by Fiona Wilde
“Yes,” she said. “I was going to do it myself but I’d probably best be off. I need to run by the bank to get some money for this sale, so please do be extra solicitous of our customers. If they don’t buy some of these things I’ll have no place to put the new acquisitions.”
I silently agreed. I often wondered how Miss Parsham was able to keep the place open, given that she bought more than she sold. And although she regularly griped that she could barely afford me, she’d given me two raises over the past year and holiday and birthday bonuses far above what some of my professional friends got from their companies.
Two couples came in as she was leaving – American tourists. I smiled and made myself extremely helpful, pleased to see how delighted they were by our antiques. Two hours later they departed with three shopping bags stuffed with trinkets to help them remember their visit, and left me with a sense of relief at having successfully fulfilled my mission so early in the day.
Waiting on customers was far preferable to what I’d have been doing had they not arrived, which would have been watching the minutes on the huge cuckoo clock over the door edge by. Yesterday Ethan Willoughby had showed up by noon. It was twenty till when another couple walked in, regulars who always spent at least an hour perusing the shelves as they fussily made selections.
I thought for a moment that I was going to cry when the woman exclaimed over a shelf stacked with new things Miss Parsham had put out from the previous sale. There would be no lunch break for me today.
And when Ethan Willoughby walked in promptly at noon, I felt myself filling to the brim with resentment towards the couple, who were bickering over the purchase of two nearly identical musty hymnbooks.
“I could make you a good deal if you take both,” I said desperately.
“Probably not good enough,” the old man snapped. “Besides, we’ll only be wanting one.” He slowly turned the pages. "We’ll just select the one that has the best songs."
I turned away, crestfallen, fighting down the temptation to snap at them, asking how they would know which songs were the best. Instead, I walked over to Ethan Willoughby who was wearing a long black coat and white cashmere scarf. His hair was loose today, and he wore wire-rimmed specs that made him look even more professorial and – if possible – even more attractive.
“I’m sorry…” I began.
“Sorry?” he cut me off incredulously. “Mary, you were supposed to be ready for class.”
I started to say something and faltered. This was a game, just a game. But it felt real as I stood there, grasping for an excuse.
“Miss Parsham…”
“Your aunt,” he corrected, “was supposed to be informed that you had class.” He sighed and pushed his hands deep into his pockets, his annoyance obvious. “It would appear you willfully neglected to tell her so. Please don’t think I can’t see through your obvious attempt to duck school.” He paused, looking at me and I shifted from foot to foot, looking at my pink shoes. “This will not be tolerated, Mary. You know that. So after you finish here today I expect you to come straight to the school. For detention.”
I looked up, shocked. He wanted me to come up there? After work? How could I when I had class?
“I have school tonight,” I began.
“Indeed you do,” he said. “And you’ll complete all your lessons in detention.” He leaned in towards me until he was whispering in my ear. “And now I must be going, but I expect you in my classroom as soon as your aunt is finished with you. There will be a line on the wall. Write it until I tell you to stop, Mary, and contemplate your behavior as you do. Afterwards I will punish and then you’ll again have a clean slate.”
“Punish?” I breathed the word, my voice filled with expectation and fear.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “The penalty for a young lady who ducks class is…severe.”
“Miss! Miss!”
I locked eyes with him for a moment before turning back to my customers. The woman was holding aloft an old ring with a blue stone in the center. “Is this a real sapphire?”
“Excuse me,” I said woodenly and turned back to the shoppers. I heard the door click behind me as I did and knew Ethan was gone.
I really don’t know how I got through the rest of the afternoon. My head spun, replaying our conversation over and over. Somehow I managed to help the couple and several other shoppers who came in throughout the day. And when Miss Parsham returned to find the antique cash register filled with money from sales she was so pleased she gave me one of her rare hugs and a gift – a lovely cameo brooch she clipped to the center of my collar.
I smiled as she did that. Sometimes she was like a doting aunt. But she wasn’t my aunt, and I wasn’t a student in Ethan Willoughby’s school. It wasn’t real; none of it was real. I kept reminding myself of that but I was on autopilot now, with no intentions of going to class that evening. All I could think of was how convenient it was that I had evening classes, which would give me the perfect excuse for being away for three stolen hours in my very own Fantasy Come To Life.
It only seemed more perfect when Mark called to say he’d been enlisted to decorate the gymnasium at St. Regis for the upcoming science fair. I tried to sound disappointed that I’d not have the chance to have supper with him before class that night, when in fact I felt no disappointment or all. Nor guilt, for that matter. It should have bothered me, my callousness. But it would not, not till later.
At that moment I was completely consumed with wanting and spent the rest of the afternoon savoring the delicious dread of what the evening was to bring. Detention with a stern professor. Would he use the cane this time? He’d said the punishment would be severe. Part of me wondered if I’d be up to handle that kind of chastisement, even when my nipples hardened and my pussy throbbed at the very thought of Ethan Willoughby lifting my skirt, possibly skimming my panties down…
Would that be cheating, if he saw my bum? I decided not. It wasn’t sex, after all, this, this…whatever it was. It was simply a bit of role-playing, a chance to savor in a simple, undetached, noncommittal way just the sort of thing my husband was not man enough to do. Was it my fault that Mark lacked imagination? No, so why should I have to suffer with want? We only lived once, right? And when this was over I would have a naughty little secret and the memory of experiences I’d have otherwise never enjoyed.
