Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown

by Daniels, Alan

  Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown

  Alan Daniels

  Published by Alan Daniels

  Copyright 2012 Alan Daniels

  Chapter One

  In my fantasy I bend to his knee I am his Entirely;

  Outside, a warm breeze gathers and sighs a whisper of silk falls from my thighs; Naked now, I wait, I taste, the first sweet sting of his embrace; Moist in my dark place my cheeks blush

  with desire;

  It does not cease I am on fire Untitled by CM Jones

  I wrote that. Sweet, isn't it? I love poetry. One day my poems will be published, The Collected Works of Catherine Mallory Jones, and I wonder if I will have to appear on the literary talk shows and explain this one. I didn't give it a title. People – even my mother, I dare say – could read it and not be entirely sure what it's about although my Nan would twig in a minute. Secretly, I call it Ode to Spanking, which for me is an entirely imagined and unconsummated experience that has dominated my fantasies since puberty. But time is running out if it's going to happen before I leave school. Next week is the end of term and tomorrow is my 18th birthday. Although I lost my virginity last summer in a fumbling encounter behind the church with a boy I used to know from Sunday school, my desire to be erotically disciplined so far remains frustratingly unfulfilled.

  Honestly, only my best friend and roommate Jennifer Emerson knows how desperately I long to be thrust over a man's knee and soundly spanked for some real or imagined transgression. Oh, and my Nan knows too, which seems only fair as she has so far taught me everything I know about sex. She tells me stuff I could never discus with my mother.

  "Catherine," she told me during a visit to her little seaside cottage one blustery Sunday afternoon, "I have taught you to sew and to knit and to play chess and I feel I have some standing in matters of your social education. Now I want to teach you about your body and the wonderful ways to celebrate femininity. She told me about Germaine Greer. "Australian feminist, you've heard of her, haven't you, dear? She wrote a marvelous piece entitled Lady, Love Your Cunt. It's an inspiration. I think I have it somewhere, I'll send it to you. Am I shocking you? Surely not. More tea, dear?"

  It was Nannie Burton, a music hall star in the 40s, who taught me how to exercise my vaginal muscles as a hands-free method of bringing myself to orgasm. What you do is to clench and unclench them putting direct pressure on the clitoris. It takes practice, but once you get the hang of it you can get off almost anywhere. I remember once during a family outing to Brighton on the train, I was seriously into it, staring innocently out of the window as the fields and hedgerows drifted by. I must have had a look of contentment on my face instead of the usual adolescent scowl I normally wore during family trips because mother asked me if I was feeling alright. "She's fine, dear," said Nan who obviously guessed what I was up to and abruptly changed the subject.

  So I read Germaine Greer and by chance I read something in the New Yorker that I swear to you changed my life. I was in my dentist's waiting room thumbing through his stack of old magazines when I came across a piece by an American journalist, Daphne Merkin, who confessed in a lengthy essay that when she was my age she fantasized about having her bottom spanked and although it didn't happen to her for the first time until she was in her mid-twenties, she became obsessed. I could have hugged her. It was an immense relief to know that what I was experiencing, the longing, the deprivation, the mortification – if that's the right word – had been hers when she was my age. I smuggled the magazine out of the dentist's office and read it time and time again. Parts of it I can recite by heart: "Although I tend to be loquacious bordering on confessional with my friends about my interest in erotic discipline and what it might suggest about me necessitated a degree of privacy that I was otherwise disinclined to observe. But even as I write the foregoing I feel a sense of relief (as well as shame) at finally giving voice to this confession, at putting down on paper, under my own name what I know to be true of myself."

  All women, she suspects, have a secret longing to be spanked as "a facilitating prelude to the enactments of lust," and when I read that, I wanted to stand up and cheer. Yes, that's me. I am not weird. What I am feeling is normal. She will never know how much strength she gave me and renewed confidence in my own sexuality. Like me, she could not remember a time when she didn't think about it as a sexually gratifying act – "a heightened and deeply pleasurable sense of exposure, of the helpless display of my bottom."

