by Gail Fae
The Invitation
I recall vividly the delivery of the invitation; it was printed on a fine, rose-tinted linen sheet of paper with an elegant border of delicately sketched nymphets, their hand's interlinked and held up high as they danced around the invitation's edge.
"You have been invited to be an initiate at the Sapphic Society monthly meet at the Sapphos Estate of Lady Clara Huntington. On acceptance, you will be paired with a chaperone who will prepare and accompany you to this auspicious event."
My chaperone turned out to be none other than my dearest friend, Lady Janelle. We bathed and dressed together at my townhouse in the evening, and then a carriage let us off under the portico at Sapphos Estate. Our arrival was fashionably late, and we had to wait as a line of ladies disembarked from their transportation ahead of us. Two elegant ladies-in-waiting dressed as butlers admitted us to the closed marquee which covered the lawn. It was the riding crops which they held lightly in their gloved hands, that should have tipped me off to the theme of the gathering.
The scene under the canvas top was magical. Crystal candelabras hung from beams, casting flickering lights across the scene below. I was immediately drawn to the fountain at the center. Figurines carved out of the finest marble poured water from their pitchers in seemingly never-ending supply. The water splashed and danced its way down, creating a joyous symphony of sparkling light and sounds.
As I watched, a young, bare-footed maiden sat down on the fountain wall. With elbows raised high, she brought a flute to her ruby lips and breathed a kiss of life into the waiting instrument. Her fingers tapped at the silver keys creating a haunting melody, accompanied by the tinkling from a chain circling her slender ankles. I felt myself being carried away to a land of mists and myths.
The music was a call to action; as if from nowhere, a circle of ladies formed and began to circle the fountain. The music stopped and I watched in wonder as each participant reached forward and pinned up the gown of the lady in front. I counted twenty young women, their heads held high, and their bottoms bare. A lady-in-waiting approached the circle. She carried a bunch of beautifully prepared birch rods in her arms; the switches were supple and smooth, the handles beautifully bound with pink or blue ribbons.
Emma
The little flautist, whose name was Emma I was later to be told, looked directly at me for just a second. I could have sworn she gave me a conspiratorial wink, but in an instant that moment passed. She lifted her instrument once more and began to play. She chose a lively Gaelic jig, and as the rhythm picked up the ladies began to circle. Dancing three steps forward, those with the blue handled rods swished the lady in front. The direction reversed, two steps back, and the ladies with pink took their turn to whisk the proffered bottom.
It started slowly, but the tempo picked up. With each step, the dancers' knees seemed to reach higher; with every turn, the rods were brought down harder. I was transfixed by the patterns that were painted; violet streaks tore across the pale skin; cool, creamy flesh turned red and excited. The ladies faces took on a flushed appearance as their laughter tumbled across the fountain waters.
It was a strikingly beautiful lady who first broke the rhythm. Her willowy body and upright bearing marked her as someone of special class. Squealing in pain, she stopped abruptly, and reached back with probing fingers. A bright red welt on her upper thigh, leading straight into that most tender of regions announced the reason for her distress.
The flautist rested her instrument and the dancers stopped to watch. The tall lady grabbed the unfortunate dancer who had made the errant stroke by the wrist and led her to the fountain edge. My heart went out to the poor girl who was surely the victim of an honest mistake. She knelt on the carpet of grass, and rested her head on the flautist's lap.
Their spirits high, their arousal obvious, the dancers had a new focus of attention.
Wielding her pink-handled switch, the aggrieved dancer took her vengeance. The strokes were tight, the tips well aimed, and as the rods bit in, the culprit began to wail. The thrashing seemed interminable and my heart went out to that poor girl. Her bottom started to gyrate uncontrollably, and it seemed to sink downwards in despair. Then as suddenly as it had started, the whaling stopped. Looking down at the head resting in her lap, the flautist offered a compassionate little smile, gave the penitent's hair a final stroke, and then raised the flute back to her lips. The dancers took up their beguiling dance as the music resumed, carefully burnishing the bottoms of their partners with their whippy switches.
Lady Janelle pulled me away, leading me towards a group that had assembled off to one side, two naked maidens dancing at its center. A velvet rope tied to their left wrists connected them; a cane held in each of their right hands caused them to keep their distance.
Around these two danced, their canes flashing like rapiers as they targeted each other's swaying bottom. Wicked welts marked out scores as appreciative claps from the genteel audience applauding each strike. Breathless but focused, the dueling girls darted in and out, taking their chances when presented, defensively turning when on the run. Their heavy breathing was punctuated by yelps as the girls danced their duel beneath the flickering lights.
