The measure of a legacy

A few hours later... in the smart, bright, minimalist space that served as Madame Stanfield's office. The woman looked out over her queendom with a face as unreadable as it ever was. Below, various short-skirted students scuttled from one lesson to the next. The flash of bare legs or crotchless legwarmers as tantalising as it had ever been. The collar around every neck, visible even at this distance: a sure symbol that each and every young life down there belonged to her… At least until their education was complete and their fawning sponsors or drooling fans paid some minor fortune for her blessing to take them away.

The 67-year old headmistress would be lying if she claimed the acknowledgement of all this didn't bring her some flicker of lurid delight… even now. That was the whole point, after all, wasn’t it? Those who were supposed to take command over others, did so. She wouldn't be in the position she was if the greatest power in society hadn't recognised the hunger she had: for seeing rosy-red bottoms spanked good and thoroughly… and the watery eyes of a pretty, young creature who had finally learned its place. The ever-invigorating search for perfection in breaking something so lost among dreams and doubts and insecurities… until he or she finally saw the one, clear path forward: A pristine vision of themselves as a culmination of other's desires. Her desires. It simply wouldn't do for someone to be in control of a place like this and deny she was as perverse as her clientele.

For 40 years she had been headmistress of this school, wresting control of it from her mother when everyone else around her had claimed she was far too young to do so. Branding her mark upon the world and upon the backsides of the product she took such personal pride in. Sending those precious, subservient pieces of fine artistry out into a world all too eager to gobble them up. She hated letting go of every. single. one... into the hands of some gormless philistine or another. Who would spoil them and let their training go slack, or grow bored of them far too quickly and lend them out to friends and public events until they were nothing but loose and limp and listless playthings. Worn out toys rather than rare, hand-carved collectors' pieces.

Now a man much like her. Who had also been told what he could not do… Was coming here this afternoon with vague threats that he was going to render all her hard work obsolete. Utterly shake up the order of things and reimagine this business of dream-fulfillment. Had the unthinkable moment finally come? Was she now the dinosaur? The stubborn traditionalist? The bitter, blind old bat that couldn’t see which way the new wind was blowing? Had she in fact become… her Mother?! It was a prospect too hideous to consider.

“Do you have any idea what this grand idea of his is?”

She directed the question at the graceful being lounging across her desk in a patch of sunlight. A next-to naked girl wearing incredibly lifelike cat ears and a gently swishing tail. She had known the sly beast almost as long as anyone, having shared an apartment with her and her mistress for many years of her own youthful studies. Yet Victoria Stanfield still found the creature’s detached demeanour and sultry movements more irritating than anything else. Especially since even she was still none the wiser whether her closest confidante throughout several tumultuous decades was one woman who owned a clever pet… or two twins taking turns. There seemed no point to the subterfuge… Everyone who knew anything knew that whatever Lady Francine’s cat saw or heard, was probably already being whispered in another ear by the Lady herself.

Still… old school-friend or not. When the feline did not feel like speaking… it wouldn’t. The Headmistress supposed she could see the appeal of slipping into a role so free from rules of etiquette. If that really was old Franny… she’d bet the woman was filled with gleeful, internal chuckling. True friends were the finest tormentors a woman could have, after all.

Madame Stanfield supposed that she would find out what Mr Derrick Carter was bringing to show her, soon enough. A sleek, black vehicle had just arrived at the school gates. With a sigh, she tugged on the hair of the second-year student bound and kneeling between her legs. That one’s honour and punishment would have to be resumed again later. There were bigger games afoot.