From 'A Woman's Revenge'

A Woman’s Revenge

Copyright 2010

by Chris Bellows

Available at http://www.lulu.com/content/8340830

To a girl of my age, things seemed so normal. I suppose it was because there was no basis for comparison. And, like many single parent homes in this country, the absence of father, the man regularly disdained about the breakfast table, did not compare unfavorably to the many, many other households in our swank Washington suburb. So many of my classmates disappeared every other weekend for visitations with a paternal guardian, sojourns my mother summarily nixed.

‘I’d prefer time with your father be minimized, Claudette. It is best you spend time here... with Mademoiselle,’ was her edict.

Yes, it was understood that time with mother would likewise be minimal. She was a woman of talent, knowledge and power, ranking high within the U.S. Attorney General’s office. Her time was precious and little was afforded... to me... and my older brother Jackson. Yes, we were placed in the care of Mademoiselle. And when not in school, most of our free time was under her tutelage. For mother’s work hours were many and her days ended late and in exhaustion. There were occasional Sunday dinners together... if the phone did not ring during the afternoon.

And so I grew up with this incredibly forceful mother figure, more devoted to her career of pursuing organized crime than nurturing a family... me, a brother some half generation older, and this amazingly doting governess, Mademoiselle... doting over me any way.

I would later learn that in addition to mother’s political and legal influence, there was wealth. She was an heiress. And so a mansion in an affluent suburb and the talents of Mademoiselle were easily affordable on the salary of a government employee. Thus mother’s financial status permitted her to pursue her passion... law enforcement. Later I would more aptly describe her fervor as an insatiable zeal to incarcerate men.

That is my summation now... well after the events of childhood. For as stated, when there is little basis for comparison, as a child, one assumes a degree of normality. How naive!

So when did normality cease? There was no sole discernible event. Things transcended. And I suppose as with everything in life, behavioral change is more Darwinian in nature than sudden dramatic shifts. But in telling this story, there are certain memorable events...

******************************************************************************

“You’re to be driven to school today, Claudette. Jackson will be staying here. And in fact, for the interim, you’ll be driven every day until you’re old enough to walk on your own.”

“Why is that, mama?”

“Today, Jackson is going on a trip to the doctor’s. Thereafter he is to be home schooled. There are things he is to learn they don’t teach in public school. Mademoiselle will instruct.”

As always, a proclamation, never a discussion. Such is mother’s authoritative style.

I look at brother Jackson and there is little reaction, certainly not glee. Instead he quietly finishes his oatmeal and stands. I am then surprised to see him begin to clear the table, a task normally performed by our part time cook. Mother notes my look.

“Jackson will be helping out more about the house, Claudette. It is best that a boy learn these things.”

Mother and Mademoiselle, always joining us at the only regular family gathering, breakfast, exchange looks. Such slowly morph to sly grins.

“More coffee, ma’am?” brother Jackson politely inquires.

Jackson has never before referenced mother as ‘ma’am’! She smiles smugly.

“No thank you, Jackson. I have some calls to make while the driver takes Claudette to school. But thank you for asking. You will certainly become a more useful man than your father ever was.”

Mother arises. The gesture always signals that family time is over and the business day has begun. For her, it is to the den for phone calls. I am ushered to the government automobile and school. Jackson begins to clean the dining room table with energy not before displayed.

He never again walked me to school. Having completed the seventh grade, the algebra afforded in the eighth was deemed by mother to be useless to his prospective role in life.

‘He can somewhat read, add and subtract. Anything more than that empowers. Jackson has achieved the age when a boy’s education needs to imbue more humility.’

Yes, mother reigned. And Jackson’s service... daily transforming to servility... thereafter progressed.

******************************************************************************

As stated, Mademoiselle doted. I was bathed, groomed and dressed like a little princess. At that age, nakedness never concerned... certainly not before the woman with whom I spent more time than my own mother. And so I was comfortable in complete deshabille with Mademoiselle. She always took her time selecting my clothes after my bath, letting me prance about without a stitch. I never wondered if Jackson was offered the equivalent level of care.

