside her, my quiet voice trembling with restrained fury. “Miss Steinhertz, surely this punishment was excessive. Miss Watson is just a second-year girl —”

“Mr. Brown,” she interrupted, her tone sharp. “Discipline is my domain. Miss Montrose felt wronged, regardless of the inexperience of the server, and the punishment was administered accordingly. Your concern is noted, but I must insist you return to your duties as well.”

I opened my mouth to protest further, but the look in her eyes silenced me. Miss Steinhertz was not one to be challenged, especially not in front of the students. I bowed my head in reluctant submission and stepped back, my mind racing. This was not over. I could not let it be.

As I returned to my duties, I felt a stirring of emotions: anger at Miss Montrose’s cruelty; a strong unease at the seemingly ambivalent attitude of Miss Steinhertz, who was adamant about strong discipline and yet had evinced concern after Miss Watson’s excessive punishment; frustration at my own powerlessness; and a deep sense of protectiveness toward Emily. The incident had left an open wound, one that I knew would fester if left unaddressed. But for now, all I could do was wait and hope for a chance to set things right.

The high tea continued, the room returning to its usual rhythm, but the memory of what had transpired lingered with all of the participants, a silent reminder of the injustices that permeated our world. As I stood there, my mind raced with thoughts of the future, of the changes I wanted to bring, and the challenges I would face. I was already forming plans for taking some sort of action of retribution, and of the work that needed to be done to alter the dark undercurrent that permeated this seemingly more benign microcosm of the English society.

As I walked back to my quarters late that afternoon, the weight of the day pressed heavily on my shoulders. I couldn’t shake the image of Emily Watson’s tear-streaked face, the sound of her sobs echoing in my mind. And I couldn’t ignore the growing unease in my chest, the sense that this was only the beginning of a much larger struggle, one that would test not just my resolve, but my very sense of justice.

As I entered my room my mind was already racing with thoughts of what I could do to protect her – to protect all of the defenseless girls at Weatherby’s. The school’s hierarchy was rigid, its power dynamics deeply entrenched, but I was determined to find a way. I couldn’t change everything at once, but I could start with small acts of defiance, and small acts of kindness.

 

Chapter 3

 

The grand hall of Weatherby’s School seemed infested with the an atmosphere that clung to the walls like the scent of damp wood after a storm. It was a tension I had grown all too familiar with, a byproduct of the rigid social hierarchy that governed this place and the increasing punishments that were being meted out to the poor girls. The wealthy girls, with their silk gowns and condescending smirks, sat in their small groups at the dining tables, their silverware clinking against fine china. Around them the poor girls, dressed in plain white and black cotton dresses as befitted servants, kept their eyes downcast, their movements careful, as if they feared their very presence might offend their superiors.

I once again stood at the head of the table, my hands clasped behind my back, observing the scene with a heavy heart. The formal dinner was again meant to be a lesson in etiquette, a chance for the girls to practice the social graces expected of them in their future roles. But it had devolved into something far uglier: the expectancy of humiliation. Cecelia Montrose, with her patrician air and sharp tongue, had taken it upon herself to correct the slightest misstep of her less fortunate peers. Her words were laced with venom, her tone dripping with disdain.

“Really, Emily,” she sneered, her blue eyes narrowing as she addressed Miss Watson, whose trembling hand had accidentally dropped a fork. “One would think you’ve never held silverware before. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with a wooden spoon.”

The table fell silent, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric as the girls shifted uncomfortably. Emily’s cheeks flushed, but she said nothing, her hands trembling more violently as she picked up the fork. I could see the hurt in her eyes, the quiet dignity she tried so hard to maintain. It was moments like these that made me question my place here, my ability to make a difference in a system so deeply flawed.

Beside me, M’Liss O’Shaughnessy, her red hair tied back in a neat bun, must have sensed my anger and frustration. She leaned in slightly toward me, her voice low and steady. “They don’t understand, Mr. Brown. They’ve never had to.” Her green eyes met mine, filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “But we can’t let them break the others. Not if we can help it.”

Her words struck a chord deep within me. I had come to Weatherby’s at my father’s wishes with the promise of future rewards that might lead from my service here. But I was beginning to realize that my role here was far more complex. It wasn’t just about imparting knowledge or of what I might later gain from Mr. Weatherby; it was about challenging the ingrained prejudices that divided us … all three of our society’s basic classes that were represented here.

As the dinner continued, I found myself watching Ingrid Steinhertz, who stood by the fireplace with an air of detached authority. Her steely-blue eyes scanned the room, her expression unreadable. She was a woman of discipline, of control, and yet there was a softness to her, a vulnerability she kept carefully hidden. I wondered what she thought of this display, of the way the wealthy girls wielded their privilege like a weapon.

