The Ripper's Mistress (Closed)

John opens the door and is greeted by the cold, damp air of an autumn morning in Victorian London. The morning light is still dim so the light from the interior casts a much larger shadow than the slightly built man from which it originates on the steps leading up to the door. The street outside is not filled yet, but will soon be full of carriages ferrying their passengers to and from the nearby market district. On the stoop is the morning paper, his last preparation for the Mistress of the house’s breakfast. Grabbing it, he sees the headline and suppresses a sadistic smirk.

The Ripper struck again last night…another dead whore. The chiming clock brings him back to task. He is late. She will not be happy with her breakfast being late. The door is shut softly with the loudest sound being the click of the lock.

“Will she punish me for this?” He asks himself as he looks into a mirror. His dark black hair is tousled and the dark circles surrounding his blue-grey eyes. After running his hands through his hair to neaten it, he rushes back to the kitchen. A lift of the serving cover reveals the eggs, bacon and potato hash are still warm. Replacing it he grabs the teapot, setting it on the tray, followed by a cup and saucer, then the sugar bowl, then the milk. It is a mechanical process, but it calms the fear of her ire and eases his anxiety.
He grabs the tray, and hears the cup tinkling on the saucer.

“Compose yourself, John.” He whispers to himself and then allows himself to think of the events of the previous night. Maybe he deserved her ire and the punishment that would most assuredly come later for this indiscretion. The tinkling stops. He is calm now, so he proceeds up to her room.

Three soft knocks…
“Mistress, I have your breakfast.”

She loved this part. Her soft heel on his thigh, his hands wrapped around his legs. She looked down at him, flicking the switch against her free leg. She could feel him shivering at her feet. Her nails trailed down his cheek and she watched the red welts raise after it. She loved him here. Broken and pleading with her.

Helene shivered.

Opening her eyes Helene sighed softly. He was late, again. She sincerely hoped that she would not be forced to take the cane to him again. She had her ladies maid Jeze finish her stays and she threw her wrap around her shoulders and looked to the door just as he knocked.

She shook her head, letting him know she was displeased and headed to her vanity, letting the plaits loose, and she gestured to Jeze to move behind her and begin working on her hair.

"I think John that we shall reschedule the luncheon with the ladies, and then make sure that we RSVP to the Moonlight Ball. Prepare the gardens for an evening party, something small and intimate, and send round to Lady Mornington for tea."

She stood and then moved to stand in front of him, her voice low and demanding.

"And make sure that my cane is nearby. I will need it."

She watched him for the tell-tale inhale that would mark him. He was so easy to manipulate.

Responding to her summons, he pushes the door open just in time to see her arise from the bed. Eyes drawn to her in motion, he watches her as she removes the braids from her hair. The last braid falls and she is no longer standing in front of her vanity…they are no longer in her room. Muddled visions of a darkened room…corset opening…then black…the smell of blood…guilt fill his mind blocking out everything else. The tinkling of the teacup against the saucer pulls him back to the room, back from the darkest of dreams just in time to hear her mention the cane. He is shaking again.
How is it that he gave her such power? That he allowed her to take so much for him and give him nothing in return? He was supposed to be better than this. His life was supposed to amount to so much more than serving a sadistic bitch who he hated and loved at the same time.
Yes, he despised his Mistress. Cold, degrading and cruel, a true sadist, his Mistress seemed to delight in reducing him to less nothing. His self esteem, his pride and his body, all reduced to nothing more than a toy, a plaything of flesh which she used and abused for her own pleasure. Oddly, he needed that too. It was as much fuel for the hate as it was penance for his sins.

“Do you think she possesses an ounce of kindness when it comes to you, John?” he whispers to himself. He knew the game that was being played and hated her for it. She derived sick satisfaction in his reactions, his groans and sometimes when she finally broke him, his screams. He would give her “Her” sigh. Let her have that victory, it may make her less cruel later.
The sigh comes as it always does, and he watches the smile of a sadist form at the corners of her mouth in the mirror of her vanity.
“Yes, Mistress. I will have Your cane for You.”
Hopefully she doesn’t notice the tinge of resentment in his voice. He summons the rest of his British bearing to ask the next question which he expects her to ignore as well.
“Where will you be taking your breakfast, Mistress?”
He waits for her reply and wonders what other instructions he missed while he was lost in his mind and how many schillings he would be paying Jeze for that information for he knew that she too, would take advantage of his situation her smile at the admonishment he just received said it would cost him more than he wanted to pay. Jeze would get her payment and he would get his information and later his penance would come.