  I have a great ass. Nobody, except Jen, has told me so, but I know what I see in the mirror and I have studied anatomy and the history of art. During summer holidays with my parents I visited many of the great galleries of Europe and I have admired the nudes of the Renaissance painters. Believe me, my ass is the fairest of them all, plump, firm, and perfectly round. Think of Ursula Andress emerging from the ocean in Goldfinger or Bo Derek cavorting on a sandy beach. That's me, a perfect 10.

  After lights out, Jen and I frequently conspire about how to get a man to spank us. As junior girls we had a schoolgirl crush on each other and I, being almost a year older and a head taller, was the authority figure. For Jen to be bent over and spanked seemed to us to be sweet and right. She has a pretty bottom with pearl white skin that reddens easily. We devised scenarios to add authenticity, homework not done, her borrowing things without asking. Some days Jen would deliberately provoke me early on and it only took one look of disapproval on my part to tell her she was going to get it later and we both could savor the prospect as the day dragged on. After lights out she would come to my bed for her punishment and I would tell her to her to bring me a slipper. When applied to her bare bottom it was quieter than my hand and we didn't want to be disturbed by any nosy teachers who might be prowling the dormitory corridors. I would keep her waiting standing at my side before bending her over. It was wonderful moment of submission, vulnerability and trust. By this time we were both aroused and I would pull down her pajamas and lightly run my fingertips across her buttocks as a signal I was about to begin. The sexual tension was exquisite, almost unbearable.

  Yet for all the schoolgirl satisfaction this brought, I could never imagine our roles being reversed. As the American writer confessed when she discussed with her friend how to get a man "to do it" the idea of actually announcing that one wanted to be spanked "was compromising beyond words." I felt the same way.

  All these thoughts were passing randomly through my mind as I walked along the cliffs at Shoreham, skirting the Lazy Daze Campground where there seemed to be a bit of a kerfuffle going on with much shouting in German that I couldn't understand. I was on my way back to school after an afternoon in town, which was permitted on Saturdays to senior girls in school uniform. I paused at the head of the sweeping circular driveway and read, for the umpteenth time, the tasteful copperplate signage announcing the Chiltern Hills Academy (founded 1856), R.C. Montgomery, Principal.

  As usual my heart skipped a beat.

  Like a lot of the senior girls, I had a crush on Raymond Charles Montgomery. He was athletic and good looking, at 38 the youngest headmaster of a prestigious private school in Britain. A graduate of Oxford University and Sandhurst Military College, he had apparently served with distinction in Iraq where he had been decorated for bravery. I don't need to tell you that R.C. Montgomery had a lead role in my fantasies. But in a few days I would walk down this drive for the last time and my school days would be behind me. And then suddenly it came to me, inspired I suppose by desperation or expediency, a plan so audacious it might just succeed. I could hardly wait to share it with Jen.

  "Are yo
u crazy?" she said. "He'll see through it in a moment. You could be expelled even at this stage. Worse, he might call the police. You could be accused of entrapment, or sexual harassment. Certainly he would tell your parents." She giggled. "I think it's brilliant. Go for it, girl. You're both adults. What man in his right mind would pass on the opportunity? Hey, next term you will be at Cambridge. What have you got to lose?"

  Excitement was already building inside me and at that moment I actually believed I could make it happen. I would forge a letter to the headmaster requesting that I be disciplined for showing disrespect to a senior staff member, one of the most serious offences at the Chiltern Hills Academy. And if it all went hideously wrong, I would claim it was an end of school prank, deny I had any intention of going through with it, it was a just a crazy lark, I was dared to do it. One thing I knew for certain is that Raymond Charles Montgomery has a reputation as a risk taker. Preparations took all day Sunday, including composing and writing a letter in the spidery hand of my home room teacher, Elsie Cunningham. It was a birthday treat to myself.

