“Sit still girl!” Eisleen, snaps. “You’re not too old for the switch!”
Beau squirms in her seat, wondering why her accounting tutor, an elven woman who looks 30 but feels 3000, continues to remind her of this fact, as though there isn’t a vase of brine in the corner with half a dozen of her favoured weapons soaking in it.
Her father had done everything possible to impress on her that there was no age that wasn’t too old to beat if she was under his roof, and she was obliged to stay there until he died and she could take over the business.
That was why she couldn’t sit still, after all.
“Beauregard, are you listening to me?” Eisleen’s sharp voice brings her back to her bedroom, but not nearly as fast as the sound of a switch being drawn from the vase.
She swishes it in front of Beau’s face, her face angry but her eyes gleeful.
Beau knows there isn’t a right answer to the question. Even if she had been paying attention, which she hadn’t, Eisleen would simply have pretended she’d said something different and beaten her anyway.
She doesn’t bother to respond, just stands and bends over her desk, tugging up the skirt she hadn’t wanted to wear anyway and waiting for the blows to come.
She isn’t wearing anything underneath it - that’s only allowed if she’s going out, in which case her father brings it to her room beforehand. Nothing besides a mess of welts from a beating he’d given her the night before anyway.
Beau wonders what Eisleen sees from her perspective. It really ought to raise questions, if her tutor weren’t such a sadistic bitch.
The switch cuts the air and slashes across her bare bottom, and Beau grips her desk hard, trying not to cry out. It’s a loosing battle.
She’d thought she was safe. She’d been successful at sneaking out eight nights in a row, and apparently she’d grown careless.
She’d been sharing a bottle of stolen wine with a girl who worked feeding the fire at the glassblower when her father got his bottles. Drunk and daring, they were kissing on the steps to the glassworks, when Thoreau passed by and spotted Beau. Grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to the ground, tugged up her skirt so that the girl could see she wore nothing underneath, and walloped her a dozen times with a cane he must have been carrying for the exact purpose.
Then he’d dragged her home for her real punishment.
In her room, he’d told her to remove his dress, because he owned every stitch on her back and the skin beneath, and told her to lie on her back on the bed. She’d begged, unwisely, and refused to do it. This was always a mistake, though she’d hoped the cane might have been enough to earn her a reprieve. It hadn’t been.
Her mother and a maid were called, and her wrists and ankles tied to the posts at the head of her bed, spreading her open and bent double at the waist.
When she was younger, she would have begged her mother to intercede, but it hade rarely worked to begin with and she’d grown too disgusted as she got older to beg for such things.
Her mother had left the room to retire to bed, saying that this was too much drama for her to keep putting up with, and her maid stayed behind, peeling and cutting a large piece of ginger to her father’s specifications.
He’d waited until she was done and left the room before taking the bowl of ginger and coming to sit on the bed behind Beau’s spread legs, leaning over her.
He had scowled deeply, and then sighed. “I hate to have to do this to you, Beauregard.”
“You already caned me,” she’d whispered.
Thoreau had smiled sadly at her, as though she was a small child asking after a recently dead relative. “That was for going out without my permission. This,” he poked a large dry finger between her parted labia, over her entrance and up to her clit, drawing it away slick with moisture. “Is for fraternising with that layabout slut.”
He punctuates his disappointment with a hard slap to her vulva, and Beau sobs, bile already in her throat.
“Do you know how disgusting it is?” He asked, taking a long, conical piece of ginger from the bowl, peeled except for the last inch, with a groove cut just above it. He spread her bruised ass cheeks with one hand and pressed the tip of the ginger to her asshole. It burned as he began to force it forward, and Beau had shrieked in pain. “For a father to have to see his daughter like this?”
“I’m sorry!” Beau had sobbed, twisting her bound wrists, thighs trembling uncontrollably against the burn as the ginger slid into her inch by agonising inch. “Aaaah!”
When it was in, Thoreau had sat back and poked his finger back at her vulva again, this time pressing all the way into her pussy. “I can only assume you enjoy this, Beau, or you wouldn’t keep setting yourself up for these punishments.”
Beau shook her head, gasping through tears to deny it. “I don’t, I’m sorry!”
Thoreau pulled his finger back out and slapped her there again. “Don’t lie to me, Beauregard! Subconsciously, you clearly want your bare bottom beaten, don’t you?! You little slut! You could try just asking me next time, instead of breaking out to whore yourself around the town!”
