The Picture of Miss Gray

The Picture of Miss Gray

(With apologies to Oscar Wilde).

The fog lay heavy on London that night of 1891. Strange echoes cut through the thick mist, the sound of an approaching person being heard before the dark form loomed out of the grey. Not three years had passed since London’s greatest killer had haunted such fogs, killing five women in the Spitalfields and Whitechapel areas. No self-respecting woman should be out on a night like this.

Miss Gray hurried along the back streets of London, in a seamy area of the city. It was approaching midnight, but she did not seem to be bothered by the lateness of the hour. Nothing seemed to bother her as she walked, dodging the odd drunk who stumbled out of some drinking establishment.

Eventually she stopped in a side alley, one that did not even possess a name. Miss Gray stopped next to a green door, although it looked darker in the night and the fog. The light of a gas lamp barely illuminated where she stood in the alley.

Miss Gray knocked three times on the door, then twice, then three times more. She waited. Eventually the door was opened by an overweight woman in her fifties. A lit cigarette hung from her painted lips.

“What do you want?” the middle-aged woman asked, her voice harsh from too much gin and too many cheap cigarettes. She stared at the young woman in front of her: twenty-something, pretty, and well-turned out in her clothes. She looked flawless. “I think you’ve got the wrong place.”

“I think not.” the young woman said, in a perfect cut glass accent. “This is Thrashings Academy, is it not?”

That was the name that was used by those who were aware of what went on behind the green door. It had had other names, over the years, and other locations. It was an institute which had been visited by such renowned masochists as Algernon Swinburne. There, behind its brick walls, those who had enough money could have the, well, thrashing of their life, administered by a cruel and pretty girl.

“I wish to avail myself of your services.” Miss Gray said, forcing her way through the door, past the older woman. “I have more than enough money.”

Miss Gray was now in the lobby of the establishment, the entrance foyer. Purple flock wallpaper covered the walls. There were several comfortable armchairs, where gentlemen clients might wait. The armchairs, not currently holding such a gentleman, had antimacassars on them. There was a mahogany occasional table in front of the chairs, with a white marble ashtray in the centre of the table. Naked women had been carved into the design of the ashtray. There was a very faint scent of attar of roses in the air.

Miss Gray showed some of the notes in her purse, interesting the beady eyes of the madam who ran the place. Money talked, then as now.

“Alright.” the older woman muttered. If this young woman wanted to be beaten, that was fine, as long as she could pay for it. But there was no point in crippling this young fool. “Alice doesn’t hit too hard. She’s just finishing up with a…”

“No, you misconstrue.” Miss Gray said, and smiled. “I do not seek some gentle paddling, such as might be administered by some understanding suitor. What I desire is the cruellest termagant in your employ. I desire the full experience, such as few can bear. I will pay double your standard prices, on each visit, for if I suffer what I consider to be enough pain, then I will make my visits regular. But should I feel that your girl is holding back, and not punishing me because I am a member of the fairer sex, then I will seek services elsewhere in future.”

Miss Gray offered a considerable amount of money in front of the nose of the older woman. It was not refused, but snatched by the madam. She stuffed it down the front of her blouse.

“No need of that.” the older woman muttered. “We can do whatever you want. But I think it might be too much for you.”

“It will not.”

“Victoria?” the woman called out. “I’ve got a special for you.”

A woman in her late thirties came through a door into the lobby of this establishment. She had jet black hair, drawn back into a very severe bun. A couple of long hairpins had been thrust into her hair. She had thin lips. She was dressed all in black.

“I heard.” Victoria said. She smiled. It was a cruel smile, more suitable to that of a crocodile about to devour its prey. Victoria rarely got to play these days, after several men had complained that she was a little too severe. Victoria was looking forward to taking this young woman down a peg or two. “I take it that the Black Room is free?”

“Of course.”

Victoria grabbed Miss Gray by the arm. She led her up a thin set of stairs, and down a landing. Victoria stopped in front of what looked like a featureless section of wall. She pulled down on a gas lamp fitting, and a secret door opened, where none had been before.

