“Children!”
“Huh?”
“Don’t ‘huh’ me, you say ‘Pardon Miss Redman.’”
“You already sound like a teacher. Okay, ‘pardon Miss Redman’, what do you mean by calling out ‘children’ as a random comment?”
Cynthia and Allison were studying together in the front room of their flat. The room had been silent, save for the quiet hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen, until Cynthia had called out.
“Children. That is what I teach.”
“Duh!”
“No, I mean when people ask me what I teach I don’t want to say ‘Grade Four’ or ‘Maths’, I want to say ‘children’. I think that puts the focus in the right place.”
“Hey, that’s good. I like it.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s just as well, because you suck at Maths. And English: you should of said ‘children are who I teach’.”
“And you should have said ‘should have’ and not ‘should of’.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“You’re the one who made the random comment. I was working here in silence.”
Allison and Cynthia had been sharing a house for almost a year; a 2-up 2-down fifteen minutes’ walk from their university campus. Cynthia was in her final year of a Bachelor of Education, Allison in her final year of a Master of Arts. The women had met on campus four years earlier when they were volunteers in a Psychology clinical trial, and had become fast friends. It was their shared bizarre sense of humour which had decided them upon spending their final year of studies as housemates.
“Cyn, what are you reading now?”
“Psych. Developmental Psychology. Piaget.”
“Isn’t that a car?”
“No, pee-ah-shay, not purr-show. Piaget was a child psychologist, one of the big names in the field. All pre-service teachers have to read Piaget. What about you?”
“I’m writing a coursework essay on the South African Republic.”
“But isn’t it called the Republic of South Africa?”
“It is now, but it wasn’t in 1898. How is Monsieur Piaget?”
“Boring.
“Boer-ing?”
“Shut up, that joke only makes sense if you’re reading it. You can be too clever at times you know.”
“Not if you say it with an ‘every-corner egg-sent’. Boo-er.”
When visitors came to Allison and Cynthia’s house it was the banter between the two that stood out. It was always light-hearted, never spiteful, but it was very quick. It was one of Allison’s favourite things about Cynthia. That and the fact that Cynthia was a red-head, so there was always material for her wit.
“To be honest I’m just not seeing it.”
“Seeing what?”
“How this idea works. I know it makes sense to know the way kids think, because kids aren’t just little adults, but the stages of cognitive development are throwing me. What is a cognitive anyway? It sounds like something you’d find in an engine.”
“Hey, did you hear about the mechanical transporter plane that exploded over Japan?”
“No.”
“Yeah, apparently it was raining Datsun cogs...boom tish!”
“I’ll boom your tish in a minute.”
“Promises, promises.”
“And you wonder why I don’t take you seriously as a disciplinarian.”
Disciplinarian. Cynthia knew that this final year was make-or-break for her, and whilst Allison loved Cynthia for her cheeky wit, Cynthia loved Allison for the fact that she was three years older than her and had the nature of a no-nonsense person about her. Fun was fun, but when it was time to work then it was time to work. Allison had a scowl than could curdle milk, Cynthia desperately wanted to learn it to use in class.
“Do you need some discipline?”
SNAP! There it was. Allison had gone from smart-alec to guardian in a blink. Cynthia knew that she needed to snap-to just as quickly.
“No thank you Allison. But thank you.”
Allison spanked Cynthia. There was no other way to say it, for that is what took place. Sometimes it was for maintenance, sometimes for release of stress, and sometimes as discipline in the correct sense of the word. More aligned to training than punishment, Allison helped Cynthia to learn by keeping Cynthia’s mind on the job. Sometimes Cynthia needed tea, sometimes a back rub, sometimes a pat-on-the-back-across-the-lap. It had been the same for Allison when she was an undergraduate. There was nothing sexual about it, and it certainly wasn’t useful for many of the women they studied with, but according to the Psych Prac where they had met Allison and Cynthia knew that just under 20% of female students responded that they benefitted from regular or occasional “physical encouragement”. Following the end of the clinical trials Cynthia and Allison had continued to experiment upon each other, although Cynthia needed more assistance than Allison simply because Allison was further into her course of studies. Allison liked being smacked, but Cynthia needed to be.
------------
“Alla!”
“Are you shrieking for me?”
“All-aa!”
Allison came running. “What? Do you want me, or have you converted to Islam? I have told you my name is ‘Allison’.”
“I just got my essay back. On Piaget.”
“And?”
“Seventy-five...”
“Well done!”
“...out of one hundred and fifty. It was marked from 150 because it is worth fifteen percent of our final mark in Dev Psych.”
“Not so well done then.”
“No. I have asked if I may resubmit, and have been told I may. Will you help me?”
“Dearest one I would love to, but I am up to my eyes in Jan Smuts right now, and I know nothing about Peugeot.”
“Piaget.”
“See! How can I...oh. Oh?”
“Oh.”
Allison smiled. A kind smile. An ‘I will be delighted to help you smile.’
“You always make me scared when you smile like that Allison. It’s almost like you enjoy doing this.”
SNAP!
“You know that isn’t true Cynthia Dawn. It isn’t true at all. So how shall we do this?”
“You’re the boss, but it’s about my essay so...”
“Right. Put your essay on the desk, open it to the comment page, and assume the position.”
Cynthia did as she was asked. She cleared a space on her desk, first pushing back the keyboard tray of her computer. She laid the essay on the desk and flipped it open to where her lecturer had written his summary comments in pencil. She hated when they did that, used pencil rather than pen. It made the comments so hard to read. From Allison’s command Cynthia knew she would be reading the comments while her friend spanked her. It was just like that scene in ‘Secretary’, although James Spader would have been a much lovelier option.
“The writing is in pencil, it’s very feint.”
“Then you’ll have to bend over closer to the page won’t you?”
“Hmm.”
Cynthia undid the button on her slacks and dropped them to her knees. She was wearing tights underneath her trousers as she had been on a field-placement day at the local Infants School and so was in “teacher-dress”. As a teacher though she knew not to wear a dress. Her first day of sitting on the floor to read a story to Reception while the five year olds looked up her skirt had taught her that much. ‘Slacks for school, skirts for meetings’ was her motto.
She bent forward, and without awaiting further instruction began to read the comments aloud.
WHOOP!
It was the paddle. Cynthia liked the paddle. It was made of leather and whilst heavy and loud it didn’t hurt that much. The paddle was more for a reminder than anything else. Cynthia knew that if she had failed her assignment, or if Allison had found it first, then she’d have been receiving the hairbrush, or possibly ‘the bat’ which was a wooden paddle.
WHOOP! WHOOP!
Cynthia read through the comments twice, punctuated by Allison’s attention. She remained in place while Allison discussed the assignment with her, and various considerations of the lecturer’s comments. When a plan of action for the resubmit was in place, Allison called Cynthia across her knees.
SMACK!
The hairbrush upon the knickers. This was the ‘discipline’ part. Cynthia had been careless in her essay according to the comments. It had not been a lack of knowledge on her part but a lack of attention to good essay style, and to correct use of footnoting. She had pulled down her own tights and laid herself across Allison’s knees. She liked being across Allison’s knees, but she didn’t like being there having already bent over her desk first.
SMACK!
“Ow.”
---------------
“Thanks for seeing me Stevo.”
“You know you’re the only one who I allow to call me that.”
“Only because you know I would do it anyway.”
David Steven was in the final few weeks of writing what he hoped would be the final draft of his doctoral thesis. He had been one of the final year Psychology students who was monitoring the results of the clinical trial where Allison and Cynthia had met, and had remained in contact with the women. In truth he was happy to take some time away from the word processor to have some coffee with Allison, cabin fever had begun to set in and he had been losing concentration.
“How are things at home for you Allison? Are you still living in sin?”
“Living with Cyn is not the same thing Stevo; you know we don’t share a bed.”
“But I notice you share clothes, isn’t that her skirt you are wearing?”
“Women do that you know. She is on teaching prac this week and had run out of trousers, so she borrowed a pair of mine.”
“So things are good then.”
“Yeah. But I am worried about her.”
Allison had been concerned about Cynthia for a while. Sometimes when Allison went to talk to Cynthia it was like she wasn’t even there. Just a shadow, a silhouette, and what appeared to be a declaration from her friend that she needed space. Space Allison could handle, she too needed space, but the sense of the silhouette unnerved her.
“So are you still...ahem...continuing my research for me?”
“We spank each other if that is what you are asking.”
David shifted in his chair slightly, and seemed to have something in his pocket that needed attention. Allison smiled at him.
“And how is that...ahem...working out?”
“Well that’s the thing David, it isn’t. I mean I enjoy going over a knee as much as the next girl, but it seems in this case that the next girl isn’t benefitting from it. Cyn is really struggling right now, I can see that, but I feel as though my attentions aren’t really meeting her need.”
“So, what, she needs to be spanked more? More frequently? More forcefully? For a longer time?”
“I don’t know.”
“How are her marks?”
“Fading I think. I don’t know she won’t show me her bum.”
David laughed.
“No Allison, I mean her results.”
Allison blushed and put her hand over her mouth to stifle her own laugh.
“Oh. Of course. She is still doing well, but not nearly as well as she should be. She had to resubmit an essay on Piaget.”
“Ah. Did you know he did his PhD in snails? He was actually a Biologist.”
“That’s very close to fascinating future-Doctor Steven; I can barely contain my indifference.”
David smiled.
“Oh, sorry. That is what gets me into trouble with Cyn, I can be quite snappish. Sorry. But I am worried about my friend.”
“What can I do?”
“Are you serious in asking?”
“Yes. I like you two girls. You know that. We have been friends for three years now, and I value your...ahem...input...into my ongoing studies. As you know I have continued to keep track with some of the other women and men who participated in that study, and in fact had a long-term project going with several groups.”
“How is that?”
“Good. It’s good. Three groups of women. One group study as they do. One group is spanked regularly in a ‘maintenance’ set, and one group can ask for spanking ‘as and when’. I am tracking the results by the girls filling in diaries for me, and also with occasional clinical tests for endorphin levels and heart/breathing rate.”
“How do you do that?”
“The women come in to the lab to be wired up to monitors. Then we get them to sit a ‘spot quiz’ and then immediately afterward some are spanked and some are not. We monitor to see how their heart-rate and so forth is affected. Since the spankings are allocated at random the women don’t know whether they will be spanked or not.”
“Is any of that going to be useful for me?”
“I hope I could teach you how to spank Cynthia more effectively.”
“Couldn’t you just spank her for me?”
“That would disrupt your close friendship. I will consider it, but I want you to try first. However, the first thing you must do is stop asking Cynthia to spank you. If you are to help her to see you as a disciplinarian she needs to be...”
“Submissive? Ha, have you met Cynthia Redman?”
“I was going to say she needs to be comfortable in seeing you in that role. That she also spanks you, even for fun, can be disruptive to her forming the correct associations with your command to her to knuckle down.”
SNAP.
“I see it. I acknowledge that. Good point.”
David smiled. He had been told of Allison’s sudden change in focus and was pleased to have seen it. He would be asking Allison about that at a later time.
“Excellent. Now, how about I show you a technique to use with Cynthia.”
“Thank you David, that would be helpful. Now, what do I need to do?”
“Come here, young lady.”
“Ooh!”
------------
SMACK! SMACK!
“Do you see?”
“It’s more what I feel right now David.”
“But do you...”
SMACK!
“...get it?”
SMACK! SMACK!
“Oh I am getting it, don’t you worry.”
“That’s...”
SMACK!
“...my girl.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“Oof. Yes. Oww-wow!”
“Enough?”
SMACK!
“Yes tha...”
SMACK! SMACK!
“...ha-haaa-ank you Da... ”
SMACK! SMACK!
“...AAAavid.”
“Good. Stand up, and you may rub.”
“Ooooh!”
Allison regained her feet with some help from David, and immediately went to work upon rubbing her bottom. He had introduced her to several techniques, first by explanation and then by short demonstration. It had taken longer than Allison had hoped, so would not be travelling home on a crowded bus rather than the half-empty ones of an hour before. Not that she minded having to stand up, but she wasn’t looking forward to having her tended backside crushed and jostled by the crowd.
