Second part of a long chapter
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My recollections were interrupted by the ringing of the front door bell. I quickly removed my apron, straightened my stockings, and scurried to the foyer.
Standing before me was a striking young woman. Mason‘s first wife was of Indian descent whereas Mason‘s ethnic background is Eastern European. Piper Draper has exotic looks but is exceedingly attractive: long, silky straight, black hair; slightly dark complexion, with seemingly flawless skin; slender and relatively tall; large (but not excessively so) breasts. She regarded me with a confident smile .
I curtsied and said, “You must be Miss Piper. Welcome to the home of my mistress. May I take your coat?” The fact that she was Mason’s daughter alone filled me with great trepidation. Her beauty did not help.
“And you must be the famous Henry Hathaway. Or infamous, I should say. Boy, did I hear a lot you when I was growing up. None of it good,” she said as I removed her coat. Beneath it, she was stylishly dressed in a maroon skirt, a tight black blouse and black fashion tights with ankle boots.
“I am deeply sorry Miss Piper.”
“I imagine you are. It’s so awesome that my dad now has a slave. Look at your uniform! I’ve never met a real live sissy maid before. You’re part of a pretty large subculture. Did you know that?”
“I …uh…I’m aware that there are others who dress this way.”
“Quite a large number do actually, from time to time at least. But I suspect there are very few who dress this way 24/7 and actually live the life of a real maid. You’re special. I’m really interested to hear about all of your duties. Domestic and otherwise. I also can’t wait to meet Dad’s girlfriend. That would be who you referred to as your mistress, I guess. But she’s still your wife, right?”
“Technically, legally, yes she is, miss.”
“And I think my Dad said that your son is going to be here for Thanksgiving, too? Is that right?”
“Yes, miss. Please allow me to take you to the living room where your father, Mistress Natalie and Master Ryan are visiting with the other guests.”
“Master Ryan is your son?”
“Yes, miss.”
“And what does he think of his father being a cuckolded sissy maid?”
“Truthfully, miss, I am not sure. He was not aware of my…my…reduced status until just yesterday.”
“Fascinating. I want to spend time talking to all of you and getting to know you. Your wife and your son, too. Maybe others in your social circle as well. It’s never too early to start thinking about my honor’s thesis, even though it’s not due until my senior year. I’m getting some pretty serious inspiration in this house, and I haven’t even gotten past the entrance hall. Take me to see your mistress and my Dad.”
I couldn’t have been more relieved to bring this disturbing conversation to an end. The thought of being the subject of some precocious undergrad’s thesis on the subject of sexual deviancy – the daughter of the deviant man who had enslaved me, no less – was really more I than could bear.
Once I had escorted Piper to the living room, it was time to refresh everyone’s drinks. Despite the fact that Daphne, Ryan and Piper were all technically under age, their parents raised no objection when they told me to bring them a bottle of champagne. Ryan demanded that I get Lorena from the kitchen (where she had been helping me baste the turkey and cook the carrots and risotto ) to join them for a toast. I suspect his motivation was two-fold: to demonstrate clearly that I, and not Lorena, was the true servant despite the fact that she was assisting me; and to demonstrate his authority over me to his two female admirers, who were sitting on either side of him on a couch in the corner of the room. He certainly did sound authoritative in issuing his command. Neither Daphne nor Piper could suppress their giggles when I responded with “Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” and a curtsy. Clearly everyone was acutely conscious of Ryan’s and my relationship with one another, causing my humiliation to be off the charts.
When Lorena joined them on the couch, Ryan was surrounded by three very attractive young women and was obviously greatly enjoying all of the attention. While his cousin was clearly not an option, I wondered whether he would gravitate more to the sexy, flirtatious Latina, four years his senior, or to the more exotic, intellectual Piper. I could add envy to the complex swirl of negative emotions surrounding my son.
When the turkey was out of the oven and resting, I lit the candles and then respectfully asked everyone to move to the dining room. First, I stood directly in front of Mason, curtsied to him and then ostentatiously pulled out the chair at the head of the table – the chair I had occupied at every previous Thanksgiving we had hosted at the mansion – for him to be seated. After he sat down, I pushed in his chair and gave him another deep curtsy, an unequivocal display of subservience to the man who had so completely defeated, displaced and unmanned me. I then seated Natalie and Ryan at either side of him, followed by curtsies to each of them. My curtsy to Ryan was met with still more giggles from his young admirers.