“There are some places which we do not want the forces of law and order to see, on the rare occasions that we get raided.” Victoria explained. “Such a place is the Black Room.”

Victoria pushed Miss Gray into the chamber. She followed her in, and pulled the door shut behind her. It closed with a click.

Miss Gray looked around the room with approval. There was no window, and as Miss Gray had entered the chamber she had noticed that the wall was a lot thicker than usual. Some attempt had been made not to let out the sounds of this room permeate out – and this was in an establishment where cries of pain were not unusual.

The walls had been painted black. Light was provided by two gaslights on the walls. They lit up what could only be considered to be a torture chamber. Iron chains hung from the ceiling, dangling from a pulley system. There was a wooden vaulting horse, with iron rings set into the wood, so that somebody might be bound over it. There was a wooden frame in the shape of an X. Hanging from nails set into one wall was a selection of paddles, riding crops, canes and whips.

“Get ready.” Victoria said. “I can’t beat you through your clothes.”

Miss Gray undressed quickly. Off came her calfskin gloves; her suede shoes; her jacket, blouse and skirt; and lastly her corset. Miss Gray surprised Victoria by the fact that she did not bother with underwear. This was clearly a most unusual young woman.

Miss Gray’s body was flawless. There was not a single mark on her skin: not a single scar, not a mole, not even a freckle.

Back in Miss Gray’s luxurious Knightsbridge apartment, however, there hung a portrait of her, of her naked body, one painted in such detail it was better than any photograph. But that naked body was not flawless. There were bags under the eyes from too many late nights and too much alcohol; burn marks on the breasts which appeared to have been inflicted – self-inflicted – by a cigarette, and a few other fading marks.

“Over the horse.” Victoria said. Miss Gray arranged herself over the equipment. Stout cord tied her wrists and ankles to the rings set in the wood. Victoria pulled the cord as tight as she could. Victoria then went to the wall and selected a thin, whippy cane, of the sort in use, in those times, to punish recalcitrant children. Victoria gave a few practice swings. She smiled. She would make this woman scream.

Victoria went and stood behind Miss Gray. There was no warning.

The cruel Victoria raised the arm holding the cane and whipped it down on the fleshy parts of Miss Gray’s buttocks. It was something which Victoria had done to many men, and the occasional lady.

Miss Gray gasped in pain. A faint line appeared on Miss Gray’s milk-like skin. It was, perhaps, a little fainter than was usual for Victoria. These days there were few men who requested her ministrations, as Victoria tended to get carried away, inflicting more damage than had been expected, creating more pain than the masochist could transubstantiate into warped pleasure.

Time and again Victoria whipped the cane down on Miss Gray’s pert arse. The brutal caning was only brought to an end when the cane broke. But the skin had no more than a healthy glow, such as might be inflicted by a hand spanking. Victoria stared at the younger woman’s backside. She couldn’t believe it. This silly young woman should have been bleeding by now. Victoria wondered whether she was losing her touch.

Back in Miss Gray’s Knightsbridge apartment, however, her nude portrait looked somewhat different to before. Somehow her body had moved in the painting, so that her naked back and rear were facing towards any viewer. The skin was pale, apart from Miss Gray’s buttocks. Those were bleeding. Blood was seeping out of many lines across the nates, little droplets making a slow journey across Miss Gray’s sweet derriere, to eventually drip down onto the floor.

“I’m not finished yet.” Victoria said, as she cast aside the broken cane. “I’ll make you scream. They always scream. Then I’ll make you beg for mercy. And I will show none. You wanted pain, and you will have it, in abundance.”

Victoria, her face grim, released Miss Gray from the horse. Miss Gray straightened up. There were tears in her eyes. She had felt every bit of the pain, every cruel stroke. The fact that there was no permanent damage to her had not lessened her suffering, not one whit. But she had come here to suffer. It was what she desired, what she needed, to savour the sensations beyond the mundane.

Miss Gray was too weak to resist. She let herself be led over to the X-frame. She was chained in place, facing the frame, her full breasts pressing against the dark, splintery wood.