Marie Renault stood beside her, her delicate hands folded above her lap. There was a quiet strength in her, a resilience that belied her fragile appearance. M’Liss had made me aware that she was Ingrid’s submissive, a dynamic that fascinated me, though I had yet to fully understand it. Their relationship was a study in contrasts – dominance and submission, strength and vulnerability – and it added to my wonder about the complexities of human interactions.

The tension finally broke when Sarah entered the room with a tray of desserts. Her brown eyes darted around the room, her movements cautious, as if she expected to be scolded at any moment. When she spotted the girl to whom she would pass off the desserts for serving, she gave a clear sigh of relief and returned to the kitchen immediately.

Those recent events had done more than damage the morale of the poor, future serving girls: they had made the current household servants unsure as to whether or not they might also be subjected to punishments from these few wealthy and powerful young women at the school.

As the evening drew to a close, I found myself standing by the window, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the grounds. The girls had retired to their rooms, the hall now silent and still. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see M’Liss standing beside me, her expression gentle.

“You’re carrying the weight of the world on those shoulders, Mr. Brown,” she said, her voice soft. “But you can’t fix everything. Not all at once.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, amazed. M’Liss and I had become quite intimate ever since we had been … well, intimate. “I know. But it’s hard to stand by and watch them tear each other apart. Especially when it’s all because of something as arbitrary as birth.”

She nodded, her eyes filled with understanding. “Change takes time. But you’re planting seeds, Andrew. And one day, they’ll grow.”

Her words offered a measure of comfort, but I couldn’t avoid the feeling that I needed to do more. The imbalance was too great, the wounds too deep. I thought of Miss Montrose, of her condescension, her refusal to see the humanity in those she deemed beneath her. And I thought of Emily Watson, of her quiet strength, her resilience in the face of adversity.

But, before I took any serious course of action, I needed more information. And I believed I knew from whom I could obtain the knowledge that I required.

-----

The next afternoon I sat behind my desk, my fingers steepled beneath my chin. Sandra Woodly stood before me, her shoulders hunched, her eyes downcast, as if the very act of meeting my gaze would betray her. The tears that had streaked her cheeks at the beginning of our conversation had dried, leaving behind a residue of raw emotion. I had called her in to confront her about the incident at high tea, where she had held Miss Watson steady whilst Miss Montrose had caned her. It was an act of cruelty that had left me reeling, not just because of its severity, but because of the underlying currents of power and fear that had driven it.

"Miss Woodly," I began, my voice measured, "I need you to tell me the truth. Why did you do it? Why did you assist Miss Montrose in tormenting Miss Watson, as well as the other girls?"

She bit her lip, her eyes flicking up to meet mine for a fleeting moment before dropping back to the floor. "I ... I didn't want to, sir," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Miss Montrose ... she said we had to. She said if we didn't, she'd make sure we were all expelled. She said we had to show them who was in charge, to make an example of the servants. Especially Miss Watson, whom she referred to as ‘looking high above her place’ in life."

I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. I wondered what she had meant by that phrase? But the point was that Miss Montrose, the daughter of an important, wealthy man, had been using her influence to bully the other girls into submission. It was a tactic as old as time itself, but no less insidious for its familiarity. She had threatened them, coerced them into doing her bidding, all under the guise of maintaining order.

"And you believed her?" I asked, my tone sharp. "You thought that punishing innocent girls was the right thing to do?"

Miss Woodly's eyes filled with tears again, but she didn't look away this time. "I didn't think it was right, sir," she said, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. "But I was afraid. Miss Montrose ... she's not someone you say no to. Not if you want to stay at Weatherby's. Or possibly advance one’s position after leaving school."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. The situation was more complex than I had initially thought. Miss Montrose's actions were not just a matter of personal cruelty; they were a symptom of a deeper, more systemic issue. She was using her privilege and status to maintain control, to ensure that the social hierarchy remained firmly in place. And the other girls, like Sandra Woodly, the daughter of a mere yeoman, were caught in the middle, forced to choose between their own moral compass and the fear of retribution.

"I understand your predicament, Miss Woodly," I said, softening my tone. "And I appreciate your honesty. You won't be punished for this. But I need you to understand that what you did was wrong. It's not acceptable to treat others with such cruelty, no matter who is telling you to do it."

She nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly as if a weight had been lifted. "I know, sir. I won't do it again. I promise."

As she turned to leave, I called her back. "Miss Woodly," I said, "I want you to think about something. What Miss Montrose is doing ... it's not just about controlling the servants. It's about controlling all of us. She's using fear to maintain her power, and that's not something we should stand for. We need to find a way to change things, to create a more just and equitable environment for everyone."

