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What You Always Were by N T Morley, D/s, caning, humiliation

A frightened daughter looks on as her mother comes face to face with a demon from her past, there to extract a cruel punishment and a price she doesn’t want to pay.

From the Newly released novel The Visitor
Ebook Version

       From the first instant she’d seen the cane, Cecilia knew what was coming. She had felt that horrific implement herself at the hands of her teachers — Cecilia was not a prudent girl when it came to her studies, and was known for displeasing instructors.

       As much as Cecilia hated and feared the cane, it had failed to keep her in line. While the fear of physical punishment weighed heavily on her, for the most part she kept it out of her mind, recalling it only when she realized she’d done something bad or displeased a teacher. She had given up pleading with her mother to forbid her tutors the use of the cane — both Mary and Lord Arthur had explained patiently that the cane would be used on her when she misbehaved or failed to achieve in her studies, and no appeal to their sentiments would prevent it. “Certainly,” Sir Arthur had said, “No civilized instructor would agree to take on an incorrigible child like you without being permitted liberal use of the cane. Perhaps if you weren’t such a brat, it wouldn’t be necessary.”

       And so, Cecilia understood that at times she would be punished, that this was the price of being a female child, and, more importantly, the price of her petulance, rebelliousness and lack of talent for studies. Girls were punished — this much she knew, even if she didn’t fully accept it.

       But grown women — especially mothers — were not punished. She had looked forward to achieving her majority because she thought that at last she would be freed from the vagaries of corporal punishment.

       And yet her mother was, even now, bent fully nude over the sofa, receiving a caning from a man who was neither her teacher nor her tutor. And, as might be expected, she was resisting this caning even more ardently than Cecilia had done.

       Cecilia watched the naked form of her mother’s body as the older woman stiffened with the strike of the cane. Mary’s pale, freckled face twisted with shock and pain, but Cecilia knew it had not yet shown the true agony of the cane. That implement, when used with determination, caused a stern jolt of discomfort when it hit — enough to bring even a willful recalcitrant like Cecilia to tears with a single blow. But that was nothing. The true horror of the cane was reserved for the moments after it struck — a few seconds, perhaps more, of pause, during which the recipient of the punisher’s attentions knew, if she had previously experienced the cane, that the most awful agony in the world was awaiting her at the end of that pregnant pause. In those instants, Cecilia’s heart erupted with longing for her mother, with sympathy for the nightmarish sensation the older woman was about to experience. Cecilia felt the shudder of catharsis go through her body, and in that instant as her emotions broke, she knew she was going to cry. But what guaranteed Cecilia’s surrender to tears was the look on her mother’s face — eyes wide open, filled with their own tears, mouth open in an “O” of anticipation, cheeks taut, tongue slack, visible between Mary Drew’s lips and almost hanging out of her mouth.

       And then the great, intolerable agony began to tremble through Mary Drew’s body, and Cecilia watched her mother’s face shut tight, saw her whole naked body twist and struggle against the great weight of pain tearing through it. Mary Drew began to squirm, and her back straightened. Cecilia could tell her mother was struggling to stifle the moan that fought its way from her tight-shut lips, but it was useless. That exclamation burst its way from Mary Drew’s mouth and forced her broad, full lips open, wrenching itself from her naked body as proof of the breaking of her soul.

       Mary’s back straightened quickly, and she made it halfway into a standing position before the stranger got hold of her hair and rammed her hard against the divan again, pushing her face into the silken pillows. Then, Mary Drew’s plaintive wail burst out in all its fury, and Cecilia heard the muffled scream quite clearly through the cushion of pillows.

       Cecilia watched her mother’s nude body thrash back and forth as the visitor held her down. Her own body seemed to tingle in sympathy with her mother’s pain. When Mary ceased her thrashing, the visitor pulled her head up and Cecilia could see the hot pink flush that had come over her mother’s face. The older woman’s cheeks were glistening with tears.

       “P—please,” she sputtered. “Please don’t make me scream — he’ll hear! He’ll come in and see us!”

       “Then he’ll know what a whore is wife really is, eh?”

       “N—no,” gasped Mary. “He’ll think you’re — he’ll know you’re assaulting me!”

       “Until I grab his hand and place it between your legs, Mary! Then he’ll understand that you’ve been waiting almost twenty years for this!”

       The visitor released Mary’s head and a great wailing moan of fear went through her body as she anticipated the next blow. Cecilia’s entire body tensed as the visitor lifted the cane, aiming once more for Mary’s exposed backside.

       The swish of the cane made Cecilia jump, and once again she watched the slow build of agony as Mary Drew’s body responded unwillingly to the blow. She fought valiantly to keep her moan from turning into a scream — but she fought unsuccessfully. She thrashed and writhed again as the agony took her.

       As Cecilia’s mother screamed, the visitor bent over between Mary’s legs and plucked something off the floor.

       “You’ll have to stop screaming if you don’t want your Lord and Master to burst in here and find out what you’ve been wanting all these years,” said the visitor cruelly. “Perhaps this will help.” With that, he set the cane against the divan and, grasping Mary’s hair, roughly pulled her head back and stuffed her panties through the mouth that was still opened wide with the scream that had turned, once more, into a moan.

       It didn’t do much to stifle the sound erupting from Mary Drew’s open mouth, but Cecilia gave a shiver as she contemplated the horror of having your underwear shoved in your mouth. Especially if they were moist, as the stranger had asserted.

       “There’s many more coming, Mary,” said the stranger. “You’d best learn to curb your enthusiasm unless you want your husband to give you this same treatment every night — but then, perhaps you do.”

