Cassandra

I sit down on the bed, gladly taking the weight from my feet, It has been an enjoyable day, but a very long one. I made the mistake at breakfast of confessing that I had never been to a museum or an art gallery, and Sir Peter immediately made it his personal crusade to take me around almost every cultural landmark in London. After a day of Degas, Renoir and Monet, I felt wildly cultured. Sir Peter took me to lunch in a lovely restaurant in Kensington, where we sat outside, watching the world pass us by. I couldn't help but day dream about all of the places that I had seen in the paintings. , so much so that I completely forgot to listen to what Sir Peter was saying,
'Do you agree, Cassandra?”

“I'm so sorry, Sir Peter, I was quite in my own little world,”

He smiled at me, not at all angry, which was not what I would have expected, “What were you thinking about?”

“Paris,” I confessed breathily.

I thought for a moment and then responded. “Paris, do you like it very much?”

He really thought that I had been to Paris, I smiled at the idea of Maudie and all of us standing by the Effiel Tower. “I have never been, Sir.”

He looked surprised, “Would you like to go?”

What a strange question, “Of course, I pray that one day I shall.”

“Or we could go next week.” He smiled again,

I took a sharp intake of breath, “Are you being serious?”

“Of course I am, why would I joke about that? I shall make arrangements and we shall sail next week.”

I clapped my hands in delight and glowed with smiles, I had never been so exited in my life, Paris! I was going to go to Paris! Even now sitting on the bed in the hotel room I could not help smiling as soon as I thought of it. I lay back on the bed, looking up at the high ceiling and imagined us strolling along by the big river, what was it called? I must ask Sir Peter later. Going to the Effiel Tower and those gardens that Monet painted, it was going to be so...

“Cassandra, you're not dressed?”

“Should I be? I thought that we would eat downstairs later.”

“We're going out, to a dinner party, I told you at lunch”

Oh, lunch. I'm not sure Sir Peter has appriciated to extent of my ability to daydream and filter out all noise around me. “I shall be ready in just a couple of minuets.”

“Hurry up, We're already running quite late.”
I quickly selected a dress, pale pink silk, drop waisted and short sleeved, pale ballet slippers, and a wrap. I haven't time to do my hair, so it shall have to do as it is. Sir Peter doesn't like it, but I do. The typical 'War-Girl' style, short and wavy, close to the head.

“Perhaps you might grow your hair?” Asks Sir Peter, whilst we sit in the back of the motor car on the way to the dinner party. “I think it would become you.”

“I like it this way,” I reply, “It makes me look older,”

“But your not older, your nineteen.”

“And it shows... How will you be able to show me off as your fiancée if I look like a twelve year old girl?”

“I like you to look natural.” He says, and I get the impression that this is the end of the discussion.

* * * * * * * * * * *


Absent absentmindedly I look downwards and fiddle with my fingernails. I'm sure that they call all tell how nervous I am. I must be the youngest here by about ten years. These are all His friends, none of them have any interest in me.

Lord and Lady Ellington-Walsh are sitting opposit me, both very tall, extraordinarily well spoken and seem to be only interested in their horses and dogs. After ascertaining that I had barely left London, never ridden an was afraid of dogs, they proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the evening.
Mrs Elizabeth Wheeler sits between them, she is short, very fat, and has an opinion on absolutely everything, on my left is Mr John Polkingbourne, a banker who is the dullest man I have ever met and hasn't removed his eyes from my chest all evening.
On my right is Miss Maisie Farrow, a pale, washed out women, her colorless hair is the same color as her colorless skin and she has spoken once in the whole of the evening, to ask for the salt. She has a quiet, high pitched voice which shakes as though she were terrified. At the head of the table on one end is Sir Peter, disconcertingly far away from me, and at the other end was the host.
Dame Sylvia Obrigarda. A former actress and singer who made a name for herself during the war and now lives in this giant town house. I thought that Dame Sylvia was wonderful, she wore a floor length black dress, covered in sparkley beads, a purple silk shawl and a gold turban. Huge dangling diamonds hung from her ear lobes, she had glittering rings on each of her fingers and she chain smoked purple cigarettes from a ciggarette holder, she must have been in her mid sixties but she had the youthful energy of an over exited teenage girl. After nearly two excruciating hours of my being silent and listening to conversation about architecture, art, politics and the economy, (all things that I had no idea about) Dame Sylvia rose and said in her grand, old fashioned mannour, “Coffee, Darlings?” Everyone nodded, except me, I can't stand the stuff unless I've got at least five sugars, (I didn't drink much coffee when there was rationing!) and I couldn't see that going down very well. “Would you mind awfully if I asked you to help me with the coffee?” Asked Dame Sylvia kindly. Delighted for a chance of a brief reprieve I lept up and followed her out of the dark dining room, wishing that I would never have to see that heavy, mahogany dining table ever again.
Dame Sylvia kicked off her high heels and perched on a stool, cocking her head to one side and looking at me inquisitively. “I'm terribly sorry about this evening, Cassie.” God it felt good to hear someone call me Cassie.
“Don't be, Dame Sylvia, I have had a wonderful time.”
She laughed at me, as she began to fill a cafeteria with coffee grounds and poured hot water from the kettle, “Don't be silly, child. It's been hellish, I've no idea on why Peter insisted on bringing you tonight, he could have waited and I'd have introduced you to some of my friends that are your age, but once that boy gets an idea into his head. And none of this Dame Sylvia rubbish, my friends call me Dame.”
I smiled broadly, I could tell that I was going to like this lady a lot.
“Thats a lovely dress, very much to Peter's taste I suppose?”