She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. "I'll think about it, sir," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But ... I don't know how. Miss Montrose is very powerful, and she has a lot of influence. I don't know how we can stand up to her."

I smiled, a sad, knowing smile. "It won't be easy," I admitted. "But it's not impossible. You know that she will be leaving at at the end of this summer. Until then we just need to be brave, and we need to work together. And we need to remember that true power doesn't come from fear or coercion. It comes from empathy, from understanding, and from standing up for what's right, even when it's hard."

She nodded, her eyes shining with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "I'll try, sir," she said again before slipping out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

As I sat there, the weight of the situation pressing down on me, I knew that I had to act. Miss Montrose's actions couldn't be allowed to continue unchecked. But how? How could I challenge her, and the system she represented, without risking everything?

 

Chapter 4

 

As Miss Cecelia Montrose and I studied each other, there was again a dark cloud stirring in my study, but it was not at all about fear. It was even more than a conflict between individuals from very different social classes, one who had a sort of temporary power, but the other who would wield much more power later in life. I also sensed some sort of personal tension between the two of us. I knew mine arose from what I thought of as righteous anger and resentment, but I could not for the life of me come close to defining what the facial expression and body language of the beautiful young woman in front of me was meant to express. It was an attitude of challenging me, but not in the type of power struggle I had envisioned.

Nevertheless, it was a tension I had invited, a deliberate move to confront Miss Montrose about her treatment of Miss Watson both at the school picnic and the high tea. It had been unacceptable, and as a conscientious school master, I could not let it pass. Yet, I was acutely aware of the delicate balance I had to strike. Miss Montrose was a young woman whose family’s influence stretched far beyond the walls of Weatherby’s School for Young Women. Yet I had called her into my small study to thrash this thing out.

I leaned back in my chair behind my desk, my hands crossed over my stomach. She stood before me, her posture rigid, her light blue eyes cold and appraising. Her blond hair shone radiantly, and her expensive gown reeked of wealth and privilege. She carried herself with an air of superiority, as though the very act of standing in my study was beneath her.

“Miss Montrose,” I began, my voice measured, “I trust you are aware of the reason for this meeting.”

Her lips curled into a faint, disdainful smile. “I assume it concerns the incidents with Miss Watson. How kind of you to take an interest, Mr. Brown.”

I thought it strange that she immediately mentioned Miss Watson, but made no reference to any of the other girls she had scolded or punished. Her tone was polite, but the condescension was palpable. Clearly she saw me as nothing more than a school master, a man of modest birth despite my father being the second son of a minor peer. I could almost hear her thoughts: How dare he question me?

“Kindness has little to do with it,” I replied, placing my hand on the desk and leaning forward slightly. “What you did was unacceptable. Publicly beating another student is not behavior I will tolerate at this school, regardless of your standing.”

Her eyebrows arched, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something in her eyes: anger, perhaps defiance … or was it something else entirely? “And who are you to judge me, Mr. Brown? A school master, yes, but hardly my equal. My father would have strong words with you if he knew you were questioning my actions.”

I held her gaze, my expression unyielding. “Your father’s opinion of me is not my concern at this moment. I am bound to uphold the standards of this school – as are you as a student – which dictate a measured response for all actions. That certainly includes the fair treatment of servants by the persons who employ them and have a certain noblesse oblige, a grave responsibility for their welfare as well as their obedience. What you did was terribly wrong, Miss Montrose. It was cruel and unbecoming of a young woman of your rank.”

She laughed, a sharp, mirthless sound. “Cruel? Unbecoming? You speak as though I should be ashamed. Miss Watson deserved what she received. She overstepped herself, and I merely reminded her of her place.”

“Her place?” I echoed, my voice tightening. “And what place is that, Miss Montrose? At your feet? Beneath your heel?”

Her eyes narrowed, and I could see the wheels turning in her mind. She was calculating, weighing her words, her next move. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Brown. I simply enforced discipline. It is something you, as a school master, should appreciate.”

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Discipline, yes. But there is a difference between discipline and cruelty. What you did was not discipline. It was an abuse of power.”

She took a step forward, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “And what would you have done, Mr. Brown? Would you have turned a blind eye to her impudence? Or perhaps you would have punished her yourself?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. I felt a flicker of something dark and unspoken: a challenge, a dare. I met her gaze, my pulse quickening. “If it were necessary, yes. But I would have done it in private, not in front of the entire school. And I would have made the punishment fit the deed.” I gave her a knowing stare. “And, considering the circumstances behind Miss Watson’s … inadvertent spilling of tea on your dress … perhaps your father would also wish to punish the person who deliberately ruined a very expensive gown in order to achieve her end.”

