The Mistress did not forget her promise to reserve for me the lowest of household chores, and for months I was responsible for the meanest duties, the filthiest and least amusing tasks. I carried heavy loads, scrubbed stained floors, plucked chickens, and discarded the refuse each day. If the massive oven in the kitchen needed cleaning or even if it did not, it was I who was summoned to crawl deep inside and scrape the caked soot and blackened remains along the walls, always working late at night so the oven could be ready for use the next day.

I took my lot graciously and did not complain. Even as I was whipped for failing to remove an imperceptible black spot off a great iron skillet I'd been commanded to wash, or caned for an article of clean laundry growing dirty as it blew dry in the wind, I did not complain. I wept quietly and stoically, burying my resentment and anger deep inside my bosom.

One day the Mistress came to me as I scrubbed the walls of a rarely used room in the cold, northern wing of the mansion. She stood watching me for a while, my breathing slow and steady as I fought to still my panic and concentrate on cleaning quickly and efficiently. There was no doubt in my mind that her purpose was naught but to discover some fault for which she should enable herself the opportunity to punish me, and my heart grew cold and faint at the thought. She'd caned me just the day before and my legs and buttocks still felt stiff and sore. I was certainly not eager for another dose.

But she spoke to me finally, and did not seem displeased. In fact, she complimented my spirit and attention to duty, and told me that for my reward she was going to make me her personal chambermaid. Wasn't that generous and charming of her?

I nearly wept when I heard these words, and though my scrubbing slowed, I did not stop. I trembled in spite of myself and wondered if my misery could grow any stronger. The last thing I wanted in the world was to spend any more time with the Mistress. Even the mildest gaze from her eyes unnerved me, and her smile sent terror down my spine. That I should be forced to work by her side, in her very room, while she watched me in that lazy, nonchalant, indolent manner of hers, just waiting for me to stumble, to hesitate, to make the slightest error that would justify her leaping up with an eager smile and bidding me to assume the position for punishment while she fetched the cane or strap or dreaded paddle.

"Well, Miss Janey, you do not seem pleased. Is it not an honor to serve your Mistress?"

With a slowly bowed head I nodded, and knelt and kissed her feet. It was a pointless gesture on my part; it held no meaning for me, and I felt no sacrifice in making it. But it made her laugh out loud and smile with open glee. She stretched out her right arm warmly, her open palm inviting mine, and grasping it, she led me from the room and the pointless task to an even colder and more distant place, a place of constant fear and dread, a place filled with shame and hatred.

My new duties commenced immediately, as soon as we reached the Lady's chambers. She instantly ordered me to fetch her a gown for dinner, the "long black one," which proved difficult, as I found four black dresses of various cuts and materials within her extensive wardrobe. I proceeded to return with all four, my heart already cold with dread as I feared my ignorance was already to earn me punishment. But the Mistress only laughed and told me to take them all back, that she'd changed her mind, and wanted the white one with the fox fur lining. This one was more distinct, and I found it quickly, pleased, only to discover her gone, the room deserted. Frantically I searched the room but she was not there, and I grew terrified with uncertainty. Was I to leave to find her? Should I wait for her return? How long? Would I be punished for neglecting other duties, which, though I was ignorant of them, I was supposed to be performing even now, as I waited? These were the questions that haunted me, and even at that early moment I knew I could not long work for a Mistress such as her, who's demands defied logic and whose concept of justice made a mockery of it.

With a heavy breath I laid the dress across the bed and walked to the large window that overlooked the courtyard. Several stories below I could see the footmen guiding horses to the stables and maids hurrying to and from the central well. It was late afternoon and soon the guests for the evening would be arriving. I could not remember who was to come tonight, but I vaguely recollected something about a rather large party, perhaps a dozen men and their wives, as the cook had been rather short-tempered this morning, frustrated by the mammoth preparations required for such an occasion.

I felt tired and old. The Mistress' games did not amuse me. It was not the punishment I dreaded; that I suspected would come no matter what I did or didn't do. The pain of the punishments no longer frightened me, for though I did not relish them, enduring them brought a certain satisfaction to my lips. Even the humiliation did not bother me as much as it used to, though I was always astonished by how shameful I felt, especially for a trivial offense. It wasn't even the unfairness of the Lady that frustrated me, because I was accustomed to such treatment from the ruling class.

No, what bothered me the most about the Mistress was that while in reality I had no control over my fate, she made it seem as though I did. She never punished without cause; even if the reasoning was absurd or ridiculous, there was always a justification for your punishment. In effect, it was not the Mistress who was punishing you, it was yourself, by your own actions, that asked for and received the just reward. If she had punished me for no reason at all I could have rationalized and accepted it, justified it on the basis of her particular perversion of power. But she continually reinforced the notion that punishment followed behavior, as though the two held a logical relationship, as though there was some method of _escape_, when in truth there was none. I was a prisoner taunted with the key to freedom, dangling just outside my grasp on the other side of the iron bars, visible, tangible, and yet impossible to obtain. But my situation was such that something inside me made it equally impossible for me to give up, to abandon my attempts at escape, and I would claw my fingers bloody in the vain hope of clutching that key, of releasing myself, even for just a moment, and breathing free air again.