“So, you need to speak with her a lot more. Call her ‘girl’, that seems to be effective with many young women. Spend more time with her over your knee and with her outer layer removed but her underwear in place. Don’t be afraid to ask her to ‘bend over something’, it was good what you did with the essay but you should have perhaps used the soft paddle across your knee, for longer, and then the harder one as she was bent over the desk.”
“Yes sir.” Allison was still rubbing, sore bottom with one hand, tears with the fist of the other.
“And don’t be afraid to put it into perspective with her. Don’t go down the school-girl road with her, but treat her as a trainee teacher who needs to be trained in discipline. Use a ruler on her bottom. Use a cane, or a strap.”
“Oh no, she doesn’t like belts.”
“Then don’t use a belt. A belt is something men use to hold up their trousers and to beat women. Use a strap, without a buckle, or a Scottish tawse which is a discipline tool. You can think of it as a longer version of your leather paddle. Of course discuss this with her first. How are you?”
“Sore. But thank you. I ‘get the idea’, but I think I needed a spanking anyway. If you say that Cynthia shouldn’t be spanking me any more I suppose I should take what I can get.”
“I can always connect you with one of the other women in the group if you’d like. Or a man. I do not want to set up a fetish society on campus, but having opened Pandora’s Box for some of you I do feel responsible to you to continue your pastoral care in an ethical manner.”
Allison smiled and let her skirt drop back into place.
“A fetish society wouldn’t be so bad though. Miss Redman “a brain for school and a bottom for Cyn” has the most amazing nurse’s outfit I have ever seen. Spearmint green, long white stockings, she looks amazing with her long red hair.”
David adjusted whatever it was in his pocket.
“Oh, and speaking of stockings, I think you laddered my tights with that last flurry from the hairbrush. Either that or I caught a nail while rubbing away that amazing sting.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to have damaged Cynthia’s skirt now, would I?”
“No doctor,” winked Allison, “that would be my job. Totsiens!”
----------
“She really said that?”
Cynthia was sitting on the sofa in David Steven’s office at the University. She had completed her observation days at the school and had a week between then and her own teaching experience in the class to write up 1000 words of observations and conclusions. She had taken an hour away from the library to see David in his office.
According to David, Allison had been in to see him about her concerns about her, and had had some ‘observation and teaching experience’ of her own. Cynthia had also been feeling that Allison’s efforts to sustain an acceptable rate of achievement in herself had been falling short, and had come to discuss this with David.
“Great minds think alike.”
“And those of perverts are focussed only ever on the one thing anyway.”
“You have read me so well.”
“It’s what I do.”
Cynthia smiled.
“So, are you going to show me what you showed her?”
“No, I’ll let her do that.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Are you wearing underwear?”
“Why, would you like to see my bum?”
“I’d rather not. That’s why I am asking.”
“Fine. So, are you wearing underwear?”
“Yes.”
“Tights?”
“No.”
“Same.”
David smiled.
“I suppose I could give you a little demonstration then. Come here girl!”
---
Cynthia loved being over the knee. David wasn’t spanking her hard, and was only using his hand, but it was nice. Following their conversation she had stood up from the sofa and had lowered her trousers while David had pulled an armless chair from beneath a pile of books and set it in the middle of the room.
“Would you like one of these journals for the back of your pants?”
“That would rather defeat the purpose, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know Cynthia, I quite like a challenge.”
“Then I challenge you to spank me with the journal.”
“Next time.”
Cynthia had pouted. David had pulled on her arm and she allowed herself to be taken across his lap. He had scolded her for lowering her trousers, he told her he had intended only to spank her on her fully clothed bottom and that he had a good mind to tell her to pull them back up again. Cynthia was amazed at the feeling of peril in her stomach, and wasn’t certain whether it was the voice of the angry man across whose lap she lay, or the threat that her spanking might be withdrawn.
As she regained her posture and rubbed absently at her bottom, she’d not been spanked anywhere near tears, she considered how much she valued the presence of this man. Not that David was any sort of ‘catch’, but she knew that the gift of a male friend who was prepared to pull her trousers down and smack her bottom when her bottom needed to be smacked was not something to be blasé about.
Besides, he had called her ‘girl’, and she loved it when people called her that.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Annie Dream Will Do
Annie was a dreamer. She always had been. Her school reports at the end of each semester usually ran to a prescribed script, “If Annabelle were to apply herself she would see great improvement in her results,” or “Annabelle is often distracted by her own thoughts”. Her English Composition teacher thought she had struck gold when Annie entered her class at the beginning of the year; such an imagination was bound to produce a world of literary excellence. That gold soon dimmed, tarnished, and finally rusted down to powder as Annie continued to dream dreams and see visions, but neglected to put them on to the page. It seemed that there was no motivation, only meditation going on in this girl’s life.
Then BAM! Out of nowhere the tap was opened. Essays, accounts, recounts, narratives in the first, second, and third person, an amusing take in blank verse on “Humpty Dumpty” from the point of view of the Wall, and all with illustrations to match. Annie was an artist.
---
Annie was an artist, and like all artists Annie was alone. Sometimes lonely, sometimes solitary, always alone. Today was one of the days when she was happy to be by herself, but as ever in the senior dormitory at Willows House, the boarding house for St Cecily School for Girls, solitude was impossible to maintain.
« Ciao Anna, cosa stai facendo? »
“Oh hi Rina, just a bit of homework.”
Rina Coliardi was one of Annie’s two best friends, and had the bed two down from hers in the eight bed ward. Rina had recently turned sixteen and had been sent to St Cecily on a year’s exchange from her school in Florence.
« Quale soggetto studi? »
“English, as you should be.”
« Scusa, mi dispiace. »
“Then I have some Geography to complete for Miss Seine.”
« Ah, quello è amore. »
« Rina! Deve davvero parlare inglese. »
“Brava! Again I am sorry.”
« La prossima volta sarà colpito è sul fondo!»
“Then I shall speak English only, thank you for one last chance.”
Annie enjoyed the company of Rina, even if she did find her a bit chatty. Rina had left the room again and Annie was left with her thoughts. Quello è amore, “the one that you love”. Was her crush on Miss Seine so obvious? There truly were no secrets in a dormitory, but there was confidentiality. Even if Rina did know, she would tell no-one. Annie opened the folder that she had closed when Rina had startled her, and returned to her note:
Dearest sweetest Miss Seine
I like the skirt you are wearing today and the ribbon in your hair.
I love your hair and want to have hair just like yours.
I hate being pumpkin coloured,
I want to be dark and lovely,
Like you,
The almost All-Black Beauty.
Your Pumpkin xx
Annie winced. She had never been so personal in giving away her hair colour in these anonymous notes. What if Miss Seine discovered who she was?
---
Ella Seine’s heels clipped on the floor as she walked the short corridor between her classroom and the staff study lounge. Her twenty-second birthday had fallen on the previous Thursday and she had finally got around to collecting the small pile of cards that her girls had left for her. They had all been sweet and loving, profuse with little exes under their names, (and hers), and the posies of flowers from the Monsignor’s garden had made her happy, even if the groundskeeper was less impressed by the holes in his display.
One card however, more a letter than a card as it had been composed on orange-scented paper, had startled her a bit. She decided to show it to her school-appointed buddy, her senior colleague in geography, Ms Spark.
“Muriel, may I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course Ella. You look flustered, is all good with you?”
“Yes. I have been walking and I am gagging for a hot wet one.”
Muriel wagged her finger playfully.
“We’ll have none of that double entendre here Miss Seine. A young woman with a French name should not display such obviously New Zealander manners.”
“Bah, they sank The Rainbow Warrior. Sorry. Yes I am fine but I would like some tea.”
“What did you want to speak with me about?”
Ella showed her the letter.
Darling Miss Seine.
Happy Birthday Miss,
I hope it will be a beautiful day,
Because you are a beautiful woman,
And a beautiful person.
I trust you with my life.
With all the love of my
Heart.
Your loving and devoted Pumpkin.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
“Are you concerned by this Ella?”
“Confused is a better word Muriel. Is this not inappropriate?”
“It’s a simple teacher crush my girl. I’m sure you had them when you were a child.”
“Of course, but I never wrote love letters to the mistresses.”
“Bah, a crush girl. A woman as beautiful and as friendly as you should not be unaware of her effect upon her students.”
So long as that is all it is, thought Ella.
-----------
The letters from Pumpkin had continued to arrive. Sometimes they were slotted into her mark book on her desk during lessons, but not always the same lesson or the same year level, so there no clues there. Sometimes they arrived on her desk via internal mail, or were left in her pigeon hole in the staff lounge. Several came via her homework box where the girls could submit assignments as they were completed. These at least were date/time stamped. One arrived by post neatly addressed to her in an envelope “Miss Ella Seine, Dept. of Humanities, St Cecily School For Girls, Lower Bothering, Herts. SG27 0TK”. The postmark showed it had been sent the previous Saturday from Southend-on-Sea. None of the girls were from Southend, it was too far for the day girls to travel in, and the boarders had all been at Willows or Burrows.
It was a puzzle to Ella, but more of an enigma than a mystery. The letters were all sweet, flattering and confidential rather than erotic or dark, but it was still unsettling for her. She had shown several of the letters to Muriel Spark, but the older woman continued to pooh-pooh them as a “crush”.
---
Lower Ten was, despite its name, a group of very intelligent girls. It was Ella’s favourite group, smart and studious yet not so stressed as her A-Level girls were. Ella was early to class that day and set her desk up before quickly dashing across to the adjacent faculty room for a glass of water. When she returned, a pink slip of paper lay folded on her mark book. Ella noted that it had been carefully lined up so as to underline the box where she had written her name on the cover.
E is for elegant
L is for lovely
L is for lovely, (you are twice lovely)
A is for athletic, (I saw you coaching netball)
S is for smile, yours is beautiful
E is for extravagant, the gifts I want to bring you
I is for intelligent, as you most certainly are
N is for night-time, when I have you alone in my thoughts.
E is for erotic, those night-time thoughts.
Ella quickly filed the letter into the back of the book, deciding to keep it to herself.
The next morning Lower Ten produced another of the pink notes, with identical placement on the cover of her mark book.
P is for pretty, which I lack in abundance.
U is for ugly, which you lack in abundance.
M is for mother, and mountains, and MILF
P is for puella, the Latin for girl.
K is for kiwi, my second favourite bird from New Zealand.
I is for me, that is I. I love you Miss Seine.
N is for never, because I know you will never love me as I love you.
Beneath the poem was a sketch of a butterfly, whose each wing bore the name “Ella”. It sat on a jack-o-lantern whose human tongue was reaching out of its ugly mouth toward the butterfly.
---
In the front row of Lower Ten sat Annie, Rina, and their third musketeer Julie Carpenter. Annie liked to sit near the front; she said it was so that she was away from the trouble-making and attention seeking girls nearer the back. Rina sat near the front so as to be close to help with her English. Julie sat with Rina. Annie pretended to read her text book and peered over the top of it, watching Ella casually fingering the pink note. She had seen the teacher’s blush as she had read it, and the widening of her eyes when presumably she’d reached “MILF”. Annie knew she could never confess her love openly, but she knew that the casual notes were not enough to sate her feelings any longer. The drawing had been a boon for her, Annie was thrilled by the feelings she gained when that lusting tongue had come from her pencil. Annie liked that something she had produced had affected the emotions of Miss Seine; she only hoped it wasn’t going to end in tears.