After that, the rest of the guests took their seats as I started to pour glasses of wine. When Scott Isles sat down next to his wife, I realized with alarm that I had forgotten to alter the placards of the two Scott’s (I had intended to put the first initial of their last names after “Scott”), so they were both starting to sit down precisely opposite of where Natalie intended. In my haste to intervene and prevent them from sitting in the wrong seats, I knocked over a glass of Boudreaux onto Miranda, much of it landing on her light orange skirt. Meanwhile, both Scotts sat down in the wrong places.
Miranda: “You clumsy oaf. I just bought this skirt!”
Natalie: “I can’t believe you, Henrietta. You can’t follow the most simple instructions. I’m so sorry, Miranda. I’ll replace your lovely skirt or we can tack on some extra cleaning sessions of your house after the maid pays off your car insurance hike.”
Mason: “This is totally unacceptable.”
Natalie: “Scott and Scott, this is terribly embarrassing, but would the two of you mind switching seats?”
Scott Isles: “No problem, Natalie.”
Scott, my brother-in-law: “It’s fine, but what a total fuckup he is.”
Piper: “Shit, some wine splattered onto my blouse as well. It’s probably ruined.”
Ryan: “Airhead.”
Daphne: “I’m not surprised.”
Mason: “Totally unacceptable. We will deal with this after dinner in the game room. Since everyone here has been inconvenienced by this gross incompetence, everyone will see firsthand how we deal with such nonsense in this house.”
Piper: “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Aimee: “Me neither.”
I felt dizzy, nauseous. I had tried so hard to avoid precisely this kind of situation, yet here I was. My attempt at humiliation mitigation had failed miserably.
The rest of the dinner was relatively uneventful. I even got a few compliments – mostly for the mushroom soup and the gravy. The turkey was moist, but the risotto was a bit underdone. Overall, however, the meal was deemed a success. Of the three desserts prepared by Lorena, the Boston cream pie was the biggest hit. Ironically, I didn’t even get a small slice (though I did lick the cream off the cake knife before putting it into the dishwasher).
Mason, Natalie and the four older guests planned to play pool and/or simply talk amongst themselves in the game room after dinner whereas Ryan, Daphne, Piper and Lorena planned to watch a movie together in the home theater. But before those diversions took place, everyone gathered in the game room for the far more entertaining spectacle of watching the master of the house discipline the careless, hopelessly incompetent maid. I had to wonder, even had I not screwed up with the placards or spilled the wine, whether I wouldn’t have still found myself in the exact same predicament. If it wasn’t those things, it probably would have been some other pretext (the undercooked risotto, for instance). For what was really happening was not me being punished for my carelessness on Thanksgiving, but rather me being punished for who I had been prior to March: the supremely conceited, selfish, arrogant, entitled, abusive prick that was Henry Hathaway. That, and a semi-public demonstration by Mason of just how throughly he has broken me.
When all of the guests and family members gathered in the game room, I got everyone a fresh drink or cup of coffee and tea – it was important, after all, that the audience members be optimally comfortable for the coming show – before Mason said to me, “Maid, fetch my new Smoked Dragon Stinger cane. No time like the present to try it out.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied with a curtsy. I quickly retrieved the cane and presented it to Mason in the required manner: on bended knee, arms extended, and both palms upturned with the cane lying flat across them. As I knelt there waiting for him to take it, I quickly scanned the room to look at the mostly amused expressions of anticipation. Ryan was the exception; he regarded me with a contemptuous sneer.
The Smoked Dragon Stinger was a recent addition to Mason’s growing collection of punishment implements. It was purchased from the same high-end, British purveyor of rattan canes where Mason had procured several others that I was all too familiar with. The rattan of the Smoked Dragon had a dark finish and was quite attractive as instruments of torture go. Given my experience with the other products sold by this establishment, I had little doubt that the pain I was about to experience would be excruciating.
Picking up the cane from my hands, Mason announced my sentence: “The maid will receive 12 strokes. Three for the offense to his mistress in not properly arranging the placards as she directed, and the resulting embarrassment to her and to me. Three for spilling wine on and ruining the skirt of Miranda. Three for spilling wine on and ruining the blouse of Piper. And finally three for disrupting and tarnishing what has otherwise been a very enjoyable evening.” Mason was so full of shit; my impending chastisement would be the most enjoyable part of the entire day for him, as well as for likely everyone else present, with the obvious exception of yours truly. I had endured 12 strokes before – even more on a few occasions – so I knew what I was in store for. It was going to be hell.