       He seized the cane again and raised it high, and this time gave Mary Drew three sharp blows in rapid succession, each one harder than the last. Cecilia’s eyes widened and her hand came to her mouth as she watched the ferocity with which the stranger assaulted her mother. Worse, the moans that came from Mary’s mouth grew in pitch as the blows quickened — another three, faster, even harder than the previous volley — and Mary’s naked body was wracked with involuntary spasms. Perhaps knowing that cries of this volume were certain to evoke curiosity — on the part of the servants, if not Sir Arthur — he positioned his body alongside Mary’s and grabbed her hair again, forcing it even more violently this time into the silken pillows. Then, to Cecilia’s horror, he began to beat her mother in earnest.

       The blows came in threes, at first, then sixes, and finally in long volleys of ten as Cecilia kept count, her own body twitching and her buttocks burning with the mounting punishment. At first Mary’s naked body went through cycles of resistance and surrender, her sobs, moans and screams loud enough to be heard quite clearly through the cushion of pillows and the gag of Mary’s panties. Then, as the visitor caned her more rapidly, Mary’s struggles became continuous. Cecilia counted fifty blows, then sixty, then lost count somewhere in the seventies. Though her mother’s body was turned away from her, Cecilia knew from experience that by now her behind must be quite soundly damaged — red beyond belief. How would her mother ever sit down again?

       Cecilia could almost feel the agony in her own ripe behind as she imagined it. How could a girl live with such torment — let alone a grown woman?

       Finally, the stranger gave Mary Drew one colossal blow that made her lift up so violently against his strength, and scream so loud, that Cecilia was frightened the visitor might have finally punished her mother to the point of unconsciousness. If this was what the visitor dealt her when she was awake and protesting, what horrors might he visit upon a somnolently supine woman?

       Maintaining his grip on Mary Drew’s hair, the visitor let her rise to a half-standing position, still bent at the waist but almost erect. Now, Cecilia could see her mother’s naked upper body, see the full breasts she had been so lucky as to inherit. She could see that they were flushed bright red, and that Mary Drew’s face was similarly colored. Her mouth, stuffed full with her panties, was stretched to capacity, her full lips spread around the silk of her soiled underwear. Moans still escaped, only slightly muffled by the panties. And yet Mary Drew’s eyes, still glistening with tears, looked strange.

       Cecilia looked into her mother’s unseeing eyes and wondered at the horror the older woman must be experiencing. What nightmares was she seeing in her own mind?

       The visitor forced his fingers into Mary Drew’s mouth and removed her panties, now soaked and dripping spittle. Mary’s mouth worked wordlessly, as if she were seeking words in a language she knew but could not remember.

       “You’ve left quite a pool, Mary,” said the visitor. “I dare say you’ve ruined quite an expensive rug. And your legs are quite sticky — all the way down your thighs.”

       “N—no,” Mary gasped. She struggled to speak, but appeared unable. Cecilia quivered with despair to see her mother so reduced. And yet, she felt sure that there were worse things to come.

       “Yes, Mary,” said the visitor. “You’ve been gushing down your thighs. I didn’t know an old girl like you still had that much juice in you. I dare say your cunt’s so slick I won’t be able to feel a thing. I’ll have to start with your ass.”

       “N—no,” gasped Mary. “P—please don’t. Please—please—please—”

       “Please what, Mary? Come on, there’s no pride left for you now. You may as well admit it; it’s not like you didn’t know this would happen. Let go, Mary. You’re not a woman any more — you’ve become what you always were. A whore.”

       Twisting Mary’s hair in his fist, so hard the older woman whimpered, the visitor bent close and put his lips close to her ear again.

       “Which is what always happens when you’re punished, isn’t it, Mary?”

       “N—no,” she gasped desperately. “Please—”

       “Or doesn’t he punish you? Is Sir Arthur one of those forward-thinking husbands, allowing you any behavior without retribution? What a sad life that must be for a woman like you, Mary. How hungry you must have been these past eighteen years.”

       “Please,” Mary begged, her lips slick with drool, her chin shiny with it. “Please.”

       “Say it, Mary. I can feel it on your lips. You’re aching to say it. What do those pretty lips of yours want?”

       “Please,” moaned Mary Drew, clearly in agony. Cecilia felt a rush of fright as she looked into her mother’s ruined face — it had a look she had never seen before. Not on any woman or girl, and certainly not on her mother. It made Cecilia want to run away.

       But she didn’t — she couldn’t. She was frozen in place, drawn toward understanding what kind of woman her mother had been reduced to by this violent punishment.

       “Say it.”

       “I—I can’t,” said Mary, and sobs wracked her naked body.

       “Let me help you,” said the visitor with a chuckle. He released Mary’s hair and straightened his shirt. He then tossed the cane away so that it skidded across the coffee table with an ominous scrape, knocking over a photograph of Sir Arthur, and landed with a thunk on the carpeted floor.

       The visitor walked over to Sir Arthur’s favorite armchair and planted himself in it. Cecilia felt a wave of instinctive fear — no one was allowed to sit in that chair. It was Sir Arthur’s alone. Sitting in that chair as a girl had been one of the many times Cecilia had been threatened with the cane.

       Mary Drew had writhed her way fully onto the divan as she was punished, so that her feet had actually left the ground. Now, she sank slowly over the edge of the divan and fell to her knees, leaning hard against the silken cushions, her naked breasts heaving in what Cecilia could only imagine must be sobs.

       “Please,” she gasped, sounding to Cecilia’s surprise unlike a woman who was crying. “Please don’t do this. I’ll give her to you. You can have her. Please just don’t...don’t make me.” Her voice had a low timbre to it, and each word sounded like a moan. Cecilia’s concern for her mother’s condition was so great that she barely heard the words; though part of her mind understood what her mother was saying, she was unable to connect it to herself. Quite the contrary, she felt only concern that her mother was surrendering to such a beastly man’s desires.

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