Random Fiction - Mistress and Maid

Because there was no FFF this week, and because I've been struggling for posts, and because people have said I should, and just because... I went to an erotica site I like and hit the random button a few times until I got a picture I didn't hate (I know, that sounds like cheating, but there are a lot of crappy pictures out there and I wanted something I could vaguely get into, even if it wasn't entirely my thing), then I'm going to write something using it as inspiration. Who knows if this will be a recurring thing. I'm not offering this picture up as a substitute challenge; I'm just doing it for myself. See PB for challenges.

Clementine had been stealing again. I felt a certain compassion for the girl even as I instructed Harris, our Punjab butler, to tie her to the tree. "Please memsahib, she is so young," begged Tilda, the head maid. But I was firm.

"You would prefer it if the Master found out? So he could take it out of her hide with a horsewhip? Believe me, this is for her own good. She'll never learn if she isn't disciplined." And Tilda fell silent, knowing that Clementine was lucky to live in my household. "Strip her," I said curtly to Harris, who did as he was told. A faithful old retainer was Harris. He'd been with my husband for years. Never batted an eye.

"Please lady, I will not do it again," whimpered the girl, but Harris' firm hands pulled her frock over her head. The skin he revealed was much paler than I would have guessed, much more firm, more supple. The girl was a beauty. I couldn't help staring as Harris tied her arms to the branch.

"Harris, Tilda, you may go," I said, trying to keep the tremor from my voice, the surprise from my tone. "I'll call for you when the punishment is finished." They bowed and receded into the bushes. "Girl, do you know why I have to do this?" I asked her, unable to stop myself. Was it compassion? My eyes wandering over her skin gave the lie to that notion.

Clementine merely whimpered, so I pulled a bunch of twigs from the nearby brush and swatted her taut buttocks. "Answer me," I said, more harshly this time.

"Because I stole," she sobbed.

"Yes." I swatted her again, more gently this time.

"But my family, they need food."

"No excuses." Again, the lash descended, harder this time, raising a series of small red welts on her smooth flesh. But then I dropped my bundle and placed my hands on her hips. "In future, if you need something extra for your family, you will ask, and I will grant your request."

It was easy to convince her, as my fingers slipped between her legs, finding her warm center and entering without obstruction. "Memsahib," she whimpered as my lips met hers. "Please do not stop."

"Stop what?"

"Do not stop beating me." And she smiled a little as my other hand came down with a crack on her backside, even as the tears welled up again.

---

I'm not one for corporal punishment play. I like pleasure more than pain. But this picture had to have that theme. And it just screamed "British Raj" to me for some reason. I'd like to think that the narrator is enlightened by her love of this serving girl. Who knows what might happen?