Instructed to Play

Table of Contents

Title Page

Holding Still – Rose de Fer

Penance for the Perverse – Heather Towne

Transformation – Poppy St Vincent

At His Bidding – Catherine Paulssen

Deportment – Monica Belle

Compensation – Rachel Randall

April Is So Annoying! – Giselle Renarde

For His Pleasure – Valerie Grey

Eye of the Beholder – Kathleen Tudor

The Miseducation of Laura Knill – Elizabeth Coldwell

More from Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Holding Still

Rose de Fer

The room hums with energy, as though the air is electrified. But within all is stillness. Silence and extraordinary stillness.

We are frozen, my sisters and I, maintaining the poses we have been instructed to hold while the potential buyers move among us, inspecting, assessing, admiring. I am lucky to have been given an easy position, probably because I’m the newest.

Across the gallery Helene balances on one leg, the other raised and bent slightly in front, as though she is about to step gracefully down from her pedestal. And next to her is Cerys, sitting with her legs stretched out along either side of a polished wooden beam. Both poses look extremely challenging and I’m envious of the balance it must take to maintain them.

My own pose is simple by comparison. I am kneeling naked, my head bowed, my eyes downcast. The very picture of submission. My hands rest by my sides, palms flat on the platform. My long hair has been coiled and pinned on top of my head so that the buyers can see my face. My expression is one of cultivated serenity, of deep contentment with my humble position.

Around me the men and women discuss the living statuary, asking questions of our curator and discussing prices. Two men and a woman enthuse over Natasha’s display. She sits before a mirror, her long red hair swept over one shoulder. Like the girl in the Pre-Raphaelite painting she emulates, she is frozen in the act of combing her hair, a wistful expression on her face.

I listen to their comments as they discuss her price. A friendly argument ensues and one of the men finally names a figure that is too high for his companions. The sale is completed. Out of the corner of my eye I see Natasha rise from her stool and greet the man who is now her owner. They leave the room together and I feel a twinge of sadness knowing I won’t see her again.

And then I feel the steady gaze of someone’s eyes on me.

The spicy aroma of a man’s cologne teases my nose as he circles me, quietly studying me. Voices waft across the room like currents of air but my observer is alone. Intrigued by what he sees, he reaches out a hand to caress my hip, my thigh. I remain perfectly still as I have been taught, willing away the gooseflesh that threatens to mar my smooth skin and spoil the illusion.

‘Alina,’ he says, reading my name off the little bronze plaque beneath me.

Seeing the man’s interest in me, the curator approaches. He introduces himself and explains that I am new, that this is only my first exhibition, but that I have shown immense promise and he is sure I would be a worthy addition to any collector’s home.

The man nods and reaches up to stroke my cheek. He traces a finger down my throat and along the curve of one bare breast. He cups me gently and I feel my nipple stiffen in response to his touch. It’s exactly the kind of reaction collectors want, the kind that surprises one into remembering that we are human after all. He laughs softly.

‘She’s very responsive.’ He slides his thumb over the hard little bud, sending a jolt of pleasure through my body. I focus all my concentration on maintaining my position. I must not sigh or gasp or moan. I mustn’t close my eyes or even flutter an eyelash. I am a statue. One of warm flesh and blood rather than alabaster but a statue nonetheless.

The man draws his hand down along my pale arm to my wrist. Then he presses against the delicate skin to feel my pulse. Doubtless my heart is beating faster now than when he first approached me and his touch makes it beat even faster. He gives another appreciative laugh.

‘Yes, very responsive.’

He has a nice voice, cultured and kind. I like the warmth in his touch, the amusement in his tone as he examines the rest of me, stroking the soles of my upturned feet and running a finger down the line of my spine. My legs are closed but he comments favourably on my smoothly shaved mound. I fight the blush that threatens to stain my cheeks as he asks whether he might part my thighs to see the rest.