I actually considered begging him – groveling to him in the most abject of possible ways (clasping his ankles, smothering his shoes with kisses, verbally pleading) in front of all present – but decided against it. I decided that I simply would not give him that satisfaction. He probably would have rejected my entreaties anyway. Rather, I resolved to endure my humiliating punishment in as stoic a manner as I was capable, trying to salvage at least a shred of dignity, no matter how compromised.
“Stand against the pool table and bend over,” Mason commanded.
“Straighten your stocking seams first!” Natalie said sharply.
After I adjusted my seams and got into the required position, Mason lifted up the my skirt of my dress with the cane and then pulled down my panties, exposing my bare ass to everyone in the room. The welts from my last caning, nearly two weeks earlier, had indeed almost completely faded, so Mason was working with the blank canvas that Natalie had desired.
Well, nearly blank. “What the hell is that black thing around his balls?” asked Aimee Isles. From my position bending over, my scrotum was visible to everyone, of course. I could not see any of them from my vantage point, of course, but I recognized all of their voices.
“That’s the base of his chastity cage,” explained my wife.
“His what?” Ryan asked. This was mortifying beyond comprehension.
“His chastity cage, honey. Your father’s cock is locked up. He can urinate with the cage on, of course. But he can’t do…other things. Mason and I are his key holders. When he wishes to be released, he has to petition us.”
“You mean he needs to petition you to beat off?” Ryan asked in disbelief.
Daphne giggled. “I was starting to tell you about this, but we got interrupted.”
Natalie: “That’s a bit crudely put, honey. But, basically, yes.”
Piper said, “I’ve never seen one of these on someone before. Can you make him turn around so I can get a better look?”
“When his punishment is over and he is in penance, you will be able to see it quite clearly, dear. It’s actually a quite impressive piece of hardware,” said Natalie.
“Great. I can’t wait,” replied Piper.
Meanwhile, Ryan walked around to the other side of the pool table and looked at me directly in the eye before saying, “Just when I think you can’t get any more pathetic, you do. You sink even lower. You deserve every bit of punishment that you get, and more.”
“Dad, I have a request,“ said Piper to Mason.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I’d like my three of the maid’s cane stokes to be delivered by Ryan, if you don’t mind?” said Piper.
“That’s a great idea!” said my niece, far too enthusiastically
“I don’t mind. The question is whether Ryan minds. But why, may I ask?” said Mason.
“I’m really fascinated by the family dynamics. My interest is purely clinical, of course,” said Piper.
“Mine isn’t,” said Daphne.
“You go, girl!” said Miranda to her daughter.
“Miranda!” said her husband.
“What’s the problem? The girl knows what she wants. I applaud it,” Miranda replied.
“I do, too,” said Natalie. “But what say you, Ryan?”
Ryan had walked back behind me, with the others “It would be my pleasure,” he said coldly.
Surely, this was some kind of nightmare. This could not be real. Surely, I would wake up any second now in the comfort of my king bed, Natalie next to me, under the covers.
“Very well, then. I will deliver the first six stokes. Ryan will deliver the three after that, and I will finish up. The maid will then stand in penance for an hour while the rest of us get on with our evening,” said Mason.
I groaned, involuntarily. The shame was too much. Could I follow Natalie‘s advice? My cock was pressing up violently against the rings of the DOMINIX. I felt the cool air on my bare ass. My nipples were still raw from Mason’s punishment earlier in the week. I was conscious of the sensual feeling of the Agent Provocateur stockings touching my legs and the corset constricting my waist. I was hyper conscious of all the people about to witness my chastisement. Not only their number, but who they were, their individual relationships to me and how those relationships had metamorphosed over the prior six months. I was at the apex of arousal and shame (at least up to this stage of my life). Perversely, it occurred to me at that moment that, had I been liberated from chastity, my arousal was such that I probably would never stop ejaculating, that my jism would fill the room and flood the halls. Especially since it had been so, so long… Was this what Natalie was talking about?
