Taught to Serve

by Jaye Peaches

  Trying hard to write down the details with trembling hands, she heard the door behind her open. Mr Tolchard had returned to check on her progress. Straightening up, she stood by the table.

  “I’ve come to inspect you, Casey,” he said walking towards her.

  “Inspect me? Now, sir?” she said surprised.

  “Yes, Casey, now.”

  He stood very close to her, and for some reason the proximity reminded her of their first meeting. She had to confess that at the time he was not what she expected. In his mid-thirties and still possessing a fine head of dark hair, he was younger than she had envisaged for a professor turned eminent writer. He had been dressed smartly—as she now knew he always was—with a tie underneath his pullover and polished black shoes. She had felt quite uncouth sitting next to him in fact.

  * * *

  Meeting Rob Tolchard for the first time was the strangest day in Casey’s life. If anyone had told her she would meet the man of her dreams on the day in question, she would have bitten their head off in disbelief.

  She was crying when they met. Sitting on a park bench in faded jeans, on a rather dreary day, with leaves floating about in the air, she had quietly let the tears drip down her cheeks. He was walking by, as many had done while ignoring her, except as he came by, he slowed up and then stopped to backtrack to where she was seated.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  Now to Casey, it was an odd question. Not ‘are you crying’, or ‘are you all right’. It was straight to the point. Why was she crying? She hiccupped and look back at her inquisitor. Tall, dark, and yes, he was a handsome. Dressed in a suit with a camel overcoat, he exuded style while remaining distinctly in a different era. Did men still dress that smart and elegantly? Even his shoes shone brightly in the dull light.

  “Um,” she stuttered before attempting to wipe her nose on her sleeve.

  A handkerchief appeared from his coat pocket and was thrust into her hand. “Please do not wipe your nose like that. It’s pretty disgusting, and you’re clearly not a child.”

  The reprimand should have made her indignant, but somehow she felt ashamed at her lack of manners.

  “Thank you.” She blew hard into the soft white fabric. He did not ask for it back. “I feel like a child.”

  “Because you’re crying?” he said, hovering above her. “It’s alright to cry. It doesn’t make you immature.”

  “I suppose so. I don’t normally cry,” she said, brushing hair out of her eyes as he seated himself at the other end of the bench.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’m crying because I was fired today.”

  “Oh,” he said. “You’re clearly upset. Was it fair… to dismiss you?”

  “Yes. I’m not upset at that. I’m angry because I can’t seem to find a decent job which I enjoy doing.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Shop assistant.”

  “I see,” said the man, grimacing. “What happened?”

  Casey rocked her head from side to side, contemplating if she should tell the stranger about her failings in life. He had a kind face, charming too, but the edges of him seemed hard and stern.

  “I’m not a great one with people,” she confessed to the stranger. “Love reading about them, but don’t really interact. The shop was a fancy, expensive clothes shop. All the latest fashions, and the clientele were of the kind who knew they were the only ones who could afford to shop there. I mean, some were lovely and liked clothing. Others, well, let’s just say they wanted to dress up. Like kids do to show off.”

  “So you were a little curt with them?” he guessed.

  Casey blushed at his rapidly accurate appraisal. “Basically, I lost my patience too easily. They mucked about with sizes, wanting this, that colour, this length. Dumping things on me as if I was their personal carrier. Honestly, they were so unaware of how lucky they are.”

  “That got you fired?” said the man, bemused. “Tough boss?”

  “Well. I lost my motivation to work there. The years dragged on, and I’d given up on being anything useful. So, maybe being late a few times, swearing under my breath at customers, and reading books under the counter…” Her voice drifted into a mumble.

  “Books? You like to read then,” he noted.

  “Yes, all sorts. I studied history, but I didn’t really think through what to do next.” Casey loved history, especially the romantic notions of chivalry, the renaissance period, and grand houses filled with paintings. With it she had learnt mankind was quick to war and slow to peace. That part of history saddened her lively nature—too lively, according to her parents, who had been glad to see her off to college and away from their house. They had seen only the mess she made of her room, the constant stream of boyfriends, and the homework she had struggled to finish on time. Once at college, she had been fortunate to have a studious bunch of friends, without whom she would have failed to graduate.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked, pulling up his collar. The wind was changing direction, and the air was cooling rapidly.

  “I don’t know. I have this little pokey flat, and I can’t afford the rent without work.”

  “I need a personal assistant,” announced the man. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Robert Tolchard, and I am a professor of law. I write books.”

  “Really,” said Casey with a broad grin.

  “Law books.”

  Casey deflated slightly. She held out her hand and introduced herself, and they shook.

  “A personal assistant?”

  “Yes. To help me with my work. Organising, correspondence, and I travel too. I would need somebody to be in my house assisting me. Are you interested?”

  Casey could not believe what she was hearing. A job interview on a park bench, and she had just confessed to being useless at her last job. She asked him why. Why after telling him she had been rude and unhelpful to her customers.

