Chapter 3
"Okay, pig, get up, it's dinner time!"
It was ten-year old Lucie, the most vicious of all the younger pupils at Heatherrow. She had the face of an angel, and the lust for torture of an inquisitor.
Cleve groaned. He was ravenously hungry, for he was kept on short rations indeed-it was Augusta's contention that since he was a cur he should be fed no more than a large dog, though with worse food. But somehow the mealtimes were the worst as far as humiliation went All the girls together in the dining hall somehow seemed to inspire each other to new and ingenious cruelties.
Every bone in Cleve's body ached from his last run through the wringer with Augusta, so although he raised himself off the flagstones on one arm, he was unable for a moment to gather his wits enough to realize that he had better get up. In Heatherrow, when a female gave an order-even as tiny a female as little Lucie-a man had to jump fast unless he wanted swift punishment. Not that he wouldn't get swift punishment anyway, but there was something about male defiance that really incites women to crush it without pity.
Pow! Pow! Pow! Little fists exploded in his face, bruising his eyes and lips.
"Up I said, you filthy cock!" Lucie screamed, boxing his ears.
God, it was amazing how much strength a ten-year-old girl could exert when hurting a man was the prize to be won. Of course, in normal circumstances, Cleve could have grabbed her, put her over his knee and taught her thin little ass a thing or two with the palm of his hand, but he knew that any such action would only have to be paid for at compound interest at Augusta's hands.
Wearily, he got to his feet.
"Why must you be so cruel to me, miss?"
"Cause your a filthy male, and it's impossible to be too cruel to a male!" And with this, she punched him in the balls.
Cleve doubled over with pain, gasping, helpless, completely unable to save himself from the monstrous little girl. With an effort, he straightened up and followed her to the dining room Clearly Lucie would have loved to discipline him some more, but she didn't dare show up late for dinner.
In the dining room, Cleve was astonished to find, instead of the usual potato peels and other scraps in a dog bowl on the floor, a place set for him at the faculty table next to Augusta. On it was a real dinner waiting for him.
Gosh, he thought, is that bitch turning human? For a moment he even thought she might have been attracted to him physically, for male pride is a stubborn weed, which is hard to destroy, even with a woman's spiked heel, though Augusta had never been known to fail in the end.
Trembling with anticipation at the thought of being allowed a real meal at last, he eased himself next to Augusta, who was wearing a regular dress. Cleve felt intensely embarrassed about being naked to the waist, and about the bruises and whip marks on his body. But no one laughed or taunted him.
Wondering at this miracle, he took up his fork as soon as Augusta took up hers-for, of course, everyone in the room knew that the penalty for starting before the headmistress would be a very severe spanking indeed-and took a bit forkful of mashed potatoes.
In the next moment he was choking and gagging, and coughing the mashed potatoes out while the room erupted into laughter. His dinner was just like everyone else's except that it must have had a whole canister of salt poured over it.
"Don't you know it's rude to show dislike of your host's food, Mr. Litchfield?" Augusta said quietly.
"Oh cripes, how ... how cruel," he gasped.
"You arrogant slave, daring to describe it as cruel of us to serve you the same kind of food we eat? But of course, I suppose you men are to good to eat food fit for mere women?"
Everyone smiled at the absurdity of the question.
"Well, you're going to eat it, every last ounce of it. And since your table manners don't seem to be quite up to the high table, you can eat in a manner more appropriate to your sex."
And with this she turned the plate upside down on the floor, where it landed in a vile mess. Every nerve in Cleve's body revolted against the injustice, but he only hesitated for a second, knowing what the price of male imprudence was at Heatherrow. With every eye upon him, he rose from his plate, walked round the end of the table and up to the front. The "High Table" was on a sort of dais, so there wasn't a detail of his humiliation lost to the eager little girls.
The floor was spotlessly clean, of course, but for a full grown man to have to kneel on his hands and knees on it and eat inedible food from it in front of dozens of women was a humbling thing indeed.
For an instant Cleve wondered if he dared use his hands to scoop the mess off the floor and shovel it into his mouth. He glanced up at Augusta. Her face gave no clue. He dreaded the humiliation of having to eat like a dog, but he dreaded the punishment which would be meted out for "Presumption."
Then with a sigh, he buried his face in the mess and started to eat.