Mademoiselle was French, obviously. Charming in demeanor... at least with me. And she was radiant. Even with only a modicum of grooming for herself she seemed to light up a room when entering. I suppose I should have wondered why there were no gentlemen callers luring her away during her days off. Yet girlish thoughts like that come later in life. And I was quite young. Plus normal male/female interaction was not apparent to me... not within mother’s household.

Besides the unnecessarily long interlude of nakedness while being dressed, there were other signs. My baths, during which Mademoiselle knelt beside the tub and laved my entire form, chamois and sweet smelling soap offered everywhere, in hindsight were subtle interludes of Sapphic affection... for her. I was indeed naive, her touch merely appreciated. Then there came that one bath that made a difference... well after Jackson’s ‘home schooling’ had begun. And well into adolescence. For it occurred at a later time when... I was deemed old enough to walk to school...

******************************************************************************

“Hold up your hair.”

The command as always is graciously asserted. And as I comply, I never give a thought as to why I need to keep dry hair that will soon be shampooed. But that is how Mademoiselle insists she bathe me... standing in nakedness in the tub, warm bubbly water at my knees, my hands atop my head holding in place the long raven strands.

The soft chamois smooths everywhere. Then, as it glides up my inner thigh, Mademoiselle’s free left hand extends. Nipples beginning to puff in puberty seem to attract. The thumb and forefinger gently grasp my nascent left breast, kneading to coax and gather up an abundance of wet slippery flesh.

“You are becoming a woman, Claudette,” Mademoiselle offers, the French accent always suffusing a degree of savoire-faire to the most libidinous acts.

Her touch thrills... more than usual. I smile and giggle as the fingers slip outward toward my nipple. My response becomes an invitation for more. And she affords. The chamois finds its way to my pubes. I part my feet. I don’t fully understand my own actions, but desire smolders. The fingers move to the right nipple and Mademoiselle seems to know it is even more sensitive. The chamois parts my nether lips. As she kneads my breast her right hand works... ever so gently... ever so knowingly. Yes, she masturbates. She knows I enjoy. I cannot cloak the intensity of the pleasure. My feet further part.

“You have played here as well, little one. Your bed sheets, they have on too many mornings reeked with a fine scent.”

Yes, I had discovered myself. And Mademoiselle knew it.

“You need not do so alone, Claudette. I am here to take care of your needs. And girls like you, your mother’s daughter, have special needs.”

I climax. Mademoiselle smiles in feeling the spasms of my clenching thighs, peering at my flushed nakedness with curious pride and amusement. She is pleased by my indecent yet welcoming response to her fondling.

As my knees slowly give way, Mademoiselle’s hand retracts, sliding away the chamois in knowing that I have not the strength to remain standing. I lowered, more like slithered, into the waiting warmth of the tub.

“Yes, it is time to shampoo now.”

******************************************************************************

Yes, a Darwinian change. No longer was I to furtively masturbate alone. Thereafter, bath after bath, Mademoiselle taught me more than a girl usually learns about herself in early puberty. I became a model student and bath time became revered. The chamois was offered with every cleansing.

The reference to being my ‘mother’s daughter’ would have brought much thought to an older girl. Mademoiselle hinted that I was special... had ‘special needs’. Genetics are not understood at that age. But Mademoiselle knew being born of the federal government’s omnipotent prosecutor for organized crime would foster something.

Meanwhile brother Jackson, interaction mainly at breakfast, learned to serve with grace and alacrity. The cook was no longer to be seen. Jackson dashed with food and beverage from the kitchen to the more decorous dining room which mother preferred since formal dinners were so sparse. He became adept. And not only was mother forever addressed as ‘ma’am’, but Mademoiselle was bestowed with the reverent moniker ‘Madam Governess’. And he served indeed with humility. I observed daily as Jackson was transformed to a household servant... a butler. I noticed the occasional cloaked curtsy of a maid. I suppose such was a slip. For whenever such a reaction became obvious, Madam Governess offered a furtive look of reproach.

I, as little sister, at one time a person held low in the realm of Jackson’s esteem, was treated as a little princess, matching the comportment offered Mademoiselle but with more servility. I was served... and with odd reverence considering Jackson was eight years my senior.