At this Miss Montrose’s eyes grew wide in surprise, and a look of concern crossed her lovely features at the implied knowledge of her actions and threat at revealing them to her father. But she quickly regained her poise and her haughty attitude.”

“My father would never lay a finger on me,” she proclaimed. Her lips twisted into a smirk. “And you would not dare so close to my graduation. A man of your station, punishing a woman of my rank? It would not be seemly.”

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “Seemly or not, it would be just. And if you believe I am incapable of administering punishment, you are mistaken.”

Her smirk faltered, just for a moment, before she recovered. “I think you overestimate yourself, Mr. Brown. You may be the school master, but you are not my father. You have no right to lay a hand on me.”

I took a step toward her, my voice low and intense. “Perhaps your father would not. But I have the authority to ensure you understand the consequences of your actions. And if that means punishing you, then so be it.”

Her eyes widened, a mixture of shock and defiance. “You would not. You could not.”

I held her gaze, my visage stern. “I could. And I will. Unless you wish to be expelled so closely to that desired goal. I imagine your father would not take kindly to that, as it would be quite embarrassing within your social class.”

Her face paled, just slightly, and I knew I had struck a nerve. Expulsion was her greatest fear, the one thing that could strip her of some of her social status and her father’s favor. She hesitated, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she weighed her options.

“Very well,” she said at last, her voice tight. “But I will not submit to a public punishment. If you must do this, it will be in private. And … please, use your hand.” She blushed prettily. “That is to say, I would wish you not to use the cane.”

I nodded, my now heart pounding with some anticipation as well as unease. “Agreed. However, twenty strokes, as you gave to the innocent Miss Watson. Now bend over my desk.”

She hesitated, her eyes flicking to the desk and back to me. For a moment, I thought she might refuse, might call my bluff and walk out. But, slowly, she moved toward the desk, her movements deliberate, almost graceful. Then, much to my surprise, she pulled her gown totally off and left it pooling on the floor, revealing her petticoat. She draped herself over the desk. her blond hair cascading over the edge.

My hands trembled as I approached her. This was uncharted territory, a line I had not crossed before. But I could not back down now. She needed to taste a bit of that embarrassment along with the pain she had inflicted on others. I lifted her petticoat onto her shoulders and reached for the waistband of her bloomers, my fingers brushing lightly against her skin as I pulled them down. Her breath drew in sharply, and I felt a surge of power, of desire, that I could not ignore.

I raised my hand, my palm hovering over her exposed bottom. She was tense, her body rigid, but I could see the rise and fall of her chest within her bodice, the flush of her pale skin on the cheeks above as well as those below. I brought my hand down, the first stroke sharp and resounding. She gasped, her body jerking slightly, but she did not cry out.

I repeated the motion, each stroke harder than the last, my hand lingering on her skin, savoring the warmth, the softness. Each stroke was deliberate, calculated, yet I could not ignore the way her skin flushed, the way her breath quickened. It was as if the punishment awakened something within her, a forbidden desire that mirrored my own. As her breathing grew heavier, her body arching slightly with each impact. I could see the moisture gathering between her thighs, a testament to her arousal, her hidden desires.

As I continued, my strokes slowed, my hand caressing her bottom, my touch seductively intimate. The air between us crackled with that tension I could not have named earlier, with unspoken longing. She was excited, I could tell, but she would never admit it, never suggest anything further. She was too proud, too superior, to let me see her vulnerability.

When the twentieth stroke landed, I stepped back, my hand stinging, my heart racing. She remained bent over the desk, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling. I wanted to touch her, to comfort her, to explore the desires that lay just beneath the surface. But I knew I could not.

She remained with her head bowed, her shoulders heaving. Slowly, she raised her bloomers and lowered her petticoat, her hands trembling as she smoothed the fabric. When she finally looked up, her eyes were no longer defiant but filled with a raw, unguarded emotion.

“You … you have done as you promised,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I … I did not expect…”

Her words trailed off, and I stepped closer, my instincts taking over. “What did you not expect, Miss Montrose?” I asked, my voice gentle despite the circumstances.

She met my gaze, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. “I did not expect to feel … this,” she admitted, her voice laced with confusion and something else – something that stirred a burning response within me.

I reached out, my fingers brushing her cheek, my touch light yet deliberate. “And what is it that you feel?”

She blushed deeply, her eyes searching mine. “I … I do not know,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “It is … unsettling.”

I leaned in, my lips hovering inches from hers. “Perhaps it is a lesson you needed to learn,” I murmured, my voice a whisper. “A lesson in surrender.”

Her eyes widened, her body stiffening as if caught between resistance and desire.