Augusta's clit stiffened at the sight, and her swelling nipples poked out the fabric of her dress. When a male chooses the most degrading of two choices out of fear, when he has not been told that he must do so, but simply fears that he has to do the worst, then indeed his spirit is broken. Augusta would have liked to tug at her woman-flesh, to caress her breasts, but it would be inappropriate to do so at dinner. She glanced around her at the girls and women eagerly watching Cleve's humiliation. If she gave the signal, the dinner would turn into a big mutual masturbation spree, that was clear. But she kept from giving the signal. In the presence of men, even men as abject and debased as Cleve Litchfield, women should show total self-control
There were mashed potatoes and gravy all over Cleve's face as he gulped at the repulsive fare, gagging and choking, and struggling hard to keep from puking.
"You really have excellent table ... or should I say, floor ... manners, Mr. Litchfield. How long will we have the pleasure of your company here at Heatherrow?"
"I-I don't know. ... " Cleve stammered, at a complete loss for words.
"Oh yes you do," Augusta said sweetly, and everyone laughed.
"You stay here as long as it pleases me for you to stay. And that may be a rather long time." More laughter.
The little girls, and perhaps even some of the bigger ones in the higher grades would have loved to pelt this cringing male animal with food or cutlery, but they didn't dare. Augusta was always glad when someone thought up a new way of hurting or humiliating Cleve, but she believed that decorum should always reign during dinner.
With a gasp, Cleve bolted down the last morsel and looked up. What he saw struck terror into him. It was Augusta's eyes looking straight back down at him with a "what have you forgotten" look to them.
With a gulp, Cleve turned his face back down and started licking the floor spotless, dragging his tongue across the vile-tasting floor wax.
"You know, Miss Kreel," one of the women teachers said, "you really do seem to be getting along admirably with the training of your pet."
"I think so, though everyone had told me earlier that it would be very difficult to get a pig to perform tricks. That's what the farmer I bought him from said."
Laughter.
Cleve looked up timidly. He was afraid that for him to dare a question would risk severe chastisement, right in front of all the people in the dining hall, but his mouth and throat were on fire from the salt, and he couldn't hold himself back.
"Yes, Mr. Litchfield, you have permission to speak," Augusta said, looking down on him from the table. Everyone thought this formal use of "Mr. Litchfield" for addressing an abject slave extremely amusing. "M-may I have a glass of water, please, mistress," he said, trying to hit just the right tone. Impudence was punished with the crop, of course, but excessive servility was sometimes interpreted as sarcasm and punished with even more unmentionable cruelty. It was difficult to know what tone to use, because in principle, the attitude of the slave was expected to be one of complete and sincere subjection.
But this time, all Augusta did was answer sweetly, "Of course, Mr. Litchfield."
Dull male that he was, Cleve was beginning to see that at this dinner Augusta's sweetness was just sarcasm and taunting of the cruelest kind, a prelude, in every case, for him to be shoved yet further down into the pit of utter humiliation.
A fifteen-year-old girl, already well-formed, laid a dog bowl full of water next to him with a sweet smile.
"No, Mr. Litchfield, I was expecting you to want some water, so I saved some special water for you, since you're such a special guest. My bath-water."
So it was. Soapy water with a pubic hair floating in it.
"Don't leave anything behind, Mr. Litchfield," Augusta said gently, "we wouldn't want to think you were ungrateful.
Ingratitude was paid for at Heatherrow with the most resolute punishment.
Gagging, Cleve lapped up the water, slopping some on the floor from which he would have to lick it later. When he was finished, he felt the pubic hair between his teeth. He was sure that if he tried to spit it out he would be noticed, so he swallowed it as best he could.
In came the dessert now. One of the luscious puddings was placed on the place he had occupied at the table. It looked like it would be heavenly after the salt and the soap, but Cleve figured it must contain something even more vile.
"Would you care to join us for some dessert, Mr. Litchfield?" Augusta asked. "Of course, if you're too full, we'll understand."
Taking his courage in his hands, Cleve stammered, "I-I am too full, mistress, from all that delicious dinner." The last phrase, if interpreted as sincere might bring a slight easing of present discipline. If interpreted as sarcasm, it would mean agonizing chastisement. As with everything else, Cleve's well being depended on the merest passing shim of his cruel mistress. For she managed to be thoroughly unpredictable, so that to the humiliation of petticoat rule, and the dreadful physical punishments, would be added the agony of uncertainty.