“That’s it then!” Miss Parsham handed me an empty box. We’d labeled all the purchases from her latest expedition and by the time I left she was humming happily, and I was wishing every day at the shop could be so successful.
I left as if I were driving for home and then backtracked around the town square. It was sunny and cool, with the long shadows of late afternoon falling across the meadows as I drove. A flock of black-faced sheep huddled against a stone barn at the farm just ahead of the Drumlin place, and I shifted in my seat, knowing I was getting closer.
The sight of the huge house affected me as it did the first time I’d seen it. The place was so grand and work on it was obviously continuing. The workmen, who had gone for the day, had been busy gutting the interior and stacks of old wood lay outside in the garden.
I wondered what Ethan Willoughby did for a living that could put him in a position to afford such renovations. I couldn’t imagine what it would cost, or what it would be like to have that kind of money. Life was a financial struggle for Mark and me. Each purchase was carefully weighed and we were constantly finding ways to get more use out of our old things or buying secondhand. I hardly ever bought anything new; that’s how I’d come by my job with Miss Parsham, actually. I’d been looking for a decent set of dishes to entertain some of Mark’s co-workers when I spotted her ‘Help Wanted’ sign.
Ethan Willoughby had indicated he was single, and I imagined whomever he eventually settled down with would be fortunate to be poking through thrift shops out of fun rather than necessity. In my minds eye I could see myself on his arm, clad in the pretty, feminine dress he’d picked out for
me as we selected historically accurate objects to grace the Drumlin house.
My face reddened a bit. “Stop it,” I ordered myself. “He’s your teacher.”
It was easier to say that than to delve into the reality, that he was a rich man and I was simply a dalliance willing to play his game. And as I pulled up beside his vehicle I was more than eager to be in it.
I turned to the door of the school, and with each step sunk deeper into a past I longed to revisit, into a submissive state I was born to. The stairs creaked as I went up them and then there I was, in the classroom.
I looked around. Professor Willoughby was nowhere in sight. But on the board written neatly in chalk was the line. “I will not seek to avoid instruction.”
“Professor?”
When there was no answer I walked over and picked up the fat lump of chalk sitting in the tray under the board. And I began to write. It was strangely exciting, this simple act. I’d been commanded to write this line a hundred times and so I would.
Ever so often I’d look over my shoulder, thinking I’d heard the creaking of a board that signaled his entrance. But each time I was disappointed.
By the thirtieth line my arm had started to hurt and I shook it as if to remove the tingling numbness that clung to the muscles. Professor Willoughby was supposed to be here. His car was outside. So where was he? I was starting to feel tired of my task, and even a bit silly at doing it with no one around.
I walked over to the window, thinking possibly he was outdoors and I would catch a glimpse of him. But he was not and I turned back, disappointed and walked over to the podium where a book sat, a leather-bound class ledger. My fingers traced the cover and slipped under the edge. But just as I was about to open it, I heard my name.
“MARY!”
I jumped and turned around.
“Etha—Professor Willoughby! You’re back!”
He walked in briskly, his expression furious. And suddenly I felt my situation wasn’t a game, but was real. He’d caught me about to go through his private property.
He strode past me and walked over to the wall, removing the cane in one brisk movement before turning to walk purposefully back to the podium. As he did he raised the cane and I backed up, terrified as he brought it down with a hiss to land with a loud “THWACK!” across the cover of the ledger. The sound echoed around the room and I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle my frightened cry.
“Did you open it?”
“No!” I said frantically. “I was going to but…”
“WHY?” He shouted the word and I jumped again.
“I don’t know! I was just waiting and bored and…”
“Bored?” He looked at me and laughed. “Were you not given a task to do?”
“Task?” I asked stupidly and he reached out then to grab my ear. I yelped as he pulled me across the room to the board.
“How many lines did I tell you to write, Mary?” he asked.
“One hundred.”
“And how many have you written?”
I looked up. “Thirty,” I answered in a shaky little girl’s voice that now came all too naturally.”
He turned and directed me to the same table he’d bent me over the day before. “Naughty, lazy, nosy girl,” he said, pushing my skirt up.
“No, please. You’re so angry!” I was suddenly frightened. What if he hurt me in his rage?
“Angry?” He sounded indignant. “Don’t give yourself so much credit. I’m not angry with you, merely disgusted. The state of you young people today, unable to finish the simplest task without oversight! Well, my dear, let me guarantee you that after I’m finished with your bottom you’ll never think to snoop again. And when you’re set about an assignment you will surely finish!”
He pulled my panties down, leaning as he did so that I could feel his breath against my skin as he delivered the last line of his diatribe.
“Part your legs.”
“Sir?” I looked behind me, fearful.
“You heard me, lass. I’ll not have you clenching up for this. Part your legs.” He paused. “AT ONCE!”
