Don't Judge Me

Back down the end of the balcony, past the top of the staircase, the grand chandelier to my left this time, I turned left and followed the balcony on its wide embrace of the gigantic entry hall. Now facing the enormous windows of the front entrance, I could see the westering sun low in the sky, starting to streak the royal blue sky with oranges and auburn highlights. Proceeding forwards from the front of the manor, across the driveway, was the little meandering path that had brought me into this odd space, winding its way through the picturesque gardens to the distant garden wall with it's small doorway. Had I stopped long enough to stare, perhaps I could have imagined myself, a femme version of Truman standing just inside it, taking a bow before leaving this little garden of Eden. But I didn't want to leave. Ever. I hoped to be wishing everyone a good afternoon, good evening, and good night, all in person.

Last door on the right. I reached it, and regained my presence of mind. I knocked politely and waited.

I heard a bustling about on the other side, and suddenly the door popped open. A brightly smiling Mahogany was clearly excited to greet me, apparently anticipating my arrival.

"Oooh, hello Miss!" she bubbled happily. "Welcome to No Man's Land!" she stood aside and gestured that I should enter.

"Well, I can assure you," I solemnly declared as I accepted the invitation. "That I am no man."

She giggle, "Good, 'cause no boys allowed!"

The first thing I noticed was the commanding view, again from the front of the manor house across the front garden. But then I took in the rest of the room. Comfortable furniture, a tea-making area with pastries and treats, three vanities equipped with lights around the mirrors, magnifying mirrors, indeterminate volumes of makeup, were arranged as desks with dainty chairs. There was a mobile hanging rack of what looked like beaded and sequined dresses, and feather boas, and an open entrance to a large walk-in wardrobe. Two changing screens, like the one in Miss Havisham's bathroom, a coral outcropping in which a voyeur's intrigue could safely nestle as it grazes.

Mahogany had escaped the maid's outfit and now was wearing a loose, comfortable looking top, which fell off one shoulder, and very small, cute little shorts. She looked relaxed and happy, her generously plump full figure having been freed from the strict confines of her corset. She was standing, still bouncing excitedly, awaiting my response. I found it easy to discern what she was looking for with a glance over her sensual mind, so I provided it, "What a beautiful room. A girlie paradise!"

She clapped her hands excitedly in front of her chest, "I know, right?" Come on, through here is the bathroom. You're going to love it. She indicated a door in the right-hand wall as she took my hand to guide me there.

"Um," I hesitated, still holding her hand, but now holding her back. "Before we do, I wonder if I can get your advice on something?"

"Of course! What can I help you with, Miss?" she was immediately attentive.

"Look, it's just that... well...," I should have known there was nothing to be embarrassed about, especially with Mahogany. I half spun around, pulling my little dress aside to reveal the now angry and bruised, welting stripe across my bottom. "Miss Havisham suggested you might have something to help with this?"

Mahogany's mind popped and bounced in several directions at once. In one sense she was suddenly highly aroused in response to the revelation that... what? That I also might enjoy spankings? That Miss Havisham had claimed another victim? That my wound was so extreme it implied a fairly brutal session? Yeah, it was all and each of those things, all at once. In another, she was protective, for some reason wanting to make me safe from... the other girls? Odd. In another she was empathetic, having made a connection with me, she was concerned with my experience, both of the pain and the implied pleasure.

But the one that won out was her 'helpful' mode, wanting to nurture and nurse me. She reached out as if to touch the throbbing area, but withdrew again, saying, "Yes. I see. That's... pretty nasty. Come over here and I'll see what I can do."

She led me to an ottoman and motioned for me to lie face down on it while she dove into the trove of cosmetics on the vanities. She presently emerged holding, presumably, what she was looking for. It was a fine bone china bowl with an ornate lid. She bustled over to me and kneeled at my side. "I have no idea what's in this stuff, and I think it's really expensive but Miss Havisham has always told me to use it whenever I have... err... this sort of thing". The fragrance was unfamiliar, sort of a cinnamon but with a sort frangipani floral overtone.

I gently sifted through her thoughts as she spoke, to note that she was considering that she had never experienced a punishment as severe as mine. She was impressed. I had earned her respect. She was also starting to get aroused, and it was only increasing as she surveyed the damage.