And, like all women, despite her iron will, she really did have whims, indeed regarded the having of them as a sign of female superiority.
This time, seemingly, Cleve was lucky.
"Are you sure you don't want any? It looks awfully good, and I promise, woman's honor, that you'll be allowed to finish it."
Oaths on 'woman's honor' Augusta never violated, as Cleve knew from the ones he had heard to the effect of 'I promise woman's honor to give you a hiding tomorrow like you never thought possible," and so forth.
Cleve was tempted but decided against it. He was going to outsmart that bitch this time. She and her female superiority crap!
Augusta ordered her own portion of pudding given to little Lucie for all the ingenuity she had shown in hurting Cleve, as seconds, and had the one intended for him put in front of her. She immediately tucked into it with great relish.
Poor stupid Cleve, cherishing the illusion that a man could conceivably outsmart a woman. She had foreseen how he would react, foreseen that he would refuse the pudding, which far from having anything unpleasant added to it, was perfectly delicious. Cleve's imbecile male brain had been unable to out-guess her, and as a result, after living on potato peels for a week, he had cheated himself out of the only pudding he was ever likely to be offered at Heatherrow.
Tears of humiliation, frustration and disappointment welled up in Cleve's eyes. He was like a little boy who was being punished by a harsh mother. Little lights of amusement danced in Augusta's liquid brown eyes as she watched this once proud male, who had pleaded for other men's lives before courts of justice, reduced to tears before a crowd of schoolgirls because he wasn't allowed to have any pudding.
An observer unfamiliar with the full glory of female ingenuity would have perhaps thought that Cleve had been as thoroughly humbled as was possible. But as far as Augusta Kreel was concerned, Cleve Litchfield had only just begun to learn what petticoat rule meant.
Through his watering eyes, Cleve gazed at Augusta, at her lovely features, her rich black hair, her heaving, perfectly formed breasts.
"Oh why couldn't she have been a woman like any other," he said to himself, "She's so lovely. I would have so liked to have gone to bed with her that first night."
But as he gazed, he really began to wonder if he would have deserved a chance to go to bed with a magnificent creature such as she. She was physically so perfect, and in a weird way, there was something perfect about her uncompromising cruelty. Maybe she was right about the superiority of women. Was that a twinge he felt in his cock? It had been utterly limp since that first terrible night on account of the constant humiliations he had been subjected to? He must be going mad. No man could like to be abased like this. But there was something about that smile of Augusta's . ...
"Turn around, Mr. Litchfield. Good, she said as he turned around on his knees to face the dining hall full of sadistic little bitches ranging in age from nine to eighteen. "Now girls, what do we call someone who's doing what Mr. Litchfield is doing now?"
"Crybaby, crybaby," all younger girls sang out in unison.
"Crybaby, crybaby," all the other women chimed in, in unison.
"I'm not a crybaby!" Cleve shouted in a sudden burst of defiance. "I'm a man and...."
"You were a man," Augusta broke in.
"I am a man!" Cleve shouted with emphasis. He didn't care what happened to him, even though he knew that this independence would have to be paid for dearly. All he knew was that he had to reassert his masculinity against these castrating bitches.
Augusta remained strangely calm.
"We'll see about that. Miss Chalmers, have you anyone particularly in your black books.
"Oh yes," the dean replied. Little Ermengard was overheard to call Miss Hougton a 'fat bitch'. "
Little Ermengard winced, for she knew that that sort of crime usually cost one about two days of being unable to sit down.
"Very well. Ermengard, come here. You are going to engage in a contest with Mr. Litchfield. You are both going to be severely spanked, to see which one of you can hold out the longest without screaming. I could try to reward you, for I would like to see Mr. Litchfield revealed for the slavering crybaby we all know him to be, but instead I will rely upon your honor as a little woman."
Tight lipped, little Ermengard nodded her head, fearful of the discipline to come, but eager for a chance to prove herself as a woman, that is as the bravest and strongest thing created.
Cleve couldn't figure Augusta's game. Surely she must know that a big, hairy man like himself could outlast a little girl.
Poor Cleve, unaware that the very fact that he had to submit to such a contest was proof positive that his manhood had been forever lost.
"All right. Bend down, both of you, and place your hands on your knees. Staggering or flinching counts as a scream."