“Yes, he picked all of my clothes. He likes me to look natural. Unspoilt.”
“Yes, that would make sense.” Replied Dame, mysteriously. She offered no explanation, simply put the coffee onto an intricately carved Indian tray and handed it to me. “Back into battle, I'm afraid.”

We walked down the hall towards the dining room I hear a loud brash voice, Mrs Wheeler, she laughs, sounding like a stone rattling in a can, then says, “Be honest, Peter old boy, what on earth are you doing with the gutter doxy? I mean honestly, shes only about fourteen and my God, dull as dirt, what on earth do you see in here? She's a joke, put her back on the street where you found her.” They all laughed. I heard Sir Peter laughing too, along with the rest of them. Laughing. At me.

I dropped the tray, cups smashing and hot coffee going everywhere, my shoes stained and my feet scalded. I whipped around to see Dame standing behind me. She must have head as well. Instantly she put her hand on my arm and guided me back into the kitchen, sat me down on a stool and put my feet into a bucket of cold water. She handed me a silk handkerchief and stroked my hair, slowly.
“Poor darling, I'm so sorry about her, I can only apologize on her behalf, She's a dreadful women, got very bitter and nasty in her old age.”
I wiped my eyes again and sighed deeply. “but what if she's right? What if he really does think that I'm just some gutter doxy. It's as bad as,” I lowered my voice. “Prostitution!” I explained about Maudie's.

To my surprise, Dame laughed. “Darling, your not a prostitute, your a philanthropist.”
I smiled at her.
“Whats more your a very beautiful, very bright girl. You were brave to come at all. When I was your age I would have scampered!” She crossed the room and opened a draw, from which she took out a packet of cigarettes and a cigarette lighter. She offered me the packet. I hesitated.
“It's your choice, not Peter's.” She stayed, perceptively.
I take one and she lights it for me. I take a long, luxurious drag, delighting in that perfect poison. “He says that it's not a lady-like habit.”
Dame smiled thoughtfully. “If I tell you something, you'll have to be careful how you use it, you can't just blurt it out to Peter.” I nod.
“Peter was very much in love, before the war. When things were different. Her name was Cecily, she was, well she was quite enchanting. A pale, slip of a thing, built like a girl, a figure much like yours. Long, wavy red hair- she never did anything to it, she wore it as it grew out of her head. Never touched make up, wouldn't dream of smoking, dressed like a well brought up girl should, sang like an angel. The epitome of a marriageable young girl. Cecily and Peter were engaged to be married.”
I stared up at her, like a little girl being told a story. I was spell bound. She handed me another cigarette which I gladly took. “What happened next?” I asked, fascinated.
“The war.” She said sadly. “Everything changed. Cecily was a nurse, Peter didn't like her working, but of course he signed up the moment that the war started and she needed something to keep her mind off him.
“What happened to her?”
“She caught a fever from one of her patients. She died.”
I gasped, “No! Oh Dame that's awful” I took another drag on my cigarette, looking down at my feet in the pale of water.
“How did he deal with it?” I asked.
“That will be quite enough of that, thank you very much” Came a strong, cold voice from the door way. Dame and I looked up quickly, to see Sir Peter standing in the door way, looking furious. “Cassandra, We're leaving.”
I looked at him. The story of Cecily has softened my heart, but I was still livid with him, I had heard him laugh at me, humiliate me, and I was in no mood to be sweet to him.

