by Fiona Locke
Courtney tossed her red hair proudly. ‘I blame him entirely for my frat paddle fetish.’
‘And you should see our collection,’ Shaun broke in.
Peter nodded in confirmation. ‘It’s impressive. More wine?’
Courtney held out her glass while he filled it. ‘Sometimes I wonder what Derek would think if he knew what I was into these days. Shaun says we should invite him to a play party if he visits.’
Play parties! I couldn’t keep up with this new reality. Just the idea of having like-minded friends to talk with about it, to conspire with … It was staggering. For years these things had been my dirty little secret.
‘So Peter said he showed you the site,’ said Shaun, inflecting it as a question.
‘Yes, it’s absolutely stunning.’ I turned to face Courtney. ‘I recognised you, of course. You got me into so much trouble. I still can’t believe you managed to shove those knickers into my pocket without my knowing it.’
Courtney laughed, a high musical sound. ‘Oh, that was easy,’ she said in her sultry Southern drawl. ‘I shoplifted a bit when I was a kid. I was good at slipping things into my pockets, so Peter knew who to recruit for the job.’
‘I’m never stuck for an excuse with this one,’ Shaun said, rolling his eyes.
‘Don’t some of those shots just blow your mind?’ Courtney asked, ignoring him. ‘I mean, that Japanese girl naked in the snow?’ She affected an elaborate shudder. ‘No way could I do that!’
‘It’s quite something,’ I agreed.
‘And they’re so much fun to pose for too,’ she said. Then her face brightened. ‘You’ll love it.’
Shaun agreed and I looked down, abashed. It was one thing to play privately, with a trusted partner. But to flaunt it for everyone on the Net?
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m still just a newbie.’
‘Hey, no pressure,’ Courtney assured me. ‘Just let me know when you’re ready …’
I smiled into my glass at that. She was so cocky and confident. And I had to admit the idea was alluring.
‘What would be your hottest fantasy location?’ Peter asked.
Oddly enough, that question hadn’t occurred to me when he’d shown me the site. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, thinking. ‘I suppose maybe … Well, I could see myself being smacked in some old Victorian schoolroom. Or Dartmoor Prison. No, better yet – how about HMS Victory?’
Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Victory might be problematical. But how about the Cutty Sark? Or the Grand Turk? She’s moored in Whitby.’
I grinned. ‘Hornblower’s ship. How fitting.’
Peter didn’t miss a step. ‘Mr Wellard, you mean. One of the best canings in mainstream film,’ he said.
Shaun laughed delightedly. ‘I could be up for shooting that one,’ he said.
Shaun was thirty-six and a native Londoner. He didn’t have Peter’s fine education or his accent, but Courtney clearly liked her bit of rough. They made an odd pair – the fetish photographer and the delinquent Southern belle.
‘Where’d you two meet?’ I asked, curious.
Shaun nodded towards Peter. ‘Same place you did. Courtney was posting to the forum as “Little Miss Naughty”, just begging to be taken in hand.’
Courtney sniggered at that. ‘My brother would certainly agree. But he thinks we met at the Tate Gallery.’
‘Very civilised,’ Peter said approvingly.
I turned to Shaun. ‘What about you? Have you always been into this?’
He grinned at Peter. ‘Full of ‘satiable curtiosity, isn’t she?’ he asked.
I blushed. ‘The Elephant’s Child’ had been one of my favourite stories growing up. But if my mother was curious why I always insisted on her reading that one over all the others, she never asked.
‘I didn’t have any single defining episode like Courtney,’ he said. ‘I sort of found my way here through S&M. I had to search and refine what it was that worked for me until I arrived at spanking. For the longest time I thought Story of O was as close as I’d get to my own fantasies. There were some hot elements there, but it still wasn’t quite right.’
‘Not enough punishment,’ I agreed.
‘Well, it wasn’t that,’ Shaun said. ‘There just wasn’t any spanking. I don’t mind if a girl enjoys it. I certainly enjoy it when I’m on the other end.’
