About 3:30 am, a sound at his door; a timid scratching near the floor, near inaudible save George was listening for it. And still he waited. Until the stirrings became more insistent and accompanied by a low and plaintive voice.

"Georgie…Georgie…"

He drained his glass and lit another cigar; watched the sweet smoke curl up to the ceiling.

"Georgie…please…help me…"

He opened the door to find the bedraggled Odette curled up on the floor, her once beautiful undergarments torn; the corset ripped of its beaded finery, the stays broken or bent beyond recognition; her fine batiste linen chemise a bare memory hanging in tatters, and her white silk stockings and pearl trimmed garters soiled with the copious liquid trickling down her trembling thighs. She looked up at her brother, eyes ever so bright, sweat soaked hair plastered to her neck and shoulders; her lower lip, normally petulant and pouty, looked swollen and chewed, a bit of dried blood clinging to the corner. She reached out to him.

"I’ve been naughty."

"You are repulsive," he stated, taking secret delight when she cringed away from his harsh words and stern look. She lowered her eyes, pressed her face to the cold floor, body shaking with fresh sobs. She clutched his pants in a death grip.

"Please help me, Georgie. I’ve been very naughty."

"Of course you have, Dearest. You’ve been very, VERY naughty." Her dramatics fooled George not a moment; never has a more shameless, unrepentant creature walked this earth, this was all just part of the game. He gently gathered Odette up into his arms. "Come to Georgie now. Georgie will make it all better, haven’t I always?"

"You don’t hate me, do you? Please, Georgie, say you don’t hate me." "Of course I don’t hate you, my dear, precious sister. I love you. And I’m going to love you, like you know only I can."

Clinging tight to her brother, her answers were unintelligible murmuring against his chest. Her skin was blotchy and slightly bruised, and the ripe aroma of the effusive Colley filled George’s sensitive nostrils; she reeked as if she fucked a herd of goats. Regardless, he cuddled, caressed, and cooed soothing words into her ear. She relaxed in his embrace, a half smile on her lips, an expectant gleam in her china blue eyes.

George closed the door then escorted her over to his bed; she, languorous and weaving as if deliciously drunk. He stood her up at the end, knees touching the mattress, hands braced against the foot board. Freeing the burnished gold drapery ropes, he wrapped the thick silk cords about each of her wrists and then the canopy frame; pulling the knots snug, stretching her out between the tall carved wood bedposts. He removed what was left of her attire, exposing a smooth expanse of back, buttocks, and thighs; perfect and unblemished save two bruises on her hips, the exact size and shape of Colley’s broad hands. He ran his hand down the curve of her lower back, feeling her skin goose pimple at his touch.

"Yes, Georgie will make it all better."

The door behind him opened a crack; George turned and motioned for the waiting party to enter. Marie slipped inside, freshly bathed, scented and powdered and dressed in one of her Mistress’ best wrappers; creme colored lace over several layers of translucent lavender silk, tied with a dark violet sash. The delicate colors, simple cut, and soft, clingy fabric made her look less plain, almost pretty. She had even swept up her honey colored hair with two tortoise shell combs. In response to George’s scrutinizing gaze, she parted her skirts to reveal sturdy—but not unattractive—legs encased in pale lilac stockings fastened with matching garters, and high heeled satin slippers; also procured from Odette’s extensive wardrobe. He nodded his approval, she had followed his instructions to the letter.

Placing his forefinger against his lips in a silencing gesture, he then motioned Marie to come closer, to stand with him behind her Mistress. He presented her with a slender whip, about 3 ½ feet long, the thickest part no bigger round than an infant’s little finger. By the deep blue tassel hanging from the handle, Marie knew it to be the buggy whip from Odette’s livery. She bit her lip and shook her head; she wouldn’t, couldn’t do such a thing.

"Come, my dear. No, don’t be afraid, your Mistress is beyond all conscious thought, only her senses are aware and they cannot see, only feel. They care not nor see who brandishes the whip." He flicked the end a few times, quickly, expertly, across Odette’s bare buttocks leaving light red stripes on the rounded flesh. Moaning low in her throat, Odette swayed. George handed Marie the whip. "Take it." It felt light and lethal in her hand.

George embraced Marie from behind, pulling her back against him so close she could scarce breathe. "Go ahead," he purred into her ear. "It’s what she wants. It’s what she needs. Trust me. Don’t tell me that not once you haven’t imagined what it would be like to leave your mark on the hide of that imperious, overbred wench that thinks herself your better. How many times has she humiliated you, ridiculed you before all, so even those servants of lower status snicker and talk behind your back? How many nights sleeping on a hard bench, or on the floor, in a cold hallway with not even a shawl to ease the chill while your Mistress entertains her lovers in sumptuous comfort? And what of her lovers—old, young, fat thin, tall, short—no matter what their appearance so long as they possess a strong member in good working order, she will eagerly partake. And sometimes, often, does not your duties extend to also serving them?" Marie whimpered, twisting in his grasp. George tightened his embrace and covered her mouth. Reaching under her wrap he grabbed her breast and squeezed painfully.

"How many hands groping your unwilling flesh. How many mouths biting your lips and sucking your nipples until blood comes." His voice became low and vicious. "How many objects have invaded your every opening. And how many blows with whatever handy—a hair brush, a shoe, a broom, a hand—when you fail to comply. Let her feel your rage."