Victoria went over to the whips hanging from the wall. Her gaze took in the paddle, the riding crop, and others. But it settled on the bullwhip. She smiled. It had been too long since she had found anybody who could bear its sting.

Crack!

Victoria gave a practice swing of the bullwhip. The sound made Miss Gray jump. She tried to look over her shoulder, to see when the whip would strike. She needed to see. To anticipate the pain, to see the leather swinging towards her, and not to be able to do anything about it, was an intrinsic part of Miss Gray’s masochism. Here she was, in a secret room in a seedy London brothel, about to be whipped with an implement that could rip skin of a body, and nobody would come to her rescue. She was at the mercy of a cruel and merciless harridan. The idea made Miss Gray wet.

Crack!

“AAAAH!” Miss Gray had not been able to help screaming. The sound had been torn involuntarily out of her mouth. That had been worse than any blow of the cane. It had been delivered to her back. It should have split the skin. But there was only a thin red line. The magic of the painting held.

“I told you that you would scream.” Victoria smirked. But she was worried. That stroke should have drawn blood. It would have on any of the foolish men who Victoria had been lucky enough to flog. Victoria worried that perhaps she was losing some of the strength in her whipping arm. Still, though, perhaps it was for the best. This foolish young woman might last longer before fainting, this way.

Victoria carried on whipping Miss Gray’s defenceless back. Each stroke produced a red line, but did not cut the skin. Victoria had no idea that, in Miss Gray’s rooms, there was a painting which absorbed the real damage: a portrait of a young woman whose back was cut to shreds.

With each cruel stroke Miss Gray screamed. But she did not yet beg for mercy. That was beginning to irritate Victoria.

The sadist dropped the black leather bullwhip on the floor of this hidden torture chamber. She unchained the naked young woman. Victoria had to help support the younger woman, lest she drop to the floor. Victoria moved her around, chained with her back to the X-frame. Miss Gray realised what was about to occur. Her unfashionably large breasts were on display, and would obviously be the target now. Miss Gray’s light brown nipples were erect, as though they welcomed the savagery to be unleashed upon them.

As tears of agony flowed down her cheeks Miss Gray managed to lift her head to gaze at her tormentor.

“Do your worst.” Miss Gray said. “I may scream, but I will not beg.”

The words infuriated Victoria. She snatched the bullwhip off the floor, and attacked Miss Gray’s breasts with a fury. With each stroke Miss Gray screamed as though she was being tortured in the pits of Hell. With each stroke the leather of the bullwhip sank down into the soft flesh, deforming it. Each stroke should have caused blood to flow. But the only result was a pale red line.

Not so where the painting hung. The painting had changed again, the naked Miss Gray now facing to the front. The painting was perfect in its detail. Each dark, curly pubic hair could be seen. As could each brutal cut into the breasts. These cuts were severe, with blood flowing freely from each one. Such brutality could only end up mutilating those breasts. But, in the real world…

Victoria threw the whip aside in disgust. Miss Gray had screamed a lot. But she had not begged for mercy. Nor had her breasts been ruined, despite Victoria having used all of the strength in her arm. The flesh should have been hanging in tatters. Of what was this young made, that she could withstand the whip? Victoria, though, was not about to admit defeat. There was one final thing which she could do.

She released Miss Gray from the X-frame. Miss Gray slid to the floor, too exhausted by the pain which she had suffered to stand.

Victoria grabbed Miss Gray by one ankle, and dragged the younger woman across the floor of the chamber, until she was beneath those iron chains dangling from the ceiling. Victoria operated the pulley to lower two chains to the ground. Each had a leather manacle attached.

Normally the manacles would have gone around the wrists of some male submissive, his arms spread wide as he was dragged up into the air by the operation of the pulley. But Victoria attached the manacles to Miss Gray’s ankles. Miss Gray was then raised up into the air, her legs spread wide by that action. When Miss Gray’s head had left the floor Victoria stopped, and secured the pulley. She secured Miss Gray’s wrists to chains leading to iron rings set into the floor. Once again Miss Gray was in an X, albeit upside-down, this time. The blood rushed to her head, keeping her awake.