Helene watched him through narrowed eyes. Where did he go when he zoned like that? What was he thinking? She was already tired of him, and she had just gotten out of bed.

She sighed and sat down at her table, gesturing for him to set down the tray. Slapping at his hands she waved off his attempts to serve her. Helene ate daintily from her plate, savoring her tea.

"I will say this boy, you did make an excellent cup of tea, even if the rest of this is shite." A satisfied little smile on her face as she watched him get hopeful at her compliment and then dashing it with a single fell swoop. The resignation in his shoulders said it all.

Standing, Helene moved next to her manservant, and breathed him in. She loved the way he smelled, the way he moved, and the pure fear he emanated when she was near him, like right now. He practically shuddered with her so close to him.

A single manicured finger moved down the front of his coat, and she watched as the sweat popped out on his brow. His breath caught in his chest, and he peered at her out of the corner of his eye. Even though he was much bigger than she, he rarely disobeyed her. She eyed him, and then caressed his cheek.

Helene loved fucking with her toy.

"Kneel." One word, spoken in dulcet tones and with a soft, sweetly given kiss to his cheek. She would take him now. It would make her morning wonderful.

Setting the tray at the bedside table, John begins the mechanical series of actions of service. A quick polish of the fork and spoon, the pouring of tea, the two spoonfuls of sugar and just enough milk to gain a dark caramel color and lastly a quick check under the lid to make sure everything was still in place. The details are his solace, a reminder of his past and what he could have been, an order to his life amid the chaos brought on by the laudanum.

His mistress does not acknowledge him as she sits, but her sigh tells him that is not actually the truth. He sets the tray before her and attempts to serve her properly. Instead of a proper English breakfast service it becomes a fencing match, service is attempted and then rebuked with a smack of the hand. This little game of service and punishment is one she likes to play when she is burgeoning on a truly sadistic mood. The game ends when she finally takes her tea and the first bite of her breakfast.

Shite? She thinks the breakfast is shite? The bitch is playing her mind games. Never a compliment without an insult and yet, he would always respond brightly to the compliment only to be cut to ribbons by the words that followed.

“You wouldn’t know good food from pig slop.” He whispers under his breath as he turns away from her. He hears the chair slide back. “Fuck” whispered, almost sighed as he braced for the blow that would indicate that she heard his insult. Instead he feels her presence, smells her perfumed body. She is next to him, and his body responds, needing her, wanting her. His eyes follow her finger as it traces a line of fire on his chest. That line might as well have been a brand, because he was now hers again. His body responding of its own accord, the sweat, the ragged breath, the shaking, all reactions to just her presence and his mind was filled with single minded determination to obey and please Her. He was Her boy. Then Her hand was on his cheek. A soft caress, She was a dichotomous woman that way, so soft at times and at others so cruelly hard and still he loved Her and hated Her for it.

As Her lips began to craft the word, he was already starting to fall to his knees. His knees struck the floor a mere instant after his mind registered the word. She would not wait to hurt him after all. At least he would not need to pay Jeze.

The man who just seconds before towered over Her, dropped his head as he knelt…reduced to a mere boy by two caresses and a word. God, was he easy.

Helene watched him fall to his knees. She circled him, refusing to look down at him.

"Such a weak willed man. Willing to let a mere woman degrade you, my pet. Perhaps, then I should dress you in petticoats and make up, because you are less than a man."

She heard a titter from the corner, and looked up sharply.

"Jezebel out, you insolent girl! I will punish you later." The girl marched out the door, and Helene didn't miss the knowing glance down at John. She smiled.

"You dirty boy!" She slapped him, leaving a red mark on his cheek which thrilled her. She back handed him this time, and her rings cut his cheek. The flash of red down his cheek excited her, and she gathered her skirts, knelt next to him, and licked the blood free of his skin. He flinched at her light touch.

