Little Dicky

"Very well, bitch, proceed."

The woman turned to Janet and opened the back of her skirt. Carefully helping Janet remove her skirt and the bright red thong beneath it, the toilet bitch helped Janet to climb into The Chair. If the toilet bitch felt anything about Janet's scars from Mistress Lauren, she didn't show it.

The Chair was as high as a bar stool, but the seat was pierced as a toilet seat. Beneath the seat was what seemed to be a headrest covered in some vinyl-like material, and beneath that was a drainage gutter in the floor, like that in an old-fashioned men's urinal.

"Mistress, please wait for the toilet bitch to take her position," the woman asked.

"Very well." Janet didn't know what else to say. 'Move it, I need to piss" didn't seem right.

"Mistress, I am ready." The woman had pillowed her head on the headrest and was lying in the drainage gutter.

'What kind of fucking perverts are these?' Janet thought. 'Well, what the fuck, go for it', and she released her sphincter, sending a yellow stream falling straight on the toilet bitch's face.

It was a lengthy piss, as Janet had not used the bathroom since leaving her hotel. The smell told the whole story.

"Thank you, Mistress, please continue if you wish," came from below.

'Oh no,' Janet thought. 'Those damn bran muffins from the continental breakfast in first class....' The release of her urethral sphincter triggered her anal sphincter, and she was helpless.

The turds came, fat and round like a 50-ring Davidoff Perfecto. Janet could barely imagine the effect, although the sounds from below made the effect perfectly clear.

"Oh dear," said Janet, "that was unintentional, I assure you," momentarily forgetting her role as Mistress.

"Do not worry, Mistress," came the calm voice from just below Janet's asshole. Janet heard the sound of running water, and looked. The woman was hosing herself clean from a garden hose attached to a faucet in the wall. Scrambling to her feet, showing obvious pain from her devastated back, she turned the faucet to high pressure, washing Janet's piss and shit away to the downspout at the end of the drainage gutter.

The toilet bitch carefully cleaned her hands with antiseptic hand wash from a nearby shelf. She took a silken scarf and, helping Janet to her feet, bent her gently and wiped her asshole clean. Taking another scarf, she carefully wiped Janet's cunt. Finally, she applied a moisturizing cleanser to Janet's asshole with her fingers.

"May I help Mistress dress?"

Janet, uncertain of the etiquette of dealing with a toilet bitch (certainly neither Dear Abby nor Emily Post would have anything helpful to say), decided to take an aggressive approach. It seemed a good idea.

"Did you think I was going to parade around here like this all day, you stupid bitch? Or don't you think? Get on with it, fool!"

The woman speedily helped Janet to dress again, and held open the door, bowing as Janet left.

"How did you like the toilet bitch?" asked Maîtresse Marie-Ange, smiling.

"I wish I had one of my own," replied Janet. "She's entrancing. But I haven't found any in Connecticut, and I would have to rebuild my bathroom if I did."

"So I did when I made that one into the toilet bitch, but it was worth the extra. When I have my period, I piss a great deal, with plenty of blood. The toilet bitch is just what I need to turn what was called a curse into a real pleasure."

"I hope I do not show discourteous curiosity, Maîtresse Marie-Ange," said Janet, adopting a high-falutin' style of speech not usual to her, but uncannily appropriate to these outré circumstances, "but how did you acquire the toilet bitch?"

"It's a long, unhappy story, with very happy ending. Please, Mistress Janet, pour me a large glass of the Vouvray, and I will tell you."

Janet filled the proffered glass nearly to the brim, returned it to Maîtresse Marie-Ange, took a large slice of the Gruyére, a large chunk of bread, refilled her own glass and sat down.

"I was, I think, nine years old when my mother died. My world ended. My father, much occupied with his business interests in Quebec and in France Outre-Mer, placed me in the school run by the Sisters of Saint Joseph. You have heard of this order?"

"Only vaguely, Maîtresse. I'm not Catholic. Aren't they a teaching order?"

"So they claim, and may be elsewhere. Here, in Montréal and in my childhood, they were a terrorist organization, the black-draped familiars of the Devil!" Her voice rose and she snarled the last words. Janet sat back, pinned to her seat by the fury in the woman's voice.

"I was a baby, torn from my home. For my father, there was the Church, with a very large capital "C", La Langue Française, and French Canada. Tu sais, Les Anglais au pôteau! No? You don't comprehend? Hang the English from the lampposts! The verdict of 1759 must be reversed!"

"1759?"

