On the Bare

by Fiona Locke

‘But the shame!’

  ‘It’s not so bad really, miss. I mean, there’s worse things. Like being hungry and cold and not having nowhere to sleep.’

  ‘There are indeed worse things,’ I said bitterly. ‘Like Captain Hawksley.’

  The maid pursed her lips, a peculiar expression which I marked at once.

  ‘What, Polly?’

  She took a breath and looked me right in the eye. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, miss, I think perhaps it ain’t such a bad match.’

  I opened my mouth to curse the villain’s name, but stopped myself.

  ‘He’s a handsome one,’ she continued quickly. ‘Young too. Not like them old gentlemen what we had round here last month. And … he does seem able to … well, I ain’t exactly sure how to say it, miss.’

  I finished her thought. ‘Handle me.’

  Polly blushed and looked away.

  I was silent for a long time, considering. My bottom hurt terribly and the indignity had been awful. But now that it was over I did feel calmer. And Polly was right; the sensation now wasn’t altogether unpleasant.

  ‘Well, good night, miss,’ she said, turning to go.

  ‘Good night, Polly.’

  But as she closed the door I called her back. She was at my side in an instant.

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘If my uncle does insist on this marriage,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘I’ll need a ladies’ maid. One who … understands.’

  ‘Certainly, miss!’

  Polly beamed and kissed me impulsively on the cheek, a familiarity that might have enraged me before tonight. Now it made me smile.

  Old-Fashioned Solutions

  ERICA STARED UP at the building, checking the address. Pebbledash post-war houses bracketed the nondescript brick façade, as though vouching for the normality of whatever went on inside. She’d walked past it twice before locating the tiny brass number 17 on the wall, partly obscured by ivy. She glanced at the business card again, worrying it between her fingers.

  Modern problems, old-fashioned solutions

  Ranks of butter-yellow tulips stood to attention either side of the path leading to the windowless door. Not exactly inviting, but somehow – enticing? Was that the word?

  Behaviour modification

  Conscience clearing

  Below that was an address. No phone number, no website. No clue to what the business was.

  A few days ago she’d been flipping desultorily through a rack of business cards at the supermarket. Taking two cards that promised to help consolidate her debts, she’d blinked as the words ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘behaviour’ jumped out at her from another card. The cryptic phrases gave her a funny feeling inside. And Erica knew instinctively that this place offered exactly what she needed.

  She made her way up the path and stood nervously before the door. There was no bell and the idea of knocking filled her with unease. It seemed too self-assured, too decisive, when she was anything but. Indeed, what was she supposed to say when someone answered?

  All her life Erica had been quiet and unassuming. Still single at thirty-five, she had never done anything that could be called adventurous. She lived with four golden retrievers in the seaside cottage where she’d grown up and she made a tidy living designing wedding cakes. But she had one serious vice: eBay.

  She spent countless hours online, searching for obscure treasures – antiques, old photographs, vintage clothing. The ease of Internet shopping had been her downfall, catering as it did to impulsive and often reckless behaviour. She’d even found one of the dogs on eBay.

  It wasn’t just the money she spent, though. Online auctions brought out an aggressive streak in Erica. As soon as she found something she wanted, she considered it hers. She was outraged and affronted if someone dared to bid against her. The anonymity gave her courage she didn’t have in the real world. She was a proper keyboard-warrior when she felt wronged, telling off sellers for items that had been poorly packaged or weren’t exactly as they’d been described.

  Now she stood hesitating on the threshold of a place she thought could help her. She needed more than debt consolidation and financial advice; she needed an incentive to change.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand and rested the knuckles against the door. All she had to do was knock. Surely the people inside would take it from there. Before she could deliberate any longer she rapped the door quickly, a jolt of fear coursing through her as she listened to the hollow echo. She had established her presence, made a statement by her very willingness to come here and investigate.

