"I'm glad to see you wearing a longer dress today," Joyce said, inspecting Sharon from head to foot. "And a bra too, I see."
"I remembered what you said about your respectable neighbors."
"Don't be flip, Sharon. I told you yesterday I'd take absolutely no lip from you."
"Imerell…"
"Take off your clothes."
"What!"
"You heard me. Undress."
"Why?"
"Because I told you to." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you really want to go back to prison?"
"Of course not. I…"
"Then why are you defying me?"
"I just…"
"Get your clothes off, Sharon. I won't tell you again."
"Right here?"
"Yes, right here. And right now."
Sharon drew her dress over her head and lay it over the back of an easy chair. Then she unhooked her bra and dropped it on the dress.
"No," Joyce said as Sharon started to roll down her stockings. "You may leave those on. They heighten the effect, I think."
"What?"
"They make you look even more naked somehow. And the more naked you look, the more shamed you'll be."
"I don't understand, Miss Thornton. Why are you making me do this?"
"Because it pleases me," Joyce said, turning toward a doorway at the far side of the room. "Come with me."
Sharon followed her through the door into the dining room. There was no rug, and the parquet floor glistened like fresh-poured oil. The dining table could have seated thirty.
"You'll find a feather duster and dust cloths in that closet there," Joyce said, pointing. "Get them."
When Sharon returned with the duster and cloths, Joyce was taking something from the bottom drawer of a magnificent breakfront. It looked like a jumble of red-brown ribbon.
"First dust the table," Joyce said. "Then the chairs. Then rub down everything with a cloth."
"This is illegal, Miss Thornton," Joyce said. "You have no right to…"
"So is robbing jewelry stores illegal," Joyce said. "Get busy."
Sharon stared at her for a long moment, then turned and began to dust the table. "It doesn't need it," she said. "There's not a particle of dust anywhere on it."
"That's not the point," Joyce said. "The point is that you're degraded by being forced to do it. And you're even further degraded by being forced to do it naked."
"I see," Sharon said. "In other words, you…" She broke off as something flicked against her bare hip. It only stung a little, but, surprised, she whirled to face the other woman. Then she saw what Joyce was holding in her hand, and she gasped.
"Don't be alarmed," Joyce said, snapping the entire length of the long whip back so that the end of it slapped into the palm of her hand. It was about half an inch wide with a handle less than a foot long. "It's only velvet. It couldn't possibly hurt you." The whip snaked out again and flicked against Sharon's leg just above the knee. "You see?"
Sharon dropped the duster. "I won't submit to such sadism," she said. "I won't!"
"But it's not sadism at all," Joyce said, her lips thinning in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's just a way of reminding you of what you are."
"And what might that be?"
"A slave," Joyce said. "My slave. Mine to degrade and enjoy and use in any way I choose." She gestured toward the duster. "Now pick that up and get to work."
As Sharon bent to retrieve the duster, she felt the sting of the velvet whip again, this time on her other hip and just a little harder than before. Still, there was no real pain, and the stinging sensation lasted only a few seconds.
By the time she had finished dusting the table and began on the chairs, Sharon had learned to ignore the feel of the whip almost entirely, but the idea of it had made her as angry as she had ever been in her life.
But hers was an impotent rage, she knew. What Joyce had said about her being her slave was true. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do about it. Not without being sent back to prison after only a single day of freedom.
After she had dusted the last of the chairs, Sharon put down the duster and started to walk over to where she had put the dust cloths.
"Stop," Joyce said.
"What?"
"Don't walk, Sharon. Crawl. Crawl on your hands and knees – like any other good, dutiful little slave."
Sharon didn't hesitate. Why even pretend she had a choice? She crawled to the cloths and back to the table, flinching a little as the whip licked out again and again, truly aimed at her flanks and buttocks.
"I must leave," Joyce said. "When you've finished here, you're to clean up the mess in the guest bedroom. That's the first door to the left at the top of the stairs."
"Yes, mistress," Sharon said.
For the first time, the whip snaked across Sharon's cheek, and for the first time Sharon felt more than a negligible sting. Velvet or not, the whip had hurt.
"What did you say?" Joyce said, readying the whip again.
"Nothing," Sharon said.
"That's better," Joyce said. "I said there was nothing sadistic about this. I didn't say anything at all about not punishing you for insolence."
Sharon took a deep breath and began to polish the table.
"The floor up there is covered with plaster dust," Joyce said. "When I come home, I don't expect to find a single grain of it. Do you hear?"
"Yes."
"There are mops and so on in the same closet. When you're certain I can't find that grain of plaster, you may leave." She pointed. "The stairway's just through that door."
"May I put my dress on again?"
"No, you may not. If I return and find you dressed, I will be very unhappy with you. And believe me, Sharon, making me unhappy is the last thing in the world you want to do."
There was the sound of a phone ringing in the living room.
"Damn," Joyce said, and went out to answer it.
She was still talking – too softly for Sharon to hear – when Sharon finished polishing the table. Sharon returned the duster and cloths to the closet, selected a broom, mop, dustpan and plastic pail, and backed out through the door Joyce had indicated.
All the furniture in the bedroom at the top of the stairs had been pushed to the middle of the floor and covered with drop cloths. There was an open fiber case in one corner, heaped with tools, and beside it were two open bags of plaster. The smell of plaster in the room was very strong. The floor was white with plaster dust, and Sharon's shoes made little grating sounds as she closed the door behind her and put down the pail and mop and dustpan.
Carrying the broom, Sharon walked to the far side of the room and began to sweep the plaster dust in the direction of the door. She worked rapidly, and in less than twenty minutes she had swept and mopped the floor around the island of furniture as well as she could. It still looked a little cloudy; but waxing it, she assumed, would be her chore on another day, when the furniture had been moved back to where it belonged.
At least, she reflected, as she brushed her hair back from her forehead and turned to survey her handiwork, the physical exertion had helped her to work off a little of the repressed rage she had felt toward Joyce Thornton.
She started toward the rear of the room to make one final inspection before she went downstairs to get dressed.
There was the creak of the door opening behind her, and she turned slowly, expecting to see Joyce.
But it wasn't her hated parole officer who stood there in the doorway. It was a very tall and very muscular young man in denim pants and work shirt.
Sharon gasped and covered her pussy and breasts with a palm and forearm, too stunned to move.
"Good God…" the man said in a hushed voice as his eyes roved down from Sharon's face to the tops of her high-rolled stockings and back again. He had a ruggedly handsome face, dark hair, and a strong chin with a small cleft in it. His warm brown eyes beneath winged black brows were round with surprise.