Wild Game

Chapter Three-1

CHAPTER THREE

I wonder what she sees, looking up at me. She is nearly twice my age. She once served her husband as I serve her now, and nursed him on his deathbed. Experience alone makes her wise beyond my comprehension. Does she still see the foolish child that I used to be, or does she see how her love has transformed me?

We met in college when a vengeful college roommate delivered me into bondage, taking advantage of my impetuous nature and unnatural curiosity. Dr. Cornell says that I am a special case. I wasn’t aware of my submissive nature until I met her, so I didn’t come to her filled with impossible expectations. I didn’t even know that I could love another woman until I loved her.

For the last year I have lived a double life. Mistress decided that I would finish college. I couldn’t see the point of it right away. I belong to her now, and it’s all I’ll ever want. What can a pleasure doll do with a degree anyway? She is obstinate about not letting me become too dependent on her. I suppose burying her husband taught her that unimaginable things have a way of happening. Anyway, arguing with her is a good idea if I’m in the mood for spending a night in the cage with a red ass and no supper. In the end, it always comes down to a matter of trust.

So five days a week I rose early and dressed in the demure collegiate outfits that Mistress selected and her housekeeper Mrs. Kraft laid out for me. I attended classes in the morning and studied in the school library all afternoon. I discovered that the library was full of predatory males, but they stopped bothering me after I started wearing Grandma’s wedding band.

It was the first time since high school that I had been expected to earn my grades honestly. Before I met Mistress, all my grades were won on my back. The routine was simple. It usually began in the professor’s office with his sad confession that his wife was unable to understand his sensitive soul. It usually ended in a motel room, where he poured his sensitive soul into my eager puss. I never stooped to blackmail. I never needed to. After a semester of sampling my delights, no man would be cad enough to give me the grade I deserved.

Last year I studied, and I turned down party invitations, and fended off the jocks and the frat boys when they came sniffing around. I went straight home from the library, arriving at four. Ms. Kraft met me at the door to take my coat, and everything else I was wearing. She replaced it all with a simple leather collar. By day, I was disguised as “Chrissy Co-ed”. At night, my true identity was revealed.

I endured all the tedious mediocrity of those days to deserve the joyous agony of the nights. On graduation day Mistress placed my framed diploma on the library wall beside her doctorate and hugged me.

That same night she whipped me for spilling her coffee.

After that I became what folks who call it “The Lifestyle” would consider a twenty-four/seven submissive. There was no ceremony. I simply stayed home, stayed naked, and devoted my life to her.

In many ways, it is a schizophrenic life. Mistress encourages my efforts and tells me often how proud she is of my accomplishments. She never forbids me to develop friendships or displays any jealousy. Sometimes she gives me money and pushes me out the door, telling me to go out, have fun, and be with other people. I always come home early, and always with a gift for her.

When I wear her collar, however, she is completely in control. She becomes arrogant, demanding, perverse, and gleefully cruel. She reminds me constantly that I occupy a place in the natural order below invertebrates, even as she betrays with a thousand unintended looks and gestures that I am the centerpiece of her universe.

I am not the only submissive in the household. Mrs. Kraft has her own girl, a sad waif she bought from a biker for the price of a motorcycle. She is called “Piglet”. I never knew her real name, and I think she may have forgotten it. Her Bible-thumping parents had her sent to an institution when they discovered she was gay. She escaped from that snake pit with her spirit broken, only to become a lesbian biker’s abused pet. Mrs. Kraft has given her the affection that she has never known anywhere else. Not that she has been spoiled. I flinch sometimes when I see the intense suffering that Piglet must endure to please Mrs. Kraft. Yet she often laughs through her tears, and her devotion is inspiring. Unlike me, she has been abandoned by the world, and would have died without a Mistress to protect her.

Piglet and I have become like sisters, together in joy and misery. Sometimes we put on s*x shows to amuse our owners. Her puss is sweet, her skin is silky, and she whimpers like a puppy during climax. We have shared secrets late at night in whispered conversations, locked in adjoining cages, or bound in separate corners of the cellar. We are their toys, and they play with us nearly every night.

We have often been strung up together by our wrists, a rope around our waists to join us belly to belly. Our two Mistresses stalked slow circles around us and sliced into our backsides. Commanded to kiss, we muffled our screams into each other’s mouths. We made a game of rubbing our n*****s and bumping our p*****s whenever the sear of the lash gave us an excuse, enjoying the silky friction of skin to skin. There was a sublime contrast between the pleasure before and the agony behind. I have felt her open mouth go suddenly tight in a grimace, until her teeth were pressed hard against my lips. I have witnessed Piglet’s weeping through the blur of my own tears. It is an intimacy greater than s*x.

It was while I was studying for midterms that the rituals became more elaborate. Mistress made a game of tutoring me. She dressed me in bobby socks and a plaid skirt, a white blouse and string tie. Piglet wore the same uniform. Mrs. Kraft wanted her to earn a GED, since her high school education had been cut short by an institutional stay.