---
“Deidre! Oh Dee I have missed you so. How are mummy and daddy? Is Setanta behaving himself?” Annie had been allowed to phone her parents and her younger sister had answered the phone. Annie loved her family, and whilst she was proud to be away from home and at St Cecily School she missed them all terribly. “Oh really? He’s a naughty doggie, a naughty NAUGHTY doggie. You tell him what a bad boy he is. But give him a snuggle-cuddle for me.” Annie smiled; Setanta had been into the neighbour’s yard and had left a big pile of his messiness right next to one of the old lady’s wellington boots. “Yes I am having a lovely time at school and I have made loads of friends”, Annie lied, “and the teachers are mostly nice. Oh it is a shame mummy and daddy are out, but you must give them my love! And you must have some for yourself Dreary.” Annie chuckled, “yes of course I remembered, oh ‘Fanny-smell’ is it? I see you also remembered. Okay sweetie pie, my love to all!!”
“Sweetie pie? What will Mademoiselle River-in-Paris say to know that you have been cheating on her?” Julie had snuck up behind Annie and was jabbing her in the kidneys in a failed attempt at a tickle.
“Mind your business Missus Sprays-duco.”
“Hey! I’m Carpenter, not Car Painter!” Julie feigned distress.
“It was my sister if you must know.”
“Big or little.”
“Little. I am the biggest. I wish I had a big sister.”
“You could always ask Miss Insane.”
Annie walked off, fuming.
-------------
Annie sat at her desk, drawing absently. She hadn’t really thought about it, she was just downloading her anger into scribble. Julie Carpenter could be such a bitch at times, but such a love at others. “Girls,” she said, “ha! Who needs ‘em?” Annie smiled, tore off the scribble, and began to work on something more defined.
---
“Ella I understand your concern, this is getting beyond what we might have thought acceptable.”
Ella was sitting in the Head Master’s office with the man himself, Fr Peter.
“Thank you Father. As a first-year teacher I wasn’t sure where ‘the line’ was, but I was pretty sure this last letter had crossed it.”
“And you have no idea who this girl is?”
“As I say, Lower Ten is where the last two notes came from, but there have been others.”
“Others?”
Ella reached into her bag and handed the pile across to Fr Peter.
“Southend is on the coast of Essex. We have no girls from Essex, it is in a different archdeaconate.”
“Yes, but look at the date. The week before then a team of girls from St Veronica’s at
Leigh-on-Sea had come to us for the hockey tourney. One of our girls may have confided in a friend and had her post the letter upon her return.”
“Your beloved is certainly resourceful Miss Seine.”
“With all due respect Father, I may be her beloved, but she is not mine.”
“Granted. In view of the language in these last three letters, and the limerick you found chalked upon the board in your homeroom, I shall take a very serious view of this. You are sure you have no idea whom?”
“No sir. As I say circumstantial evidence points toward a hockey-playing red-head in Lower Ten, but there is not enough evidence to prosecute on that basis.”
Fr Peter smiled.
“I suggest you go therefore and have a quiet word with Annabelle O’Reilly. If not her then we can keep an eye out. If her, well she needs to come to see my carpet.”
“Sir?”
“Miss Seine even if you are not seeking vengeance, and are prepared to demonstrate understanding of this schoolgirl-crush, you have been harassed in a sexual manner and that is not condoned here at all.”
“Of course Father, I understand. Thank you for seeing me sir.”
---
Annie had completed her drawing, but was still working through her scruples. Did she dare send this one to Miss Seine? It was well drawn, and she was proud of it, but even Annie knew that the line had been crossed with this one. Were this scene ever to eventuate in real life Miss Seine would have been summarily dismissed, and probably charged by the police. Should even the picture appear the same consequences might have applied. No, this one must remain for Annie alone.
---
Ella stopped at Annabelle’s door. She hadn’t really thought of this bright girl as being “Pumpkin”, indeed the identity of her admirer was rather flattering considering how talented and intelligent Annie was. But still, the girl was fifteen and the line had been crossed. Ella only hoped that the episode would not have to end with Annie bending over in Fr Peter’s study to “look at the carpet”.
---
Annie heard the clack of heels stop outside the door, and presuming it was Rina she decided to not put the drawing away just yet. Rina of course had known that Annie had this crush; quello è amore and all that. She hoped that her Italian friend would also enjoy the drawing skills. She pulled the drawing out of her file and placed it on her desk. Then she went to sit on her bed, and called a cheery “it’s open” to the polite knock at the door.
---
The first thing Ella saw as she entered the room almost dropped her to the floor. There on the desk in 6B pencil was an image of herself naked to the waist. From both ends. At the feet of her figure knelt the likeness of Annabelle O’Reilly, also nude. Annie’s figure had one hand on Ella’s thigh, and the other between her legs. One of Ella’s own hands was matted with Annie’s hair, the other cupping a breast.
It was an extraordinary drawing, almost beautiful.
« Figlio di puttana. Merda! »
Ella turned just as Annie threw her hands up in front of her face.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
“Annabelle I...you drew this?”
“Yes Miss.”
“And the notes I have been...”
“Mine also Miss.”
Both fought to regain their composure. Ella won.
“This is a remarkable drawing Annie, and your poetry too. And I can say I am flattered, but...”
“I know Miss.”
“What can we do about it?”
Annie had begun to cry.
“You know that such things are unacceptable in our school. And I was quite perturbed by the clandestine attention.”
“I like you Miss. I meant no harm, I just...I just really like you.”
“I see that Annie, and I know it. But still...”
“You must tell the Headmaster. Oh, shall I be sent away?”
“Yes and no. It is true that the Father must know, as I have spoken to him of my unease at these letters. But no, you shall not be sent away.”
“But how then shall I be punished?”
“You’ll most likely be caned.”
Annie burst into tears.
“As I understand it the cane is used for girls above the ninth grade, but that you will be allowed to leave your skirt and underwear in place.”
Annie gasped, she had presumed the caning would have crossed her palms.
“And it’s four strokes since you are in the old fourth form.”
“Oh Miss, please. Please? Is there nothing else?”
“I’m afraid not Annie. For the letters themselves and the love I would have interceded for you, but the last poems, and now this,” Ella lifted the cartoon, “this I cannot overlook. I forgive your lack of awareness, but still you must learn what is acceptable and what is not.”
Annie took a deep breath, and nodded.
“Miss, couldn’t you punish me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could smack me.”
“Annie I have no authority to cane, you know that.”
“No Miss, I mean yes Miss; I know Miss. But as a boarding house mistress you can spank can’t you?”
“Only the smaller girls Annie. A single, sharp smack on a covered bottom for the little girls if they are cheeky toward me. You are in tenth grade, and this is a school matter, not a Willows matter.”
Besides which, thought Ella, by the looks of your drawing my spanking you would only encourage you!
“Please Miss, it’s the cane. Couldn’t you just smack me with a hairbrush or one of my gym shoes? On my knickers perhaps?”
“If I do this Annabelle, the notes and drawings must stop. I am flattered by your attention, but your affection has become uncomfortable for me. I am delighted that you like me, and pleased that you love me, but the lust...um eww!
Annie laughed.
“I can handle that Miss. So will you? Will you smack me yourself?”
Ella smiled. “Find me one of your dance slippers, and then come here.”
---
“Thank you for seeing me Father. I did have a word with Annabelle. It seems she was unaware of any inappropriate activity.”
“She was unaware of the activity, or unaware that it was inappropriate?”
Ella smiled.
“We found the heart of truth, and it does not require you showing her your carpet.”
“I am so pleased Miss Seine, I find that a very unpleasant task. For your part I am certain that you would have handled the discussion with a large amount of resolved tact. Incidentally, how did you get to the heart of the truth?”
“I began at the seat of the girl and pursued an appropriate course from there.”
“Splendid.”
Then BAM! Out of nowhere the tap was opened. Essays, accounts, recounts, narratives in the first, second, and third person, an amusing take in blank verse on “Humpty Dumpty” from the point of view of the Wall, and all with illustrations to match. Annie was an artist.
---
Annie was an artist, and like all artists Annie was alone. Sometimes lonely, sometimes solitary, always alone. Today was one of the days when she was happy to be by herself, but as ever in the senior dormitory at Willows House, the boarding house for St Cecily School for Girls, solitude was impossible to maintain.
« Ciao Anna, cosa stai facendo? »
“Oh hi Rina, just a bit of homework.”
Rina Coliardi was one of Annie’s two best friends, and had the bed two down from hers in the eight bed ward. Rina had recently turned sixteen and had been sent to St Cecily on a year’s exchange from her school in Florence.
« Quale soggetto studi? »
“English, as you should be.”
« Scusa, mi dispiace. »
“Then I have some Geography to complete for Miss Seine.”
« Ah, quello è amore. »
« Rina! Deve davvero parlare inglese. »
“Brava! Again I am sorry.”
« La prossima volta sarà colpito è sul fondo!»
“Then I shall speak English only, thank you for one last chance.”
Annie enjoyed the company of Rina, even if she did find her a bit chatty. Rina had left the room again and Annie was left with her thoughts. Quello è amore, “the one that you love”. Was her crush on Miss Seine so obvious? There truly were no secrets in a dormitory, but there was confidentiality. Even if Rina did know, she would tell no-one. Annie opened the folder that she had closed when Rina had startled her, and returned to her note:
Dearest sweetest Miss Seine
I like the skirt you are wearing today and the ribbon in your hair.
I love your hair and want to have hair just like yours.
I hate being pumpkin coloured,
I want to be dark and lovely,
Like you,
The almost All-Black Beauty.
Your Pumpkin xx
Annie winced. She had never been so personal in giving away her hair colour in these anonymous notes. What if Miss Seine discovered who she was?
---
Ella Seine’s heels clipped on the floor as she walked the short corridor between her classroom and the staff study lounge. Her twenty-second birthday had fallen on the previous Thursday and she had finally got around to collecting the small pile of cards that her girls had left for her. They had all been sweet and loving, profuse with little exes under their names, (and hers), and the posies of flowers from the Monsignor’s garden had made her happy, even if the groundskeeper was less impressed by the holes in his display.
One card however, more a letter than a card as it had been composed on orange-scented paper, had startled her a bit. She decided to show it to her school-appointed buddy, her senior colleague in geography, Ms Spark.
“Muriel, may I speak with you for a moment?”
“Of course Ella. You look flustered, is all good with you?”
“Yes. I have been walking and I am gagging for a hot wet one.”
Muriel wagged her finger playfully.
“We’ll have none of that double entendre here Miss Seine. A young woman with a French name should not display such obviously New Zealander manners.”
“Bah, they sank The Rainbow Warrior. Sorry. Yes I am fine but I would like some tea.”
“What did you want to speak with me about?”
Ella showed her the letter.
Darling Miss Seine.
Happy Birthday Miss,
I hope it will be a beautiful day,
Because you are a beautiful woman,
And a beautiful person.
I trust you with my life.
With all the love of my
Heart.
Your loving and devoted Pumpkin.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
“Are you concerned by this Ella?”
“Confused is a better word Muriel. Is this not inappropriate?”
“It’s a simple teacher crush my girl. I’m sure you had them when you were a child.”
“Of course, but I never wrote love letters to the mistresses.”
“Bah, a crush girl. A woman as beautiful and as friendly as you should not be unaware of her effect upon her students.”
So long as that is all it is, thought Ella.
-----------
The letters from Pumpkin had continued to arrive. Sometimes they were slotted into her mark book on her desk during lessons, but not always the same lesson or the same year level, so there no clues there. Sometimes they arrived on her desk via internal mail, or were left in her pigeon hole in the staff lounge. Several came via her homework box where the girls could submit assignments as they were completed. These at least were date/time stamped. One arrived by post neatly addressed to her in an envelope “Miss Ella Seine, Dept. of Humanities, St Cecily School For Girls, Lower Bothering, Herts. SG27 0TK”. The postmark showed it had been sent the previous Saturday from Southend-on-Sea. None of the girls were from Southend, it was too far for the day girls to travel in, and the boarders had all been at Willows or Burrows.
It was a puzzle to Ella, but more of an enigma than a mystery. The letters were all sweet, flattering and confidential rather than erotic or dark, but it was still unsettling for her. She had shown several of the letters to Muriel Spark, but the older woman continued to pooh-pooh them as a “crush”.