  At 6 p.m., when I knew R.C. would be in his office, I tied my long red hair in pigtails, a nice touch, I thought, which made me look younger, put on a fresh uniform consisting of a knee-high plaid skirt (although it was above the knee on a tall girl like me) white cotton blouse buttoned to the collar and long white socks. Beneath my skirt my cotton knickers were regulation school issue, baggy and navy blue, but I had chosen the thinnest pair I could find, worn threadbare from a hundred washing cycles. Clutching the note I had written, I started the long walk to his office, pausing at the high windows that look out onto the quadrangle in an attempt to slow my heart beat. For a few minutes I listened to the wind in the chestnut trees and watched the rain sweeping down from the hills, tramping in over soggy playing fields. Hard on the rain came the dusk and far off on the horizon there was a flash of lightning. Out to sea a storm was building. I counted the seconds until I heard thunder. Six. My lucky number.

  No turning back now. I knocked at his door, was summoned, entered and stood before his desk. I handed him the note I had painstakingly written.

  Headmaster,

  I am sending you Catherine Jones, a senior girl, to be disciplined. Catherine is a bright and creative student and likely will do well in life. However, she is headstrong, willful and disrespectful, which I cannot accept. She needs a firm hand to show her the error of her ways. This will serve her well in later life but the lesson must be administered now.

  In the past, I have tried to counsel her, even reprimand her, without result. I am of the opinion that a sound spanking from the Headmaster would teach her a valuable lesson. The humility of being treated like a junior girl would, I believe, be motivation to be more respectful to her superiors. I trust you will attend to this matter as you see fit.

  Respectfully,

  Elsie Cunningham

  As he read, I recited it in my mind. 'A firm hand…a sound spanking,' an artful choice of words, I thought. I almost smiled. Already I was imagining being over his knee.

  When he finished reading he put the note down as if it were a fine piece of parchment. I glanced at his hands, his long fingers like a pianist's. What sweet music would they make?

  He interrupted my reverie.

  "Do you know what this note says, Miss Jones?"

  For the first time, I looked up and our eyes met.

  "No sir," I lied. He would get no help from me.

  It was a crucial moment. If he had hesitated, I faced ignominy and shame. Certainly my parents would be involved. But he was a risk taker, that's what was said of him. And he was about to take the biggest risk of his career.

  "Miss Cunningham says you are disrespectful. This cannot be tolerated. She has requested that you be spanked like a junior girl. Do you have anything to say?"

  "No sir, I'm sorry, sir." I felt weak with anticipation.

  "I am inclined to agree with Miss Cunningham." He stood up. "You have the right for her to be present while I administer the punishment?" He reached for the telephone. "Shall I send for her?"

  This was a sign. We both knew that corporal punishment had been banned in English schools since the '70s. What was about to happen was between consenting adults in private.

  "No sir," I whispered.

  "Very well."

  He said nothing more. He rose from his chair and locked his office door. He pushed a button on his stereo and I heard the faint opening refrain of Ravel's Bolero. Perfect. From my days in the percussion section of the school orchestra, I know this piece well. Starting slowly, almost hypnotically, building to a rousing crescendo, Ravel's most famous composition resonates with the erotic rhythm of snare drums. Torvill and Dean won Olympic gold medals ice dancing to it. Now, apparently, I am going to be spanked to it. It is a long piece – about 15 minutes – time enough to fulfill the fantasy of Catherine Mallory Jones. But R.C. Montgomery is in no hurry to proceed.

  My eyes never left him as he took out his Punishment Book and made an entry, or pretended to. He put the book away, rose from his chair and walked across the room to the high windows where he looked out for a full minute at whatever the storm had to offer before drawing shut the velvet curtains. He was playing his role to perfection. I was barely breathing as if the slightest movement on my part would break the spell.

  By this time Bolero was entering its middle phase, the pace quickening, intensity rising. According to critics, it is the rhythm of love making, which is probably why it is one of the few pieces of concert music to have broad public appeal. In the swinging sixties, rock and roll was blamed for corrupting young people with the same provocative beat. I looked around. The dark oak paneling of his study was partially obscured by rows of books mostly in Latin or Greek. There was a large portrait of the school's founder looking suitably stern and scholarly and a framed photograph of the Queen, the school's Patron. A coal burning fireplace in the wall opposite the windows cast a flickering glow on the Persian rug before it. A large glass-topped desk occupied the center of the room and behind it, the headmaster's hard backed chair.