She shook her head again, earning another stinging slap that made her tense around the thick piece of ginger, increasing the burn to an unbearable level.
“Don’t you dare lie to me! Do you enjoy this?” He gripped her clitoris hard between his thumb and forefinger, pinching until she squealed in pain and it slipped out of his fingers from the pressure. “Tell me the truth!”
When she could finally gulp enough air to respond, she’d nodded. “I want it.”
“I knew it,” he had spat, and begun to remove his belt. “And that is what this punishment is for! You’ll get extra for the lie.”
And he had strapped her, blow after blow, against her ass and her thighs, and at least a dozen strokes that intentionally caught her vulva, leaving it bruised and swollen for Eisleen to see the following afternoon as she bent Beau over her desk and switched her.
Normally the position wouldn’t expose her labia to too much damage, but today she’s still swollen from the night before, and the blows catch her there too.
She doesn’t manage to hold back, and sobs and begs and writhes from the first blow to the last as Eisleen wears out first one switch and then another.
When she’s finished, Eisleen unties Beau’s skirt and tells her to step out of it. She does so, legs trembling, forcing herself not to reach back or down to clutch at the fresh welts on her backside and thighs and between her legs.
Then she’s forced to sit back down with nothing between her abused skin and the hard wood chair, for the remainder of her lesson, her raw skin sticking to the grain, welts rubbing at the edge of the seat.
Later that evening, she’s allowed to wear a thing night dress to dinner, and forced to sit in silence on her equally uncushioned chair in front of her empty plate while her parents eat a four coarse meal.
“Beauregard,” Thoreau coughs at the end of the meal. “Why don’t you have a piece of bread. I will see you in your room in half an hour, sit on your bed.”
She takes a piece of bread and pretends to eat it, pocketing it instead for later, when she stands a chance of keeping it down.
Then she waits for an agonising almost-hour, standing beside her bed so that she can sit down on it if she hears the door opening. She can see herself in the full length mirror in the far corner of the room. Her bottom and thighs are as bruised and welted as she’s ever seen them, and her vulva is bright red, one side more swollen than the other. She spends some of the time gathering the splintered remains of the switches from her floor and putting them into the trash.
She wonders if she really likes it. She’d never used to believe him, but this time she thinks of the girl watching the cane mark up her bare bottom the night before, gasping in horror but not tearing her eyes away, and finds herself slick again.
Before she can wipe it off somewhere not too incriminating, she hears footsteps in the hallway, and throws herself back down on her bed, her eyes watering with the pain of a woolen blanket against raw skin.
The door opens and Thoreau steps in, carrying a large, familiar, half empty jar.
He comes and sits beside her, not far from where he’d been the night before. “Now Beauregard. It’s time we made up, isn’t it?”
She nods and leans towards him, wanting nothing more than to crawl out of her own skin to avoid the hug he gives her before pulling her into his lap, the small of her back on his knees. He holds her legs up like they’d been tied the night before and opens the jar.
He takes a dollop of the cream and begins rubbing it into the back of her right thigh, working his way up to her ass and stopping to take more ointment. He rubs his fingers along her cleft, pressing ointment into her rim where she was stretched unlubricated around the ginger. He pushes one finger in as deep as he can go rubbing the greasy ointment into the asshole. When he pulls it out, he wipes it on her thigh before taking more, and working his way up the other leg. He continues massaging the ointment into her inner thighs, doing both sides before he begins with her vulva, taking far too much ointment and spreading it over her mound and then labia, before spreading them to do her clit and hole.
“You’re wet again, Beauregard,” he tells her. “What have you been doing?”
She sobs, almost reaching to cover her face before catching herself, and scrambles for an acceptable excuse. “I - I must want it,” she manages.
He inhales sharply and continues rubbing her, much more thoroughly than he did anywhere else, tweaking her bruised clit and rubbing the walls of her vagina over and over.
She doesn’t cum for him, and can’t tell if this annoys him or not. Surely that would be forbidden. Eventually, he takes his hand away and wipes it behind her knee, pushing her gently out of his lap. “Well. We’ll see what we can do about that tomorrow night, but today we’ll let your bottom heal up, hmm? I’ve heard that strong hot peppers can work wonders in curbing indecent appetites in young ladies, I’ll send the kitchen boy out to get some.”
She nods, like she’s agreeing with him. Mostly she want him gone so she can wipe off the massive excess of ointment and be sick in her chamber pot.