"Oh, my dear, remember your history. Or rather, since you obviously don't, allow me. In 1759, the French General Marquis de Montcalm faced the British General James Wolfe, who commanded a mixed British-American force outnumbering Montcalm, at Quebec. Wolfe climbed the cliffs outside Quebec and attacked Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham. Both Generals were killed in the battle, but New France fell to the British. My father swore to return Quebec to France. Our language, our culture, our religion, were bulwarks against the English invaders. Who spoke against any of these was a traitor.

"Not a word against our holy religion! So I was thrust into that chamber of horrors. Our lessons were accompanied by beatings. I was bright and knew how to give those black crows what they wanted by day, if not by night, so I was left alone. But by night?

"They had their fun, dear Mère Sainte-Eglise, and dear Sœur Marie-Albert, and Sœur Jean du Croix. Oh yes. Have you ever heard what a nine-year-old girl sounds like while being deflowered? Or a ten-year-old being anally assaulted? I heard that, and I know what it is like to be waiting to see if one oneself is next, oh yes!"

"Three horrible years in that prison! With the crows by day and the devils by night, and comforting again and again a child who has experienced what no child should ever, ever, if there is a God or a Jesus or anything, should ever experience!" Maîtresse Marie-Ange was trembling with fury. She threw her empty wineglass at the wall. Janet did not hear it shatter.

"They came for me, finally. I screamed! I fought! By their lying God I fought! They would not have me or break me! I won; so they expelled me and gave me a bad conduct.

"My father was furious, but what could he do? He found a mediocre non-religious school, a public one, and it was paradise! Mediocre education, but I could read. University was out of the question.

"Later, as an adult, I went to the ministry of Public Prosecution to get justice for these raped innocents, who had been betrayed by those sworn to protect them. I was lucky I wasn't prosecuted. The political pressures, the rank dishonesty--those children will suffer to their graves and I will hear their screams to the day I die, but Quebec will remain loyal to the Church, the French language, and the myth of Montcalm, that blundering buffoon! And they are sure 1759 will be reversed--as if anyone but they gives a damn!

"Mon chèr papa tried to disinherit me, of course, but his beloved Code Napoléon came to my rescue. He could not disinherit his only child. I got his treasure, and I kept mine."

"Yours, ma Maîtresse?" Janet was overwhelmed by the force of this woman.

"Yes, mine. My hymen, my maidenhead. Those devils wanted it, but they never got it! Neither has any man or woman, from that day to this. I have fucked every one of my slaves in every way I can think of (and I have a very vivid imagination, as you will see, my dear). But no one, no one, has ever, or will ever, fuck me!

"It has been tried. And now I can answer your question.

"The closest was Stephane, the one we know as the toilet bitch. A clever one, that piece of shit. She was a slave in training, an easy one to break and a decent one to train. But she was nothing special, neither a prospect for Mistress nor an outright failure, a sub no better than any other. So I was ready to let her go, as I was bored with her.

"I was going to give her a farewell fuck, when she asked to eat my pussy. Well, why not, as it was her final appearance on that stage. She started well enough, a tit-nibble, a navel-licking, and then to the main attraction. She started on my lips, and went on to lick my clit. But then?

"The fucking bitch tried to poke her finger through my cherry! I felt the stab and threw her off the bed. There was a slight stain of blood; she had come close, but the prize was still mine. I called for Catriona, a powerful girl from the West I had then, and Soon-Ja Kim, my longest-serving slave, whom you've met.

"They triced her up in my donjon (I'll show it to you later, we'll need to familiarize you with it before Little Dicky gets here tomorrow), and I gave her the ultimate beating. Bloody lucky I avoided jail. But rather than release her, I decided to keep her. Now she has no name. She is not slave Stephane; as Jacob became Israel after wrestling with the Lord and winning, so she became the toilet bitch after wrestling with me and losing. And before bedtime tonight, and again in the morning, all of us, Mistresses and slaves, will use her appropriately."

Maîtresse Marie-Ange rose from her chair. "I will now pay a visit to the toilet bitch, lest she feel neglected, and then I shall show you my home."

The donjon was extraordinary. Drainage gutters, stainless steel rings embedded in walls, floors and ceilings, lights from every corner, a gynæcologist's examining table, a St Andrew's Cross capable of being rotated 360 degrees vertically and horizontally, racks of whips, crops, floggers, clamps, specula--never had Janet imagined such a thing. It made Mistress Erica's elaborate "playroom" look like a little girl's plastic play kitchen, compared to the kitchen and winecellar of a Michelin three-star restaurant.