An old storage area was cleared out to make a classroom. I don’t know where they found the furniture. Piglet and I are small women, but the desks had been sized for children, so we were forced to spread our knees and scoot way down in the seats to straddle the book storage bin. The desks were the real thing, old enough to have inkwells, and embossed with initials and rude suggestions from children long grown. At the front of the room, a black slate was mounted on the wall. A tag board alphabet in block print and cursive marched along the crown mold above it. The air even smelled of old wood and chalk. The first time we entered the room, Piglet and I were in character inside of ten seconds, giggling and gossiping they way we did in Junior High, striving to contain our high spirits when the teacher swept into the room.

Mistress was in character too, and had dressed her part to perfection. My eyes traveled up from high button shoes and a long full skirt to the hourglass figure and ramrod back that her corset enforced. The dress was black with white lace trim on her high collar and long cuffs. Wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on her nose, so that she had to tip her head back to peer across the room at me.

“Would you care to share the source of your amusement, Christine?”

I passed a damp palm over my face to wipe away my smirk and folded my hands on the desk as I sat up straight. “I’m very sorry!”

I almost called her Mistress, but instinct told me that the usual form of address wouldn’t suit her in this role. “Dr. Cornell,” I added. This situation had strange echoes of our first meeting, when I came to seduce and stayed after class to negotiate my terms of surrender. This time there was no need for her to explain the rules.

The pointer came into sight then. She had been holding it down behind her skirt as she entered. I wasn’t particularly surprised to see it. Severe corporeal discipline was implicit in this game. She tapped its quivering length against her palm thoughtfully while she considered my attitude. I held my breath.

She spared me for the time being and launched into the lessons instead. Some of our instructions were individual. Others were taken together. It was serious schooling, straight from the textbooks we used during the day. Here, however, failure had more immediate consequences.

One time, for example, I was up at the teacher’s desk, standing “at ease”, hands folded against the back of my belted plaid skirt, white knee socks and saddle shoes well apart. I felt the starched collar snug at my throat as I swallowed my fear and concentrated grimly on getting it right. Dr. Cornell was helping me with my Spanish, leaning forward to speak in low precise tones, distracting me with the scent of her hair. It was a standard drill, query and response. She asked questions in Spanish, and I had to answer in complete sentences, also in Spanish. Suddenly she paused and shot a stern look toward Piglet, who was reading her History book.

“Who was the third President of the United States?”

Piglet set her book aside and stood at attention to answer. Her face never betrayed anything, but I knew from the tension in her shoulders when she didn’t know the answer.

“It was Benjamin Franklin, Dr. Cornell.”

Dr. Cornell sighed sadly with mock disappointment, but made no serious effort to disguise the light that was dancing in her eyes. “Come to the front of the room and assume the position.”

Piglet didn’t have to ask what the position was. By this time we both already knew it well. She trudged to the blackboard and bent herself over with her legs together and her knees straight. Her knuckles were white on the chalk rail.

Dr. Cornell let Piglet hold her position while I finished my lesson.

“La clase de espanol es muy divertida, verdad?”

Are we having fun yet? Yes—as much fun as two dedicated pain sluts and a serious sadist can have together.

“Si, pero la profesora es muy exigente!” I answered quickly, hoping that my pronunciation was correct. Yes, except that the teacher believes in the unspared rod and the unspoiled submissive.

Piglet’s arms were trembling with strain by the time Dr. Cornell told me to return to my seat. It was Piglet’s first error of the day. The standard punishment was a dozen with the spanking strap, a wide, stiff strip of leather eighteen inches long, split at the end and riveted to a wooden handle.

“Panties down.”

Piglet remained bent over, only reaching behind herself momentarily to raise her skirt and peel her white cotton panties down to her knees. The panty hobble is a small mercy. It reduces the temptation to kick.

Dr. Cornell tucked the skirt carefully under Piglet’s belt to keep her bottom bare. Her cheeks were already mottled with the aftereffects of earlier lessons. I could never tell if Piglet really suffered from poor memory. I suspected that her lapses were sometimes deliberate. I know mine were.

The first punishment of that day was a warm up. We all knew that. It was still early in the evening, and Dr. Cornell could easily decide to test us with questions that would stump the best scholars. Too many wrong answers would mean staying late for remedial work. If she was in the mood to punish, finding a reason was no problem.

So the blows came swiftly, delivered with quick snaps of the wrist, rapid popping impacts that had Piglet twitching and whimpering as she took a death grip on the rail. She is usually too well disciplined to make a real fuss. I couldn’t see her face, but I could imagine that her eyes were clenched and her lips were pursed to lock in her cries. There was no screaming or pleading, only the sharp hiss of air through her nose, and a faint, plaintive keening.

Finished, Dr. Cornell set the strap aside. “Hang your panties.”

“Thank you for my correction, Dr. Cornell.” A red-faced Piglet delivered her mantra without prompting as she stepped out of her panties and draped them over one of the coat hooks above the blackboard. Hanging there, they served as a reminder of her disgrace—and a warning that her punishment would be doubled for a second offense.

“Take your seat. I expect you to find the right answer in one minute.”