"You needn't be afraid of me always, my pet." She cooed lightly, before standing, and making her way to her vanity.

"I know all you wish is to be pretty." She picked out some of her cheaper rouges and painted his lips messily. And powered his cheeks. She applied some of her more garish eye shadows. Her laughter at his look, becoming slightly shrill as she did him up.

"Oh aren't you just the prettiest girl at the ball?!" She practically fell over laughing at him, she pointed to the mirror and then gasped as he stood.

"Well, well, well. Look at that." Helene leaned back on her settée and stared at him up and down as he surveyed himself in the mirror. "The dirty boy is hard. All excited from being dressed as a whore. Strip you useless whore."

She sipped her tea and lazed before him, idly watching him try to strip and hide his excitement from her. She let him, with soft chuckles every time he failed. Moving to stand next to him, she handled his cock roughly.

"You're mine. And I know how badly you need to be a little whore, don't you pet?"

There he was on his knees again while his Mistress circled like the predator she was, feigning indifference, calculating her next insult, biding her time to achieve the greatest reaction from him which she always received.
“Is it my own sins or is this what I am?”, his lips forming the words silently as so much as a whisper would surely evoke further punishment.
John’s eyes followed her as she circled and finally she spoke.
Such a weak willed man…willing to…woman…degrade…less than a man.

The words stung him and his shoulders reflexively shrunk and his head dropped slightly until the giggling struck his ears. Jeze was still in the room and taking pleasure in his humiliation. Again he spirals into the darkness of his mind and he smells blood, gurgling and there is Jeze lying gutted in an alley like the sow she was. How much better would it feel to eliminate that cunt from his life…
The feeling of his Mistress’s hand on his face brings him back to the room. His face turns with the force of the blow, his body straightens and his cheek burns but movement is out of the question. His penance was not yet paid. The second blow from the back of her comes. Again his face turns with the blow, he feels the rings tear his flesh and he feels his own blood drip down his cheek, a small rivulet making it to the corner of his mouth filling his mouth with the coppery taste of his own blood. He fights the urge to smile as his masochistic desire for penance takes hold again.
At the periphery of his vision he sees her face light up, then she is kneeling, and her tongue is tracing the rivulets of blood on his face. His body flinches at this and his stomach twists with the revulsion of this display of pure sadism. Of all the things she had done, this act burned to his core. He was now torn, the masochist at war with the darkest part him. Guilt warring against purest rage fighting for control his actions.

“You needn’t be afraid of me always, pet.” She coos.

“No, you should be afraid of me, Miss.” He thought but could never say as her words struck the winning blow.
So he kneels unmoving as she paints him. She laughs as she reduces him to her garish harlot, mocking him as she finishes. Her laughter fills his ears as she derides him, emasculates him, and he hates her for it. And thus the game is played. Hate begets blood; blood begets guilt; guilt requires penance; penance comes through humiliation feeding the hate and thus the cycle turns.
His body responds of its own accord, no longer suppressed by the yoke of conscience his arousal surfaces, his cock hardens, and he wants her and the release she may or may not allow him this time. His arousal is evident as he stands and beholds her work in the mirror. The face that greets him does nothing to diminish his arousal making it impossible to hide from her. Her words inform him that is indeed the case and so he strips for her. Where the sense of modesty and embarrassment comes from he does not know, but he still tries to keep his erection out of view. He contorts his body nearly losing his balance several times before he is naked eliciting laughs from her as she watches and sips her tea. The futility of this display of modesty plays out fully as she stands and grips his cock, squeezing it. The pain and her words deliver the message poignantly. He is Hers to use and abuse as She sees fit.

She stood there and watched him. His futile movements in trying to hide his shame, his arousal from her. Her narrowed eyes followed every movement of his hips. Helene smiled.

"Easy my little slut." She leaned down and whispered in his ear, one hand caressing his chest running her fingers through the light downy coat that covered his chest. She ran her tongue over his earlobe, but her hand was full of his hair as she ripped his head back. He reacted to the mix of pleasure and pain like an addict, groaning for her while he was pliant and eager in her hands.