I tugged, admittedly it took almost no adjustment at all, so that the dress rode up to fully uncover my traumatized bottom. Mahogany showed no external sign of it, but she was in some sort of feedback loop of seeing my injury, imagining the punishment, vicariously experiencing it, feeling the customary shame of being judged in her depravity as she defiantly reveled in her enjoyment of it, but then returning to the role of observer, looking upon my wound, standing in judgement on me, so brazenly on display for her.

It took me only moments to discern how that cycle was working. I wanted to increase her enjoyment, so I inserted into the loop my own contribution: I uttered a meek and contrite little "Don't judge me."

It kicked her excitement into another gear. She struggled to regain composure. She presently gathered her wits, however, and reassured me, "I'm in no position to judge, Miss, as you know. No judgement from me." The cool, creamy balm touched my bottom, applied gently by Mahogany's fingers. Mercifully, she started not directly on the worst affected area, but higher up the cheek.

The cool, slippery sensation was, after an initial little shock of coldness, very soothing. Mahogany also knew very well how best to treat this particular affliction, apparently having found herself in such a situation all too often.

She applied a large dollop to the top of the other cheek as well. She was letting the ointment warm up on my skin before spreading it down towards the ravaged area. Her hands were gentle. She continued to talk about the ointment, how much she enjoyed the scent of it, where she guessed it might come from, and on and on. It wasn't an attempt to engage me in conversation. She was providing a comforting stream of words in which I could relax. It was like getting your nails done, or a bikini wax or something: The chatter was there as a way to disengage from what was going on with your body.

She swirled the ointment slowly, and on each time around the circular motion she inched closer to the most severely affected skin. The swirling motion had a pain-relieving effect of its own, and the gradual approach to the most painful zone was allowing me to tolerate the therapy, although still with my share of wincing, which I tried to hide so that Mahogany would not take it as an accusation, or worst of all, that she would stop!

Eventually, Mahogany had both my cheeks covered in a thick layer of the creamy potion, and was swirling gently with her palms. The pain was beginning to show signs, at its fringes, that it may be preparing to recede. Relief began to rise in me, not that I was yet painless, but that I could begin to anticipate the pain reducing. Mahogany's continued gentle, caring, soothing swirls on my brutalized cheeks was deeply comforting, even beyond the medical aid it provided. Being nursed was, in itself, a salve.

I moaned in gratitude and began to relax. Lying face down on the ottoman was beginning to get uncomfortable with my legs sticking straight out over the end of it, so I started shifting my legs a bit to find a more comfortable position. Finally I found I could touch the floor with my toes, supporting the weight of my legs, if I had one either side of the narrow platform. Mahogany's swirling continued, and I relaxed into the bliss of it. The pain began to subside in earnest.

With my new posture, Mahogany's swirls found their way much deeper into the cleft between my cheeks as she continued the rhythmic motion. She wasn't to blame. I had changed the landscape. But I checked in on her inner processing anyway, and discovered she was far beyond where I had left her, since I had begun focusing on my own pain and relief. She was in a swirl of arousal, battling inwardly in a struggle of wills (and won'ts) whether or not, and how, to creep into ever more intrusive parts of my now completely accessible anatomy. Cheeky little thing!

With the pain rapidly falling away now, and in gratitude for her very generous care, I figured I could give her some of what she was so eager to get. It was the least I could do. I shifted my hips, ever so slightly, so that my bottom opened up just a little more, as I nudged a suggestion into her mind. It tipped the balance. the battle was lost (or won, I suppose), and her hands deviated from their swirling to slide, coated in thick, cool, soothing ointment, into the crack of my bottom. I made sure to respond instantly with appreciative moans and sighs, and subtle pelvic movements in encouragement. I didn't have to contrive it, the sensations were luxurious.

Mahogany was now aflame. Her hands explored, now in unison, now independently, my whole loin area. She was sliding around, a slick goop squelching under her palms, the tips of her fingers hinting, threatening, at my openings, teasing a plan to plunge deep within, but moving on, never consummating the wicked promise. They slid over my now electrified clitoral bulb, knowingly strumming my inner core with each finger that bumped across it, then slid around a buttocks cheek in stark juxtaposition.