As this was an endurance contest, there was no need for any ropes or chains.
"Since Ermengard is only ten, I hope you will agree that a lighter instrument should be used upon her than upon you, Mr. Litchfield."
Whether he agreed or not made no difference, as Augusta Kreel was not one to be swayed by the opinions of men, but Cleve gulped and said, "Of course," as if to pretend that he was entering this voluntarily.
It was as he was bent over that he realized the total state of degradation into which he had sunk. The idea of having his buttocks exposed for the gaze of scores of schoolgirls, of having them drool as a leather strap slammed into the pink skin, made his cheeks-the cheeks of his face, that is-turn as red as his lower cheeks soon would.
"Miss Kreel. . . ? "
"Yes, Ermengard?"
"To prove what a weak crybaby Mr. Litchfield is, I would like to be spanked with the same thing he is."
"Precious little girl," Augusta said. She will really go places some day, thought Augusta, doubtless at the expense of enslaved, whimpering men."
"All right, I'll use a medium tool. And to be fair, I won't do any of the spanking-myself.
Cleve, on order, dropped his pants. As his cock came into view, the room burst out into laughter. Whether at the size and shape of it, or at the mere idea of having such a thing disfiguring oneself, he couldn't tell.
Little Ermengard had been stripped, and the sight of her unfledged triangle made him think of the fateful pleasure he had taken hardly a week ago. It seemed like an eon, an eon of pain and humiliation.
Then two straps were brought out, similar to the ones used on Miss Jones earlier that day, though a bit lighter, with Ermengard's tender buttocks in mind. The two victims were, of course, made to inspect them. One given to the math teacher, the other to the librarian, who was somewhat younger.
The two victims had to wait in suspense for the first blow of course, and then it came. Two simultaneous cracks that resounded round, the room like piston shots, as cruel leather bit into tender human flesh.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
"Oooh, I'm not going to scream, I'm not going to scream, I'm not going to scream," Cleve desperately repeated to himself, aware of the terrible humiliation which would result if he couldn't hold back as long as a little girl.
It wasn't easy though. The math teacher had an arm which must have had steel springs for muscles, and every blow made his buttocks feel like they were having boiling water poured over them from a kettle.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Cleve's face was contorted in a mask of agony, his teeth ground together as if they wanted to wear each other down to the root, so much control did it take as the merciless female domination continued, as the strap beat a relentless tune on his ass as if it were the skin of a drum.
Craackk! Crack! Crack! There was no effort to help Ermengard, though everyone in the room but Cleve wanted to do so. The sharp cuts were coming almost simultaneously, and each one had the same resounding ring.
"Cripes, I can hardly take it much longer," Cleve thought to himself as waves of pain swept through his body. Why doesn't that little bitch scream and get it over with? She's got to lose, so why doesn't she hurry up?
The folly of masculine pride, which makes men think of women as their inferiors when in fact the finest man is not worthy to lick dog-shit off the shoes of the most degraded whore! Little Ermengard was only ten, but she realized it was up to her to prove the fact of her sex's superiority, and she was going to do so if it killed her. What were sheer agony to Cleve were unutterably worse to her, for though as a girl she was naturally braver and stronger, she was only ten, and her thin little buttocks did not provide much padding against the slicing leather.
Scores of hungry eyes watched the weird discipline contest go on. Scores of lovely feminine lips silently formed the word Ermengard. If it had been a grown woman that Cleve had been competing with, the interest would have been less intense, for everyone would have known what the outcome would have to be. Match a woman against a man in endurance or bravery, as in one of intelligence, and she will come out immeasurably superior every time. But Ermengard was only ten. Had Miss Kreel overmatched her? What could it be like to be a little girl under that rain of blows, trying not to scream? For when one is being lashed, screaming is the best solace there is.
What was it like? Hideously agonizing. But it was proud agony. Little Ermengard's clit, which had hardly gotten used to masturbation, was iron hard, and her virginal little cunt was tightly contracted, not just from the sexual stimulation of the blows, but from the proud knowledge that she was a woman, queen of creation, chosen to put a dumb ox of a man in his place. That she had been chosen as a punishment had quite slipped her mind.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Two minds, both trying to deny the flesh what it demanded, the one with the quiet firmness of a woman, the other with the stupid stubbornness of a man refusing to admit the utterly self-evident inferiority of his sex.