---
Lower Ten was, despite its name, a group of very intelligent girls. It was Ella’s favourite group, smart and studious yet not so stressed as her A-Level girls were. Ella was early to class that day and set her desk up before quickly dashing across to the adjacent faculty room for a glass of water. When she returned, a pink slip of paper lay folded on her mark book. Ella noted that it had been carefully lined up so as to underline the box where she had written her name on the cover.
E is for elegant
L is for lovely
L is for lovely, (you are twice lovely)
A is for athletic, (I saw you coaching netball)
S is for smile, yours is beautiful
E is for extravagant, the gifts I want to bring you
I is for intelligent, as you most certainly are
N is for night-time, when I have you alone in my thoughts.
E is for erotic, those night-time thoughts.
Ella quickly filed the letter into the back of the book, deciding to keep it to herself.
The next morning Lower Ten produced another of the pink notes, with identical placement on the cover of her mark book.
P is for pretty, which I lack in abundance.
U is for ugly, which you lack in abundance.
M is for mother, and mountains, and MILF
P is for puella, the Latin for girl.
K is for kiwi, my second favourite bird from New Zealand.
I is for me, that is I. I love you Miss Seine.
N is for never, because I know you will never love me as I love you.
Beneath the poem was a sketch of a butterfly, whose each wing bore the name “Ella”. It sat on a jack-o-lantern whose human tongue was reaching out of its ugly mouth toward the butterfly.
---
In the front row of Lower Ten sat Annie, Rina, and their third musketeer Julie Carpenter. Annie liked to sit near the front; she said it was so that she was away from the trouble-making and attention seeking girls nearer the back. Rina sat near the front so as to be close to help with her English. Julie sat with Rina. Annie pretended to read her text book and peered over the top of it, watching Ella casually fingering the pink note. She had seen the teacher’s blush as she had read it, and the widening of her eyes when presumably she’d reached “MILF”. Annie knew she could never confess her love openly, but she knew that the casual notes were not enough to sate her feelings any longer. The drawing had been a boon for her, Annie was thrilled by the feelings she gained when that lusting tongue had come from her pencil. Annie liked that something she had produced had affected the emotions of Miss Seine; she only hoped it wasn’t going to end in tears.
---
“Deidre! Oh Dee I have missed you so. How are mummy and daddy? Is Setanta behaving himself?” Annie had been allowed to phone her parents and her younger sister had answered the phone. Annie loved her family, and whilst she was proud to be away from home and at St Cecily School she missed them all terribly. “Oh really? He’s a naughty doggie, a naughty NAUGHTY doggie. You tell him what a bad boy he is. But give him a snuggle-cuddle for me.” Annie smiled; Setanta had been into the neighbour’s yard and had left a big pile of his messiness right next to one of the old lady’s wellington boots. “Yes I am having a lovely time at school and I have made loads of friends”, Annie lied, “and the teachers are mostly nice. Oh it is a shame mummy and daddy are out, but you must give them my love! And you must have some for yourself Dreary.” Annie chuckled, “yes of course I remembered, oh ‘Fanny-smell’ is it? I see you also remembered. Okay sweetie pie, my love to all!!”
“Sweetie pie? What will Mademoiselle River-in-Paris say to know that you have been cheating on her?” Julie had snuck up behind Annie and was jabbing her in the kidneys in a failed attempt at a tickle.
“Mind your business Missus Sprays-duco.”
“Hey! I’m Carpenter, not Car Painter!” Julie feigned distress.
“It was my sister if you must know.”
“Big or little.”
“Little. I am the biggest. I wish I had a big sister.”
“You could always ask Miss Insane.”
Annie walked off, fuming.
-------------
Annie sat at her desk, drawing absently. She hadn’t really thought about it, she was just downloading her anger into scribble. Julie Carpenter could be such a bitch at times, but such a love at others. “Girls,” she said, “ha! Who needs ‘em?” Annie smiled, tore off the scribble, and began to work on something more defined.
---
“Ella I understand your concern, this is getting beyond what we might have thought acceptable.”
Ella was sitting in the Head Master’s office with the man himself, Fr Peter.
“Thank you Father. As a first-year teacher I wasn’t sure where ‘the line’ was, but I was pretty sure this last letter had crossed it.”
“And you have no idea who this girl is?”
“As I say, Lower Ten is where the last two notes came from, but there have been others.”
“Others?”
Ella reached into her bag and handed the pile across to Fr Peter.
“Southend is on the coast of Essex. We have no girls from Essex, it is in a different archdeaconate.”
“Yes, but look at the date. The week before then a team of girls from St Veronica’s at
Leigh-on-Sea had come to us for the hockey tourney. One of our girls may have confided in a friend and had her post the letter upon her return.”
“Your beloved is certainly resourceful Miss Seine.”
“With all due respect Father, I may be her beloved, but she is not mine.”
“Granted. In view of the language in these last three letters, and the limerick you found chalked upon the board in your homeroom, I shall take a very serious view of this. You are sure you have no idea whom?”
“No sir. As I say circumstantial evidence points toward a hockey-playing red-head in Lower Ten, but there is not enough evidence to prosecute on that basis.”
Fr Peter smiled.
“I suggest you go therefore and have a quiet word with Annabelle O’Reilly. If not her then we can keep an eye out. If her, well she needs to come to see my carpet.”
“Sir?”
“Miss Seine even if you are not seeking vengeance, and are prepared to demonstrate understanding of this schoolgirl-crush, you have been harassed in a sexual manner and that is not condoned here at all.”
“Of course Father, I understand. Thank you for seeing me sir.”
---
Annie had completed her drawing, but was still working through her scruples. Did she dare send this one to Miss Seine? It was well drawn, and she was proud of it, but even Annie knew that the line had been crossed with this one. Were this scene ever to eventuate in real life Miss Seine would have been summarily dismissed, and probably charged by the police. Should even the picture appear the same consequences might have applied. No, this one must remain for Annie alone.
---
Ella stopped at Annabelle’s door. She hadn’t really thought of this bright girl as being “Pumpkin”, indeed the identity of her admirer was rather flattering considering how talented and intelligent Annie was. But still, the girl was fifteen and the line had been crossed. Ella only hoped that the episode would not have to end with Annie bending over in Fr Peter’s study to “look at the carpet”.
---
Annie heard the clack of heels stop outside the door, and presuming it was Rina she decided to not put the drawing away just yet. Rina of course had known that Annie had this crush; quello è amore and all that. She hoped that her Italian friend would also enjoy the drawing skills. She pulled the drawing out of her file and placed it on her desk. Then she went to sit on her bed, and called a cheery “it’s open” to the polite knock at the door.
---
The first thing Ella saw as she entered the room almost dropped her to the floor. There on the desk in 6B pencil was an image of herself naked to the waist. From both ends. At the feet of her figure knelt the likeness of Annabelle O’Reilly, also nude. Annie’s figure had one hand on Ella’s thigh, and the other between her legs. One of Ella’s own hands was matted with Annie’s hair, the other cupping a breast.
It was an extraordinary drawing, almost beautiful.
« Figlio di puttana. Merda! »
Ella turned just as Annie threw her hands up in front of her face.
“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
“Annabelle I...you drew this?”
“Yes Miss.”
“And the notes I have been...”
“Mine also Miss.”
Both fought to regain their composure. Ella won.
“This is a remarkable drawing Annie, and your poetry too. And I can say I am flattered, but...”
“I know Miss.”
“What can we do about it?”
Annie had begun to cry.
“You know that such things are unacceptable in our school. And I was quite perturbed by the clandestine attention.”
“I like you Miss. I meant no harm, I just...I just really like you.”
“I see that Annie, and I know it. But still...”
“You must tell the Headmaster. Oh, shall I be sent away?”
“Yes and no. It is true that the Father must know, as I have spoken to him of my unease at these letters. But no, you shall not be sent away.”
“But how then shall I be punished?”
“You’ll most likely be caned.”
Annie burst into tears.
“As I understand it the cane is used for girls above the ninth grade, but that you will be allowed to leave your skirt and underwear in place.”
Annie gasped, she had presumed the caning would have crossed her palms.
“And it’s four strokes since you are in the old fourth form.”
“Oh Miss, please. Please? Is there nothing else?”
“I’m afraid not Annie. For the letters themselves and the love I would have interceded for you, but the last poems, and now this,” Ella lifted the cartoon, “this I cannot overlook. I forgive your lack of awareness, but still you must learn what is acceptable and what is not.”
Annie took a deep breath, and nodded.
“Miss, couldn’t you punish me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could smack me.”
“Annie I have no authority to cane, you know that.”
“No Miss, I mean yes Miss; I know Miss. But as a boarding house mistress you can spank can’t you?”
“Only the smaller girls Annie. A single, sharp smack on a covered bottom for the little girls if they are cheeky toward me. You are in tenth grade, and this is a school matter, not a Willows matter.”
Besides which, thought Ella, by the looks of your drawing my spanking you would only encourage you!
“Please Miss, it’s the cane. Couldn’t you just smack me with a hairbrush or one of my gym shoes? On my knickers perhaps?”
“If I do this Annabelle, the notes and drawings must stop. I am flattered by your attention, but your affection has become uncomfortable for me. I am delighted that you like me, and pleased that you love me, but the lust...um eww!
Annie laughed.
“I can handle that Miss. So will you? Will you smack me yourself?”
Ella smiled. “Find me one of your dance slippers, and then come here.”
---
“Thank you for seeing me Father. I did have a word with Annabelle. It seems she was unaware of any inappropriate activity.”
“She was unaware of the activity, or unaware that it was inappropriate?”
Ella smiled.
“We found the heart of truth, and it does not require you showing her your carpet.”
“I am so pleased Miss Seine, I find that a very unpleasant task. For your part I am certain that you would have handled the discussion with a large amount of resolved tact. Incidentally, how did you get to the heart of the truth?”
“I began at the seat of the girl and pursued an appropriate course from there.”
“Splendid.”
Two Up
ANZAC. Australia and New Zealand Army Corps. These words are sacred in the Antipodes, and the men they recall are legend. Every 25th of April since 1916 the men and women of New Zealand and Australia have stopped to remember all who have fallen in wars fought by these two nations.
The year 2010 marked the ninety-fifth anniversary of the dawn landings of the A.N.Z.A.C. armies at Gellibolu in Turkey, and the ninety-fourth celebration of the event on “Anzac Day”. Thousands gathered before dawn to recite Binyon’s Ode, to sing the protection of “Those in Peril on the Sea”, the proclamation and advance of Australia Fair and to intercede for divine defence of Pacific’s Triple Star, Aotearoa. Parades of returned servicemen and servicewomen, current servicemen and servicewomen, former and current members of the Red Cross, along with the State Emergency Services, the Police, regimental and city bands and the Scouts and Guides marched proudly through two national capital cities, six state capital cities, one territory capital city, and regional cities, towns and hamlets across the lands down under.
Following the dawn services, the marches, and the church parades, (for Anzac fell on a Sunday that year), the men and women of Australasia retired to the rooms of the local Returned and Services Association or Returned and Services League to enjoy some amber refreshment, a game or two of two-up, and to bullshit on about how brave they used to be.
Sacred space. Sacred place. Sacred day. Sacred ways.
We will remember them.
***
Rebecca and Allison enjoyed the day. Both were proud grand-daughters and great-grand-daughters of soldier veterans, and besides which Anzac was a public holiday. That Anzac had fallen on a Sunday meant that Monday would be taken in lieu: a long weekend. Ripper!
“Bex, fancy a beer with the diggers?”
“I’m more of a wine girl.”
“Should be okay mate, both world wars happened in France.”
“Then you’re on.”
Rebecca and Allison found their local RSL rather musty, with its flags from various nations, wars, and campaigns around the wall, and the pennants of servicemen’s leagues with which this branch had exchanged pleasantries. Allison could not help noticing that while there were banners from every state and territory of Australia, and many from the United States, Europe and United Kingdom, there was not one banner from a New Zealand RSA.
“Typical!”
“Huh?”
“There’s no banners from Kiwi RSLs. Have you’se mob forgotten the N-Z in Anzac?”