She bent to retrieve her gown, then straightened slowly, settling her gown back into place. She again turned to face me, her expression unreadable, her eyes distant. “Thank you, Mr. Brown,” she said, her voice once again cool and detached. “I believe we understand each other now.”

She turned and walked toward the door, her slow steps measured, her back straight. I watched her go, my heart heavy with regret, with unspoken longing. As the door closed behind her, I thought about her final words. For my part, I must say that I did not understand her at all.

 

 

Chapter 5

 

My next step in the redemption of my conscience was to seek an audience with Miss Steinhertz. She insisted that such a meeting would only take place within her private quarters. I did not know if this was to set herself up in the place of her greatest power or for some other motive, but I could do nothing but agree as it was I who had requested what we both knew would be a battle of wills.

The decor in Miss Steinhertz’s private quarters was exactly what I would have expected. The room was furnished with sturdy but elegant leather furniture and adorned with equestrian trophies and leather-bound books, reflecting her disciplined, intelligent, and active nature. Yet there was no sign of anything resembling a dominating personality … other than a couple of long, nasty looking riding crops, which went completely in hand with her main passion in life. And yet, in spite of this rather comfortable habitation she stood stiffly before me with legs slightly spread apart, her towering frame commanding attention, her steely-blue eyes piercing through my resolve and my temerity in requesting what might only be seen as a direct confrontation.

“You have come to complain about the treatment of Miss Watson,” she began without preamble.

“Not to complain,” I said, although I certainly had my complaints. “More to clarify why you agreed with Miss Montrose that such excessive punishment was necessary for such a small matter.”

“A small matter to you, perhaps, but you are not one of these pampered young ladies to whom a beautiful dress is like a jewel in a crown. To whom the bowing respect of an inferior is a nectar.”

I frowned. It had certainly never occurred to me to think of the upbringing of the wealthy girls in that respect. Coming from a much more middle-class family, where we were quite comfortable but never had true luxury, and being the son of a rector of a modest parish, I was much more in tune with and sympathetic to the plight of the average citizen.

“You do present a different viewpoint of the situation, Miss Steinhertz,” I agreed. “However, one of the household servants informed me that Miss Montrose had deliberately prodded Miss Watson’s elbow, which caused her to spill the tea. In other words, it was an act of malice in order to inflict some severe punishment on the poor girl, for whatever motive Miss Montrose may have had.”

This information did give Miss Steinhertz pause. “That may be the case. However, Miss Watson is most certainly destined for a position as a household servant, even if that is as a governess from the excellent education she will receive here. Although Mr. Weatherby does his utmost to place our girls with, shall we say, more moderate families, there is still quite the possibility that she will be unfairly treated from time to time, perhaps even physically abused.” Then she shrugged with indifference. “If nothing else, Miss Montrose made that possibility quite clear to all of the girls in attendance.”

Oh, that condescending justification of Miss Montrose’s actions stirred the blood in my veins! “And so you condone the merciless beatings – sometimes without actual reasons – of the girls who were born without powerful families or excessive wealth?”

She stared at me for a very long moment, many emotions flitting over what I had once presumed as an emotionless face. Then she gathered herself together again before speaking.

“Mr. Brown,” she began, her voice smooth, yet laced with authority, “you’ve made it clear you disapprove of my methods. Perhaps it’s time you understand the weight of discipline – and the benefits it can bring.”

Her words hung in the air, a challenge I couldn’t ignore. I crossed my arms, my jaw tightening. “I don’t need a lesson in discipline, Miss Steinhertz. I need to know that the girls under your care are treated with fairness, not cruelty.”

A faint smile played on her lips, as if she found my defiance amusing. “Fairness is also subjective, Mr. Brown. As is pain … or pleasure, for that matter. It seems to me that you have the typical male attitude that women who receive some degree of physical pain are much less equipped to bear it than men. And yet, have you ever considered the pain a woman goes through in childbirth?”

I blinked rapidly. Of course I had never even thought of that, as I had in no way ever experienced a woman giving birth – well, other than to me.

“Well, no,” I admitted. “However, it certainly does seem to me that woman are … well, more physically frail than men, and therefore less able to bear excessive physical abuse. For example, I am aware that in our naval services, severe floggings are often administered, and the men behave better for that discipline. I could never imagine flogging a woman in such a manner.”

“No, of course not,” she sneered. “But perhaps I should relate a little bit of my background to you, so that you might understand.”

I raised my eyebrows at this declaration, breathing a bit heavily in anger. Still, I simply nodded for her to go on.

“Much like you, I was also born into a family with some trace of nobility, although no real money,” she began. As I lifted my head with surprise, she quickly continued. “Oh, yes, Mr. Weatherby makes all of the current masters familiar with the general background of every new member to enter our ranks. It actually makes the process of assimilation much easier, I assure you.”