  Slowly and deliberately he took the chair and placed it on the rug with its back to the fireplace. He took off his jacket, folded it and placed it carefully on his desk top. I felt a tremor of fear, but it was too late to back out now. He sat legs together and motioned for me to approach.

  Seconds seemed like hours.

  "Bend over."

  Slowly, I did so. His thighs felt firm and warm. Then with an abruptness that caused me a sudden intake of breath, he pulled up my skirt.

  God, finally, finally, I was in the position I had craved for so long, over a man's knee, about to be spanked. This was beyond my wildest dreams.

  "Pull your knickers down."

  The way he said it, the quiet, stern voice of authority, made me shudder. As I moved to comply, he assisted, slipping them to my knees. For several seconds he appeared to be concentrating on the music, but I knew he couldn't take his eyes off me. I clenched and unclenched my cheeks. Minutely, he adjusted my position and I thrust up my disrespectful bottom for punishment.

  I felt his fingertips.

  Seconds passed. Then, abruptly, his hand fell hard, then again and again, alternating cheeks. Pain fused with pleasure and became a single, wonderful, overpowering sensation. Whatever his thoughts on the legitimacy of the note, he was giving Miss Cunningham her money's worth. Sometimes the spanks were in time to the music, other times they were offbeat, fusing anticipation and gratification in equal parts. If I guessed right, I could raise up slightly to meet each delivery. Bolero had entered its final phase. Now French horns joined the chorus of clarinets, oboes, flutes, piccolos, trumpets and saxophones. My whole being vibrated to the music's incessant rhythm. the orchestra was my witness. Then as suddenly as he had started, he stopped. Was my punishment over? Please no. I half rose, only to feel a restraining hand on my back. My ass was stinging.

  The best was yet to come.

  I counted the span
ks. One. A gap. Two, three, four. in quick succession. Then another pause. Five. A longer pause. Six. I gasped. Six of the best. My bottom was on fire. For a few seconds his hand rested where it had fallen. Instinctively, I parted my legs and felt his fingers slide towards my sex. As he touched me, I cried out. It was too much. The ritual, the excitement, the release, and now this, was more than I could stand. As Bolero reached its tumultuous climax so did I, adding my cries to the clash of cymbals.

  He let me lay awhile, then I stood, giving him a glimpse of my downy thatch now damp and matted. He made no comment.

  Then he said quietly, "You may get dressed."

  But he was not yet finished.

  "I sense that you have more to learn, Miss Jones. You will return at 6 p.m. tomorrow."

  "Yes sir."

  Softly, I closed his office door behind me and almost ran to my room. In front of the mirror, I pulled down my knickers and took a long look at my bottom. As I did so I heard the room key and Jen came in, calling out, 'How did it go…?" She stopped in her tracks, "Oh my God, he did it. I can't believe it. Oh my God." She knelt down and kissed me tenderly. "It's so red, Cat. Does it sting?"

  I told her the whole story, sparing no details except his order to return. "Can you show me how he did it," she said. "Do it like he did it. Can you, please?"

  "I don't know, Jen," I teased her. "We'll see, after lights out." I hugged her and held her tight. "Can you hum Bolero?"

  Outside our window, the late summer storm gathered momentum. Lightning repeatedly scorched the night and peals of thunder rolled back and forth across the heavens.

  Broken children in crumpled houses dug from the rubble for burial; Who now will fly their kites?

  From Afghanistan by CM Jones The day after the great storm it was casual day at Chiltern Hills Academy when senior girls are permitted to wear their own clothes. Nothing revealing, no logos, but otherwise the choice is ours. The clock crawled. At five, I showered, put on a thong (forbidden) and a black bra. I chose a plain green t-shirt, the color of my eyes, and squeezed into my tightest pair of jeans. I tied a school sweater around my waist for the long walk to his office and I wore no makeup, because this also was forbidden. The long wait, the anticipation, the memories of yesterday, had excited me. As a final touch, I unzipped my jeans, touched a finger to my secret place and dabbed behind my ears. I was ready. No one saw me approach his office. I removed my sweater and slipped it over my shoulders. I knocked and entered. The clock on his wall chimed six.