  Mr Tolchard smiled. “You’re sitting here crying. I think you feel bad that you didn’t do a good job. Sometimes, when we’re disappointed with ourselves, it is the best time to start afresh and try really hard to be a better person.”

  Casey thought very hard about what he had told her and asked if they could meet again somewhere more appropriate, when she was not covered in drying tears and holding a snotty handkerchief. He smiled again and agreed. The next meeting took place at his house a week later.

  At their second encounter, she was dressed in her finest clothes, the ones she had bought discounted from her previous job. She smoothed down her skirt as she sat down. She wore a light sheen of make-up and had grown a few inches with her high heels. Mr Tolchard had greeted her at the door of his large house, and she was impressed with the architecture and furnishings. It was like stepping back in time, and she liked the ambiguity he portrayed in his home. The interview went well, better than she envisaged. Yes, she could type, she could communicate well on the telephone, and she could read quickly and summarise documents. No, legal jargon was a mystery to her, but she was a quick learner.

  She agreed to start work with him and to arrive at his house at nine o’clock each day and stay until five in the evening. He showed her the little room where she would check his emails, open his mail, and type up his dictations. Mr Tolchard arranged for her to take home some books on basic legal texts and terminology. Casey was delighted with her new job.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, she was in tears again. The string of mistakes and foolish errors she had made had mounted up. She was told he would no longer tolerate her silly remarks, the small stamps of her feet when he sent back an error-strewn document, nor the tardiness in her arrival in the mornings.

  “Casey, do you have it in you to work hard? To be valuable and appreciated?” he asked as she sulked in front of his desk, clutching another one of his tear-sodden handkerchiefs.

  “I do. I just can’t get my head into
gear. It’s like I’m split into two. I desperately want to do a good job, and then I find I lose my way. I’m distracted easily, and my focus drifts.” She looked at him with pitiful eyes. “Please help me, sir.”

  It was the beginning. A new contract was arranged between them. When Mr Tolchard told Casey what he wanted to do, she gaped at him and then found everything she wished for was slotting into place. Rob Tolchard was transforming into her chivalrous knight come to rescue her, and though his methods sounded unorthodox and slightly scary, she welcomed them.

  He gave her rules. He told her how he would punish her if she broke his rules.

  “Spank me!” she gasped. “I’m not a child!”

  “No, and I would never spank a child. That is the point. You are a mature adult with her own mind. Use it. Take what I have to offer you and let me shape you into someone you will love to be, and I will be pleased to call you my assistant.”

  Her first spanking was a nervous affair. When she was late to work, a mere ten minutes, he summoned her to his study. After a reminder about his rules and consequences, she asked to be spanked, saying the words with her eyes clearly fixed on his dark ones. He let her bend over the desk rather than have the indignity of being over his lap. Later she would find she preferred his lap.

  As an event in Casey’s life, it was imprinted indelibly in her memory. Her hands had been pressed flat on the surface of the desk. Her breath misted up the whorls of polished walnut. There was the shiver of anticipation when he lifted up her skirt and raised her bottom up. The plain white knickers remained in place, and he did not ask her to lower them. His hand was firm, and it swung back in a perfect arc before landing with a wallop. She jolted with surprise at the sting. His palm was steel-like and had morphed into an implement.

  His hand did not approach at right angles but instead slapped across her cheek as if he were clashing cymbals together.

  Left cheek.

  Right cheek.

  Left cheek, and so on.

  Methodically he moved back and forth until tears sprung in her eyes. Her first spanking was painful. The nerve endings had not grown accustomed to the onslaught and seemed super-sensitive. Mr Tolchard had been moderate in his force—though Casey at the time was oblivious to his restraint, and she felt only a pervasive hot burning sensation. Later, she found out what a hard spanking entailed. Back then, her legs stamped on the floor, and she reached behind to try to rub her flaming buttocks. Both actions were admonished by Mr Tolchard in a quiet, stern tone of voice. His other hand lowered her back down with a nudge in the small of the back. It did not frighten Casey to have him push her into position, and she felt relieved when he continued to hold her in place.

  She learnt he did not like her to move, that she should not cry out too loudly, and that she should show gratitude and meekness. She learnt to accept that what he did, he did for her and not him.

  After several weeks, things progressed. The spankings varied and became enticing to her. The second time he issued his punishment, she felt his cool hands lower her knickers to her knees, and then on the third occasion, he asked her to lay across his lap. Staring at the features of his expensive rugs became a spanking pastime as she tried hard to absorb the smacks. Some of them seriously hurt, but others made her feel wet and desirous. Each time he told her to take off her knickers, she felt his eyes on her. She loved his dark eyes.

  * * *

  His fingertips nudged her back and brought her back to the present, and as she stood there in his library, she was reminded he had the right to inspect her whenever he wished. It was in the rules. She was hesitating too long, and it did not do to keep him waiting. She knew the procedure well. Reaching up underneath her skirt, she pulled down her knickers and then turned to face the table. With both hands resting on the smooth surface, she bent over.