The curator agrees and my admirer gently eases my legs apart. My knees slide easily against the polished surface on which I’m kneeling and soon I feel the caress of cool air against my nether lips. I try to slow my breathing, willing my racing heart to be calm. But when the man draws his fingers up along my inner thigh and sweeps them gently across the slick folds of my sex I feel my pulse jump again. It’s all I can do to keep from closing my eyes at the stimulation.

‘Very nice indeed,’ he says. He steps back and looks me over once again. For several moments I feel as though I am suspended over a vast chasm as I wait to hear his verdict. After what seems an eternity, he ends the torment. ‘Yes. I think she would be a lovely addition to my collection.’

My sex throbs in response but it’s a reaction no one can see. Neither can they see the way I clench the inner muscles to send another little spasm of pleasure through my body. My mind whirls as I try to imagine what my new owner will do with me, how he will display me. I’ve heard of girls made to act as the centrepiece at a lavish feast, others to liven up a garden or the foyer of a grand house. For some reason I have always pictured myself displayed in an alcove, perhaps at the top of a curving staircase. Of course, it’s not up to me to choose.

The curator stands before me and places a fatherly hand on my shoulder. ‘Alina, it’s time to go. Mr Villiers will take you home now.’

It’s always difficult to move after holding still for so long. After a while the stillness becomes second nature and I forget I’m able to move at all. I raise my head slowly and meet the eyes of my new master. A smile plays at the corners of his lips and I return it, blushing. He puts his arm around me, helps me up and leads me away.

* * *

My new home is a sprawling Victorian estate set far back from the main road. A maid opens the door for Mr Villiers but she didn’t bat an eye at me. But for the velvet cloak he fastened around me to keep me warm, I am still naked.

He leads me through the house to a vast and elegant library. Ornate bookshelves climb the walls to the high ceiling and a fire crackles warmly in the massive hearth. The furniture has clearly been arranged with the display of a statue in mind. Two plush sofas and a scattering of chairs all face in towards a round marble plinth about two feet high and topped with a red silk cushion. Mr Villiers removes my cloak and lays it over the arm of a chair. Then he lifts me easily and places me on top of the plinth.

Now comes the moment I have always dreamed of. My master tells me to demonstrate a series of poses for him so that he may choose the one he likes best. Of course, statues need not stay the same; part of the appeal in a living statue is her variety. Rather than buy a new piece of art one can simply instruct the statue to adopt a new pose.

I show him all the poses I have been taught, some of which make me feel both dread and hope that he’ll choose them because of the challenge they would offer me. I want to please him. He nods his head at each and gestures for me to show him the next one. I’m nearing the end of my repertoire but he still hasn’t picked one.

‘Hmm,’ he says, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I did rather like the way you were displayed at the gallery.’

I immediately sink to my knees and drop my head, arranging myself in the submissive posture he first saw me in. He eyes me critically for a moment before shaking his head.

‘It’s still not quite right.’

He begins to position me himself. He parts my legs as he did before and I feel myself grow damp with the exposure. With a gentle hand on my bottom he urges me up off my heels a few inches so that my thighs take my weight. Then he places my arms behind my back, my wrists crossed as if bound. Finally, he presses against my back, encouraging me to arch my spine. The position forces my small breasts forwards and I blush deeply at the powerful feeling of submission the pose evokes in me. He adjusts my head by tilting my chin up until my head is level with his chest. I gaze at the pattern of his tie, a passionate design of red and black swirls.

‘Eyes down,’ he tells me.

I obey.

He nods his approval and steps away. I hear his retreating footsteps and then the opening of a drawer from somewhere behind me. When he returns to me I see he has the little bronze plaque from the gallery, the one with my name on it. He fixes it into its setting at the base of the plinth and I am still. From this moment on I am his statue. An object he has purchased to decorate his beautiful library. I must hold this pose with absolute stillness until I am released.

Warmth courses through my body at the thought of the lovely pose he has created for me and I focus all my energy on maintaining it. It’s not as easy as it looks. My thighs are working the hardest, opened wide and angled forty-five degrees up and away from the plinth, supporting my weight. After a while I know they will be aching and possibly even trembling with the effort. But it wouldn’t be considered an art if it were easy or comfortable. And it wouldn’t be so erotic if it weren’t such a challenge.