I was somewhat surprised, but then immediately decided that this process made perfectly good sense in such a small, intimately connected community. I nodded for her to continue.

“My father was a strict disciplinarian in the Prussian sense, which I doubt you could ever comprehend,” she continued. “All members of my large family were subject to his absolute rule … especially the girls, of which we had seven, although only two boys. Because the boys would someday be in charge of what lands my father possessed, we girls were subjected to much crueler punishments than them.” She paused to draw in a deep breath, which I understood was to once again regain a much calmer demeanor. “Riding became not only my passion, but my escape from his treatment.”

This impassioned personal history struck me deeply, most particularly as I had also had a somewhat similar childhood, although in reverse. It had been my three older sisters, as well as my mother, who had borne the brunt of my father’s strictest punishments. Nevertheless, even though I had not personally been subjected to occasionally unwarranted severe punishment – or perhaps even because I had occasionally witnessed them – I remained unrelenting in my defense of the poor girls.

“What you say has great merit, Miss Steinhertz,” I conceded. “However, it has seemed clear to me before, and was certainly borne out at the tea, that you concur wholeheartedly with forms of punishment that are not only physically damaging to the tender flesh of young girls, but may often exceed what is merited by their behaviour.”

Miss Steinhertz virtually snorted in her contempt of my words. However, much to my surprise, she not only did not argue further, but simply ignored the clear criticism of her methods of discipline towards our poor students.

“I see it is that you clearly do not understand everything I have tried to explain to you,” she said, although more with exasperation than condemnation. “But, if you wish to challenge me in my view that these girls are much stronger than you give them credit, I will indulge you. I’ll let you do to me what others do to them. Perhaps then you’ll understand.”

I frowned. “And what is it exactly that I should understand, Miss Steinhertz?”

Her smile was supercilious. “That you are quite mistaken in your smug masculine assumption that women are the weaker sex, in any sense of the word. That you – or even other women of high positions – can use your brute strength to bring us to submission, when it is really strength of character that will truly subjugate another.”

She stared at me directly, in a most disconcerting manner. “Weakness or strength is not about physicality, Mr. Brown, it is about what is in the mind. It is about willenskraft, the ability to control what happens to your body through the strength of your mind. And I shall prove this to you if you are man enough – or perhaps human enough – to accept my challenge.”

Her offer caught me off guard. This wasn’t just about power; it was about control, about dominance. And she was daring me to take it. I hesitated, my mind racing. This was a chance to prove myself, to show her – and myself – that I wasn’t just a school master but a man capable of commanding respect through strength of purpose.

“And in what way do you intend to prove that?” I asked sincerely.

“By taking what Miss Watson could not. By allowing you to inflict harsh physical punishment on my body without breaking, perhaps without even flinching.” Her gaze was haughty, challenging, daring me to prove myself to her.

I hesitated for only a moment. “Very well,” I said, my voice now steady. “But know this: I won’t hold back.”

Her smile widened, and she gestured to the riding crops. “Then begin. Show me what you’re made of. And I shall show you what a ‘weak’ woman is made of.”

I approached her, my heart pounding with a heady blend of excitement and trepidation. She stood tall, her hands resting on her hips, her gaze unwavering. I took a riding crop from its place on the wall, its surface smooth and cold. “Turn around,” I commanded, my voice firm.

She obeyed without hesitation, her movements graceful despite the submissive posture she assumed. Her jodhpurs hugged her curves, the fabric taut over her full figure. Then, as if to prove that the pain would be nothing to her, nor my concerns about her modesty, she removed her boots and pulled the jodhpurs down, along with her knickers. A more beautiful bottom I could not have imagined: the pale flesh smooth, the cheeks perfectly rounded, and, much to my surprise, only a small tuft of blonde hair wisped at the cleft of her womanhood. Could she possibly shave it, as a man did his whiskers? That was a very exciting thought!

Them my mind returned to the business at hand … literally. I raised the crop, feeling the weight of it in my hand. This was about asserting my will, about proving that I could subdue even someone as formidable as her.

The first strike landed with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the room. She flinched slightly but remained silent, her shoulders tense. I struck again, harder this time, the head of the crop biting into her flesh. She inhaled a bit, but she didn’t cry out. She was strong, resilient, and it only fueled my determination to break through her composure.

“You think you’re in control, don’t you?” I said, my voice low and menacing. “But you’re not. Not now. Not with me.”

She turned her head slightly, her steely gaze meeting mine. “Prove it,” she challenged again, her voice steady despite the redness spreading across her skin.