Victoria took one of the long hairpins out of her tight bun. She stood next to Miss Gray, and grabbed one of Miss Gray’s hairy cuntlips. Victoria, her fingernails punishing the soft labia, stretched it out as far as it would go. The hairpin was forced through the top of the cuntlips, then through the flesh of the thigh, and then back through the bottom of the cuntlips, securing it to the thigh.

Miss Gray screamed, but did not beg.

The process was then duplicated with the other hairpin, and the other cuntlips. Miss Gray was now wide open, the pink of the inside as visible as it had ever been.

“Let’s get rid of that hair before we work on that quim.” Victoria said. She got out a flask of alcohol, and poured it all over Miss Gray’s pubic bush. But, with the labia so cruelly spread, a lot of the stinging alcohol went inside Miss Gray’s cunt, between her lips. Victoria made sure that the other woman’s clit had been made wet by the alcohol.

“Last chance to beg.” Victoria said. But Miss Gray remained quiet.

A match was produced, and lit, a little point of brightness in the black-painted room. Victoria held the match to the hair of Miss Gray’s crotch. Miss Gray screamed as her pubic hair was engulfed by a blue flame. That same flame burned her labia, and her clit, and the entrance to her cunt.

Miss Gray screamed and screamed again, as she tried to thrash around as much as the chains allowed.

“Mercy! Mercy!” she cried.

“I said that I would get you to beg for mercy.” Victoria said, with a smile. The sadist’s eyes were bright. She was beginning to enjoy this session. She had never found any masochist who could stand up to the sadism which she desired to inflict. But this strange young woman could take nearly anything. Victoria was now imagining all of the things which they could do in future; and she knew that, after the conclusion of this session, that Miss Gray would be back.

“I have no mercy.” Victoria said. “You would not respect me if I had. The session will end when I say it will end; and we still have the cropping of your cunt to take place.”

Victoria almost danced over to the whips hanging on the wall, and selected the leather riding crop. It did not have a flared square end, like most riding crops, but ended in a point. This would normally cut the skin – or, at least, cut the skin of a normal person. But Victoria had realised that this was no normal person. The sadistic whore had worked out that this young woman could suffer no real damage, no matter what was done to her – but that she took every little morsel of the pain, and that that was not reduced. For a sadist like Victoria that was ideal. She could do what she wanted with Miss Gray, knowing that she would not kill her. There would be no scandal, only the infliction of every kind of pain which Victoria had ever fantasised about inflicting on another human being. Victoria was already imagining future sessions, with long skewers, branding irons, rat traps and other indelicate delights.

Victoria cropped Miss Gray’s cunt. But to say that was to underestimate the ability Victoria had to inflict pain with her whip hand. Every inch of skin was hit as hard as Victoria could: Miss Gray’s arsehole and perineum, her stretched labia, the entrance to Miss Gray’s cunt. including her pisshole, and, of course, Miss Gray’s clit. Her clit was whipped over and over again, Victoria knowing full well the workings of a woman’s genitalia, and the pain which such a whipping would inflict. It was while Victoria was savagely whipping that erect clit – a whipping which would have ruined any normal bud – that Miss Gray finally fainted, signalling an end to the session.

Later, back in her Knightsbridge apartment, a naked Miss Gray lolled in a comfortable chair, as she stared at her picture hanging on the wall. All of the red lines on Miss Gray had faded, and there were no burn marks on her crotch. No, for all of the damage had been absorbed by the painting. The only change to Miss Gray was that her pubic hair was gone, and she had already decided that she liked it that way. It felt so smooth when she caressed herself. She would keep it shaved from now on.

She stared up at the ruined, naked woman in the picture: the breasts almost whip to shreds, and the bleeding and burned cut. Miss Gray stared, as her fingers caressed her undamaged labia and clit, as she frigged herself to a massive orgasm, as she mentally relived all of the terrible cruelties which she had suffered – and what further tortures she might suffer if (no, when) she returned to that place.

The End