“It’s New Zealand wine.”
Allison smiled.
The girls walked across to where some of the diggers were playing a game of “two up”. This is a simple betting game where two coins are tossed up on a paddle, the idea is to pick whether the coins will land as “Odds” (one tail one head) or “Evens” (two of the same). Occasionally the game will be for “Heads” (two of) or “Tails (two of), with “Odds” indicating a win for the “spinner” or the man operating the paddle. This game is legal only on Anzac Day, and only within a recognised club or pub.
“Wanna play?”
“Nah, let the diggers go for it. It’s their day.”
“Just the two of us, we could bet between the two of us.”
“What’s the bet?”
“Winner gets one on her head, loser gets one on her tail.”
“Huh?”
Allison smiled.
“Simple Bex, you call Odds or Evens on the next throw and I’ll be the other one. If you win, you get a kiss and I get a smack. If I win, it’s the other way around. Next spin I get to call.”
This time it was Rebecca who smiled, she had forgotten that Allison enjoyed the occasional spanking.
“I like it a lot. But when do we have to pay up?”
Allison thought about it.
“We will play for twelve throws, a neat dozen. When that is done we will find a place to be alone and do the deal there.”
“Agreed.”
The girls shook hands.
---------------
After twelve throws the result had fallen with four smacks to Allison and eight to Rebecca. The girls quickly finished their drinks and left the meeting room to transact their business in confidence. A quick scan of an empty corridor led them past the toilets to a smaller meeting room which appeared to be set up for a committee. In the corner was an old Apple Macintosh computer, and some paper and pens. Next to the red pen lay a 45 cm ruler.
“I have the most smacks, so I get to go first.”
“Go where Bex, up or down?”
“Down. That way when you are over my knee I will be sitting on a sore bottom.”
“Yeah, but if I smack you hard then you can get revenge!”
“Allison, if you DON’T smack me hard I will get revenge. Now you sit here,” Rebecca had pulled a chair out from the table, “and you’ll be needing this.”
Allison took her seat, and her weapon, and smiled up at Rebecca.
“Skirts and undies?”
“Skirt up, undies up too since we’re not entirely private.”
“No worries, good plan. Right then Miss Rebecca, bend over young lady.”
Rebecca giggled, but did as she was told.
“Just a tic while I flick your skirt back.”
“Ta, it’s lucky it was a bit cold today.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m wearing my warmest opaque tights.”
“Do you think that...”
WHACK!
“...will help much?”
WHACK!
“Oooh. Maybe no...”
WHACK!
“...ahh...not.”
WHACK!
“So are you...”
WHACK!
“...having fun yet?”
WHACK! WHACK!
“Spirit of th...”
WHACK!
“...eeeee, yah, Anzacs.”
“Get up, s’my go now.”
Rebecca stood and let her skirt flop down over her hands as she massaged her bottom.
“Geeze Louise!”
“I’d rather ‘awesome Alli’ if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll be ‘ouchie Alli’ in a minute my girl.”
“Promises, promises. First you owe me eight kisses.”
“And you’ll owe me four. Pucker up butter-cup.”
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU UP TOO!”
Allison and Rebecca jumped apart at the sound of the roar. In the doorway was an old man in a faded beret and a set of medals across his tweed jacket pocket. Rebecca knew the man as one of her neighbours, and knew that he knew her parents.
“We were just...”
“...looking for a bloody good hiding is what you were. How dare you?”
Allison went to speak but was cut off.
“I don’t give tuppence ha’penny for your explanations girlie. As for you Rebecca, I am extremely disappointed. This room is off limits to you, and is certainly off limits to that filthy kissing between ladies rubbish. Ha, ladies? Ladies of the STREET I bloody well think.”
“We are sorry Mister...”
“...don’t you bloody well ‘Mister’ me Rebecca. You'll address me as sir.”
“Yes sir. We are sorry, we were only playing.”
“Yes well you are too old to be playing such games. If you were small girls I could imagine this is acceptable, but not for young...ladies? Not for grown women. Well you will be sorry, mark my words. Follow me, the pair of you!”
The man marched out.
Allison giggled, Rebecca paled.
“Man, I didn’t get my smacks Bex. Unfair Koala bear.”
“Shut up Al, I think you’re about to get more than enough. And I am going to get more than you.”
The girls followed the man back into the main gathering.
-----------
By the time Allison and Rebecca had returned to the room the angry man had cleared a space near the bar. Two bar stools stood prominently in the centre of the circle where the two up game had previously taken place. Rebecca could see that the crowd included many familiar faces, not all of them war veterans. She saw several of the women and men she worked with, people of her own age. Even the work-experience boy was there; Rebecca hadn’t thought he was old enough to be in the club until she remembered it was Anzac Day and a special occasion. The boy’s parents stood behind him: he was there with his mum. A boy, a work experience boy from year 10 who had to be chaperoned by his mum was about to see her punished. Punished publically.
“There’s no need for pleasantries girlies, everyone knows what you were doing and that you are about to get a bloody good hiding for it. Come here!”
The man was quite bossy, but then he was an ex-serviceman and an old one at that, so Rebecca thought that bossiness probably came with the territory.
“Both of you!”
Rebecca saw that Allison had already started to walk across to the stools, so she gave a little trot and caught up with her friend in time to stop.
“Filth! Have you anything to say?”
The girls looked at each other, but said nothing.
“Right then, up and over!”
Allison moved toward the right hand stool, took a step up on the footrest, and lay herself over the seat. She adjusted her position with her hands and then swung her legs out to maintain her balance. Rebecca noted the position and did the same.
“Your little wager was overheard Rebecca,” began the man, “so your secret is out. All bets need to be cleared in this room. Therefore you will both receive a neat dozen from the spinner.”
Rebecca gulped. Twelve hard smacks with the two-up paddle on top of the eight she had already taken from Allison.
“Furthermore, since you were in a place you should not have been, namely the committee room, and using things which you should not have been, namely the office stationery, you can have another neat dozen from my belt.”
Allison looked across to Rebecca, but Rebecca’s head was down. How humiliating, two dozen whacks in front of a room full of people, including the boy with his mum and the girls she worked with. Tuesday’s return to work after the public holiday would be embarrassing to say the least.
“Six to start. Come in spinner!”
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Slow and deliberate, with force, the smacks came. Rebecca was confused as to why she hadn’t felt anything until she heard Allison gasp. She was next.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Without missing a beat the spinner had finished off a sobbing Allison and started his work on Rebecca. That first smack connected with some of the area covered by Allison in the committee room and Rebecca too let out a gasp.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
“Stand up, both of you! Lift your skirts and drop your stockings!”
Without arguing, or even pausing to think about it, both girls did as they were told.
“Bend back over! It’s a dose of the strap for you.”
Rebecca paused, hadn’t they been threatened with...
“Ah, no. Six more each. Spinner?”
WHACK!
This time Rebecca had been first, and five more followed that surprise smack across her pantied bottom. She heard the six extra smacks and the sobs that accompanied the second stage of Allison’s discipline.
“Now the strap. But first, let’s have those undies down.”
Again the girls obeyed, and resumed their places.
Rebecca though she felt her stool turn as she bent back over it. She looked down along her body and could see a thin gap of flesh between the base of the stool and the top of her pushed down tights. She saw a scuff on the toe of one of her shoes.
She also saw the boy. Rebecca shot her head back and went to look across her left shoulder when...
CRACK!
...the first of twelve fierce lashes burnt her naked and exposed backside. Naked and exposed, for not only were her panties around her mid-thigh and her tights around her knees, but her stool had been swivelled 180 degrees so that her bottom was now facing the group of onlookers rather than the bar. She was left in that position while Allison was similarly displayed and flogged, and then the stools were swivelled again until the crowd could only see the top of her head.
“Get up! Pull yourselves together and leave. The pair of you.”
Rebecca stood and saw that the boy was looking right at her. He smiled.
“Nice stripes there Bex, I’ve not seen so much red on white since the last North Adelaide Roosters game!”
“Or black and blue since Port Power spanked Carlton at the ‘G yesterday,” chimed in one of the men from her work.
Rebecca checked to see that Allison was dressed, then grabbed her hand and bustled out of the club.
The year 2010 marked the ninety-fifth anniversary of the dawn landings of the A.N.Z.A.C. armies at Gellibolu in Turkey, and the ninety-fourth celebration of the event on “Anzac Day”. Thousands gathered before dawn to recite Binyon’s Ode, to sing the protection of “Those in Peril on the Sea”, the proclamation and advance of Australia Fair and to intercede for divine defence of Pacific’s Triple Star, Aotearoa. Parades of returned servicemen and servicewomen, current servicemen and servicewomen, former and current members of the Red Cross, along with the State Emergency Services, the Police, regimental and city bands and the Scouts and Guides marched proudly through two national capital cities, six state capital cities, one territory capital city, and regional cities, towns and hamlets across the lands down under.
Following the dawn services, the marches, and the church parades, (for Anzac fell on a Sunday that year), the men and women of Australasia retired to the rooms of the local Returned and Services Association or Returned and Services League to enjoy some amber refreshment, a game or two of two-up, and to bullshit on about how brave they used to be.
Sacred space. Sacred place. Sacred day. Sacred ways.
We will remember them.
***
Rebecca and Allison enjoyed the day. Both were proud grand-daughters and great-grand-daughters of soldier veterans, and besides which Anzac was a public holiday. That Anzac had fallen on a Sunday meant that Monday would be taken in lieu: a long weekend. Ripper!
“Bex, fancy a beer with the diggers?”
“I’m more of a wine girl.”
“Should be okay mate, both world wars happened in France.”
“Then you’re on.”
Rebecca and Allison found their local RSL rather musty, with its flags from various nations, wars, and campaigns around the wall, and the pennants of servicemen’s leagues with which this branch had exchanged pleasantries. Allison could not help noticing that while there were banners from every state and territory of Australia, and many from the United States, Europe and United Kingdom, there was not one banner from a New Zealand RSA.
“Typical!”
“Huh?”
“There’s no banners from Kiwi RSLs. Have you’se mob forgotten the N-Z in Anzac?”
“It’s New Zealand wine.”
Allison smiled.
The girls walked across to where some of the diggers were playing a game of “two up”. This is a simple betting game where two coins are tossed up on a paddle, the idea is to pick whether the coins will land as “Odds” (one tail one head) or “Evens” (two of the same). Occasionally the game will be for “Heads” (two of) or “Tails (two of), with “Odds” indicating a win for the “spinner” or the man operating the paddle. This game is legal only on Anzac Day, and only within a recognised club or pub.
“Wanna play?”
“Nah, let the diggers go for it. It’s their day.”
“Just the two of us, we could bet between the two of us.”
“What’s the bet?”
“Winner gets one on her head, loser gets one on her tail.”
“Huh?”
Allison smiled.
“Simple Bex, you call Odds or Evens on the next throw and I’ll be the other one. If you win, you get a kiss and I get a smack. If I win, it’s the other way around. Next spin I get to call.”
This time it was Rebecca who smiled, she had forgotten that Allison enjoyed the occasional spanking.
“I like it a lot. But when do we have to pay up?”
Allison thought about it.
“We will play for twelve throws, a neat dozen. When that is done we will find a place to be alone and do the deal there.”
“Agreed.”
The girls shook hands.
---------------
After twelve throws the result had fallen with four smacks to Allison and eight to Rebecca. The girls quickly finished their drinks and left the meeting room to transact their business in confidence. A quick scan of an empty corridor led them past the toilets to a smaller meeting room which appeared to be set up for a committee. In the corner was an old Apple Macintosh computer, and some paper and pens. Next to the red pen lay a 45 cm ruler.
“I have the most smacks, so I get to go first.”
“Go where Bex, up or down?”
“Down. That way when you are over my knee I will be sitting on a sore bottom.”
“Yeah, but if I smack you hard then you can get revenge!”
“Allison, if you DON’T smack me hard I will get revenge. Now you sit here,” Rebecca had pulled a chair out from the table, “and you’ll be needing this.”