Mr Villiers moves around the room, observing me from different angles and commenting favourably on what he sees. The maid returns when summoned and I am not surprised to learn from his conversation with her that guests will shortly be arriving. I wait until he has left the room for a moment to make a minute adjustment to my position. I won’t get another chance once the room is full of people scrutinising me. The thought warms me inside and I recall the silky touch of his finger between my legs at the gallery. I replay the moment again and again in my mind as I listen to the voices of the men and women entering the room and seeing their friend’s new acquisition.

‘How lovely!’ a lady exclaims. There is a flash of colour to my left as she comes closer and then she strokes the hollow of my hip with cool fingers.

A man beside her touches me in a similar fashion. Then another. Then another. The sensation of so many hands on me is powerfully erotic but I remember my training and keep my breathing slow and steady. I can’t help the gallop of my heart but I focus on being still, being obedient.

‘Isn’t she exquisite?’ someone says.

‘I must get one like her for my study.’

‘Perhaps I can find a matching pair for the garden.’

All around me words of praise float in the air and admiring hands roam over me as they might any decorative object. A lady draws her lacquered red nails down over my thighs. A man pinches my toes. Another tickles the tender crease between buttock and thigh. But I frustrate their attempts to make me react.

‘I do feel rather like Pygmalion.’

My master’s voice cuts through the chattering of the others and I time my breathing so that my next slow exhalation comes only after he has touched me again. I would recognise his touch even with all my other senses blocked, but I can smell his cologne and the musky warmth of his skin as he stands beside me. His fingertips tease my jutting pelvic bone as he slides his hand around to caress my bottom. The others fall silent while he strokes his possession. His touch is the hardest to resist responding to.

After a while a lady speaks. ‘But your Galatea hasn’t come to life yet.’

This is both the central irony and central beauty of my art, that I am most alive when pretending to be made of stone.

‘Oh, but I think she has,’ my master says. His hand slides up along the arch of my spine and then around to my left side. He gives my breast a little squeeze before pressing his hand up underneath it, hard against my ribs. I can feel my heart beating against his fingers, as though it’s trying to reach him. Heat floods my face and radiates through the rest of me, finding a home in the silky wet folds of my sex.

As though he can smell my arousal he laughs softly and then his hand is between my legs. ‘Very alive indeed,’ he murmurs.

And he’s right. I am more alive than I have ever been. More alive than at any other time in my life. My sex pulses feverishly in time with my pounding heart as his fingers probe and explore the soft wetness. And when he slips a finger deep inside me I can’t help it – I gasp. It’s only a tiny sound but it may as well be the shattering of glass. The shattering of an illusion.

I freeze again immediately but the damage is done. And now I can’t help the trembling in my legs as my master frowns.

‘Oh, dear,’ he says, and his disappointment is agony for me.

I daren’t speak, not even to apologise. The best I can hope for is that he’ll excuse my lapse. The curator explained that I was new, after all.

A man’s laugh rings out in the silent room, as jarring as a horn. ‘Well, it looks like your Galatea has a voice!’

The others laugh at that and one by one they slip away to the dining room. Someone calls out to my master, to ask if he is coming. But he shakes his head, standing before me as still as a statue himself.

‘It would seem,’ he says calmly, ‘that you are not yet fully trained after all.’

My trembling intensifies and I feel tears pricking my eyes. My very first private exhibition and I have failed. The shame threatens to overwhelm me.

‘But no matter. What’s done is done. We’re none of us perfect, are we?’

I know better than to deepen my disgrace by responding as though he had asked the question of a person. Flawed or not, I am still a statue and must hold on to as much of my role as I can.

‘No,’ he continues, his voice kind and forgiving. I sense his smile as he smoothes a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Not perfect. Which means I have the pleasure of teaching you how to mimic perfection.’