So it was that given a clear choice between punishment and no punishment I should gladly have chosen the former, if that's what the Lady wanted, but given a choice between two unknowns, two _potentials_, with no method of discerning the outcome of either, I was abandoned into a state of utter bewilderment, a state of chaos, of ruthless despair, and my misery was made obvious to me, and I wept.

I wept when I was beaten and when I was not beaten; the difference between the two was lost on me. Either meant torture now, and I dreaded both equally. My heart would leap at the prospect of escape, only to plummet to even deeper depths as I realized that it was all illusion, an elaborate hoax on the part of the devious and devilish witch that was my Mistress.

In truth I was not beaten any more often or more severely serving so close to the Mistress; she simply did not have to look as far to find cause to punish me. But just the unspoken threat of her presence, her dark, opaque eyes always watching me, following me. Even when she sent me to the wine cellar for a bottle of port late one evening and I wandered the cold, dark corridors by myself with only my lantern casting a gloomy glow around my footsteps she was there with me, following, eyes on my back, piercing me, taunting me, threatening me, daring me. I longed to give in, to scream at her, to throw down my apron and leave, to find a patch of soft snow and simply lie down and die, quietly and peacefully, and alone, but I knew that she would be victorious if I did that. I was not sure what she would win, what stakes we played for or even why we played, but I knew that I could not allow her to beat me. Someday, I knew, I might break and let her win, but while I still had a scrap of dignity in my body I was determined to fight her, even if that was only by living, simply enduring her scorn and punishments.

It was a complex game we played, the Mistress and I. I was not certain of the rules or if there were any, but soon after I became her personal servant I realized there was something unique in our relationship. She punished the other servants as much as always, the perfectionist in her always demanding the most from her staff, but I noticed she punished them coldly, routinely, almost grimly, as though there was little pleasure in it for herself, or perhaps not as much as she would like. Many times she seemed almost distant, lost in thought or even bored, though I doubt the recipient of her discipline noticed anything awry.

Me, however, she punished almost exclusively in the privacy of her own chambers. There was a large mirror in her room, opposite her bed, and often she would drape me across her lap on the bed or bend me over before the mirror so I could watch myself being punished, a truly humiliating experience. But I soon found myself watching her, admiring her dark, flashing beauty, the fire in her eyes never more intense than when she whipped me, cheeks flushed rouge with excitement and passion, her massive bosom heaving magnificently as she panted and thrashed me soundly. She seemed to delight in inflicting pain in the manner one child delights in pulling another's hair for the first time, with an almost surprised, gleeful expression, as though astonished at the explosive reaction generated.

Though I noticed these things I did not see them, or comprehend their significance, until much later. Perhaps there is truth in the old saying that looking at the flame too closely causes one to forget about the fire. There was one incident which should have enlightened me, but I was too blind to see it at the time.

It was soon after I became her private maid, and I was still naive and nervous, as I thought I could escape her wrath through obedience. One morning I was preparing the bath for the Mistress. She has a private vat off her chamber, of course, and all morning I had been lumbering up the stairs with buckets of steaming water from the kitchen. She likes her bath very full and hot, and I soon lost count of the number of trips I made up and down the stairway. At last the bath was ready, steaming and warm, and I guided the Mistress to the edge and assisted her in disrobing. She was naked underneath. This was my first time seeing her naked, and I was instantly jealous, for her body was svelte and graceful, her skin smooth and unblemished.

She had her back to me at the time, and I could not help but admire her sleek thighs and round bottom. I had watched her cane my bottom just a few days previous, and I suddenly knew that my bottom, though always plump and attractive to men and my only real vanity, as I am resolved to plainness in other areas, was nothing as perfect as her own. Hers swelled at the base with such graceful curves I knew it would drive a man wild to see them, her twin mounds made prominent by a deep mysterious chasm between them. As she walked toward the water each cheek gently rotated in a seductive fashion, trembling slightly each time her foot made contact with the stone floor. In my mind instantly was a picture of that bottom covered with luscious, rich stripes from the leather strap, and I could almost see that bottom bouncing under the paddle. Oohh, how I longed to wield that paddle across those buttocks! Even just a single stroke would revenge me for a hundred years, I thought at the time.

I was awakened from these thoughts by a cry of pain from the Mistress. She whirled on me angrily, slapping my face. "It's too hot, you bitch! How dare you! Are you trying to burn me?"

I shook my head frantically. I had tested the water myself. The temperature was fine, not too hot, not too cool. It certainly would not burn. But the Mistress was already fetching the strap, a long thick one she had made and kept in our chambers, specifically for me, as it was too much trouble to run to the kitchen every time I needed the strap.

"Take off your clothes," she ordered, and I silently obeyed, wondering if this was leading to another paddling, as my first had been a living nightmare.