Blow piled on blow, and both bottoms were flaming red masses of pain, quivering, palpating, as if wishing to flee from a merciless bombardment from which there was no escape.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Both hapless victims had been pushed past what those unfamiliar with the basic concept of discipline call the point of endurance. But they had to endure, all that was dished out and more. Ermengard, if she did now want to let down her sex, Cleve if he did not want to finally admit that he was nothing but a blubbering mass of jelly, fit only to be hurt by lovely females.
Cleve could hardly breathe, for he was afraid that a breath that coincided with a blow might come out as a shriek. The agony was beyond description, and yet there was a funny half-stiffening in his penis, a tightening in his sac, which he couldn't understand. What conceivable pleasure could there be in being flogged half to death in front of a roomful of sadistic little girls and cruel, voluptuous women.
Both the floggers were covered with sweat, and their breasts heaved against the tight fabric of their bras as they kept the cuts raining down. Wow! Wouldn't Cleve ever scream?
And in the audience, where scores of clits were as hard as they could be, and scores of panties sopping wet, all anyone could think of was the word Ermengard.
She-she must-scream-soon, she MUST-thought Cleve, his features screwed up beyond recognition in pain as the leather bit into places it had bitten into a dozen times already, places so sore that if it weren't for his pride, he would have screamed if anyone had touched them with a feather. And this was no feather but a cruel leather strap which had humbled many a proud ass in its day.
"I've-got-to-hold-on, Cleve thought. If I can't outstay a-ten-year old-little-bitch-I'm no-man. Oh but I-I cn I-
"Aaaaagh! Mercy!"
As Cleve's scream filled the air, the scream of a man who has been so utterly debased that there is no further depth to go to, who has been drained of his manhood as a bottle might be drained of its contents, at least three girls in the audience suddenly felt spasms of pleasure ripple through their cunts, their bodies trembling and their panties dripping, coming by virtue of the mere pleasure of hearing a man shriek at the loss of his virility.
Cleve screamed all right. So sharp, so piercing, with all the pent-up longing of the long minutes gone past, that without any further order from Miss Kreel, the two floggers stopped their work, reveling in the sound.
No further blow fell on Cleve's molten ass, but the dam was broken and he blubbered over and over again, "Mercy, oh God, mercy! Please don't beat me any more. I'll do anything ... not that I wouldn't have anyway, but oh God, please, no more ... I can't take it ... I'm only a man. ... if that ... oh please....."
"Crybaby," Augusta dryly remarked. There was not any general chanting of it. All the girls somehow understood that it was more effective for it to be quietly spoken like that by Miss Kreel, the woman par excellence, like a stone being dropped into a well. Cleve didn't have to hear taunts. As he sobbed and blubbered uncontrollably, sobbing for his pain, and humiliation, sobbing because he was sobbing, he knew the contempt that filled the air, knew how abject and crawling he was, like some kind of unclean worm. And felt the strange semi-harness continue in his prick, without him being able to understand why.
"Mr. Litchfield, you can go to your room. I expect I am through with you for the moment. Ermengard, I needn't tell you how proud we all are of you. Come along with me, I'll do something to make that hurt less, you brave girl."
Ermengard could hardly walk, but she smiled through her tears as she felt Augusta's strong, comforting hand on her delicate little shoulder. As she looked at her headmistress's heaving breasts, her long white throat and delicate features, her own little twat tingled at the thought that she might one day be a woman like her. She hadn't had her first period yet, but she could hardly wair for it. Not least of all, perhaps, because first periods were the occasion at Heatherrow for parties like birthday parties, for they celebrated the transformation of a little girl into that most splendid of creatures, a woman.
No one bothered to escort Cleve back to his cell. It was as if he were too low for anyone to want to even be near him. No one even bothered to lock the door. Everyone knew that his spirit was so utterly broken that he would never try and escape, or at least not until his stubborn pride reasserted itself, at which time, as always, it would be ground beneath the iron heel of female rule.
As he lay down on the icy flagstone, dreaming of what heaven it would be to have even a blanket under him, and groaning at the thought that another nineteen years and fifty-one weeks had to go by before he would have anything under him when he slept, he kept thinking of the contest and his humiliation.