My heart seems to stumble in my chest as I realise he isn’t going to send me back. Immediately I regain control of myself, will my eyes to stop welling with tears, will my body to stop shaking. I focus on the red and black swirls in his tie and lose myself in the pattern as I try to disengage from my body. I think of Natasha and the other girls, so silent and still, so perfect. How can I ever hope to be as good as they are?

‘You will have to earn your submissive pose again,’ he says. Then he paces away across the room and when he returns he is holding a riding crop.

If my eyes widen slightly he doesn’t notice, as he is inspecting the looped leather tongue at the end of the crop. He slaps it against his palm a few times. Then he slices the crop through the air before me and I can’t help it: I flinch.

He tuts and shakes his head. ‘Statues do not react,’ he says, and his tone is inscrutable. ‘Not to noises or touches. Not to pleasure or pain. Not to any stimuli at all.’

I still the trembling that threatens to overwhelm me and he holds the crop out, pressing the tongue firmly against my left nipple. The leather is cool and I immediately stiffen beneath its touch. He does the same on the other side and I suppress a shiver. My focus is completely gone and I can’t seem to regain it. Quite apart from my horror at having failed him, I’m both frightened and aroused by his authority. I desperately want to please him, to earn my pose back and to be touched again like before.

He raises the crop a few inches and then flicks it down onto the hard peak of my nipple. Not enough to hurt, just enough to send a flash of stimulation through me. It’s all I can do not to react but I hold myself still for him as he moves to the other side and repeats the stroke. He watches my face closely as he positions the crop again and taps me gently. This time he brings it down with a little more force.

The sensation is intense on such a delicate part of me and I can’t fully process what I’m feeling. The smack of leather is impossible to ignore. It awakens all the sensitive nerve endings, sending a confusing blend of signals through me. Pleasure, pain and something in between.

He moves the crop back and forth, bringing it down in a brisk motion on first one nipple, then the other. A little harder each time now. I force myself to stay still, to resist the urge to cry out, gasp or whimper. When I realise I’m not breathing I make myself inhale slowly and hold the breath for several seconds before letting it out just as slowly.

The crop descends smartly, again and again, daring me to defy the man inflicting the torment. But I breathe through the strokes, determined to pass his test, determined to make him proud of me. My nipples tingle from the strange stimulation and the burning flows through my body like waves until my sex is throbbing in response.

When he finally stops I feel strangely bereft. Then my master tucks the crop under his arm to free both his hands. He cups my aching breasts, and the warmth of his palms against the burning skin of my nipples is both soothing and agonising. Even then, I don’t allow myself to react. He’ll be able to feel the wild pounding of my heart but I hope I have borne the punishment to his satisfaction.

‘Very good,’ he says.

Before I can relax, however, he takes up the crop again and this time places the leather tongue up against my sex. Tingling with fear and excitement, I brace myself.

The first stroke is gentle, just a little tap. But my sex is even more sensitive than my breasts and the smack of leather is like a jolt of electricity. The next stroke is harder and the next is harder still. I feel each one deep inside me, penetrating me as his finger did earlier.

Although I hold perfectly still for him, there is no doubt that he can see how much his actions are arousing me. Each smack of the crop against my wetness floods me with sensation and when he flicks the tip back and forth across my clit I realise with sudden alarm that he intends to make me come. My eyes must reflect some fear over this because he gives a low chuckle and the crop ceases its relentless assault for a moment. My sex tingles along with my breasts, burning and pulsing at the sensory onslaught, wanting more.

But he teases me. He steps around to my side and now he rests the crop against the smooth curve of my bottom. I hold my breath as I feel it lift away and then connect with a sharp smack. He is less forgiving here, laying on the strokes smartly and giving me less time to recover in between. It’s all I can do not to yelp and flinch.

Then the leather tongue, warmer now that it has tasted so much of my tender flesh, taps against the delicate soles of my feet. I wait, every muscle tensed in anticipation, until he raises the crop again and it strikes in earnest. The pain is astonishing. But it’s also exhilarating. As it rises and falls against my feet I feel a surge of euphoria. I have crossed a line where pain becomes pleasure and all sensation is welcome.