Other then that, it seemed that Jackson’s ‘home schooling’ required inordinate time. When I arrived home from school on weekday afternoons, Mademoiselle announced Jackson was studying. A third floor attic, once a huge toddler’s play area, became his study hall. The door always closed, Mademoiselle spent much time within, and I was instructed never to disturb. I was left alone to either study on my own or assist in cleaning the mansion.

Dinner time, casual meals offered by the cook in the kitchen with Mother working late, became the rare opportunity when time with Jackson could be availed. But he spoke little if at all. Silence seemed to be the rule with Mademoiselle sitting with us in strange supervision. But then one evening it happened. There came the inadvertent verbal slip which piqued my curiosity. Jackson asked for something to be passed to him... I recall not what. But he referenced me as ‘Miss Claudette’!

His little sister!

I was stunned and Mademoiselle noticed. She interrupted my thoughts before I could formulate a response.

‘You are tired, Claudette. A nice hot bath for you after dinner and we will talk.’

A bribe. An offering to suppress my reaction. And yes, another event. The reference of ‘baths’ or ‘bath time’ had by then become coded words for the slow masturbation Mademoiselle so elegantly bestowed on my hormone laden, blossoming teenaged form. I adored the manner in which she palpated my burgeoning breasts, not to mention that exploring chamois!

Message received. I remained quiet, pretending to ignore the telling moniker Jackson mentally bestowed upon me.

And thereafter?..

******************************************************************************

“You are a woman now, Claudette. Would you not like to bathe yourself?”

Yes, I am. But there has been a deleterious effect on my libido in enduring Mademoiselle’s skilled and frequently offered fingers. I have not the desire to even speak with boys much less go on a date. Thus her suggestion of a prandial dalliance is warmly accepted. Her knowing fingers and hands have become a narcotic... and me a groveling addict.

To the bathroom, I just meekly smile and wordlessly strip, knowing that there is quid quo pro to be presented. Mademoiselle enjoys the denuded female form... one still ripening to full womanhood. She peers for a time, smiles and begins filling the tub. Then a hand extends to my pubes. It tenderly gropes. I do not flinch one iota. Her touch is familiar.

“You need to be shaved again. It is the French way to be clean there.”

I nod my concurrence. Spreading for her has become foreplay for both of us. She prepares lotion and razor.

“You know Claudette, there are those born to govern... and those born to serve. As you are probably beginning to realize, your brother Jackson is among the latter.”

I move to the floor. In the abodes of the wealthy, bathrooms are akin to royal chambers. Mother has had the tiling beneath electrically heated. It is a joy just to walk about barefoot much less lie supine on a towel. The strong heat quickly radiates through the terrycloth. I assume a lithotomy position and part my knees. Mademoiselle kneels. She pauses. The otherwise obscene flash of pink brings a lascivious smile.

A hand extends to lather.

“The question is... are you among the former?”

I am not yet out of high school. Power, and the sexual exchange thereof, has not been a notion to be contemplated. For years, sexuality and the understanding thereof has been learned through frequent trysts with Mademoiselle... ostensibly under the guise of cleanliness. Though I have known no other touch, I know hers to be masterful!

The razor scythes.

“So in questioning Jackson... and his schooling... perhaps it should give rise to questions for yourself. There is a reason your mother engaged a person with my skills. And before you come to any conclusions, these interludes in the bathroom are recreational for me. My skills have been otherwise honed for the male gender. You have probably noted that Jackson and I spend countless hours togther. It is best for him... for those destined to serve. I make them better.”

Stubble removed, I thrill to the feel of a warm and wet towel. The woman knows the female anatomy. She pats my clitoral hood, jostling the fleshy mass with just the right tender pressure. I become wet within as well. And Mademoiselle knows it!

“Tonight I will once again offer you the benefits of my fingers, Claudette. But also tonight, as your thighs spasm in ecstasy, I want you to think of Jackson’s miscue... his words ‘Miss Claudette’. Should you be so referenced? And deep within, do you feel Jackson’s words were indeed a miscue? Or was he inviting something?”

The words bring thought as I arise and step to the tub, placing my hands on my head, eager for the chamois... the narcotic of Mademoiselle’s fingers.