Allison took her seat, and her weapon, and smiled up at Rebecca.
“Skirts and undies?”
“Skirt up, undies up too since we’re not entirely private.”
“No worries, good plan. Right then Miss Rebecca, bend over young lady.”
Rebecca giggled, but did as she was told.
“Just a tic while I flick your skirt back.”
“Ta, it’s lucky it was a bit cold today.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m wearing my warmest opaque tights.”
“Do you think that...”
WHACK!
“...will help much?”
WHACK!
“Oooh. Maybe no...”
WHACK!
“...ahh...not.”
WHACK!
“So are you...”
WHACK!
“...having fun yet?”
WHACK! WHACK!
“Spirit of th...”
WHACK!
“...eeeee, yah, Anzacs.”
“Get up, s’my go now.”
Rebecca stood and let her skirt flop down over her hands as she massaged her bottom.
“Geeze Louise!”
“I’d rather ‘awesome Alli’ if you don’t mind.”
“You’ll be ‘ouchie Alli’ in a minute my girl.”
“Promises, promises. First you owe me eight kisses.”
“And you’ll owe me four. Pucker up butter-cup.”
“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU UP TOO!”
Allison and Rebecca jumped apart at the sound of the roar. In the doorway was an old man in a faded beret and a set of medals across his tweed jacket pocket. Rebecca knew the man as one of her neighbours, and knew that he knew her parents.
“We were just...”
“...looking for a bloody good hiding is what you were. How dare you?”
Allison went to speak but was cut off.
“I don’t give tuppence ha’penny for your explanations girlie. As for you Rebecca, I am extremely disappointed. This room is off limits to you, and is certainly off limits to that filthy kissing between ladies rubbish. Ha, ladies? Ladies of the STREET I bloody well think.”
“We are sorry Mister...”
“...don’t you bloody well ‘Mister’ me Rebecca. You'll address me as sir.”
“Yes sir. We are sorry, we were only playing.”
“Yes well you are too old to be playing such games. If you were small girls I could imagine this is acceptable, but not for young...ladies? Not for grown women. Well you will be sorry, mark my words. Follow me, the pair of you!”
The man marched out.
Allison giggled, Rebecca paled.
“Man, I didn’t get my smacks Bex. Unfair Koala bear.”
“Shut up Al, I think you’re about to get more than enough. And I am going to get more than you.”
The girls followed the man back into the main gathering.
-----------
By the time Allison and Rebecca had returned to the room the angry man had cleared a space near the bar. Two bar stools stood prominently in the centre of the circle where the two up game had previously taken place. Rebecca could see that the crowd included many familiar faces, not all of them war veterans. She saw several of the women and men she worked with, people of her own age. Even the work-experience boy was there; Rebecca hadn’t thought he was old enough to be in the club until she remembered it was Anzac Day and a special occasion. The boy’s parents stood behind him: he was there with his mum. A boy, a work experience boy from year 10 who had to be chaperoned by his mum was about to see her punished. Punished publically.
“There’s no need for pleasantries girlies, everyone knows what you were doing and that you are about to get a bloody good hiding for it. Come here!”
The man was quite bossy, but then he was an ex-serviceman and an old one at that, so Rebecca thought that bossiness probably came with the territory.
“Both of you!”
Rebecca saw that Allison had already started to walk across to the stools, so she gave a little trot and caught up with her friend in time to stop.
“Filth! Have you anything to say?”
The girls looked at each other, but said nothing.
“Right then, up and over!”
Allison moved toward the right hand stool, took a step up on the footrest, and lay herself over the seat. She adjusted her position with her hands and then swung her legs out to maintain her balance. Rebecca noted the position and did the same.
“Your little wager was overheard Rebecca,” began the man, “so your secret is out. All bets need to be cleared in this room. Therefore you will both receive a neat dozen from the spinner.”
Rebecca gulped. Twelve hard smacks with the two-up paddle on top of the eight she had already taken from Allison.
“Furthermore, since you were in a place you should not have been, namely the committee room, and using things which you should not have been, namely the office stationery, you can have another neat dozen from my belt.”
Allison looked across to Rebecca, but Rebecca’s head was down. How humiliating, two dozen whacks in front of a room full of people, including the boy with his mum and the girls she worked with. Tuesday’s return to work after the public holiday would be embarrassing to say the least.
“Six to start. Come in spinner!”
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Slow and deliberate, with force, the smacks came. Rebecca was confused as to why she hadn’t felt anything until she heard Allison gasp. She was next.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Without missing a beat the spinner had finished off a sobbing Allison and started his work on Rebecca. That first smack connected with some of the area covered by Allison in the committee room and Rebecca too let out a gasp.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
“Stand up, both of you! Lift your skirts and drop your stockings!”
Without arguing, or even pausing to think about it, both girls did as they were told.
“Bend back over! It’s a dose of the strap for you.”
Rebecca paused, hadn’t they been threatened with...
“Ah, no. Six more each. Spinner?”
WHACK!
This time Rebecca had been first, and five more followed that surprise smack across her pantied bottom. She heard the six extra smacks and the sobs that accompanied the second stage of Allison’s discipline.
“Now the strap. But first, let’s have those undies down.”
Again the girls obeyed, and resumed their places.
Rebecca though she felt her stool turn as she bent back over it. She looked down along her body and could see a thin gap of flesh between the base of the stool and the top of her pushed down tights. She saw a scuff on the toe of one of her shoes.
She also saw the boy. Rebecca shot her head back and went to look across her left shoulder when...
CRACK!
...the first of twelve fierce lashes burnt her naked and exposed backside. Naked and exposed, for not only were her panties around her mid-thigh and her tights around her knees, but her stool had been swivelled 180 degrees so that her bottom was now facing the group of onlookers rather than the bar. She was left in that position while Allison was similarly displayed and flogged, and then the stools were swivelled again until the crowd could only see the top of her head.
“Get up! Pull yourselves together and leave. The pair of you.”
Rebecca stood and saw that the boy was looking right at her. He smiled.
“Nice stripes there Bex, I’ve not seen so much red on white since the last North Adelaide Roosters game!”
“Or black and blue since Port Power spanked Carlton at the ‘G yesterday,” chimed in one of the men from her work.
Rebecca checked to see that Allison was dressed, then grabbed her hand and bustled out of the club.
TSB
“A noise the deaf could not ignore!”
“Pardon?”
“Exactly. Stop all the banging.”
“Sorry.”
But not half as sorry as I will be, thought Elle as she rummaged through the desk drawer in the corridor. Once again she had misplaced an account, then the yellow letter and finally the pink letter had come. Elle had always managed to get around this by finding the original account and taking it in to the bank: white paper always arouses less suspicion, and the less pink seen the better.
“Elle? Elle all has gone quiet. Is it okay with you?”
“Yes, yes you asked for quiet. I am an obedient girlfriend.”
“Ha! Not likely.”
Actually I am obedient, but negligent. Is negligence disobedience? When it comes to matters of the purse, and of the interest upon interest accrued by late fees. How did it go? Spending leads to bending. Elle knew she was certainly banking on a spanking if she couldn’t find the account to take with her.
“Elle?”
“It is good. Go back to your croquet.”
“Cricket! Twenty-twenty cricket.”
“Whatever it is; bats and pyjamas.”
“It’s being telecast from Brisbane, it is evening there.”
Elle smiled to herself. Bats and pyjamas, that sounds like something you’d find at a high school slumber party.
“Elle! Late.”
Elle was shaken from the beginnings of a fantasy by the reminder. She was late, for work and for the bank, or at least she would be if she didn’t leave immediately. That evening would see the bats but not so much of the pyjamas if she didn’t get a wriggle on.
---
Elle worked in the city, and the regional headquarters of the bank she banked with was directly across the road. The account had been set up with the branch on the ground floor by her employer, so this was the account that her bills came out of and her pay went in to. She hadn’t time to bank before having to be at her desk, so went across in her lunch hour.
The queue reached to Spain.
Lucky queuing is our national pastime, she thought to herself with a smile. America has baseball, the Commonwealth countries have bats and pyjamas, but we could queue for gold.
Elle had hoped to write up the deposit form while standing in the queue, but as with most banks that we trust with our money but they don’t trust with their stationery, the pens were chained to the counters. She missed five places while quickly scribbling in the necessary digits, the third place taken by an old woman with what looked like a bag of doubloons.
“Pieces of eight I shouldn’t say”, joked the man who joined the queue behind her.
“I’d rather they were pieces of sixteen, and then they’d count in half the time.”
“So, do you think TSB stands for ‘The Sailors’ Bank’?”
“No it’s ‘Trusts, Savings and Bonds’...oh, I see. Yes. Yes, perhaps you get better service if you are a scurvy dog. High rates for pirates.”
The queue moved forward and the woman with the bag moved to a window to be served.
“She’s at the window now. Oh good, they’ve put her loot into one of those counting machines. Your money or your life old woman?”
“Take my life; I might need the money when I’m older.”
“Arr!”
Elle had to be flagged twice before she saw she was to move across to a window, she had been too busy wiping the giggling from her eyes.
The teller greeted Elle, then took the form from her and began to type in the numbers. She looked up, looked at Elle, looked back at the screen, and then excused herself. She returned with a man who introduced himself with some posh sort of banker’s name, and was invited to join him in a side office.
---
“Okay. Okay Miss...”
“Just call me Elle.”
“Elle. Elle there seems to be an issue with your account. You are overdrawn and also late with two payments.”
The posh banker turned a computer screen around to show Elle. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but the fact that the last set of digits was suffixed with “DR” told her all she needed to know.
“That’s correct, but that is why I have come in this afternoon. I wish to pay the outstanding late payments.”
“Right. And the penalty rates?”
“Oh, if there are any. I had presumed there would be some sort of fee.”
“There are no fees Elle, but there are rates.”
“So, what, a percentage? Balance plus 1%, something like that?”
Posh banker sat back in his chair.
“Do you know what sets TSB apart from the other banks Elle?”
“Not really. I bank here because I work at Jamieson’s across the road; they set the account up for me.
“But you’ve read our terms and guidelines? Every new client gets sent a booklet of terms and guidelines.”
'As if I’ve read it. No-one reads that!'
“I...glanced?”
“You should have read.”
“So what sets TSB apart from all the other banks? Is it your snazzy red uniforms?”
“No.”
“An almost fanatical devotion to the Pope?”
“We are a bank, Elle, not the Spanish Inquisition.”
“But you do have comfy chairs.”
“But our founders were Jewish.”
“Ah. No pope then.”
Just pirates. Arr!
“Quite simply Elle we know that clients of a bank can get themselves into difficulties at times. Adding fees and charges onto an overdue account helps no-one. We don’t get our money any faster, and you begin to dislike us. So we don’t do that. Once the fees get to a certain level we freeze them. Your fees have been frozen.”
“Thank you, but you spoke of rates before.”
“Correct. The simple situation is we want you to be able to repay your overdraft. You seem unable to do so, despite our financial counselling service and our free budgeting workshops. Therefore we have provided a compulsory fee-buy-back service on all of our products, and have done so since 1798.”
“The year?”
“1798, the day we opened the doors of our Cheapside trading house for the first time.”
“Okay.”
“So, as I have said this is a compulsory fee buy-back. You will pay me today the full amount of your outstanding payments, minus all fees and charges on your account. We negotiate a loan to transfer your overdraft to a lower rate of interest repayment, and restore your everyday account to a zero balance, which will be the fixed floor. You will not be able to access credit or debt.”
“And this is compulsory?”
“It will stop you getting into further trouble.”
'Into further trouble? Or further into trouble?'
“Sounds good.”
“This was detailed in our terms and guidelines pamphlet.”
“I must have missed that part.”
“You must.”
“Incidentally, I was having a discussion with a man in the queue while I was waiting for you. What does TSB actually stand for?”
Posh banker smiled.
“This is the next part of our conversation Elle. TSB is Tintangel Spanking Bank. Tintangel was the surname taken by our founder, a huge fan of the Arthuriad legends. You will be aware of the other two words.”
