"Now, Denise, perhaps you will tell me what you admire in women."
"Their feet and ankles," I replied shamefacedly.
A gleam of triumph shone in Miss. Priscilla's eyes.
"In what way, Denise?"
I hung my head. I had told so much; however, I went on, "I like the smart patent leather boots with leather legs and high Louis Quinze heels. And elegant patent leather shoes laced with satin ribbons tied in big bows on the insteps. And little buckled high-heeled satin slippers."
Miss. Priscilla nodded with satisfaction. "Shod then, just as we keep you shod."
"Yes, Miss. Priscilla."
"I thought so, I have watched you Denise. You are a fetichiste du pied."
So that is what the phrase meant! How well she knew me! I was dreadfully ashamed.
"But that is not enough, Denise. Don't twitch your pretty fingers. Let your chained hands rest quietly against your lovely frock. I have not finished with you yet. The mere sight of a lady's pretty feet in her dainty boots attracts your eyes, fascinates you, but it does not trouble your passions, as they were troubled last night when you stood in the corner."
"Yes," I said in a whisper. "But, oh Miss. Priscilla, don't ask me any more questions; I am so horribly ashamed."
"I must ask them," she returned implacably. "You must remember that you are a girlish young gentleman of enormous wealth, enormous power, and responsibilities for which you are quite unfitted, and that Helen and I are responsible for you. If you ever obtained your liberty, you would abuse your power. We are bound therefore to keep you in bondage and for that purpose I must know every detail of your character. Since ladies' boots on ladies' feet by themselves do not arouse and delight you, what does? Tell me at once."
"Miss. Priscilla, I can't," I cried in despair.
She rose calmly. "Lift up your head!"
I obeyed. Her hands were clothed in the long black kid gloves that seemed to be the uniform of the house. She took the point of my chin in the fingers of her left hand and held it firmly. With her right palm, she deliberately smacked my cheek with all her strength.
"So, you won't answer, won't you? You disobedient, impertinent girl!"
"Oh, oh, oh! Your leather stings my face dreadfully, Miss. Priscilla."
I struggled in vain to wrench my chin free from her fingers.
"It is meant to sting your pretty silly face."
Slap, slap, slap, slap. "Now we will make the other as red as this one is."
She began to slap my left cheek in the same way. My hands were chained down to my legs. I could not resist. I burst into tears from the pain which I was suffering.
"Oh, Miss. Priscilla, you are too cruel!"
"Why don't you answer the questions then? What a pity that I have to smack this pretty face and spoil its delicate complexion! Your satin slippers are moving, dear. I shall have to turn my attention to your dainty white feet in a moment." She slapped me a few more times and then said, "There that will do! You are as red as a dairymaid, you silly girl."
She resumed her seat, while I stood and sobbed helplessly.
"What is it that chiefly enthrals and delights you, Denise?"
The question was asked again. Oh, through my tears, I had to answer it! I had to reveal that entrancing, shameful dream-world in which I liked to wander.
"I adore being forced, by ladies, to wear corsets, long gloves, girls' frocks and little high-heeled girls' boots."
"Is that all?"
"I love being punished in them."
"You are delighted now?"
"Oh, Miss. Priscilla!"
"Answer!"
"Yes."
"Did the idea, the thought of being put into girls' high-heeled shoes and corsets, and punished in them, excite you before it was actually done to you?"
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"Since I was a boy."
"What was the first occasion?"
The horrible catechism, making me reveal all my hidden fancies, was getting on my nerves.
"Of course, I knew that you longed for women to dress you in girls' clothes," Miss. Priscilla continued calmly.
"You knew that?" I gasped. I was astounded.
"I guessed it from your ways. It is not unusual in girlish boys. But it's important that I should know how the idea first came into your head."
"Oh, Miss. Priscilla, I can't answer you. It isn't a fair question. I won't answer," I cried out passionately.
"In that case," she said looking at me with a malicious smile as she rose from her chair, "in that case Miss. Satin Slippers must have her pretty face slapped again."
"Oh, no, Miss. Priscilla! I can't endure it. I won't have my face slapped again," I cried, and before she even raised a hand to touch me, I burst into a flood of tears and turned away.
"Stand still, Miss. Satin Slippers," she said fiercely, coming towards me.
"No, no, I won't," I sobbed passionately. I stamped my feet in a rage as much as the chain around my thighs allowed me to do, and then I tried to run away. She seized me at once. My hands were handcuffed, I could do nothing to defend myself.
"How dare you move?" she hissed, her voice frightening me. "Do you think that we dress you up in the finest silk stockings specially woven for you at ten guineas the pair and have your shoes cut and finished and buckled in the most exquisite style with the daintiest heels for you to stamp at us in them?"
At her quiet tones my anger vanished. A fresh flood of tears burst from me remorsefully. "Oh, Miss. Priscilla, I didn't mean to be impertinent to you." I sobbed, and in a fit of penitence, I, the fashionably dressed Miss. Satin Slippers, as she termed me, buried my face in her bosom.
She took me in her arms and patted my white bare shoulders soothingly. "There, there, Denise!" she said gently. "Don't pull at your handcuffs, dear, like that; you can't get them off and you will only spoil your nice gloves. Come dry your eyes."
She dried them with her handkerchief, holding me affectionately in her arms.
"You forgive me, then?" I said imploringly.
She shook her head.
"You must be cured for your own sake, Denise, of these foolish fits of passion. You must recognize the necessity of having your pretty feet punished before your face is slapped."
"Punish my feet?" I exclaimed, a queer thrill of pleasure shooting through me even at that moment, as I looked down at them. "In these shoes and stockings?"
"Yes."
In the corner by the fire, with its back to the wall, stood a chair upholstered in white satin and gold, a solid chair with arms. To it was attached a pair of stocks for the legs. She placed me in the chair, turned back my skirt, and opened the stocks.
"Put your legs in the stocks."
The stocks were made of polished mahogany, the holes lined and padded with satin so that they could hold the legs in a vice and yet not tear the most delicate of silk stockings. I put my legs in the grooves. Miss. Priscilla shut down and locked the upper plank of the stocks and wheeled a big three-sided mirror in front of me. I could see my ankles and feet sticking out from the stocks in their dazzling finery of high heels and diamond buckles and lace. There was not a mark on the new white soles. They were the slippers of a wealthy debutante and I was going to be punished in them. My blood frothed and boiled with erotic anticipation.
Miss. Priscilla kneeled and took my right foot in her hand and, in an instant, piercing shrieks from my lips rang through the room. She bent down my instep until I was sure that the bones must snap. Then she twisted it to the right until I was certain my ankle must break, then again to the left.