Phoebe Gordon traced the initials 'R.C' in heavy copperplate with her finger. She was in the mistress' bedroom, awaiting her before the lady was dressed for dinner. She had taken advantage of the empty room to use the large cheval-glass as she had done several times over the weeks that had followed since that night in the barn.
The letters burned always, even when they weren't in contact with anything. The first week had been torture, where even the slightest touch had made her cry out and the constant catch and scrape of her dress had left her red eyed and weepy.
She gripped the hem of her dress before it slipped back over the wound and continued to gaze over her shoulder into the mirror and observe her buttocks. The left cheek was still inflamed and the initials themselves were a vivid red, but it looked a lot better than the angry sight that it had been at first.
The last weeks had been an odd time. When she wasn't moping about the incident and bewailing the horrors of slavery to herself, she was casting nervous glances around in case the younger Richard was about. Meetings with him had been uncomfortable, although they hadn't spoken. Instead his pale eyes would light with amusement and the constant burning lust she had come to understand, was the fire in them. On all occasions she had cast he eyes down, her cheeks burning with humiliation for both his treatment of her and her arousal at it.
That was the worst shame, for a woman, no, a slave to grow aroused at her own subjection was the worst self-betrayal, and each meeting was met with more betrayals.
She still had her dresses hitched up when the door opened and she dropped them hastily before her mistress saw her in such a state of undress in her own rooms.