I blinked. ‘Oh, are you a switch? I hadn’t realised.’
‘He’s a slut,’ Courtney corrected. ‘I’m the switch.’
Now I was really intrigued. I’d never had girl-girl spanking fantasies. But I could certainly see Courtney as a top.
‘I can’t even imagine spanking anyone,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I only ever fantasise about being spanked myself.’
Courtney nodded. ‘Yep. That’s how I used to be. Then one day I just got curious. And I had a more than willing guinea pig.’ She squeezed Shaun’s knee.
Shaun turned to me. ‘And you? How’d you fall into this?’
‘I’ve been fascinated by it for as long as I can remember. Though of course I didn’t understand it when I was little. I just knew that there were certain scenes in books and movies that made me feel funny. I didn’t know they were sexual feelings.’
‘Psychosexual,’ Peter corrected.
‘Yes. The focus wasn’t on sex or sexuality, but control. It’s hard to describe. There was something oddly reassuring about those idealised discipline scenarios. There was no ambiguity in what was expected of you. You did what you were told or you got punished. Then you were forgiven. That was it. The simplicity was comforting.’
‘Someone to watch over you,’ Peter said.
‘Quite. The worst that ever happened was that you got a sore bottom. But you were always taken care of.’
Courtney absently wound a lock of hair around one finger, considering. ‘Though perhaps not always so lovingly,’ she said at last.
I understood completely and I smiled. ‘No. Not always.’
‘Sometimes mistreatment can be hot.’ She crossed her legs and folded her hands coyly on her lap, pretending to be embarrassed by the admission.
‘I know what you mean,’ Shaun agreed. ‘Something sort of clicked for me in a secondary school literature class when we read “Galloping Foxley” – you know, Roald Dahl. In a rather different mode than Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.’
‘Oh, I loved that story!’ I cried. ‘I read it at school too and was so afraid everyone could tell I was reacting to it.’
Peter grinned knowingly beside me. ‘Me too. I remember resenting having to read it to begin with. I thought it was a children’s story. But the first mention of caning got my attention. I must have read it a hundred times.’
‘That was the first time I pictured myself as a boy,’ I confessed dreamily.
Courtney raised her eyebrows to me. ‘Oh, really? Do tell.’
I blushed. ‘Well, in so many girls’ school stories … the girls have it easy. Lots of times they didn’t even get told off. I got sick of reading girls’ school stories where there was no punishment. I felt cheated. But boys got treated differently.’
‘Too right they did!’ Shaun laughed. ‘That’s certainly how it was at my school. The girls got it on the hand while we had to bend over for it. We had to take cold showers too – stand there in the glacial spray with our teeth chattering for sixty seconds.’
I felt cold just thinking about it. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘Oh, you’d be numb after that,’ he continued. ‘There was also a sadistic gym master – Kendrick. He loved to line up a row of us and whack us with an arrow. Nothing like that ever happened to the girls.’
‘Mmmm,’ Courtney purred. ‘Across those tight white schoolboy gym shorts. That must have smarted.’
I giggled, enjoying the image.
‘Well, there was no discrimination at my school,’ Peter said sadly. ‘There weren’t any girls.’
Shaun looked at him with mock sympathy, but I squirmed in my sea
t, remembering what he’d told me about his school days.
Peter continued. ‘My housemaster, Mr Carew, was rather fond of the slipper, especially at bedtime. So were the prefects. They weren’t allowed to use the cane, so they made sure a slippering was no small punishment.’
‘And you Brits think the paddle is crude,’ Courtney said, laughing. ‘Whacking boys’ bottoms with a gym shoe – really! Well, if it makes you feel any better, I sure as hell wasn’t spared. I got sent to the principal a few times. And my cheerleader coach didn’t spare the paddle either.’
‘You were a cheerleader?’ I asked.
‘Yep. Still have the uniform.’ She and Shaun exchanged a meaningful grin.
‘So … what was it like?’