“In time there will come schooling for you as well, Claudette. I suspect yours will not be as exacting and time consuming...”

******************************************************************************

I never shared the events, interactions with Mademoiselle, with any friends or classmates. Self masturbation was an embarrassing enough topic among teens. To describe my relationship with Mademoiselle? Being bathed like a toddler, the woman grooming me in the most intimate feminine place? To describe how those dextrous fingers brought waves of ecstasy... night... after night... after night?

I could not begin to explain that I still had a governess at an age when most teenagers thrive on independence.

Instead, silence instilled. And I generally withdrew from much social interaction, returning home from school... to study... to clean... but also to contemplate. For many days, Mademoiselle’s words brought reflection. When Jackson referred to me as ‘Miss Claudette’, was it an intended slip?

I could never find him to ask or discuss. His ‘schooling’ was long and I supposed arduous. Only near dinner time did he exit the third floor playroom turned study. And then it was to the kitchen to assist the cook. After dinner he disappeared back into the third floor room while I studied... and waited with giddy anticipation to be summoned for my ‘bath’.

I could only speak to Jackson at dinner, and he was then busy serving. During the daily family gatherings at breakfast, my imperious mother ruled, rendering unwarranted talk impossible.

Well, I suppose Mademoiselle’s prompt, posing the questions, did not work to fulfill her intentions. I did not broach the subject. So after a few days, late one night, there came another transforming event, well after the house quieted. Though mother had not yet arrived from a long day and evening of work, Mademoiselle sent me to bed. I was disappointed to bathe alone, no explanation offered for the abstention of her touch.

So I lied awake. Without my usual orgasm, slumber rebuffed. Then my bedroom door quietly opened. Mademoiselle was known to enter without knocking. On this occasion, the lights remained extinguished...

******************************************************************************
Half asleep, I roll within the sheets to ascertain who visits. But the door closes quickly, the soft lighting of the hallway eclipsed to return the room to complete darkness.

“Sush,” the accented voice of Mademoiselle directs sotto voce.

I feel the mattress yield. My eyes adjust to discern the form of my governess. She wears a negligee. It is brief and most diaphanous. I have never before seen her other than fully clothed. My heart leaps, yet my quim reacts more indecently.

“Your mother has arrived home. I want you to see something. But we must be very, very quiet. If you are good, you will feel my fingers.”

As she speaks, a hand slips under the sheets. I feel a tender caress on my left nipple, sensuous and knowing as always. I feel myself moisten more to her touch.

How can I not comply? After only one night of abstinence, my hormone laden body is lustfully overflowing with need. I nod and utter a soft ‘okay’.

“You are naked under the covers, Claudette. That is good. Now come with me to the door. I will carefully open it. Say nothing. Just watch. Later we will talk. And perhaps I will have your cunnie perform for me.”

Mademoiselle arises and moves to the door. Promised more narcotic, I eagerly toss aside the sheets and follow. At my bedroom door she slowly opens. Only a crack. The hall light again enters. I can see her hand and she gestures for me to peek into the hallway.

Internally the mansion is centered by a cavernous open space, the many bedroom doors surrounding a cathedral ceilinged area with a broad winding stairway leading downward to the main floor. A smaller second stairway leads upwards to the third floor playroom, now where Jackson is schooled. From my partially opened door I can see most of the bedroom entrances, the initial steps leading down and almost the entire stairway leading up to the third floor.

Within moments, Mademoiselle’s timing superb, my mother’s bedroom door opens. She has indeed arrived home, quietly as always. She noiselessly steps into the hall and I stifle a gasp. Mother wears a black leather bodice, tight. It perfectly outlines her ample mammary glands, hillocks normally veiled by the dour professional attire of her station. The garment leaves her midriff bare... a perfectly flat tummy. Below a pleated black leather skirt ends at mid thigh to display shapely legs.

I am pleasantly surprised to learn that my mother is a woman of attraction, her form fine and well tuned!

Mademoiselle’s hand rises. I feel a finger pressing my lips to remind of needed silence. For I also spy in mother’s right hand a thin length of rattan. I am shocked!