Click! It all fell into place for Elle.
“Rates. You have run out of patience getting your money out of me, so now you are going to beat it out of me?”
“When we were bankers for the agrarian poor, and those who followed the industrial revolution to the cities in the eighteenth century, a beating was not uncommon for defaulters. At least TSB offered this service in a safe and civilised environment, and not at the end of a thug’s club in the dead of night.”
“And I have to do this?”
“Yes, it was...”
“...mentioned in the terms and conditions.”
Elle was left in the little office while the posh banker went to find the necessary people to assist her with her transaction. He had already handled the financial side, stamping her account remittance and receiving a matching set of banknotes.
Elle was introduced to two people in smart uniforms. Brendon looked like he could scrum for the Springboks, although his accent was definitely European. The sleeveless red jumper over a pale grey long-sleeved shirt seemed to highlight the potential energy throbbing in his biceps. Melissa, the teller from before, was smaller, but still looked like she was up to the job of smacking a naughty girl's bottom with intent. Elle was sure that the red cardigan hid a set of guns that could provide shock and awe to any target, and if the pale grey nylon encased calves were anything to go by Elle was sure that Melissa had the thighs to chase down and tackle any prey foolish enough to run. Even in a skirt and ¾ inch heels the teller looked game.
“Elle, here is where you do have a choice. Historically the option available to you because of your debt is limited to the whip. In our age we employ a leather paddle which will be wielded with you across the knee of your caseworker.”
Caseworker?
“Allowing for your being female you may chose to have Brendon spank you upon your underwear, with Melissa acting as chaperone. You may otherwise choose for Melissa to spank you in private, but that would be upon bare flesh. The number of lashes is the same, as that is proportional to your balance owed. This is a ‘rate’ after all.”
Elle considered her options. The man would surely hit harder, but the woman would ask her to be naked. Even if it was just the two of them Elle didn’t think she could show her naked bottom to a stranger, even another female.
“Umm. Are we doing this now?”
“Yes.”
“Umm, then I choose the gentleman please.”
Melissa scoffed. “He’s not so gentle, ma’am. But I’d have picked him too.” She moved across to the door of the office, closing it behind the back of the departing posh banker, and then stood with her own back to it. Elle noticed a small ladder forming on Melissa’s left foot where a peep of toe cleavage showed a healthy tan through the grey nylon.
“Thank you Elle”, began Brendon, “let’s get this done then and allow you to get back to work.”
Elle shot a glance toward the clock and saw that she had seventeen minutes of her hour left. She’d not even had lunch.
Brendon sat in posh banker’s chair and indicated that Elle should approach him. As she arrived he lifted a long leather paddle off the desk and showed it to her.
“It’s more of a strap than a paddle, but it has a handle.” He glanced across at the posh banker’s computer screen and clicked the mouse twice. “According to our calculations, and considering your repayment of monies this afternoon, you are due twenty-four lashes. Are you ready?”
Elle was unable to speak. Twenty-four, (24), spanks with a leather paddle, across this man’s knees. She managed to nod.
“Then please unbuckle your trousers and lower them to your knees. Your rate shall be applied to the underwear, but outerwear must be removed. We want you to be able to restore yourself to a clothed state with your outerwear undamaged when you leave.”
Elle considered this news, and wondered whether it was worth the extra layers of clothing. Bare with the woman or barely-there with the man? No, nakedness is still nakedness; Brendon would have to do it. She glanced across to Melissa and saw her nod. Melissa had guessed what Elle had been thinking.
“All the girls think that Elle; about half change their mind at this point,” Melissa offered.
“Brendon.” Elle declared her choice and began to unbuckle her belt.
The belt and button were easy to do, but the zip was not. Not that the functioning of the zip was impaired, but the final act of unzipping to then lower her trousers, or pull your pants down young lady as she heard in her head, brought her into a realisation of what was about to occur.
“Is there no other way?”
“Only if you choose Melissa.”
Elle unzipped her trousers and dropped them to her knees, she straightened her tights and lay herself across Brendon’s lap before she could think to back out. As if in solidarity with her Brendon began the flogging immediately.
Melissa winced as the beating continued. She had been on the receiving end of one of Brendon’s spankings the previous morning when she had failed a Professional Development task. Skirt up, tights down, and nine pelvis shattering smacks with a wooden paddle across the seat of her panties had convinced her that attentiveness was a better option than the mini-bar when she spent a weekend in the capital.
CRACK! Twelve!
CRACK! Thirteen
CRACK! Fourteeeeeeeeeeen!
Elle remembered that she had a late night coming tonight. There was to be a subcommittee meeting until seven o’clock and she had offered to remain and take minutes. Two extra hours of sitting on swollen buttocks.
CRACK! Twenty-two oooo hooo hooo hoooooooooooo!
---
Elle winced as she stepped from her car and onto the driveway outside her house. A solid trousers-down spanking and a long afternoon of sitting at her desk had left her feeling rather tender. She heard the front door open and looked up with a smile, happy to be home.
“Elle? Just after you left this morning I found a letter from the bank under the breakfast table.” He waved the letter at her with his left hand.
In his right hand he was holding her hairbrush.
“Pardon?”
“Exactly. Stop all the banging.”
“Sorry.”
But not half as sorry as I will be, thought Elle as she rummaged through the desk drawer in the corridor. Once again she had misplaced an account, then the yellow letter and finally the pink letter had come. Elle had always managed to get around this by finding the original account and taking it in to the bank: white paper always arouses less suspicion, and the less pink seen the better.
“Elle? Elle all has gone quiet. Is it okay with you?”
“Yes, yes you asked for quiet. I am an obedient girlfriend.”
“Ha! Not likely.”
Actually I am obedient, but negligent. Is negligence disobedience? When it comes to matters of the purse, and of the interest upon interest accrued by late fees. How did it go? Spending leads to bending. Elle knew she was certainly banking on a spanking if she couldn’t find the account to take with her.
“Elle?”
“It is good. Go back to your croquet.”
“Cricket! Twenty-twenty cricket.”
“Whatever it is; bats and pyjamas.”
“It’s being telecast from Brisbane, it is evening there.”
Elle smiled to herself. Bats and pyjamas, that sounds like something you’d find at a high school slumber party.
“Elle! Late.”
Elle was shaken from the beginnings of a fantasy by the reminder. She was late, for work and for the bank, or at least she would be if she didn’t leave immediately. That evening would see the bats but not so much of the pyjamas if she didn’t get a wriggle on.
---
Elle worked in the city, and the regional headquarters of the bank she banked with was directly across the road. The account had been set up with the branch on the ground floor by her employer, so this was the account that her bills came out of and her pay went in to. She hadn’t time to bank before having to be at her desk, so went across in her lunch hour.
The queue reached to Spain.
Lucky queuing is our national pastime, she thought to herself with a smile. America has baseball, the Commonwealth countries have bats and pyjamas, but we could queue for gold.
Elle had hoped to write up the deposit form while standing in the queue, but as with most banks that we trust with our money but they don’t trust with their stationery, the pens were chained to the counters. She missed five places while quickly scribbling in the necessary digits, the third place taken by an old woman with what looked like a bag of doubloons.
“Pieces of eight I shouldn’t say”, joked the man who joined the queue behind her.
“I’d rather they were pieces of sixteen, and then they’d count in half the time.”
“So, do you think TSB stands for ‘The Sailors’ Bank’?”
“No it’s ‘Trusts, Savings and Bonds’...oh, I see. Yes. Yes, perhaps you get better service if you are a scurvy dog. High rates for pirates.”
The queue moved forward and the woman with the bag moved to a window to be served.
“She’s at the window now. Oh good, they’ve put her loot into one of those counting machines. Your money or your life old woman?”
“Take my life; I might need the money when I’m older.”
“Arr!”
Elle had to be flagged twice before she saw she was to move across to a window, she had been too busy wiping the giggling from her eyes.
The teller greeted Elle, then took the form from her and began to type in the numbers. She looked up, looked at Elle, looked back at the screen, and then excused herself. She returned with a man who introduced himself with some posh sort of banker’s name, and was invited to join him in a side office.
---
“Okay. Okay Miss...”
“Just call me Elle.”
“Elle. Elle there seems to be an issue with your account. You are overdrawn and also late with two payments.”
The posh banker turned a computer screen around to show Elle. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but the fact that the last set of digits was suffixed with “DR” told her all she needed to know.
“That’s correct, but that is why I have come in this afternoon. I wish to pay the outstanding late payments.”
“Right. And the penalty rates?”
“Oh, if there are any. I had presumed there would be some sort of fee.”
“There are no fees Elle, but there are rates.”
“So, what, a percentage? Balance plus 1%, something like that?”
Posh banker sat back in his chair.
“Do you know what sets TSB apart from the other banks Elle?”
“Not really. I bank here because I work at Jamieson’s across the road; they set the account up for me.
“But you’ve read our terms and guidelines? Every new client gets sent a booklet of terms and guidelines.”
'As if I’ve read it. No-one reads that!'
“I...glanced?”
“You should have read.”
“So what sets TSB apart from all the other banks? Is it your snazzy red uniforms?”
“No.”
“An almost fanatical devotion to the Pope?”
“We are a bank, Elle, not the Spanish Inquisition.”
“But you do have comfy chairs.”
“But our founders were Jewish.”
“Ah. No pope then.”
Just pirates. Arr!
“Quite simply Elle we know that clients of a bank can get themselves into difficulties at times. Adding fees and charges onto an overdue account helps no-one. We don’t get our money any faster, and you begin to dislike us. So we don’t do that. Once the fees get to a certain level we freeze them. Your fees have been frozen.”
“Thank you, but you spoke of rates before.”
“Correct. The simple situation is we want you to be able to repay your overdraft. You seem unable to do so, despite our financial counselling service and our free budgeting workshops. Therefore we have provided a compulsory fee-buy-back service on all of our products, and have done so since 1798.”
“The year?”
“1798, the day we opened the doors of our Cheapside trading house for the first time.”
“Okay.”
“So, as I have said this is a compulsory fee buy-back. You will pay me today the full amount of your outstanding payments, minus all fees and charges on your account. We negotiate a loan to transfer your overdraft to a lower rate of interest repayment, and restore your everyday account to a zero balance, which will be the fixed floor. You will not be able to access credit or debt.”
“And this is compulsory?”
“It will stop you getting into further trouble.”
'Into further trouble? Or further into trouble?'
“Sounds good.”
“This was detailed in our terms and guidelines pamphlet.”
“I must have missed that part.”
“You must.”
“Incidentally, I was having a discussion with a man in the queue while I was waiting for you. What does TSB actually stand for?”
Posh banker smiled.
“This is the next part of our conversation Elle. TSB is Tintangel Spanking Bank. Tintangel was the surname taken by our founder, a huge fan of the Arthuriad legends. You will be aware of the other two words.”
Click! It all fell into place for Elle.
“Rates. You have run out of patience getting your money out of me, so now you are going to beat it out of me?”
“When we were bankers for the agrarian poor, and those who followed the industrial revolution to the cities in the eighteenth century, a beating was not uncommon for defaulters. At least TSB offered this service in a safe and civilised environment, and not at the end of a thug’s club in the dead of night.”
“And I have to do this?”
“Yes, it was...”
“...mentioned in the terms and conditions.”
Elle was left in the little office while the posh banker went to find the necessary people to assist her with her transaction. He had already handled the financial side, stamping her account remittance and receiving a matching set of banknotes.
Elle was introduced to two people in smart uniforms. Brendon looked like he could scrum for the Springboks, although his accent was definitely European. The sleeveless red jumper over a pale grey long-sleeved shirt seemed to highlight the potential energy throbbing in his biceps. Melissa, the teller from before, was smaller, but still looked like she was up to the job of smacking a naughty girl's bottom with intent. Elle was sure that the red cardigan hid a set of guns that could provide shock and awe to any target, and if the pale grey nylon encased calves were anything to go by Elle was sure that Melissa had the thighs to chase down and tackle any prey foolish enough to run. Even in a skirt and ¾ inch heels the teller looked game.