‘Well, for starters it’s nothing like as formal. Americans don’t go in for all the ritual, I guess. No uniforms, none of this “sir” and “miss” stuff. When you get paddled you just bend over and grab your knees and they give you a couple of swats. When I was in school it was a mark of distinction to get whacked. Practically a fashion statement.’
‘But it must have hurt!’
She gave me a conspiratorial wink. ‘Let’s just say that if you were lucky you were wearing jeans when you got busted.’
‘But if you were unlucky,’ Shaun interjected, ‘you got caught misbehaving in your cheerleader uniform.’
Her cheeks flushed and she reached for her wineglass. ‘Well, I guess I knew I’d have a kinky English boyfriend someday, now didn’t I?’
‘There are some American rituals,’ said Peter thoughtfully. ‘There’s the woodshed.’
‘Oh, right,’ Courtney said, laughing again. ‘Them was the good ol’ days when your pa used to take you out to the woodshed for a whipping with the razor strop. Or send you into the woods to cut a switch.’
The conversation was making me feel light-headed. ‘That’s heavy stuff,’ I said, remembering Tom Sawyer.
‘But it’s not ancient history,’ she added. ‘There are schools in the States that still use corporal punishment today. Mostly in the South, of course.’
I shook my head, mystified. I felt for those unfortunate miscreants, but I couldn’t help wondering how many of them were future spankos just like us. Were they being created? Or just awakened?
My bottom is served up to him for discipline and I clench my cheeks in anticipation, waiting for the first stroke. It’s always the hardest one to take. The birch is familiar to me now, but that doesn’t lessen its bite.
I stare at the spill of shadows on the floor. The rod draws back to strike and I watch, transfixed, as the shadow-man raises his arm. My thighs quiver with the effort of holding still and I watch the arm swing down sharply in an arc.
The birch whistles through the air with a ferocious hiss and strikes my bottom in a burst of fire. It’s nothing like the cane. The bite of the birch is instantaneous and agonising. All my nerve endings come wildly, shockingly alive. But, with my weight on my hands on the floor in front of me, all I can do is arch my back into it. Surf the pain.
‘One,’ I gasp at last. ‘Thank you, sir.’
It’s how he always expects me to count. It’s become second nature to me.
He waits a few seconds for the rise and fall of the pain. Then the arm lifts up again.
This time I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. The second stroke covers the first, the flexible switches lashing round and into every unprotected bit of flesh. I can’t restrain my scream. My legs kick impotently in the aftershock as I gasp for breath, twisting as though I can escape the relentless rising sting. I climb with it to a place where I can absorb it and, when I’ve found my voice again, I count.
‘Two. Thank you, sir.’
I’ve a long way to go yet. The only comfort lies in knowing how many strokes I’m getting. There’s no way to mitigate the pain. It just has to be endured.
Eleven
Discipline (noun)
1. Training intended to guide development, especially to produce behavioural improvement.
2. Punishment intended to train or correct.
‘HOW ARE YOU getting on with your thesis, Angie?’
‘Erm …’
Peter looked surprised.
I wasn’t sure what to say. We hadn’t talked about my thesis since the night I’d first told him about it – when I’d met him at dinner.
‘Have you done any work at all on it this past week?’
‘Well, not exactly, I –’
‘Not exactly? What is that supposed to mean? I want a straight answer, young lady.’
I was caught. Equivocating wasn’t going to save me. I blushed and looked down at my feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured.
‘I’m sorry what?’
My face burnt as the blood rushed to my cheeks. ‘Sir. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘I expect that you are, but I want to hear what you’re sorry for.’
Feeling like a schoolgirl again, I stammered out what he wanted to hear. ‘Sorry for not doing my work, sir.’
‘Look at me, Angie.’
I lifted my head to meet his eyes.
‘I realise you’re settling into a new life,’ he began patiently. ‘And that it’s very exciting. I’m willing to make reasonable allowances for that, but it’s no excuse for neglecting your responsibilities.’