Walking with purpose, mother takes the stairs to the third floor. She is amazingly proficient, making barely a sound in opening the playroom door. Mademoiselle signals me to patiently wait. Then, within moments, again almost without sound, the third floor door reopens. Mother steps out. In her left hand is a thin leash, small metal links glinting in the dim hallway lights. She slowly moves toward the stairs. The leash directs something low to the floor which initially I cannot see. Then, as she descends the first few steps, behind follows a crawling form. I am stunned! The finger presses my lips more firmly as the crawling form follows, leashed at the face, taking the steps on hands and knees with surprising adroitness. The head is covered in black leather. Otherwise the form is naked!

Halfway down the stairs a crawling hand misses a step. Mother’s right arm rises. The rattan swings and taps the right buttock to bring the quick sound of a ‘splat’. With the diversion, Mademoiselle slowly closes the door. Continued viewing endangers as full descent will bring the bizarre duo very close to my bedroom.

Returned to the darkness, I feel the familiar touch of Mademoiselle’s hands. She embraces. On this occasion, she slips aside the thin folds of her negligee and presses her warm smooth flesh against my nakedness. Fingers tantalize my nipples. Another hand goes to my mons, pressing the clitoral hood in foreplay.

The physical arousal, mother’s attire, the sight of a leashed male, crawling about naked... I am overwhelmed.

Mademoiselle plays, apparently timing mother’s departure from the hallway, presumably returning to her bedroom. Assuming safeness, she finally whispers in my ear.

“Come to bed. We have things to discuss. Perhaps you have questions, no?”

I need no second invitation.

******************************************************************************

Yes, as stated, my perception of normality did not burst as would an overinflated balloon. It instead slowly deflated, the figurative air of propriety leaking away. That night the balloon became diminished to a crinkled mass of rubber.

Mademoiselle and I engaged in torrid Sapphic love making well into the night. Her fingers toyed. Her tongue and lips for the first time laved my nipples. Her hands and fingers danced about my love nest. I learned of the delights of penetration and this womanly erogenous zone termed the urethral sponge.

My addiction strengthened. The orgasms were many... and strong!

But there was little of the discussion Mademoiselle suggested. And no questions posed. Instead, as a deeply penetrating finger kneaded my newly discovered spot, Mademoiselle induced reminders of the bizarre scene I had just witnessed.

“Your brother Jackson has been well schooled, no?”

That notion brought the most thunderous climax of the long night. It was my only reply.

Yes, the thinning veneer of normality completely dissipated... at least within the mansion.

In place of the discussion, with dawn approaching, Mademoiselle arose and casually suggested.

“You may well benefit from some home schooling as well, Claudette. When you feel it is time, you will come and gently knock on the playroom door. And you will do so completely naked. In the afternoon, after you return from school is best.”

With that, the night ended and my beautiful governess strolled from my bedroom as if exiting a stylish shop on the Champs Elysees.

A torrid night of lovemaking was banal... for Mademoiselle.

******************************************************************************

The next morning, there came the daily interval of normality at breakfast. Jackson served with the usual aplomb as mother inquired about school and fulfilled other parental duties, including, so it seemed, the daily tirade berating her exhusband and our father. I did my best to put aside thoughts of the prior night’s antics. But there came a telling moment. Jackson inquired.

“More orange juice, Claudette?”

And I spontaneously responded.

“Yes, and I prefer ‘Miss Claudette’” I sternly replied.

Mother and Mademoiselle once again shared a telling glance... both suppressing grins.

Thereafter, my meek and ‘well schooled’ brother addressed his sister, younger by some eight years, as ‘Miss Claudette’. And he did so with the same enfeebled voice utilized in the respectful and most fearful exchanges with mother. Yes, when brother Jackson spoke to mother it was as if summoning the courage to engage a ferocious lioness. With my firm rebuke, his voice became equally challenged.

******************************************************************************

With the suggestion to join in the schooling, Mademoiselle’s invitation again brought abstention. Intentional?

Yes, the communal bathing was withdrawn. Having been offered the delights of frottaging against her fine nakedness, sensing the mastery of her penetrating fingers, attempted self masturbation brought only frustration.