A jerk on the velvet rope, a misplaced step in response and the challenge was ended in a flash. The younger maiden found herself lying prone on the ground, and for her too, time stood still. The audience waited expectantly, lusting for the coup that would follow. The victor lifted her cane shoulder high, waving it at the followers in a brazen salute. Then with a theatrical bow, she turned to her prone opponent.
She used her cane to emboss her victory, overwriting the scribble of lines already etched on her opponent's posterior. She laid on three strokes, not too harsh, pulling none. In the most remarkably gracious move I have ever witnessed, the victrix leaned over and pulled her sobbing opponent to her feet. The two hugged, the loser snuggling into the winners neck for comfort. I was enthralled and excited; the duel and the loving solace. I felt my own body responding, but once again felt my chaperone pulling me on.
I was led to Lady Clara herself, a most elegant woman, who was sitting on a throne on the dais. She was wearing a cream, silky gown that clung to her body; her silky blond hair tumbled down to her shoulders from beneath a sparkling tiara. Diamond earrings flashed, accentuating her long, graceful neck.
A musician sat at her shoulder, hugging the frame of a harp, plucking a Celtic melody from the pliant instrument. I was spellbound by the haunting sound, the bewitching melody, vocals that seemed to emanate from the Underworld.
The Siren's Song beckoned me, Lady Clara invited. The lure was irresistible and in no short order I found myself folded over her knee helplessly, my owns skirts hitched and my drawers dropped. Her palms were smooth and gentle as they caressed my globes. A few tentative smacks, and then the pain was massaged away. The tempo of the smacks increased, and I found myself warming to her hand. It seemed as if every nerve in my lower body was on fire, my bottom burning, my inner thighs glowing.
It was when I thought that I could take no more that I saw my chaperone step forward and hand Lady Clara a paddle. It was a light ash color, shaped like the butter paddles I had seen the milkmaid use. The crack in my ears as the paddle struck seemed to come seconds before the stinging swat. It was as if I was being assaulted by Hades himself, and it was not long before my sobs joined those of the victims of the Siren's Song.
When the paddling stopped, the stroking resumed. Lady Clara smoothed the heat from my blistered flesh. Presently, the stroking became more incessant, the probing more obvious. I was beyond caring and I spread my ready thighs, craving to be taken by this hauntingly beautiful enchantress. I was oblivious to my audience, oblivious to anything except the lust that consumed me.
It came to an end all too quickly and Lady Clara cuddled me like the spent child I was. My initiation was at an end, but my journey into the hauntingly beautiful world of the Sapphic Society had only just begun. It was a tender and caring Lady Janelle that took me home that night, promising to guide me in this wondrous society.
The Summons
It was well past midnight when Janelle and I arrived home from the Sapphic Society meet. A door to a wondrous lifestyle had been opened, one that was much whispered about, but seldom experienced. During my early years my tutors had warned me about it and in later years my friends had gossiped about it, but no-one, it seemed, had ever experienced it.
My public spanking over Lady Clara's knee had not humiliated me, but rather exhilarated me. It seemed that the belief system in which I had been raised had been turned on its head. I had always been taught to view chastisement as a form of punishment, yet here I had been shown that it could be a most sensual prelude to the most intimate of experiences. I had been raised to learn that relationships between women should be kept at the platonic level, yet the events at the Sapphic Society meet proved to be the most tasteful that I could imagine. "All displays of intimacy should be behind closed doors," was a mantra that my tutor never seemed to tire of, yet the public displays of affection I had witnessed were heart-warming: the flautist stroking the penitent's hair, the victrix offering solace to her opponent and indeed, my own wanton and lustful exhibition as I lay across Lady Clara's lap.
Janelle and I retired to the same bed that night. I fell into a deep sleep, her arms wrapped around me protectively, her body warming me against the night time chill. She had pressed her lips gently to my forehead and told me how well I had performed as an initiate. I felt loved and proud, secure in her charge, comforted by the fact that if I did her bidding, no harm could touch me.
We were aroused early the following morning by a frantic rapping at the front door. It was too early for my maid to be in the house so I shrugged on a gown and went to see who was there. I opened the front door and was a bit taken aback - the flautist from the previous evening was standing there, her cheeks flushed by the morning chill. The carriage that had brought her stood waiting on the street.
"What's the matter, my dear? What brings you out so early?" I asked.
"I have been sent by Lady Clara, Miss Caitlin," she responded. She was breathless. "She instructed me to bring you back to the estate as soon as you could come."
"Is everything alright?" It was Janelle, looking over my shoulders, her hair in a tangle, her eyes still bleary from sleep.
"It was one of the stable hands, they caught him!"
"Caught him doing what, child?" I asked. The flautist was no child, in fact she was probably just a few years younger than me. I guessed her age to be about eighteen or nineteen, but she had an air of innocence that belied the circumstances in which I had first seen her.
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