"Maîtresse, it is magnificent!"

"Would you like to try any of my little jewels?"

"Oh yes, may I?" Janet was a child again, with a rich aunt ready to spoil her.

"Certainly. Which slave do you want?"

"Xirelle, please."

"She should have unpacked your luggage by now, used the toilet bitch, and be ready. I'll call." She took from her pocket the ubiquitous Iphone and pushed a button.

Xirelle appeared as if waiting by the iron-shod door.

"Where do you want her?"

"On the examining table, to start, I think."

"Very well." Xirelle smiled and climbed on the table, adjusting her feet in the stirrups.

Janet strode to the table, carefully used the antiseptic handwash on the steel tray, and shoved three fingers into Xirelle's cunt. With her other hand she roughly kneaded the slave's breast. "Nice."

She removed her fingers and pinched the slave's clitoris, catching it between her fingernails and tugging at it. Xirelle's eyes began to tear and her breath came in sharp spurts. Janet bit the slave's nipple hard and tugged with mouth and fingers. Then she stopped.

"I can see that you have equipped this place perfectly, ma Maîtresse. Thank you for the exhibition."

"Va t'en vite vite," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange to Xirelle, who scampered out of the room. "Would you like to try the table?"

"Ma Maîtresse, I thought you'd never ask." Janet reached behind her, opened button and zipper, and let her skirt fall, removing her thong at the same time. She slipped out of her shoes and climbed onto the table.

Maîtresse Marie-Ange lengthened the stirrups for Janet. She stared admiringly at Janet's tattoo.

"It is Jimmy Famagusta, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma Maîtresse. Do you know his work?"

"Ma petite, not to know Jimmy Famagusta is to proclaim oneself unknown. He is the premier queer-sado tattoo artist in the world! And this (pointing at Janet's groin) bespeaks his mastery of his craft."

Janet loved the tattoo. It had cost her more than $5,000, and had taken a month of sittings. It was a master artist's depiction of one master's photograph, and another's sculpture, a magnificent monument.

Starting inside her right thigh, it showed a mountainside, battered and scarred by war. At the mountaintop, at the point where her thigh joined her mons, there were the six figures, reaching to the top of her mons. They wore World War Two United States military helmets, with M-1 Garand rifles slung from the shoulders of five of them, but there the resemblance ended; they were all women, and all naked. They were raising a flag, the foot of the flagstaff set right at the point her labia started, as if they were planting in the flag in Janet's pussy.

The flag was the rainbow flag of Gay Liberation. In full fucking color.

"Magnifique!" Maîtresse Marie-Ange was delighted. "You will display that to Little Dicky tomorrow, right before you piss in his face. He is an American draft-dodger from the Sixties. He will try to come at the very sight of it."

********

Dinner was splendid, a splendid spicy gazpacho followed by a cold roast of beef with fresh asparagus, pommes Anna, and plenty of freezing-cold Molson Export. In a refreshing change from the usual custom, Mistresses and slaves ate together, their ordinary roles set aside. Also unusually, all were dressed in ordinary clothing. They spoke as equals. The feeling of sisterhood, like the best of a club or sorority, made the dinner hour even more delightful.

Even the toilet bitch appeared, naked but well hosed-down. She was fed the same meal as the others, but on the floor, in a corner, and was given water, not ale. She was not permitted to speak. But she did have knife (blunted at the tip, Janet noticed; a precaution?), fork, spoon and glass, and had a serviette. She had neither dessert nor an after-dinner coffee. She seemed touched to be allowed to eat with the others.

At the end of dinner, the cook, a short, almost dwarfish man, barrel-chested and with a thick black beard, brought out the dessert and drinks trolley. The ladies applauded him. He bowed like a performer and retreated to his kitchen.

Maîtresse Marie-Ange explained. "Monsieur Julien is not in the lifestyle, tu comprends, chérie. But he enjoys working here, and is not troubled by our amusements. And I love a man who can cook. You will enjoy our luncheon tomorrow, certainement."

"I'm sure I will. And I will meet Little Dicky."

"Yes. I'm sure you will enchant him. Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee please, ma Maîtresse, but just a little."

"You think you will not sleep well? I can give my guest something to help her sleep. Which slave would you like?"

"Oh, Xirelle, ma Maîtresse."

"Enjoy, ma chérie."

'I never fucked a black one before,' thought Janet. 'I'm always up for something new.'