I squirmed a little at his words.
‘I’ve been giving this some thought over the past few days, and it’s clear that you need some encouragement. I need to push you. I am therefore instituting a new schedule for you. Come with me.’
Apprehensive, I followed him up the stairs and into the schoolroom. He indicated one of the desks and I sat obediently.
Peter leant back against the teacher’s desk, his arms crossed. ‘You’re a very bright girl,’ he said. ‘But you lack application. You lack discipline.’
I sucked my lower lip as he scolded me. This would be hot in a roleplay, I thought. But this wasn’t a roleplay.
‘With proper guidance and encouragement you could have achieved far more than you did in school. I think you’d have responded well to corporal punishment, properly administered. And it’s not too late. I know what you’re capable of and I intend to see that you achieve it.’
He reached behind him and retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk. I wondered when he had decided all this.
‘Every weekday morning you’re to put on your school uniform and report here at eight sharp. I will inspect your uniform and if I am satisfied you may start work on your thesis.’
‘In here?’ I asked sheepishly.
‘Yes. I think you will work better in an old-fashioned school environment, where you are subject to punishment for not following the rules.’
My stomach tightened into knots as I registered this new turn of events. This was the true consequence of my rash honesty over the Net. In my desperate eagerness I’d revealed myself entirely without even considering where it could lead. This man knew exactly how to humble and dominate me. More than that: he knew exactly what I needed and even secretly wanted, yet still dreaded.
‘When I come home from work I’ll check what you’ve done that day. If I feel you haven’t applied yourself, I will punish you. If it’s a minor infraction, I will put you over my knee and spank you. I may also set you impositions. However, if I feel you’ve been culpably neglectful, then the punishment will be rather more severe.’
My heart gave a little flutter.
‘I’ve drafted a schedule for you,’ he said, holding the paper out to me.
I took it with trembling hands and read over it. I was allowed a break for lunch, and short breaks for tea, but the rest of the time he expected me to be working. The goal was five hundred words a day, or notes as evidence of seven hours’ work.
Peter removed his glasses and polished them nonchalantly while I read. His utter confidence was both comforting and unnerving.
‘I’m not unreasonable,’ he said. ‘Nor will I look for excuses to punish you. On the contr
ary, I hope you will make me proud. However, I won’t hesitate to be strict if I feel you need it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I felt belittled and frightened, but there was an undeniable frisson of arousal.
‘Very good. Now, in a little while I’m going to spank you. This is less a punishment than a reminder. I have something else in mind for formal punishments. For severe infractions you will be birched.’ He paused to let that sink in before dropping the real bombshell. ‘Do you remember that Family Herald letter that intrigued you so much? The one about the ritualised discipline in the school in Edinburgh?’
I nodded, suddenly very worried. He took something else from the desk and held it out to me. It was a folded white garment. I took it with uncertain hands.
‘Unfold it.’
I shook it out and held it up. It looked like a hospital gown – closed in the front, with strings to tie it closed in the middle of the back. If I bent forwards in it, the flaps would fall to either side, baring my bottom.
‘You are to keep this punishment gown in your desk. When you are due a severe punishment, I will send you out to cut switches to make a proper birch rod. Once I have approved it, I will send you up here to change. You will put on the gown and stand in the corner to wait for me, hands on your head. I expect the rod to be sitting on your desk when I come up to deal with you.’
My heart was throbbing so hard it was almost painful.
He nodded at the birching block against the wall. ‘When I’m ready you will place the block in the centre of the room and kneel on it, presenting yourself for punishment. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I breathed.
‘I take your education very seriously, Angie. I want you to take full advantage of your opportunities. And I won’t be satisfied with work I feel is beneath your abilities.’
I swallowed. ‘No, sir.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘Very well, then. Stand up.’
I got shakily to my feet, clasping my hands behind my back. Peter took the austere straight-backed chair from behind the desk and set it down. He unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it off, arranging it carefully over the back of the chair. Then he began rolling up his right sleeve.