As though sensing the change in me, my master returns to stand in front of me. He caresses my face, cups my chin and slips his thumb into my mouth, teasing my tongue with it like the promise of a kiss. Through it all I remain perfectly still although every nerve in my body is screaming for release.

He steps back and presses the end of the crop between my legs again. My nether lips are burning and swollen from the punishment they have taken but they still want more. I want more.

He doesn’t make me wait long. I feel the crop tap gently against my inner thighs, peppering them with light little smacks before returning for a more vigorous assault on my sex. The leather strikes me hard, harder, harder, and the wave begins to build inside me. He adjusts the angle just enough to catch my clit and each sharp stroke drives me closer and closer. When the rush overtakes me I lose all sense of control, crying out with complete abandon as a pleasure more intense than I ever thought possible threatens to consume me.

He catches me before I can fall and my body assaults me from within as I gasp and pant and tremble in his arms.

After a while he releases me and it takes some effort to stand upright after what I’ve just endured. I blush fiercely as he forces me to meet his eyes. He is smiling.

‘Hello, Galatea,’ he says.

I try to return his smile but, although I’m buzzing with pleasure at what he’s done to me, I still can’t help but feel terrible for my earlier failure. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur, not sure what else to say.

His laugh surprises me. ‘The whole point of having a statue is so that you can bring her to life.’

He lifts me up and sets me back on my plinth. I sink to my knees and he arranges me in my pose, my knees apart, back arched, eyes down.

‘Now,’ he says, ‘you have both earned your submission and been rewarded. I’m going to call my guests back in and this time I expect my little statue to remain a statue. For them anyway. I’m sure she’s learned now the proper time to awaken.’

I have. I nod my understanding meekly. It’s the last time I will move until we’re alone again.

I’m tingling in all the places where the crop has kissed me and I imagine my skin is red and marked from the little leather tongue. It will be no secret to the others what has happened, what’s been done to me. I also imagine I now radiate a glow of ecstasy, an invitation, a challenge. Let them try and distract me, to make me react. I will come to life again, but only my master will see it.

Penance for the Perverse

Heather Towne

Joe and Mary fell in love almost as soon as Mary arrived in Joe’s small hometown. She had lived in a large city on the west coast, and was now seeking a simpler, more spiritual life in the rolling hills of northern Idaho. Joe was thirty-two and lonely, a respected teacher at the local elementary school and parishioner in the Pine Hills Baptist Church. Mary was thirty-five and longing for a good man and a good life. They were married in Joe’s church two months after first meeting.

Mary was a lapsed Catholic. Now, she embraced Joe’s religion, born-again into Christianity. Joe couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found such a loving, beautiful wife to share his faith and life with, raise a family. He was a tall man, with thinning black hair and a pale, chiselled face, bright-blue eyes and full red lips, a wiry physique. Mary was petite, pretty, with wavy chestnut-brown hair and large violet eyes, an oval face and plush pincushion lips, large breasts and ample buttocks, tawny skin.

It was a month after their nuptials, as they sat in front of the fireplace after Sunday dinner, that Mary said to her husband, ‘Joe, I have a confession to make.’ She looked down at her delicate hands in her lap, her voluptuous body clad in a simple black dress.

Joe glanced up from the textbook he’d been studying. He smiled, his handsome face beaming contentedly. ‘Confession? Why, what do you mean, Mary?’

Mary sighed. ‘Well, in my old church, we used to confess our sins every Sunday – to, well, cleanse our souls, so to speak. Confess any sinful things we’d done or any sinful thoughts we’d had during the week. Then take penance for it. But in your – I mean, our – church, there’s no such thing as a confessional.’ She licked her lips, batted her long, dark eyelashes at her husband. ‘So, I’d like to confess something to you, Joe, have you punish me with any penance you see fit.’