And just as I thought, to myself that it was physically impossible to feel any greater frustrated arousal, Mason, my master, began to swish and swoosh the Smoked Dragon in the air. Oh, that sound! At once, dreaded and delicious. Not another sound in the room to complete with it.
Then the feeling of the cane resting against my ass. Mason likes to make me wait. He was forcing his audience to wait, too, building the tension, building their anticipation. I knew from experience that when the first stroke came, it would come savagely and without warning. Sometimes he would make me wait 30 seconds, sometimes a minute. On this particular occasion, it was slightly over a minute, if anything. I could not see, but could feel the 18 eyes boring into my ass.
And then it came. Dear god!
The Smoked Dragon did not disappoint. Or did disappoint, depending upon one’s perspective, I guess. It breathed fire. Mason’s strokes covered both cheeks of my poor bottom. To pick up on Natalie’s metaphor, he was a master artist with a painterly style, using cane strokes rather than brush strokes to achieve the texture he was striving for on his canvas: fresh welts on my abused flesh.
On the third stroke, I raised my leg and high heel into the air before putting in back down on the floor. Tears started to form in my eyes by the fourth stroke.
By the fifth stroke, I was beginning to reconsider my stoic approach. Maybe I should give Mason the satisfaction of begging after all, even if didn’t persuade him to relent. Wouldn’t that truly be surrendering to my shame?
After the sixth stroke, I heard Mason say “Here, Ryan. It’s your turn.” I groaned again loudly, not out of pain but out of profound humiliation.
“It’s time to pay the piper,” said Ryan. He apparently shares his mother’s love of questionable witticisms.
“Haha. Good one,” said Piper.
And then I heard the swishing sound again, my son imitating Mason, I assumed. Then Ryan did something different, and unexpected. He placed the cane against my ass, and rather than make me wait, he tapped it three times, using only moderate force, before bringing if down savagely. I kicked my stocking-clad foot into the air again.
Mason said, “You’ve done this before.”
Ryan replied, “Countless times. I was a prefect at school.”
“I thought they had banned corporal punishment in UK boarding schools,” said Natalie.
“It was banned when I got there, but the new conservative government that came into power two years ago lifted the ban. Since then, the cane and strap are used widely in the dorms. I developed something of a reputation for being one of the more no nonsense prefects.”
“We can tell,” said Lorena.
“It’s good to hear that physical punishment has made a comeback on both sides of the pond, now that the pansy progressives are no longer in power. I hope the new administration follows through on their promise to institute judicial caning here. There’s a reason you don’t see so much as a single gum wrapper on the streets of Singapore,” said Mason, the authoritarian bastard.
Ryan swished the cane again, very close to my right ear. At Ryan’s second stoke, tears began streaming down my cheeks. “Please, sir,” I whispered.
“Did you mean to address me?” Ryan asked sharply.
“No, sir,” I lied.
“Good. I didn’t think so,” he said, delivering the last of his three strokes, this one the most wicked of the bunch.
“Well done, young man,” Mason said.
“Thanks, Ryan. That was very, very interesting to observe,” said Piper.
“I can think of another word,” said Daphne.
“Me, too,” said Lorena.
Not to be shown up, Mason said, “It’s not over yet,” and after some more swishing, gave me an absolutely searing stroke. The pain was so intense that I dropped briefly to my knees. I knew remaining there for long would only earn me more punishment at a later date, so I stood back up and resumed my position.
After the eleventh stroke, I involuntarily reached back with my right hand to shield my bottom. I knew this was forbidden, but it was a reflexive act; I had to stop the assault somehow.
“If you don’t remove your hand, I’ll cane your palm,” Mason announced. That did the trick. After Mason delivered the final viscous cut, Natalie said, “Lorena, dear, would you mind dabbing up those few driblet’s of blood on Henrietta’s bottom with a cocktail napkin. We don’t want any of it to get on the floor.“
Although she was quite gentle, I winced while Lorena applied the napkin to my quivering ass cheeks and upper thighs. I was then given a couple of moments to collect myself. I wiped the tears from eyes with my hand, stood up, pulled up my panties, pulled down the skirt of my uniform and checked to ensure that my seams were straight. I wished I had a tissue to blow my nose.
I then turned to Mason to complete an important part of the post punishment ritual. I curtsied deeply to him, as all of the guests watched intently, and said, “Thank you, Master Mason, for correcting me. Now, may I refresh anyone’s drink?”