Piglet was careful to lift her skirt before sitting, so that her bare skin would be in contact with the hard, wooden seat. From the flush I saw rising on her face, I suspected that Piglet would have stained her skirt otherwise. Maybe that was why Dr. Cornell insisted on it.

“Crystal!”

I stopped staring at Piglet and folded my hands in front of me. “Yes, Dr. Cornell.”

“Estudias las lecciones todas las noches?”

My neck feels wrong without my collar. Rolled leather and padding have protected me from chafing and its snug fit and weight have always been oddly reassuring. The summer lodge is a place of such extreme privacy that I have worn nothing else for a month. The sun has erased my old bikini lines. I am brown all over except for the pale band around my throat. She only allows me to remove the collar when I bathe. I feel naked without it.

It was a spot quiz, an oral examination that came to resemble a prisoner interrogation. Fear can focus or paralyze. Conjugating the subjunctive wasn’t easy when Dr. Cornell towered above me with folded arms and fixed me in her pitiless gaze.

Piglet’s dozen became two, and her skirt joined her panties above the slate. Items of clothing were the good Doctor’s way of keeping score. Soon two pair of panties had become trophies. Within an hour, we both sat bare-assed and sniffing ineffectually, trembling with terror of the next impossible question. We became familiar with that horrible heaviness in our belly every time our instructress shook her head to indicate another wrong answer and crooked her red nailed finger to beckon. Every march to the front became longer. The punishment was a geometric progression. A dozen strokes became two, then four.

She abandoned her strap and progressed to the slim length of her pointer stick. By this time, Piglet and I were ridiculous in knee socks, saddle shoes, and white bras. Everything above and below those garments was red and bare. When we could no longer hold still for our punishment, she bound us over high stools face to face and kept us there for the rest of the evening. The quiz continued, but now errors were penalized without ceremony or delay.

Before the nightmarish evening had ended, Piglet was struggling to contain her sobs a yard away from me and I was considering myself fortunate that I couldn’t see the condition of her bottom. Some things are better left to the imagination. I had seen her face, though, a flushed and grinning rictus that could no longer see me. Piglet was entirely lost in her pain, howling into a pair of her own panties that Dr. Cornell had prudently stuffed into her mouth. Tears flowed freely from Piglet’s red-rimmed eyes, and her sweaty, lank hair was plastered to her forehead. I could only assume that I presented a similar sight myself.

Piglet was stuffed at the other end as well. The tight strap of a chastity belt divided her striped cheeks. This one was narrow around her waist, and the crotch strap was narrow where it split the cleft of her labia. The strap flared into a sort of saddle further back, framing and plumping her rump into an offering for the whip even as it wedged open her bottom-hole for the distending shaft secured deep within.

I flinched sympathetically as each stroke fell. Behind Piglet, Dr. Cornell’s expression betrayed neither anger nor glee. She seemed only to be intensely engaged as she applied the cane, aiming her strokes carefully to achieve some enigmatic pattern. With such a fierce weapon, little force was required. The energy of her assault was channeled and focused into devastating flicks of her wrist, a steady whick whick whick that abraded courage. A single blow was a sharp reprimand. Cumulatively they were unbearable.

Piglet’s woes would not end when Dr. Cornell dismissed her for the evening. Mrs. Kraft, in the role of a dutiful guardian, was waiting in the bedroom. When Mrs. Kraft asked Piglet what sort of day she had at school, the question would be merely rhetorical. Piglet would be reporting to her Mistress wearing the evidence, tear tracks on the cheeks above, and cane tracks on the cheeks below. Behavior that earns punishment at “school” certainly can’t be rewarded in the bedroom. I would fall asleep that night listening to muted sounds from the adjoining room—rhythmic smacks, plaintive mewling and the slow creak of the punishment bench as Piglet was alternately paddled and sodomized.

I was still trying to digest the merciless display that I had just witnessed when Dr. Cornell removed the sopping panty gag from Piglet’s mouth and presented the switch for her to kiss. After the sobbing girl collected herself enough to thank the teacher properly, Dr. Cornell turned away from her and approached me.

“Open,” she commanded as she placed the switch into my mouth. I held it for her while she lifted her skirt and slithered out of her panties. I had a glimpse of the fragrant nest of her pubic hair before she lowered the curtain again. I knew that I would soon be lapping from that beloved font, but first I would taste her essence through my screams. She trailed her panties over my nose to tease me as she reclaimed her switch.

“Te gusta nadar in el rio?” she inquired sweetly.

No gracias! El rio esta mucho frio!

Now I know why she took my collar off.

“Jump!” she says.

The rock is no taller than the high board at the “Y”, and the water looks deep and obstacle-free. I can swim adequately, and water moccasins don’t live this far North. It’s hypothermia I’m thinking about. I don’t think too long, though. There is a bouquet of switches waiting to enforce her demand. I have no illusions that she will spare me for obedience, but hesitation earns sure penalties. You can stand and stare into the abyss or dance on the edge.

I see a brief phantom reflected in the water, a naked ghost. Foreshortening makes her feet seem huge as they tread uselessly through the air. One of her hands pinches her nostrils. The other trails aloft.

The river swallows me.