Category: Beginnings
Word count: 500

Poached Eggs

"Madam," said Manfred, "What business drew you hither?"

I responded without hesitation:

I will tell you, Dr. Bleuler. And will be frank. I believe that I have been treated unjustly. People have queer ideas about me.

I've no friends my own age, else I might have been wiser about such things. But I was not "coddled" as a child, as some think. I knew how babies got out, having seen it with mine own eyes. Even knew how babies got in from watching sheep. This other thing, I did not know.

The trouble began on my first day as servant to the Windsors, an enviable station that I was grateful to win. Mr. Carlton Windsor liked his morning eggs just so, poached - not runny, not thick - and round. That first morning I cooked, he raised an eyebrow at my eggs, and I vowed it would never happen again! I labored at perfection; stayed up late at night and wasted two dozen fresh eggs alone in the chilly kitchen. By the time I made perfect eggs, I was exhausted, Sir, and not right in my head.

Next morning, there were no eggs for Mr. Carlton Windsor's breakfast. I confessed to wasting them as he was scolding another servant - but I had never seen his temper.

'Come with me,' he said.

I followed him into the barn, which was empty except for hay. He took off his belt and ordered me to bend over until my hands touched the top of a bale. Then he raised all my skirts 'till they covered my head, as if he were no gentleman and I no lady. Then he lowered my knickers, Sir. A horrible thing, but I dared not complain.

The first stroke left me blinded in pain. The edges of my skirts danced about in a blur. A cool breeze eased the sting but felt most unladylike since breeze should not be in some places. The next stroke, and the next and the next, left me with unbearable sting where sting should not be. I cried and begged him to stop, but he refused. He scolded me about wasted eggs and said that I was simply naughty at heart. He continued to whip me with the strap until my knees buckled. Then he said that my hands should remain on the hay, and he touched me gently in my most private places.

My next recollection - I was moaning and shivering but covered in perspiration. My mind left me. I know not where it went, and pleasure filled me to my brim.

My countenance since then, especially where eggs are concerned - the unfortunate incident at the market, chasing chickens - is due to that moment. I believe my mind went to magical place, perhaps an evil place, and I know not how to get it back. I am most grateful that Mr. Carlton Windsor pays for my treatment.

But I believe in my soul that my cure lies with him, not with you.

I really enjoyed this story and I think it is unique. I thought the end offered a nice twist, but this could just be because I really enjoy madhouse stories! I thought the offense itself was comical, and that worked well as a comparison with the abusive quality of the punishment itself.   For a moment I had to look and see which category this was in, because I thought it could have been a fit in "object fetish" as well!

The voice of this is so authentic, as though it were written back in the Victorian times.  Wonderful imagery, I could see the whole thing. It's amazing what a well placed belt will do to a person, and a well placed breeze can do some very good things too!   This story sets up some great fantasy material in a very short amount of time.

This is a mature story of punishment and madness, told as a first person account to an audience the reader can't identify except as a doctor of some sort.  Yet the doctor / listener is just a screen as we realize that the reader is actually the audience.  The story's clever narrative structure causes us to identify as the doctor who's supposed to assist this young woman who feels she's been abused.  But of course, given this reader's interest in spanking, I find myself wanting to know more about the hay bale / belt punishment.

(And also about the incident with the chickens.  What has this girl done anyway?)

A bit weird, but also a bit wonderful, this has such a nice voice, which combines innocence and lust, naivety and understanding. The eggs themselves are a nice touch: not at all obvious, but full of the potential for symbolism and comedy both. Some terrific little gracenotes, also: the double meaning of 'coddled', 'since breeze should not be in some places'. Finally, the narrative device of confessing (as it were) to a psychiatrist is a great way to make the first person POV completely natural and alive.