I whistled the crop through the air more strenuously, its supple, slender length with a stiff leather head slashing through the air. This time, certain of wielding it with its fullest purpose, I didn’t hold back. The flogger struck her back, the leather head leaving a distinct welt in its shape, perhaps a few centimeters wide and at least twice that length. Miss Steinhertz gasped, her body arching slightly, but she didn’t falter. Her strength was impressive, but it only made me more determined to push her to her limits.

“You’re not as strong as you think,” I growled, my breath hot against her ear. “You’re just as vulnerable as anyone else. Certainly any other woman.”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “Am I? Or are you just desperate to prove something to yourself?”

Her words struck a chord, but I pushed them aside. This wasn’t about me; it was about her. About breaking down the walls she’d built around herself. I struck again, harder, the crop biting into her skin. She flinched this time, her body trembling in spite of her boast, but she did not beg for mercy. She was proud, defiant, and it only made me want to push her further. I became enraged, both at her insistence that every woman should be able to resist whatever punishment was given to her and that poor women such as Emily Watson should be willing to take such punishment from her social ‘superiors’.

Blow after blow landed on her buttocks cheeks, on her back, and even down to her thighs. And yet she still had not cried out, had not moved from her position other than to give me a searing glance after a particularly painful stroke. She was indeed a formidable woman! I paused for a moment to catch my breath, and she glanced at me.

“Enough,” she said, her voice strained. “It’s your turn now to prove your strength of mind.”

I hesitated, my chest heaving as I caught my breath. She turned fully to face me, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and desire. She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to grasp my wrist. “You think you can dominate me? Prove it.”

Her touch sent a jolt through me, and I felt my resolve waver. But I couldn’t back down now. Not when I thought I was so close to breaking her. I pushed her back onto the chair, my hands gripping her wrists and pinning them above her head. She struggled, her strength surprising, but I held firm.

“You’re not in control here,” I said, my voice a whisper. “I am.”

She smirked, her eyes daring me. I leaned in, my lips brushing against hers, but I didn’t give her the kiss she expected. Instead, I trailed my lips down her neck, my teeth grazing her skin. Then I bit the side of her neck, hard. The womanly fluid was flowing freely from between her strong, inviting nether lips. She shivered, her body arching toward me, but I kept my grip tight, denying her the coupling she craved.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Take me …”

I shook my head, my breath hot against her ear. “Not yet. Not until I’m ready.”

Her struggles intensified, her strong body writhing beneath mine, but I held her firmly, my resistance absolute. I could feel her desire, her need, but I refused to give in. This was about control, about proving that I could deny her even as she begged for it.

Finally, I released her arms, stepping back and leaving her breathless and frustrated. She glared at me, her chest heaving, her lips parted in anger and desire.

“Is that it?” she demanded.

“That’s it until I want more,” I retorted.

“You think you’ve won,” she said, her voice trembling. “But this isn’t over.”

I smirked, my heart still pounding from the intensity of the moment. “Perhaps not. But for now, I’m the one walking away. And that’s enough.”

I turned and left her there, her pride shaken, her desire unfulfilled. As I walked away, I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that this was just the beginning. Miss Steinhertz wasn’t someone who would accept defeat easily, and I knew our power struggle was far from over.

But for now, I had proven my point. I had shown her – and myself – that I was capable of dominance, of control. And as I made my way back to my quarters, I couldn’t help but think of Veronica, her willing submission a stark contrast to Miss Steinhertz’s defiance. With Veronica, I could explore my desires without resistance, without the need to prove anything. At the very least, taking her would be some sort of relief from this terrible tension that had been building in me since that distressing picnic.

I returned to my chambers, the tension coiled tight within me like a spring ready to snap. My encounter with Ingrid had been a test of willpower, a battle I’d won but at the cost of a restless energy that now demanded release. Yet, as I pushed open the door to my room, I knew release would be ready and waiting for me.

Victoria was already there, as she always was, her presence a silent reassurance. She knelt by the hearth, her long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a curtain of midnight. Her plain servant’s dress clung to her trim figure, accentuating the curves I knew so well. Her green eyes lifted to meet mine, and in them, I saw the unspoken question, the silent plea she always carried. She sensed my mood instantly, and her face glowed with hope and anticipation.

"Master," she whispered, her voice soft and submissive. "May I serve you?"

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I let my gaze linger on her, taking in the way her breath quickened, the way her hands clasped together in front of her as if in prayer. Victoria thrived on this: the anticipation, the uncertainty, the knowledge that her pleasure lay in my hands. And tonight, I needed her as much as she needed me.

"Undress," I commanded, my voice firm. "Kneel before me."

She didn’t hesitate. With practiced efficiency, she slipped out of her dress, letting it fall at her feet. Her shift followed, revealing the body I’d come to know so intimately. She knelt on the cold wooden floor, her head bowed, her hands clasped behind her back, her thighs spread. The firelight cast a warm glow over her skin, highlighting the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the delicate line of her spine.