  “Lift up your skirt,” he commanded, and she almost exploded on the spot with the tone of his voice. Immediately, she tried to keep her legs squashed together. There was no way she could hide it from him. He did not need to touch her, he would see she was completely aroused and ready for what may come her way. Except she should not be and was not expected to be.

  “Casey, this is most displeasing,” he said softly. “What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing, sir,” she said indignantly. She thought he meant touching herself.

  “Then why do you appear so wet?” he asked.

  “Sir?” she said, and her hands trembled on the table.

  “Have you allowed your dirty little mind to tempt you again?” he said leaning over her and whispering in her ear. “What happened to our little discussion about focusing on your tasks?”

  “I did, sir,” she said pleading. “It was these books…”

  “Books?” He picked one up and thumbed through the pages of sweet making. “They seem innocuous to me,” he remarked.

  “I’ve very sorry, sir,” she said. “I did not keep my silly thoughts in check.”

  He shook his head in disappointment. “The punishment for failing to keep slutty thoughts out of your head is ten strokes of the paddle, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

  “Remain in position.”

  She waited, not moving as he went to fetch his preferred implement. A long wooden paddle with a leather bound handle. The surface was smooth, and the grain of the wood intricate and bold in places. He picked up the catalogue cards and appeared to be shuffling them about into a new order. He gave her his next instructions.

  “As I paddle you twice for each book, I’m going to read out the title of a book,” he told her.

  “In which language, sir?” she asked.

  “English, naturally. I want you to listen carefully.”

  Mr Tolchard read out the first title she had translated.

  “Bottoms up!”

  She lifted her bottom a little higher for him.

  Thud!

  “One, sir. Thank you.”

  Thud! The paddle landed twice on her naked bottom.

  “Two, sir. Thank you.”

  “Spread them wide!”

  She moved her feet a little further apart for him.

  The next title and another two strikes.

  “Bite down hard!”

  Casey gritted her teeth firmly together.

  “Six, sir. Thank you!” she barely could say the words without her legs battling to stay still. Her bottom now was ablaze.

  “Sucking sweetly,” he said in a softer tone, and she inhaled deeply through her teeth as if she was sucking on a straw. She repeated the sound as the next two strikes landed firmly on her cheeks.

  “Seven, sir. Thank you,” she gasped. “Eight, sir, thank you.”

  * * *

  Rob Tolchard was finding both the recital and spanking deeply entertaining. She squirmed, wriggled, and writhed about, and none of it was due to pain. He could clearly see her pressing herself over the table. The spanking was taking her to the brink.

  Rob had been gifted with more than he bargained for when he first offered Casey the post as his assistant. During her job interview, he had sat across from her behind his desk and could not take his eyes off her. A beauty, but with little grace or self-awareness. She had fidgeted terribly, tugged on her hair, and tapped her heels on the wooden floor. Rob had begun to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake and been overly ambitious. Then he had asked about her studies, and she had suddenly opened up with a wide vocabulary of words and an insightful analysis of her favourite period in history. Rob had seen her eyes brighten up with each passing minute. He had warmed to her rapidly and far too much. Crossing his legs, he had remembered he was a gentleman.

  He had always planned to discipline and tame her wayward manners, the barbed remarks, and sulky behaviour. What he had never anticipated was the romance, the need to be more than her employer, and the wish to be somebody special in her life. She had invited him with her rolling eyes, backchat, and flirty words. Th
ey had both known they were leading each other astray. What was meant to be discipline became pleasure, and what were stern words transformed into teases and lewd suggestions.

  After one particular spanking, when he had used his favourite wooden paddle on her naked bottom for some trivial cursing on Casey’s part, they had touched, and it was too much for them. Before they could stop themselves, they had found each other’s arms and had been swept away.

  Rob had explained to Casey what was happening to their relationship—how he saw things might develop, how they could find their way. He had offered to change the rules to reflect the new path they were following, and Casey had accepted them. She was no longer just his personal assistant. She had become much more to him, and him to her.

  “Nine, sir. Thank you,” she shrieked as the paddle flexed the cheeks of her buttocks with dimpled imprints. A deep redness was appearing rapidly and would remain for a while too.

  “Say the last for me, Casey,” he asked.

  “Poke my fire!” she groaned.

  It was a slip of the tongue. They both knew the reason why she had uttered the wrong word. He brought down the final blow.

  “Ten, sir. Thank you!”

  “Very good, Casey,” said Rob. “That was a hard lesson for you. You can stand up now.”

  Catching her breath, Casey rose up and let her skirt fall back down. She took the cards from his outstretched hand. “I should file these, sir,” she said carefully. “File them away.”

  “Yes, you should, Casey. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  As she bent over to reclaim her knickers, the clock on the mantelpiece struck six. The chimes echoed around the room, and she stood and turned to face Rob. The pair faced each other, eyes resting on eyes, and there was a pause as the final chime felt silent.

  “Well, Casey?” he murmured. “Lessons are over,” he reminded her. Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her lips. “Have you thought about it? Moving in with me? Being my full-time personal assistant?”