If only he had held out for a few seconds longer. Surely he could have. Then what would that bitchy Augusta have done, with her little pupil begging for mercy and him silent. But though men learn slowly, they do sometimes learn. He saw how much brighter Augusta was than he was, saw how she had put him in a no-win situation. What if he had held out longer than Ermengard? What would that have proved? That he was man enough to outlast a ten-year-old girl? And anyway, he was beginning to see that he couldn't have outlasted her. By being constantly surrounded by females, he really was beginning to soak up some of their mystique, really coming to sense their superiority. Something told him that little Ermengard would have allowed hot pins to be stuck into her ass before she would have admitted that a man was as strong as she.
And there, he was absolutely right.
Meanwhile, up in Augusta's bedroom, little Ermengard was being initiated into one of the greatest joys of womanhood-the sexual companionship of another female.
"Snuggle closer darling," Miss Kreel had said in a strangely soft voice, and the little girl had buried her angelic face between her headmistress's soft twin mounds, feeling the warmth, dreaming how one day she too would have a pair of luscious globes like that.
Augusta was totally naked, and so was the little girl, whose soft auburn locks Augusta tenderly stroked with her long, silky fingers. The nice thing about women, she thought for the millionth time, is that as far as sex goes, they're not always desperately inching to come. It was so pleasant to feel this tiny creature pressed against her, to know that in a few minutes her fingers would explore the minute cunt, feeling the tense little maidenhead.
"Here, darling, put your fingers here." And she guided the little hand to the moist warmth between her legs.
Ermengard felt her little clit tingle as she reached her little fingers around, felt the thickness of her headmistress's labia, felt her hard clit, felt everything just like what she had, almost, except so much bigger. And that wonderful hair that tickled her wrist!
"Will it be a long time until I'm like that?" she asked, as with the other hand she had lightly pulled at the moss on Miss Kreel's triangle.
"No darling, not long," Augusta had answered, planting her soft lips on Ermengard's rosebud mouth. "No long at all." And her own fingers began to mold and pull the little girl's veal-tender parts and every pull made the little legs stiffen.
There was no need for Augusta to tell little Ermengard to do the same to her. The child had a woman's natural intuition for such things, and though there was a novice quality about her prodding and squeezings, the tininess of the hand, the knowledge that this little darling was making what was probably her very first essay in love, more than compensated for that.
"See my nipples, darling?" Augusta breathed. It was a rather silly question, for the round little eyes had been glued on them for several seconds as the little girl wondered if she dared to do what comes naturally to any female when another female's pink tips are in sight. Guessing what Augusta was going to say, she planted her little dainty mouth on one of them, and started sucking.
Augusta smiled as the pleasure swept through her swollen breasts, smiled at the feel of the girlish lips on the swelling nipple. Ermengard was ten. It was only a bit more than nine years to ago, or maybe less, that she had stopped doing that for quite different reasons. It would not be kind to tell her that, though, for she already thought of herself as quite a little woman, and although the purpose of discipline is to crush out pride in men, it should faster it in girls and women.
The insistent little hands had already gotten Augusta surprisingly wound up. There was a sort of funny tension all through her body, and particularly in her pelvis and breasts, one of which was being busily sucked, the other of which was feeling Augusta's own attentive fingers. Oh yes, yes, here they went.
Augusta shook and heaved as her muscles went off, as spasms of pleasure ran down her cunt, as her crotch shoved against the prying little hand, already wet from Augusta's come. And little Ermengard came with heaving shudders that shook her little shoulders.
Not her first come. Augusta knew that. The child must have masturbated, after all. But her first proper come, her first come with another female.
"That was wonderful darling. No, don't go, tonight you're going to sleep here with me."
Ermengard's eyes filled with delight at the idea of being allowed to pass the night next to her heroin, of being able to feel that huge round body next to her.
And Augusta could guess that the night wouldn't just be spent sleeping. It would be wonderful to wake up in the middle of the night and go for that little cunt. And Ermengard was a saucy little girl.
"In the night, darling," Augusta said as she pulled the covers over both of them, "do anything you think I might enjoy."
A look at the eager little face told Augusta that before the night was over she would be awakened by those prying little hands, and she looked forward to the idea.
As she turned the light out, she felt Ermengard snuggle her frail little body close to her in the warm bed, and thought of that imbecile Cleve lying on the hard, cold flagstones, bitterly moaning over his lost manhood, ruing the day he was born a man instead of a woman.
It had been a thoroughly satisfactory day.