I moved to stand before her, my boots echoing softly on the floor. The tension within me was still there, a restless hunger that demanded satisfaction. I reached for the riding crop hanging on the wall, its leather handle smooth beneath my fingers. Victoria’s eyes flicked up to meet mine, a silent question in their depths.

"You know what I want," I said, my voice low. "Do you not?"

She nodded, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "Yes, Master. I do."

I stepped closer, the crop held loosely in my hand. "Then give it to me."

Her hands reached out, trembling slightly, and grasped the front of my breeches. Her touch was tentative, reverent, as if she feared I might vanish at any moment. She undid the buttons with careful fingers, her eyes never leaving mine. When she pulled down my breeches, her gaze dropped to the evidence of my desire, and a soft, eager sound escaped her lips.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against the head of my cock, her tongue flicking out to taste me. I hissed in a breath, the tension coiling tighter, sharper. Victoria’s mouth was warm and wet, her lips soft as they enveloped me. She moved slowly at first, her tongue swirling, her hands cradling my balls, her moans vibrating against my skin.

I raised the crop, letting it hover above her. "You want this, don’t you?" I asked, my voice rough.

"Yes, Master," she whispered, her mouth only briefly stopping its work. "Please."

The first strike landed on her left buttock, a sharp crack that made her gasp and shudder. Her body arched slightly, her muscles tensing as she absorbed the pain. I waited, letting the sensation sink in, before bringing the crop down again, this time on her right thigh. She whimpered, her head arcing back, but her mouth still wrapped around me.

I struck her again and again, each blow carefully placed, each one pushing her closer to the edge. Her skin flushed pink, then red, the marks of my discipline a testament to her devotion. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, her body trembling with each strike. And still she sucked me deeper, her tongue relentless, her lips tight around me.

I could feel the pressure building, the tension finally finding its release. I gave her one last hard strike and erupted down her voracious throat. She thrust herself against my pubic bone as though not wanting to miss even one drop of the nectar of life. Perhaps, for her, it was. Finally she had drained me dry.

She still knelt, gazing up at me with intense devotion.

"Enough," I growled, pulling her away from me. She collapsed onto her hands, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed with a mixture of pain and pleasure.

I stepped out of my breeches, kicking them aside, and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. "To the bed," I commanded, my voice leaving no room for argument.

She moved eagerly, her body still trembling, her skin flushed and marked with the evidence of my discipline. I followed her, the crop still in my hand, my cock still throbbing with need. When she lay on the bed, her arms spread wide, her legs slightly parted, I stood over her, taking in the sight of her.

"You’re mine," I said, my voice a low rumble. "Every inch of you."

She nodded, her eyes fixed on mine. "Yes, Master. Always."

I climbed onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. Her breath caught as I leaned down, my lips brushing against her neck, my teeth grazing her skin. She shivered, her hands reaching up to grasp my shoulders, her body arching into me. I nipped at her earlobe, her jawline, the sensitive skin of her throat, my hands roaming over her body, pinching and caressing, teasing and tormenting.

Her moans grew louder, more desperate, her body writhing beneath me. I could feel her need, her desire, her desperation for more. I trailed my fingers down her stomach, over the curve of her hip, to the wetness between her thighs. She was slick with arousal, her muscles clenching around my fingers as I slipped them inside her.

"Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Please, Master."

I smiled, a sadistic, satisfied smile. "Not yet."

I continued to torment her, my teeth and hands working in tandem, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. Her body was a canvas, and I was the artist, painting her with pleasure and pain, desire and desperation. Her cries filled the room, a symphony of need, her body trembling on the brink of release.

Finally, when I could wait no longer, I positioned myself between her legs, my cock pressing against her entrance. She lifted her hips, meeting me halfway, her eyes locked on mine as I slid inside her. She was tight, surprisingly so, her vaginal walls clenching around me as I filled her completely.

I began to move, slow at first, savoring the feel of her, the heat of her, the way she enveloped me. Her hands grasped my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin as I picked up the pace, my thrusts becoming harder, faster, more relentless. Her moans turned to cries, her body arching off the bed, her muscles tensing as she teetered on the edge.

I reached between us, my fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in quick, firm circles. Her body shattered, her cries filling the room as she came apart beneath me, her muscles milking me, her release triggering my own. I groaned, my head falling back as I thrust deep one last time, my seed spilling into her, my body trembling with the force of my orgasm.

For a long moment, we lay there, our bodies still joined, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. I withdrew slowly, collapsing beside her, my arm draped over her waist. She turned to me, her eyes soft, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.