She stood, grabbed her cane, and hit him across his back five times, six times, seven times, she lost count as she wailed on his form, watching as he fell forward on his hands unable to staying kneeling as she continued to lash her violence upon his form over and over, it wasn't until his bottom began to change colors that she stopped, her breasts heaving in her corset, her hair loose and wild, tumbling down her shoulders. He was frozen, small tight whimpers falling from his chest. She tossed the cane aside.

"You're mine, you're mine because you aren't man enough to ever satisfy me."

She kicked him over, her small foot turning him onto his back, the hardwood and carpets digging into his sore and bruised back. She removed enough clothing, and straddled him, right there on the floor, sinking down his length, her abuse of him making her tight and wet. She slapped his made up face, when his stunned eyes met hers. She saw the hatred burn in his eyes, and it made her smile.

"Fuck me with that hatred, or lay there pet. Either way, you belong to me. Lay there like the useless fuck you are and beg for me to fuck you. Beg."

The slow measured words sank in, like her nails did on his chest. He would beg. She was sure of it.

Her fingers tore at his hair and his head moved back to protect the follicles. The hand that just before was caressing him now acted in stark contrast. His lips parted and a small gasp escaped in response to the needed pain. He would have his release now; release from his anger, relief from the bitch Jeze, and relief from a life gone terribly, terribly wrong. This realization relaxed him and he became pliant, falling to his hands and knees and welcoming each blow from the cane. He counted each blow silently in his head. The cane left a mark, a welt upon the skin for her pleasure, a small trickle of blood, and always a bruise that he knew she relished. Each red line, each whimper as the pain eventually broke his British reserve gave her such pleasure. She was the worst kind of sadist. Would she be so happy if she knew what other wheels her cruelty set into motion? Would she find such satisfaction that each blow he so willingly tolerated allowed him to look at himself in the mirror after a night’s work? The fourth blow broke him and ended his self-musings. Now it was just the blessed, cleansing pain of penance. She continued to beat him, seven blows, ten, twelve, and then he lost the ability to even count them. He broke and the tears flowed smudging the garish eyeshadow, creating black and blue rivers down his cheeks. Broken he collapsed and she stops, her job done.

Her words sound as if they were spoken from another world. “you are mine…you aren’t man enough ever satisfy me.”

The words echoed in his head as she kicked him over. “aren’t man enough…aren’t man enough…aren’t man enough.” Her rebuke joined the thousands of other similar rebukes he had heard through his life, his mother, his father, the pastors, the nuns, the girls, the professors, the girls…the girls. The flames of his rage ignited and he burned from the inside out. As she sank down on him, he burned from a heat so much hotter than her tight little cunt. He fought the urge to grab her by throat and open her up. Despite his effort the image persisted. Hate filled him, consumed him. His lip between his teeth, he bit hard as she rode him. Through the tears welling in his eyes, he saw her lips move, but he could not hear her words. He was lost so he cried. He hated and he cried.

Helene sighed. She felt him give. Just once she wanted him to fight back, to demand from her the way that she demanded from him. His shoulders gave off that defeated look that he always took before his anger returned. She stood up and walked away from him, striding over to her mirror, fixing her makeup, and pushing up the stray hairs that had fallen loose. She settled her wrap around her, looking down at him.

"Get out. Now."

His clothes were thrown at him, turning she entered her boudoir, and sat heavily down on her chaise staring at the clothing surrounding her. How many times had she beat him and then come in here to cry? She had lost count.

He had been so fresh faced, so full of verve when she had brought him to her household, he was attending university, and then... something strange. Something had twisted her boy, Helene reacted the only way she knew how to, and that was to fight him. To push him, to find that eagerness that had so drawn her when he was younger. And now, nothing. Together they had danced this game so many times, so many ways, through so many bruises and cuts, his pleading falling on deaf ears as she searched for that bright eyed boy who had so entranced her. Nothing. It was dead. The first time she made him bleed, while she had sneered at him and rubbed it all over his face, telling him that only the blood would free him, inside she had been shocked at her own actions. After she had dismissed him, she had crawled to her boudoir and bitterly wept. But as much as she regretted what she had done, she had done it, and continued to do it. She made him her little puppet, and she made him dance for her. John was her pet, her filthy little secret.