“No. I want to stay.”

He looked shocked at my defiance. He stood stock still in the door way, I didn't move from my seat. “We are leaving. Now. That I my last word on the matter. Put out that cigarette and get up, right now.” He hissed, his voice dripping with venom.

Dame stood up between us, “Peter, you're in a temper. Let Cassie stay here with me tonight, my driver will bring her over tomorrow. It's best if you calm down.”

The others came through from the dining room, hearing the noise and stood, facinated in the hall.

“Dame! How dare you tell me what to do with my Fiancée. Go outside, Cecily” He stopped abruptly. Her name echoed around the whole room. Suddenly I couldn't take it anymore.

“I'm not Cecily! I'm Cassie, I'm never going to be Cecily so stop trying to make me into her. Leave me alone! I'm just some gutter doxy, a cheap tart that you're trying to make into your dead fiancée.” More silence. No-one dared to say anything. Least of all me. Then, Sir Peter strode forward, picked me up and slung me over his shoulder, no grace, no pride, no dignity.

“We're going home.” He said coldly, and I fought him, kicking and struggling over his shoulder, hitting his back and trying to bite. Acting like the doxy he said I was.

“Goodnight Dame. I hope your satisfied. I am going home to punish my fiancée. And he turn away from her. The last thing that I saw was Dame, mouthing at me, the word “Sorry.” Then he slammed the door.

I calmed down in the car, perhaps because I had began to understand how much trouble I was in. We traveled back to the hotel in stony silence. Once we got up the room I expected him to rip the dress of me and try to force me over the bed, like last time. But he did nothing. This worried me more. I stood, awkwardly in the middle of the room, watching him.

Sir Peter was in no hurry. He stood beside his bedside table, taking off his cuff links, slowly, one and then the other. Then he, very slowly, took of his jacket, folded it and lay it on the bed, He rolled up his sleeve, again with agonizing sloth. Once both sleeves were neatly rolled up he beckoned me over, a gesture that made my stomach clench with fear. I crossed the room and stood oposit him, looking up into his face, not quite able to meet his eyes. “Are you going to punish me?” I asked, knowing the answer.
He nodded curtly.
“Will it hurt?” I asked, in a small voice.
“I believe that's rather the point.” He replied shortly.
I put my hand on his arm, it stiffened. “Please talk to me,”
“I am talking to you” He replied coldly.
“In real life, be you” I beg.
“I think that there has been quite enough talking for one evening.
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, timidly.
He surveys me, seeming to drink in my appearance. “I'm going to spank you, like I would a child, to remedy your silly, petulant behavior in refusing to leave.”
I sigh in relief. Surely this is too gentle?
“And I am going to give you four strokes of the cane.”
I can hardly repress a smile, that's not so bad! He must have read the relief in my face.
“Everyday, until we go to Paris.”
My face fell. That's not for a week! Thats.. (Maths has never been my strong suit) Twenty-One strokes, in a week.
“But Sir! You can't do that, it's not fair!”
He stepped away from me and picked up the padded stool from the dressing table, setting it down in the center of the room. “On the contrary, Cassandra, it's quiet fair. I warned you that if I ever experienced such a display as last night again, you would not sit down for a month. Your behavior got worse, so clearly threats do not work. Therefor action must be taken.” He sat down on the stool. “Remove your dress and then come here and lie across my lap.”