In a moment I was as naked as she was, and I obediently bent over and leaned my arms against the side of the large bath of water and spread my legs wide. She began to strap me then, long heavy strokes that wrapped the leather around my thighs leaving angry welts I knew would burn for days. I sobbed and shivered and took the thrashing as best I could, only occasionally crying out or shifting my position

As she whipped me I was often granted glimpses of her behind me, to my left, as she stood raising and lowering the strap with rhythmic precision. I found myself astonished at her nakedness. It was so brazen, so exposed, and yet she did not seem the least troubled by it, her heavy breasts dancing as she flogged me energetically, her wide hips turning to offer me tantalizing visions of the profile of her curved backside. I discovered I was strangely moved by watching her. Her face was animated and alive, her lips full and blood-red, pursed slightly as she breathed deeply, a faint grunt escaping her as she worked hard to strike me another harsh and cruel blow. I could not help but admire her beauty and avid lust, unhidden, uncontrolled. I, whose passion had always been carefully concealed, almost even from myself, found a delightful freedom in watching her openly display her emotions. I did not pretend to understand her perversion, but only accepted it as an obvious fact: whipping me excited her.

I groaned as a particularly sharp cut struck the inside of my left thigh, high, near my stretched and vulnerable crotch, and I felt relief when she returned to my buttocks, as sore as they were. It was a long and thorough whipping, even by her high standards, and I almost collapsed when she finally finished.

"Now into the water," she commanded, and I looked at her with horror. The water would be scalding against my welted flesh. I could not do it. It would feel like I was being boiled in oil, whatever that felt like. But I felt helpless under her gaze. To disobey would be to ask for punishment, something I could not willingly do. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

I stepped in, the water rising up my legs. It felt warm and soothing, steam lightly enveloping the rest of my body, tickling my breasts. Then the water rose to my thighs, and I felt the fierce burning as every sleeping welt awoke and painfully announced its irritation at being so disturbed. I moaned loudly, but still the Mistress insisted, and taking a deep breath, I sank in completely, crouching on my knees so the water came up to my chest.

The pain was dizzying. I felt like I was being eaten alive by thousands of ants, like in those African stories of native tortures. I writhed and moaned loudly but I could not escape the pain. It was all around me, the water feeling ten times hotter than when I had filled the bath. I wept miserably and begged the Mistress to let me out.

"Isn't it too hot?" she asked coyly, and I nodded, sobbing, and cried out, "Yes, yes! It is too hot! It burns, it burns!"

With a look of triumph she began to climb into the bath herself. I started to rise but she pushed me back down. "There's room for two," she said, "if we squeeze." I was forced to lean back on my haunches to make room for her, my buttocks blazing angrily as they pressed against the back of my calves. My knees were spread wide when opened and exposed my crotch, and I was glad that part of my anatomy was under water. The Mistress knelt opposite me and smiled. "Isn't this nice? I just _adore_ a warm bath on a cold, wintery day!"

I smiled weakly at her and then began to soap and wash her, as she instructed me. I was finally given permission to rise to better perform this task, but I felt shame as I was naked before my Mistress, my sex openly displayed at the level of her eyes. I could not think about this, however, and concentrated on washing her properly, while she talked eagerly and with rare openness, seemingly in a very generous mood.

At one point she grasped my hips and turned me suddenly, almost causing me to fall. She stared at my bottom and cried out, "I certainly striped your bum thoroughly, I must say!" She laughed gaily, as though we were at a tea party and she had made a delightful joke at the expense of someone not present. I flushed deeply at her words and waited for her to allow me to resume, but instead she placed her hand one my right cheek and squeezed me hard, bringing tears to my eyes. "I bet that smarts," she whispered, her voice low, and strangely gravelly. "What does it feel like, Miss Janey? Does it burn when I touch it?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I muttered, extremely uncomfortable.

She massaged both cheeks now, squeezing the thick rolls of tender flesh between her fingers. Then she began to wash me, splashing water on my bottom and rubbing it in between my cheeks and into the crack. I was speechless, stunned. "Ma'am, please," I begged, my face flushing crimson. I'd never been touched by anyone like that, and it frightened and unnerved me. The sensation was unbearably stimulating, that was the problem, and I did not know how to react. I felt it was unnatural, forbidden, and yet it felt so good I could not ask her to stop. I simply said, "Please," and she continued to wash me, her slender finger sliding up and down the crack of my bottom, occasionally brushing against the secret hole there, sending wild shivers through my whole body.

Then she stopped suddenly. I turned and she was not looking at me. She motioned for me to get out and I did, and she told me to get dressed and fetch her wood for the fireplace, as she was cold. I tried to tell her there was plenty in the woodbox right there in her chamber, but she insisted I go to the woodshed immediately, my body still damp as I dragged myself through the icy snow. Her voice was strangely flat, yet serious and urgent, and I obeyed her at once, her tone making me feel that something was quite wrong, and I suspected she had realized our water games were extremely inappropriate. As I left, however, I noted her face was almost serene, with a rather desperate, intense look, as though she had almost reached some long sought goal, and yet in her eyes she was lost and forlorn.