  Several seconds passed as she strained to hear any noise from within. And when she heard the sound of footsteps descending stairs she tensed like an animal ready to flee. The footsteps grew louder as they neared the door and Erica heard the metallic clunk of a lock being undone. She swallowed hard, feeling her face flush with nervous anticipation.

  The door swung open to reveal a petite blonde of about twenty, wearing an old-fashioned maid’s uniform. She gazed passively at Erica, but didn’t speak.

  Uncertain what to say, Erica stammered out a greeting. ‘Um, hello. My name’s Erica Turner. I don’t know if I’ve got the right place, but I think this is your card?’ She thrust the scrap of paper at the maid, who peered at it silently, then looked back up at Erica.

  ‘Come in.’

  The girl stood aside to let Erica pass. Then she closed and locked the door. Instantly Erica feared the worst. What if this was all a setup by some psychopathic killer to lure victims to his home? Would they find her body the next morning?

  ‘Have a seat. Mr Haversham will be with you shortly.’ The maid lowered her head demurely before hurrying back upstairs.

  A row of hard wooden chairs stood against the wall and Erica sat warily, glancing at her surroundings. On the wall opposite was a framed Victorian drawing of a portly man in an academic gown brandishing some kind of broom. And on the adjoining wall she saw a pair of illustrations of an old schoolroom, its oak beams and panelling carved with hundreds of sets of initials. Peculiar. But then, it probably wasn’t any odder than the eclectic stuff she crammed her own house with.

  She listened to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the austere hall while she waited, growing more and more uncertain. She hadn’t brought anything to read and time slowed down without distraction. She couldn’t help but think of the two auctions ending today – one for an antique gramophone in perfect working order (so the seller claimed) and the other for a seventeenth-century map of Cornwall.

  From somewhere in the house a cat meowed and Erica thought of her dogs waiting for her back at home. She glanced at the clock, wondering how long the meeting here would take. She’d received an order for a wedding cake that morning from a very fussy university student who wanted every flower known to man. It would be easy enough to find a book on exotic flowers online; learning to sculpt them in icing would be trickier. But perhaps …

  The cat yowled again, this time sounding oddly human. As she listened, Erica heard a swishing sound and then another cry. It was no cat.

  Both puzzled and intrigued, she rose to her feet and crept to the base of the stairs, listening. Another swish, another yelp. Erica jumped, wrapping her arms around herself, startled by the heat she suddenly felt between her legs. A sharp, precise heat. It was the same response she’d experienced during certain scenes in films or books. The same response as when she’d first found the card. A strange erotic frisson. Old-fashioned solutions.

  Embarrassed, she pressed her legs together and listened as there were three more pairs of sounds. Then silence. She waited, heart racing.

  It wasn’t long before the little maid appeared again, hurrying halfway down the stairs and stopping. ‘Miss Turner? You can come up now.’ The girl’s face was flushed and her voice was subdued as she beckoned with one pale arm, like a ghost in an M R James story.

  Was that a sniffle Erica had heard? And had the girl wiped her eyes as she turned
to lead the way? Erica’s knees trembled as she ascended the stairs and she felt as though she were stepping into a different world. A world where things were simpler and actions earned very real consequences.

  The maid stood to one side at the top of the stairs, her head down. Strands of blonde hair had come loose from her cap and her eyes were distinctly red. Erica opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again when she could think of nothing appropriate to say.

  ‘It’s the last door on the left,’ the maid said softly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Erica whispered. She made her way down a narrow corridor lined with more framed drawings. Late afternoon shadows hid the images from her, but she was too nervous to pay them much attention.

  She stopped before the door and looked back the way she had come. The maid was gone. Erica gathered her courage again and knocked.

  A deep male voice from within said ‘Come in.’

  Erica took a deep breath and entered. The room was sparsely furnished and lined with bookshelves. Two straight-backed wooden chairs stood opposite a large oak desk. There was something clerical in its austerity, something innately authoritarian in the design. Like the building’s exterior; everything here served a purpose. It wasn’t meant to be pretty.