Ashamedly I slid off my light dress, it fell to the floor like a pool of pink water, and I stood in just my slip and cami-knickers. I shuffled, slowly across the room and then, flushing bright red with embarrassment I bend over his knee. With the ease of one who had done this many times before, unceremoniously pulled my knickers down to my knees, and lifted his hand, bringing it down heavily upon backside. I inhaled deeply. I had only ever been hit once, by Maudie with her wooden spoon, when I tried to run away aged eleven. Another heavy slap and I started to wriggle and kick my legs.
He began to increase the speed and build up a regular rhythm. My poor bottom must be bright red by now and he shows no signs of slowing down. Faster and harder he brings his hand down, the slapping noise ringing throughout the room. They must be able to hear this next door, will they look at me at breakfast tomorrow? Knowing why I sit down so gingerly.
I kick out my legs more as he slaps the tops of my thighs as well, I'm crying now, embarrassed of my low pain threshold, but I cannot help the hot tears that pour from my eyes as he treats me like a silly child.
Eventually he stops, and demands that I get up. I wipe my tears and sigh, thinking that it is over. But it is not, by no means. He goes to his wardrobe, unlocks it and takes out a sickening object. Long, thin and pale. A cane.
I had seen one before, of course, people got caned at school, but only the boys on their backsides, and the girls on their hands if they were really very bad. My stomach turned at the sight of it,
“You may decide, Cassandra, to either take the first three strokes today or tomorrow morning.”
I gulp, “Today.”
“Today, what?”
“Today, Please, Sir.”
“Very good. A brave and mature decision Cassandra. Bend over the desk, if you will.”
I bend over the desk, my knickers now abandoned on the floor, my slip not quite covering my bright red backside. I bend over, reaching for the other side and displaying my arse for Sir Peter, perfectly raised so that he can get a good angle. I've no idea why I'm being obliging like this, but I just want to please him and have this over with.
“Good girl” he says, as he sees me stretched over the desk. He takes the cane and presses it against my arse, the cool of the wood feeling almost pleasurable against the heat of my backside, mind you it is only pleasurable for a couple of seconds, then I hear the sickening swoosh through the air. For a second I feel nothing, and the, a blinding, blistering pain, straight across my backside, dead center. A perfectionist even in punishment. I don't think that I can take another one, but I don't get time to think about it because before I know it another red hot poker is being pressed into my bum, directly below the last. I gasp and grab the other side of the desk for dear life, knowing that if I jump up and slap him, like I'd really like to, they'll be hell to pay. One more, Just one more. I can do this. I breath steadily, I'm just starting to prepare myself as I head that horrid, vile sound one more time and another stoke comes raining down on my backside. I gasp once more, but by some mircule I stay hanging onto the back of the desk, tears falling from my eyes onto the highly polished pine desk.
Then I feel hands slowly slide under my slip, up, over my stomach and cupping my breasts, from behind me he very slowly massages my nipples, then slides on hand back down my stomach and very gently between my legs, he strokes my upper thighs, making me crave his touch, very gently he slides his hand further up and runs a finger tip lightly over my most sensitive spot, the place that loves to be touched the most. Desire was making me weak, the irony of his finally managing to be gentle now, when I wanted rough passion, was not lost upon me. He slightly increased the pressure, lubricated by my wetness he circled that place, not quite giving me what I crave, making me moan with frustration, again he increased the pressure, building up a slow massaging rhythm, then his other hand also slid up my thigh and he pushed on finger inside my tight passage. I gasped at this new sensation, craving more, I pushed myself against against him, longing for real penetration, to feel him inside me, “Take me” I whispered, he kept massaging me and pushing his finger inside me, he pushed another one in, stretching my tight wetness. “Please, Take me” His touch was like a drug, I felt mad with lust,
“I can't, I want you so badly Cassie, but I cannot take you until we are married, but for now...”
He pushed his fingers deeper inside me, making contact with a new spot, he continued to push his fingers inside me, still rubbing my clit, I could feel myself growing more and more exited, my head was spinning, my breath short I was wetter than ever before, it was building and building, become too much, I almost thought that I was going to have to beg him to stop, penetrating me deeper and deeper with his fingers and rubbing me, I bucked myself against his hand, insatiable, needing more of this sweet sensation until finally, like an explotion, I came.
Panting and perspiring I turned around and kissed him passionately on the lips, grabbing his back and pulling him as close to me as I could, all I wanted was to feel him inside me. Kissing this man was like kissing the good Sir Peter, the one who laughed and joked and was free from all of those horrible memories of the past. I could feel something rock hard pushing into my stomach. I looked down.
He cleared his throat, embarrassed, “I'm sorry Cassandra, It's very ungentlemanly of me. I must ask you to retire to your room. I shall see you tomorrow. Goodnight.” Formally he kissed me on the cheek. I stood, looking at him, my face flushed, my lips swollen, lipstick down my chin, my arse bright red and striped with cane marks and only wearing my tiny slip, and yet he acts as if we are at a garden party. Who is this strange man, and what have I let myself in for?