Yet, it required days of chastity to bring forth the needed resolve. Putting aside the many interludes with Mademoiselle, I otherwise remained shy about my nakedness, my nubile form still developing. But as I am sure Mademoiselle cogitated before offering the invitation to the playroom, the mansion was empty during the late afternoon. The cook left after breakfast and returned at 5:00 p.m. Only brother Jackson and Mademoiselle were present, the former never seen and Mademoiselle only exiting the playroom/study for occasional refreshment.

And so in my state of sexual agitation, the decision came. Two days... three days... I recall not. But I do know that besides my concupiscence spurring the need for hormonal relief, there was this overpowering curiosity.

My brother, naked and masked, was seen crawling at the end of a leash! Under the guiding hand of my mother!

That quick correcting stroke of the rattan could not be forgotten. Plus there were the mysterious ‘special needs’, a subject matter broached but never consummated.

I came home from school and disrobed. Bashfulness melted. It was a quick journey from my bedroom to the third floor. Though apprehensive about appearing naked before Jackson, having been addressed as ‘Miss Claudette’ for several days stoked my fortitude and abetted my resolve.

New Book Published

Just published a story on Lulu. 'A Woman's Revenge'.

www.lulu.com/content/8340830. $4.00. Female dominant/male submissive. Over 20,000 words.

Really nasty. Lots of taboo stuff. No mainstream publisher would touch it.

Enjoy.

Short Story XXXII

“Would you like to grow breasts?”

The Queen graciously inquires. Before final release she enjoys interviewing her castrates. The meekness, brought by her edict, brings elation.

“I have not thought about it, your majesty,” the words slurred.

Edwina stands before the Queen donning his pink skirt. Dangling at mid thigh is the bronze disk bearing his name, crime and date of castration. It tugs at the pink flesh, sensitivity slowly returning after bearing the weight of the Queen’s booted foot.

“Show me your empty sac.”

Edwina knows to instantly reach to the hem of the short skirt. He sheepishly lifts to display the mass of flesh which once held the symbols of his masculinity, now jarred and augmenting Kendra’s collection.

“The weight of the disk will assist in assuring that your scrotum does not entirely wither. But you are aware, Edwin, that your penis will atrophy. The hormonal imbalance has that effect. But then again, its size is no longer of significance for you.”

The Queen smiles in noting the mournful look.

“Your branding took well. A very nice shade of pink. But you seem to have trouble speaking.”

“Miss Kendra pierced my tongue, your majesty.”

“Well, I trust that you thanked her for that. Good cunnilingus will keep you fed. And you may learn to offer proper analingus as well. There will be no limits to the depths of your servitude, Edwin. That tongue will keep you alive.”

The castrate nods. There can be no disagreement.

“Stroke yourself for me, Edwin. Let me see it stand one last time. You certainly enjoyed showing off for me in my dungeon.”

The left hand continues to hold the skirt, the right hand grasps the limp appendage. Edwin knows of the futility. He lamely tried to masturbate after Kendra removed his shackles and with a playful but firm smack to his buttocks sent him from the castration chamber.

It was a curious reaction. Succumbing, offering all to the powerful torturess, brought this strange need. Had the bonding already begun? He stroked most energetically to the image of her smiling face, recalled as she pressed the searing hot branding iron to his forehead. The results were dismal. The once viral organ barely firmed.

“Look at your Queen while you stroke, Edwin.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

There comes again a most disconcerting result. The Queen’s smile broadens as the castrate fails to achieve erection.

“Enough. You’ll wear away the skin,” the Queen admonishes with a snicker.

With that, the Queen snaps her fingers. Her naked cherub prances forth with a package.

“A gift for you, Edwin. A blouse. The finest silk. Very shortly your nipples will enjoy the feel of such finery. And if you indeed choose to grow breasts, let us know. Some special hormones will assist, though that useless penis will shrink even more.”

“Thank you your majesty.”

“Now before you leave, I have a task for you. There is a certain maiden who pleases the royal hounds. I believe it would be apt for you to practice some analingus. The coupling with my dogs makes her rather sore there and she would be appreciative of your tongue, I am sure."