I whimpered as I obeyed, knowing as I did that he could see my shaved pussy and realizing that whatever this was, it had moved beyond the bounds of acceptability for any decent married woman. And yet I could not summon the strength to rise and lay there, panting with fear as, from the corner of my eye, I saw him raise the cane.
Chapter Four
Blinding.
That’s the only word I can think of to adequately describe the type of pain I felt when Ethan laid that cane across my bare bum. For a moment I saw stars that turned to little spots that swam through the tears in my eyes.
“No!” I cried and tried to jump to my feet but he pushed me back down and forced a hand between my thighs to wrench them back apart.
“Mary, you will hold your position if we have to stay here all day. Is that what you want?”
It certainly was not. I could barely cope with the thought of another swipe of that cane as the first welt went from searing to an intense throb. But I could not resist him, either. The need to relinquish control to him, even though I knew how bad he would hurt me, was so powerful that it held me in place as surely as his hand. As I assumed the position a second time I timidly forced my bum out even though I did not want to.
The next stroke landed across the lower half of my bottom, catching me just above the thighs. I had jammed my knuckle in my mouth in anticipation and screamed around it, feeling tears and saliva collecting under my chin which rested against the table.
“Naughty, naughty Mary.” I was aware of him raising his arm a third time just before the hiss and crack of the cane left another explosion of pain in its wake. “Trying to avoid school, pilfering her teacher’s things. I’m so disappointed in you. From another girl I’d expect such behavior, but from you, a pretty…”
“THWACK!”
“….sweet, smart girl. So disappointing.”
I barely caught the end of his sentence, having nearly drowned them out with my own cries. The throbbing in my pussy intensified with each blow, despite the pain and humiliation I felt. Even if this were a game I was sincerely regretted my actions. He was right; I had no right to sneak into his book and I felt ashamed of myself for that, and for being so desirous of his discipline, and so callous with my own marriage. My Trifecta of Shame. Perhaps that’s why I held my position, why I relished the pain. I didn’t just want this caning; I deserved it.
“Stand up.” My legs were shaking as I obeyed and I turned to him, my face a mess from tears. He regarded me in silence. “Now that’s a chastened young lady, I’d say,” he remarked quietly but I could tell his comments weren’t directed at me but to himself. I also noticed that he’d removed his coat and underneath wore a V-necked cardigan with a tie. My heart constricted; it was quite similar in style to the sort of thing Mark wore to work.
“Very well then,” he said. “Now you shall finish what you started.” He took my by the shoulders and turned me around, tucking the hem of my skirt into the waistband. My knickers remained around my knees where he’d put them. “To the board with you. No, no. Leave the knickers be. And finish your lines.”
I sniffled pitifully, abandoning my attempts to pull up my underpants as I walked in tiny, painful steps the board as quickly and gracefully as my knicker-hobbles would allow me. Once there I picked up the chalk with my shaking hand and continued to write the line over and over.
It was an hour before I was done, and Ethan Willoughby, who had been going through some papers and humming to himself, walked over to the board to inspect my work. I held my breath as his eyes scanned each line, looking for a dropped letter or misspelling or some other unacceptable imperfection.
“Good girl.” The words were like a balm, his smile only bringing me pleasure second to the pleasure his pain had. I could not explain it to myself, this deep desire to please him even as the hurt in my bottom continued to come in waves so strong they almost sickened me
. I dare not venture back to see the state of my bottom; I only knew it must be a terrible sight.
“Come, Mary, take my hand. Let’s have a talk, shall we?”
I looked at his open palm, not knowing whether to put my hand in it. For as odd as it may seem, even though he’d just seen my naked bum – and more – I felt this to be a very intimate gesture. But I complied just the same, pulling up my knickers as I did as he walked me over to a chair at his desk and sat down, pulling me onto his lap as he did.
I squirmed with discomfort.
“Do you think it pleases me to hurt you?” he asked, and I was at loss for an answer. Was he speaking as Ethan Willoughby, landowner and newcomer to the region or as Professor Willoughby, ghost of teachers past?
“I think you are simply doing what you have to do,” I said, and I knew right away by his expression that I’d given the right answer.
He pulled me to facing him on his lap and when I looked down I realized I was straddling him. Instinctively I started to pull away but when I did he took my hips in his hands and soothed me with soft shushing sounds until I stopped moving and looked up at his handsome face, mesmerized.
“Normally I don’t get involved with my students,” he said. “Especially such spirited ones. But your willfulness, Mary, is just an extension of your intelligent personality. That’s why I’m so glad you have found your way into my class. I and I alone am equipped to channel that willfulness into more acceptable behavior, to bring out the woman we both know is there.”
His lips found mine and I neither resisted nor acquiesced as he kissed me.
“No,” I began as I processed what was happening, but his arms were around me and then one slid down to squeeze my sore bottom.
“Yes,” he said. “I cannot teach you until you learn to completely submit to me in every way, Mary. Only then can I bring out the natural beauty I see in you.”
I opened my mouth to his, feeling the tongue with the beauty of the words still on them. They were familiar words and I remembered now, how he’d spoken of taking things and making them blossom. Houses, schools, women. Was I the only one? I must be. I had to be. He’d picked me. Of all the women in town, he’d picked me.