  A man in his late fifties rose from the desk and extended his hand. ‘Ah, Miss Turner. I’m Mr Haversham.’

  Erica stepped forward, feeling like a schoolgirl running into her headmaster out of school hours. ‘Yes,’ she said, flustered. ‘I mean, yes I am.’ She shook his hand limply and was about to add ‘nice to meet you’, but she stopped herself. If she started babbling banal pleasantries she’d never shut up.

  ‘Please sit,’ he said, smiling with his voice if not his face. It was a nice face – serious and even somewhat brooding, but with soft grey eyes that reassured her. He looked like someone she could confide in. More than that – he looked like someone who could solve her problems.

  She manoeuvred herself into one of the chairs, grateful not to have to stand on her wobbly legs any longer. ‘Thank you.’

  Mr Haversham resumed his seat and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, regarding her solemnly. ‘Tell me what brings you here today.’

  She produced the card again, hoping it would answer for her. But Mr Haversham didn’t respond.

  Erica laughed nervously. ‘I suppose I have a problem. And I thought maybe you could help me.’

  ‘You suppose you have a problem. Maybe. Well, Miss Turner? Do you have a problem or not?’

  Abashed, Erica twisted the card in her hands and looked down at the floor. ‘Yes,’ she murmured, then added with more conviction, ‘I have a problem.’

  He raised his eyebrows expectantly and she soldiered on.

  ‘I think I have a compulsion, Mr Haversham. No, I know I do. For buying things. Online. Both my credit cards are maxed out, but I can’t stop. I was looking for help with debts when I found your card.’

  ‘So your problem is one of impulse control.’

  ‘Yes. But …’

  She hesitated, toying with the art deco pendant she’d won last weekend. She’d had a mighty row with the seller over how much it was reasonable to charge for shipping from the States for such a small item. eBay had deleted her negative feedback and cautioned her to try and resolve future disputes without resorting to abuse.

  ‘I can sometimes be a little unpleasant online,’ she finally said, shamed by the admission, softened though it was.

  ‘I see. You say things in email that you’d never say in person, is that it?’

  ‘I know it’s pathetic, but –’

  ‘And at present it would seem that your actions carry no consequences, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well, then. If you are sincere in your desire to change and if you agree to obey my instructions, I will help you.’

  Erica’s heart fluttered as she nodded agreement.

  ‘I didn’t hear you, Miss Turner.’ His tone was more commanding now, his gaze sterner.

  She swallowed. ‘Yes. I’ll do whatever you say.’ Even as she agreed, she recalled the sounds she had heard before. The maid’s teary face.

  Mr Haversham opened a desk drawer and took out a form. ‘Sign here, please.’ He tapped the end of a line of type with his pen and passed both to Erica. She glanced at the wording, but it was as vague as the business card. And nowhere was there any mention of the cost.

  ‘I’m confused,’ she said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, we don’t charge for our services. You repay us simply by responding to our methods.’

  Methods. Her stomach clenched. Methods like she’d overheard?

  ‘It’s quite safe, I assure you, Miss Turner.’

  If she didn’t have to pay anything, surely there was nothing to lose. Besides, she trusted Mr Haversham. He seemed to have total confidence that he could help her. She did want help. And if that help involved a little discomfort … Well, perhaps it wasn’t so different from a visit to the dentist.

  Before her anxiety could influence her decision, she scrawled her name at the bottom of the form and handed it back. He tucked it into a file and recapped his pen neatly.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Erica got shakily to her feet, her clammy fingers still clutching the little card as though it were the only thing tying her to reality. He took it from her gently and placed it on the corner of the desk.

  ‘From this moment on you will address me as “sir”. Is that clear?’

  Blushing, Erica lowered her head. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said softly.

  Mr Haversham removed his jacket and arranged it neatly on the back of his chair. He came around the front of the desk and began rolling up his right sleeve with businesslike efficiency.