I began genuinely to grow my own head of steam, and battled to retain control, not over the arousal; I gave that free rein. It was my mental presence that I needed to retain. I decided to continue honing my skills through this experience, since Miss Havisham had insisted. I monitored Mahogany, and she needed no further inner encouragement or guidance. She was able to discern that continuing her luscious application of the balm, and two-handed swirling exploration, was going to achieve a crescendo in good time. She was pleased, in a normal sort of erotic way, but on an other level as well, a deeper, more nuanced one, that I was unable to focus closely on clearly enough in my elevated state.

In this way she brought me to the precipice of the high cliff, and I held there only for a moment before she caught up and we dove off together. My enjoyment of her provocation was enough to lift her into the air with me, and we plummeted joyfully together into a deep, calm ocean at the bottom.

Waves of relief from pain resonated convincingly through me, and as my breathing began to return to normal I checked in on my bottom's actual pain levels, finding it almost completely pain free. Mahogany's hands were lightly swirling intricate little patterns on the backs of my thighs, and she sighed, contented.

I propped my head up on my hand with one elbow to face her, "That was... really nice," I was truthful. She simpered.

I was working hard to delve into that complex layer underneath her most obvious sensual feelings, when she simply spoke the answer, "That's the first time I've ever really enjoyed... you know... just pleasure for its own sake. Without a spanking, or being humiliated."

"Oh, honey," I reached out and pushed a ringlet of her hair behind her ear, and lay my palm on her face.

She sat there for several moments, gazing into my eyes, an open book. I gently hovered over her senses and saw the truth, and the gravity, in her remark. This experience had provided her a new paradigm, a new context in which erotic thrill was possible. I could see its contours forming as she reflected and basked and contemplated.

So I lent a hand. As her own mind was rapidly carving out this new space for sexual experience, I colored it. I enhanced the affirmations, and helped define the boundaries. Where dark elements from past bad experiences threatened to vitiate the formation of this new, wholly positive sexual expression, I quietly eviscerated those negative influences, withering them away. Presently, what began to cement into place was a sexuality filled with Mahogany's natural vivaciousness and eagerness to please, equipped with strong feedback affirmations that would fire in response to pleasure-giving, whether offered or received. From now on, she would be able, and willing, to enjoy the mutual giving that is lovemaking, without, if she chose, humiliation.

While we were there, I admit I did also peek into her preexisting sexual frame of reference, and just rewired a couple of pieces. It didn't need much. Now that she had this shiny new mutual-giving paradigm as an alternative point of reference, I just took the output from the humiliation zone in her earlier paradigm and plumbed its affirmations into the new mutual-giving zone, instead of into her darker wells of yucky self-depreciation where it had been feeding. Now, when she was experiencing that delicious humiliation while being spanked, it would feed into the new experience and be interpreted in the mutual-giving paradigm instead of driving her into her unhelpful old bile.

All this only took a couple of moments. She was glowing. And crying. And, of course, there I go again, I was crying too. So we hugged.

"Come and look," she said, almost managing to avoid having to snuffle. She took my hand and helped me up. She pointed to one of the vanity mirrors and, spinning me around, lifted my dress so that I could survey the war zone.

I gasped. My bottom was back to its normal color! I could see a pair of lines, reporting the edges of the ruler that had so brutally assaulted my tender flesh, but they were faint, and the bruising was almost gone. My gasp became half a giggle, I was so surprised. "What? How is that possible?" I genuinely asked.

"Miss Havisham's magical potion, I guess," she shrugged happily, taking the now half empty bowl back to the vanity. "Are you ready to meet the others now, Miss?"

I suddenly realized she didn't know my name. I wasn't used to, nor overly comfortable with, being called "Miss", so I said, "Mahogany, please call me...," What? What should she call me? My real name, or "Shynalee", the name Miss Havisham had bestowed upon me? It would be incongruous for Mahogany and the other girls to be calling me by my real name and Miss Havisham not to, so I continued, "Shynalee. It's not my real name, but Miss Havisham likes calling me that."

I was going to continue and tell her my real name as well, but she interrupted, "Oh, I get it. Mahogany isn't my name, either," she smiled with real warmth. "Shynalee."