With a sigh she pulled her dress over her head, a simple garment, so that she could reach the buttons and not require Jeze's help. When she returned to her room, John was gone. Already she missed his presence, not that she would ever tell him.

Helene, made sure she was ready, pulled on her boots, affixed her baubles and her ring, she still wore it even if the bastard was dead. He had left her a great fortune. Thank god. Helene, settled her coat about her shoulders and headed out of the house.

He grabbed his clothes clutching them to his breast as a child would their favorite blanket. Turning he ran to the door to escape her disapproval. In his head her words of dismissal took on the voice his mother’s. How many times had she, the woman who bore him into this world, used that same tone and similar words to berate him. As he opened the door and entered his room, he caught a glimpse of the at once garish and macabre adornment of his face. Trails of blue and black ran down his cheeks, and a rivulet of blood coursed from his lip and down his chin. John walked to the mirror and immediately began to scrub the makeup from his face. As the water washed away the makeup, he saw the face that his mother had both loved and hated adding further to the tempest in his mind.

“You have your father’s face.”

His mother would say this to him when she told him of the man John had never known. Simple words of admiration and a mother’s love for her child used to tell him that he would be more than the circumstances of his birth. The same words were also used in rage on the nights she came home sodden with too much wine. Her screams of rage as she beat him terrified him to this day and the tears of regret and sorrow for herself and her bastard son that always followed tore at his soul. Was it her hate for his father or the love of him that drove her to push him so hard? Why did she expect so much of a boy raised in the slums of London? Why was it his lot in life to pay penance for his father’s sins?
Images of his overbearing mother gave way to those of the girls who rejected him over the circumstances of his birth before yielding to those of Helene. Oh, how he hated and loved that woman. She had come into his life when he needed her only to watch his descent into his own personal hell. Images of the women swirled in his head. He was never good enough for them, never would be. The thoughts stoked the flames of his hate, hate for his mother, for Helene and for all the girls.
John looked down into the basin, the water a mix of blue eye shadow and blood from his lip. He pressed a handkerchief to the wound knowing that it would only serve to slow the blood until the bleeding finally stopped. His penchant for bleeding excessively and the periodic tremors of his hands were the only lasting gifts from his father.
Once the bleeding had finally stopped, he dressed and headed down to the kitchen to begin preparations for supper. As he prepared the beef for roasting, his mind continued to spin. His hate and rage stilled burned from the morning’s events. Thankfully, Helene had left the house on errand leaving him alone to stew in the morass of hate and self loathing. He found no solace until he set upon his favorite task. He looked down at the whetstone on the table. Seated, he grabbed the carving knife. The handle and heft of the blade were a comfort. The sound of the blade scraping across the stone soothed him and so he repeated the act until the blade possessed the keenest of edges. This act gave him peace and purpose. The maelstrom in his mind subsided and out of the chaos came the image of another blade. This blade fit his hand even better and was an extension of the darkest parts of him. The blade brought him a calm; a calm before the most terrible of storms.

Dame Brighton's mouth was open as she gossiped, Helene sneered silently. What a disgusting cow, someone should smack that mouth closed. The other woman had been eating a biscuit and there were crumbs all over her chest. Manners, were something that no one was taught any longer. Helene set her biscuits down, and left her tea alone.

She yawned behind a gloved hand, looking around at the glittering ladies of the ton. These women were supposed to be the cream of English society, and Helene was already bored with their superficial airs. Most of the women lived shams of lives, their children useless, their husbands philanderers.

Helene nodded in assent to the women giving some monies to the poor through the church, to help those women who had been slaughtered recently. Helene wondered if they had, had it coming to them. Still, to be murdered in cold hatred and then displayed in such a grisly display made Helene shiver. It was barbaric. She mentally cleared her mind of such disgusting thoughts and tried to smile at Lady Kensington who had asked her after her household.

When she finally got back home later that day she was happy to smell the roast permeating through the house, she made her ways to the kitchen and walked in on John staring at a knife, with an almost maniac look in his eyes.

"John! Why is there no potatoes? Which wine are you using? Why are you always such a useless fuck?"

She huffed at him and stormed out. There. He knew she was home. Bet he came slinking into the drawing room like a chastised dog. Then she'd kick him for not having balls. He needed it.