  ‘You lack discipline, Miss Turner, because you have no incentive to control your impulses. The credit card company isn’t going to call you to account; they’re happy to let you run up more than you can pay because you wind up paying them more in the end. Correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

  ‘Yes what?’

  She blushed deeply, her scalp tingling. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your online aggression is merely another example of your lack of control. You’d never behave that way face to face but in email there are no consequences. What you need is someone to account to for your bad behaviour. Someone who will address your lapses in judgment and provide you with a deterrent. In short, what you need is punishment.’

  Erica’s pulse quickened and her face felt hot and feverish. She had to look away. Her eyes drifted to a picture on the wall – an image she remembered from a visit to the Museum of Eton Life years ago: the birching block.

  Mr Haversham seated himself in the chair Erica had just vacated. He eyed her severely. ‘For some clients, one punishment is enough. In your case, however, I anticipate many such meetings. Now you’re going to place yourself over my knee for a sound spanking.’ He patted his thigh.

  Erica felt limp on hearing the words. She stood frozen, staring at his lap. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t surrender her dignity like this. She closed her eyes and imagined him yanking her across his knee like a naughty child. But when she dared to look at his face again she saw that he had no intention of making it easy for her. He simply waited for her to comply.

  His patient expression rendered her incapable of disobedience. With a soft moan she leaned forward and lowered herself awkwardly into position, placing her hands on the floor in front of her. She didn’t question what she was doing; she merely obeyed. Both terrified and exhilarated, she lay draped across a stranger’s lap, awaiting a childish punishment. She whimpered as he lifted her skirt. The cool air caressed her bare legs and she suddenly regretted the flirty silk knickers she’d worn. A minor extravagance, they retailed for £200. She’d got them for a quarter that. Would they still seem like a bargain when this was over?

  Mr Haversham didn’t linger over the fancy apricot silk. He slipped his fingers into the
waistband and peeled them down to her knees without ceremony.

  Erica gasped with shame and apprehension. What had she let herself in for? She’d seen the way the maid had behaved, heard the birching. What was her crime?

  Her musing ended with the first sharp swat to her naked bottom. The rosy heat swelled and she wriggled over his knees. Another swat followed quickly to the other cheek and she uttered a little squeak of pain, determined not to humiliate herself further by making a howling spectacle of herself.

  But the smacks grew harder and harder, gradually covering the whole of her bottom with a stinging warmth and she couldn’t keep quiet any more. In no time she was yelping properly.

  Mr Haversham paused and Erica squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The silence reinforced her indignity, reminding her that she lay willingly across this man’s lap, paying the price for her lack of discipline. It was an admission of failure. She had failed to act like a grown-up, so she was reduced to being treated like a child. No, worse: she had reduced herself to this.

  She moaned plaintively – anything to fill the hideous silence. Anything to distract her from the reality of her situation. Anything to take away the responsibility for the position she was in now.

  ‘I’ve barely started,’ Mr Haversham said. ‘You’ve a long way to go before this has any effect.’

  He resumed the spanking, peppering her bottom with even harder smacks that made her kick and struggle. She howled as the intensity increased, twisting and writhing as though she could escape. Without breaking his rhythm, he clamped her in place around the waist, pinning her down. Again and again his unrelenting palm met the soft and burning flesh of her bottom.

  ‘Oh, it hurts!’ she cried. ‘Please, I can’t take it!’

  ‘Of course it hurts,’ he said coolly, as though he’d said it a hundred times before. ‘Make no mistake: you’re being punished. And I intend to make a thorough job of it. You won’t learn a thing otherwise.’

  Erica cried out, wild pitiful sounds that earned her no sympathy from this implacable man. Any erotic frisson she’d felt before was long gone. She would never come back, never submit to this again! The pain was monstrous. She hated herself for giving him the pleasure of seeing how much it hurt her, but she’d show him. As soon as she got home she would find something exotic on eBay to soothe away the pain and humiliation.