Xirelle's breasts were perfect for squeezing, kneading, biting, and just holding as Janet pistoned her from behind with her nine-inch and minimal lube. Xirelle's pussy lips were coal-black, but inside Janet found deep pink and tasty juice. And Xirelle knew how to tongue-fuck; 'her great-grandmama must have been a black mamba from Kenya', thought Janet. Then she came and came and stopped thinking.

She slept with her head against Xirelle's cunt.

********

'What a beautiful sunrise,' thought Janet, as she awoke. Xirelle had awakened and left the room silently during the night. 'A shame Maîtresse trains her slaves that well. It would have been fun to punish her for oversleeping by fucking her bouncy fat ass again.'

Off to visit the toilet bitch. Now Janet discovered why Maîtresse Marie-Ange insisted upon everyone finishing their asparagus, and even forced second helpings upon them. The stench of her piss was apparent even from above; from below it must have been overpowering.

"I wonder what's on the breakfast menu,' she thought, as, sated from her night with Xirelle, she showered alone and dressed herself.

Asparagus omelette, Canadian bacon, freshly baked croissants (Julien must have slept less than the slaves), Normandy butter from Sainte-Mère-Eglise (a coincidence? No way! Maîtresse is too smart for that), and strawberry preserves. Endless cups of coffee and fresh pear juice. Janet sighed. Parfait! She went out to the garden and strolled through the grounds. What perfect weather! How beautiful!

Just before noon, a bell sounded, light and musical.

Janet came down to the Grand Salon. Maîtresse Marie-Ange was seated in her chair, and motioned Janet to sit on the chair beside her.

The door opened, and in walked a dwarfish elderly man, just shorter than Julien. He had a bald pate with white hair down the back of his high-topped skull, a white goatee and a mincing manner. He wore a brown tweed suit, too heavy for the season, and of a style long since outdated. "Bonjour, ma Maîtresse," he almost whispered.

Maîtresse Marie-Ange rose, smiling, and walked to the man, extending her right hand as if to offer it for a kiss. As the man bent to kiss her hand, the riding crop in her left hand slashed him across his ear. He screamed.

Maîtresse Marie-Ange screamed in her turn, "You filthy little piece of shit, you cut-dick little cocksucker, how dare you walk in here? Strip!"

He did. His white shirt had a dirty ring at the collar, his undershirt showed sweat stains, and his underpants were marked with yellow and brown stains, as if to show him which end was which when he put them on.

Maîtresse Marie-Ange pushed a button on her inseparable Iphone. In came Soon-Ja Kim, crawling quickly to Maîtresse. "Take these to the toilet bitch in my private bathroom here, and tell her to see to them as usual."

Turning to the naked man, "Down on your knees, shit, and if you touch that miserable little peter of yours I'll beat it to a paste." "Oui, ma Maîtresse," he whispered. "I'm not your Maîtresse, you don't deserve a Maîtresse! I'm your God, the God of vengeance for your filthy perverted ways!"

"Come, chérie," she said to Janet, and as they walked to the bathroom Janet had used the previous day, Maîtresse Marie-Ange summoned Soon-Ja Kim and Xirelle. They crawled into the Grand Salon, around the kneeling man and into the bathroom with them.

The man's clothing lay in the drainage gutter, arranged neatly. The toilet bitch sat in the corner on the tiled floor. She rose, and without a word, served each of the Misstresses and the slaves, helping them into The Chair and pulling the man's clothes under them as they pissed and, if so inclined, defecated on them. Janet's period had started, so she had the toilet bitch remove her tampon with her teeth. She menstruated on the clothing, as her asparagus-scented piss cascaded down.

"He can wear it all home, if it's dry when he leaves, or go naked if he likes. He'll be a big hit on the bus," laughed Maîtresse Marie-Ange. "This little bastard ran away from the American draft in '67, married a local woman and had a child with her to get Canadian citizenship. The woman divorced him and his daughter left, when they discovered his disgusting perverted ways. Now we shall attend to him."

Returning to the room, Maîtresse Marie-Ange sent slave Soon-Ja Kim to fetch manacles for hands and feet, and a ball gag and mask from the donjon. As she returned, Maîtresse Marie-Ange turned to Janet. "This garbage on the floor is Little Dicky. He blogs about bondage and discipline. He waxes philosophical, s'il vous plaît, about beatings. It is amusing."

Facing the manacled, masked and gagged Little Dicky, she shouted in his ear, "Shit, you have beheld Mistress Janet. Soon you will know her even better, to your great chagrin."

They proceeded, all standing and walking in order as if on parade, to the donjon.

"Mistress Janet, please examine Little Dicky's little dicky."