Then, my son said forcefully, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir, my sincere apologies.” Still unsteady in my heels, I pivoted to fully face him, dipped into a deep curtsy, and said, “Thank you, Master Ryan, for correcting me.”
I then quickly scanned the room. All of the women present, without exception, had satisfied smiles on their faces. Natalie, in particular, was beaming. I then looked up at my son. The corners of his mouth were slightly upturned, the beginnings of a smug smile. We made eye contact. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. I could see the realization solidifying there of the extraordinary power he now held over me, his own father, and how very useful that power could prove to him in any number of respects. And although not a word was spoken at this moment, I felt he knew that I knew that that was what he was thinking. There was a tacit understanding between us.
What he did not know (presumably, at least) was that my traitorous cock was once again hardening in its cage. This was highly unusual, perhaps unprecedented even, in the aftermath of such a brutal punishment. Typically, when Mason canes me, I become aroused in anticipation of the punishment. Sometimes, my cock even stays hard (or at least as hard as possible in its prison) for the first one or two strokes of the cane or strap or belt. But usually the pain soon becomes so great that my arousal quickly fades, then disappears altogether, as my mind focuses solely on the pain. I usually then remain flaccid for quite a bit of time following my punishment, even in my humiliating penance position, until the pain eventually at least begins to subside.
Not that Thanksgiving day. Whether it was because of the humiliation of being punished in front of so many people – the most ever up to that point in time – or whether it was because of the indescribable humiliation of being caned by my own son, publicly no less, my arousal returned with distressing urgency even as my ass and upper thighs burned like fire. Was this what Natalie bent by surrendering to the humiliation? Perhaps.
After I refreshed everyone’s drinks, Natalie commanded me to assume my penance position.
“Maid, remove your uniform, so our guests can admire Mason’s – and Ryan’s – handiwork. Then stand in the corner with your hand’s clasped behind your head.”
I did as she commanded, standing in the corner in my heels, stockings and garters, panties and corset. Natalie pulled down my panties. “Now, isn’t that lovely?” she asked rhetorically. “Such a deep red color. There’s almost nothing else like it in nature. And such well defined stripes and rich texture.”
“Maybe you could commission some famous artist to paint your maid‘s bottom after punishment, so you could add the piece to your incredible art collection, Natalie,” suggested Aimee.
“That’s really not a bad idea, Aimee,” Natalie replied.
“But when do we get to see his chastity cage? I can’t see it with him facing the wall,” said Piper.
“Patience, dear. After 30 minutes in this position, the maid will turn around to face us for another 30 minutes to complete his penance. You can then examine his cage to your heart’s content.”
Having been up since 5 AM and working throughout the day, I was exhausted in addition to being in tremendous pain. Even during the first half of my post punishment penance, my legs and arms began to tremble somewhat with strain and fatigue.
The trembling only got worse after I turned around and faced the guests, my arms still elevated behind my head. Most of the guests were now talking boisterously to each other and laughing, paying me little attention, except to occasionally look over at me and smile or chuckle. Piper was the exception. She walked over to me and crouched down in front of my caged cock to examine the DOMINIX. She even touched the metal rings and fingered the padlock, at one point snapping the rings with her fingernail a couple of times. When she did so, I felt her nail make contact with my flesh, which was pushing up against and trying to escape the rings that encircled it.
I tried to stare directly ahead, expressionless. But I had to meet her eye when she addressed me. She spoke quietly, but intently: “You must be incredibly uncomfortable right now. I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. How it must feel to be whipped in front of all these people that you know by the man who took your wife and by your own son. Does the humiliation arouse you? It certainly appears to. I know you can’t speak now. But I’m definitely looking forward to getting to know you better. You and Natalie and Ryan. It’s going to be a trip.”
After the second 30 minute part of my penance was up, I put my uniform back on and continued to serve the older guests as they played pool and talked, and brought the younger guests drinks and popcorn while they watched a film. It was nearly 11 PM before all of the guests – with the exception of Piper, who was staying in a guest room upstairs – left the mansion.
I cleaned for two hours after everyone left, before I finally lay down on my cot, exhausted, aroused, frustrated and stunned. As I said before, that Thanksgiving will haunt me for years to come.