“Elle, here is where you do have a choice. Historically the option available to you because of your debt is limited to the whip. In our age we employ a leather paddle which will be wielded with you across the knee of your caseworker.”
Caseworker?
“Allowing for your being female you may chose to have Brendon spank you upon your underwear, with Melissa acting as chaperone. You may otherwise choose for Melissa to spank you in private, but that would be upon bare flesh. The number of lashes is the same, as that is proportional to your balance owed. This is a ‘rate’ after all.”
Elle considered her options. The man would surely hit harder, but the woman would ask her to be naked. Even if it was just the two of them Elle didn’t think she could show her naked bottom to a stranger, even another female.
“Umm. Are we doing this now?”
“Yes.”
“Umm, then I choose the gentleman please.”
Melissa scoffed. “He’s not so gentle, ma’am. But I’d have picked him too.” She moved across to the door of the office, closing it behind the back of the departing posh banker, and then stood with her own back to it. Elle noticed a small ladder forming on Melissa’s left foot where a peep of toe cleavage showed a healthy tan through the grey nylon.
“Thank you Elle”, began Brendon, “let’s get this done then and allow you to get back to work.”
Elle shot a glance toward the clock and saw that she had seventeen minutes of her hour left. She’d not even had lunch.
Brendon sat in posh banker’s chair and indicated that Elle should approach him. As she arrived he lifted a long leather paddle off the desk and showed it to her.
“It’s more of a strap than a paddle, but it has a handle.” He glanced across at the posh banker’s computer screen and clicked the mouse twice. “According to our calculations, and considering your repayment of monies this afternoon, you are due twenty-four lashes. Are you ready?”
Elle was unable to speak. Twenty-four, (24), spanks with a leather paddle, across this man’s knees. She managed to nod.
“Then please unbuckle your trousers and lower them to your knees. Your rate shall be applied to the underwear, but outerwear must be removed. We want you to be able to restore yourself to a clothed state with your outerwear undamaged when you leave.”
Elle considered this news, and wondered whether it was worth the extra layers of clothing. Bare with the woman or barely-there with the man? No, nakedness is still nakedness; Brendon would have to do it. She glanced across to Melissa and saw her nod. Melissa had guessed what Elle had been thinking.
“All the girls think that Elle; about half change their mind at this point,” Melissa offered.
“Brendon.” Elle declared her choice and began to unbuckle her belt.
The belt and button were easy to do, but the zip was not. Not that the functioning of the zip was impaired, but the final act of unzipping to then lower her trousers, or pull your pants down young lady as she heard in her head, brought her into a realisation of what was about to occur.
“Is there no other way?”
“Only if you choose Melissa.”
Elle unzipped her trousers and dropped them to her knees, she straightened her tights and lay herself across Brendon’s lap before she could think to back out. As if in solidarity with her Brendon began the flogging immediately.
Melissa winced as the beating continued. She had been on the receiving end of one of Brendon’s spankings the previous morning when she had failed a Professional Development task. Skirt up, tights down, and nine pelvis shattering smacks with a wooden paddle across the seat of her panties had convinced her that attentiveness was a better option than the mini-bar when she spent a weekend in the capital.
CRACK! Twelve!
CRACK! Thirteen
CRACK! Fourteeeeeeeeeeen!
Elle remembered that she had a late night coming tonight. There was to be a subcommittee meeting until seven o’clock and she had offered to remain and take minutes. Two extra hours of sitting on swollen buttocks.
CRACK! Twenty-two oooo hooo hooo hoooooooooooo!
---
Elle winced as she stepped from her car and onto the driveway outside her house. A solid trousers-down spanking and a long afternoon of sitting at her desk had left her feeling rather tender. She heard the front door open and looked up with a smile, happy to be home.
“Elle? Just after you left this morning I found a letter from the bank under the breakfast table.” He waved the letter at her with his left hand.
In his right hand he was holding her hairbrush.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
More Questions than Answers: Schooners and Smacks
Barrawah is a town on the south coast of Trowenna: a quiet fishing village which used to be a logging port. Now it is home to schooners and smacks, and the occasional skiff. I have been coming here since I was about seven: my father has a boatshed down here and although Imshi, the boat he and my grandfather built themselves, is now long gone the shed remains.
It is cold today, but having just arrived in Trowenna from my new home in Albion I cannot remember whether it is the winter arriving early, or staying late...I find the seasons so confusing these days, and not just those of the climate. I pull my scarf across my chest once more, a long pink twist shaped like a breast-cancer awareness ribbon it crosses my breasts between my overcoat and my jumper, and should be keeping my chest warm. I have Australian flu, (I’ve been coughing up green and gold all morning), and I don’t want to be put to bed: I don’t have long here this time.
I pull my beret down on my head, which is not how it is supposed to be worn, but I’m too cold to be bothered by jaunty or chic. Not that Trowenna is known for such things anyway. We are a culture of food: Atlantic Salmon, cheese, gourmet beer and wine, and the ubiquitous fruit of our history; but we’ve never been ones for fashion beyond the occasional Aran style sweater or a "My XXX went to Trowenna, and all I got..." style garment in some of the waterfront boutiques. There is a plague of them in our capital, Georgian warehouses beneath brooding Unghanyaletta and its silent “Organ Pipes” which remind me of Kaapstadt and a boyfriend I’d rather forget.
The wharf is how I remember it: wharfish, (dwarfish?), and certainly neither a pier or a jetty. There is no funfair at the end of this boulevard of tar and treated pine, neither does it “jet” but rather it runs parallel to the shoreline; indeed it is suspended above it. An old steamer slumps painfully on screaming ropes just ahead of me. Nothing changes, this place has always been old and forgotten. I look beyond the bollards and gulls and see that the pub is still there: and it has been resurrected into something not quite modern, yet nothing like it was. It will have been “gastrocised” now, all Trowennan new-builds are, but I hope it will be homely. I always loved Barrawah’s waterside pub; and I am certain that even after four years since my last coming there is a schooner with my name on it.
I smile with childish delight, and look down at my hands. There indeed it is, a frosted beer glass with the cursive legend across it Caoirstig Saoirse, (what the hell were my parents thinking?): literally a schooner with my name on it. I maintain the smile and show it to the young man behind the bar. I’m sure we had a cheeky snogging session about fifteen years ago, but like most of the boys of summer he’s probably married now.
“You right Kirst?”
(Am I right cursed? Undeniably so.) “Yes thank you Peter.”
“S’bin ages since you bin’ere”
“Four years I believe.”
“For years?”
“Four years, one-two-three-four.”
“Agh so.”
Agh so. My mum says that, I’d forgotten Peter was of Northern Irish stock too, so he is.
“What cha doin’ in Albion now?”
“Fuck knows really.”
He laughs. “Na Kirst, not why you there but what cha do? Fer workin’ at?”
I smile again. “Still in school.”
“Geography wasn’t it?”
My smile broadens, “yes it was, but now it’s Religion Education.”
Peter explodes in a fit of Ulsterism, “fer fook’s en croyen’s sake Caoirstig, now what would ye be goin’ and doing a ting loike dat fer?”
An ever broadening smile, “it’s all much the same thing Pyedor,” (I say in my best Inis Ceithleann accent), “geography, history, RE are all about the reality of a world bigger than ourselves. I hope to show kids how to look beyond their own world, not just for adventure but for society’s sake. Religions Education is the cure for selfishness.”
“Agh so, so is a good hard slap across the backside.”
“Well, since you’re offering...” I give him a wink.
“Cheeky girl.”
“Quite, so I am.”
I am back on the wharf, and so is the rain. I cannot pull down my beret any further for fear of obliterating my view so I huck up my collar and fold my arms across my chest. I stamp my boots on the wet cement: for all the world looking like a little girl in a defiant hissy fit. (For which the cure is the same as that for selfishness.) My car is just over there, but I actually like the rain so I’ll stay out a bit longer. I see Peter locking up the pub; surely only for a moment as although it is getting dark it is still only mid afternoon. It is definitely winter here, I remember now.
Lashing and belting. Which are words to describe heavy rain? I would have been a champion at Jeopardy if ever Trowenna TV had screened it here. I love rain, it always makes me feel special: I’m rather in the mood of a bit of lashing and belting and even though I am wet I am giggling. The water cycle is such an amazing thing, and even as a Geography teacher, (and therefore destined ever to wear brown corduroy ) I never tire of reviewing its miracle. This water running down my jacket and skirt: most of it down the outside of my boots, has been so many places and been used for so many things. I love how rain connects me to the basics of the humanity of strangers: of drinking and cooking and washing. The smacks and skiffs are bobbing about on the water beyond the wharf: there is no wind in this rainstorm so there is nothing to flatten the waves as the tide meets the river on its journey down from Swanport. The schooner sits far more contrite: (as indeed I would in the presence of such wild smacks): its larger size allows a decorum in the midst of tempest which is a lesson for me in the maze of my imagination right now. If only home weren’t so far from life. I need recalibration.
When I was seventeen I began a summer job at the Antiquarian bookseller in Swanport, and at twenty (and University) I was made mistress of the market stall in Barrawah. Now the store itself has moved to Barrawah, and it is here I choose to seek shelter from the inundation. I love rain, but I hate being wet, and in fear of my Australian flu turning Aotearoan, (where you’re coughing up all black), I go inside. The man for whom I worked in the dark and distant nineties is now gone, his daughter was at Ladies College with me and she now sits amidst the dust and flyspeck at the neat yet loaded counter to the left of the door. She greets me with a peck on each cheek, a warm smile, and the correct pronunciation of Saoirse. We’ve not seen each other since graduation from university, me as Mistress of Teaching, she as Spinster of Education (with Honours). Does she remember the books we used to read?
“Caoirstig Saoirse, how lovely to see you darling. I have read of your exploits, and indeed have read from your writings as well. I see that you still...”
I smile nervously and look down at my hands. Men usually find that becoming in me, but does she think me wanton for the substance of my writings?
She smiles back. “I also...yet I cannot hope to write as you do. My husband...dead...and my parents moved to the north island. Alone...just Peter...and sometimes your mother comes to tea when she and your father are down at their shed, but...no-one since you lwent from here and...”
The dark secret, never shared, (only us). Before we found our men folk (...dead...) we had found each other.
“And now Caoirstig Saoirse, you write of it with loneliness.”
“There is no-one, and I have not felt the need to.”
She sighs and a tear forms. “Oh dearest departed I had hoped...”
I reach for her hand, but she is standing too far from me so I abort the attempt. “Describe for me the rain,” I ask her.
“The...”
“Rain. I write with loneliness because I feel lonely. Tell me what you feel. Describe for me the rain.”
“The rain is heavy.”
“Go on.”
“The rain is falling.”
“And yet...”
“Caoirstig Saoirse, the rain is belting. Look out on the water, on the river. Look at the skiffs bobbing. Look at the schooners and smacks! Oh, Schooners and Smacks...do you remember?”
I nod and smile congratulation at her. “Schooners and Smacks...innocently describing the two most common watercraft of Swanreach, Swanport itself and of course Barrawah...yes also words in the Trowennan cant which describe...”
“A tall glass of New South Welsh beer, and also...well...”
“Smacks?”
“Yes, well we always thought that was pretty self evident.” Her smile fades. “So lonely Caoirstig Saoirse.”
“I’m not surprised dearest, it’s a bit isolated down here, out the backside of Unghanyaletta.”
“I meant you.”
There are no secrets that can be hidden from your first love. Not when you write an online story blog under a very thinly designed pseudonym. Even Trowenna, even Barrawah, has t’internet.
I shed a tear.
She takes my hand.
We lock the door of the shop, but do not pull the blind. We go around the end of the row where the travel books are kept, (the holiday aisle), and she pulls out a step used for reaching the uppermost shelves.
She offers me the seat. I pause for a breath, then sit.
She smiles down at me then lays herself across my knees.
Over the course of time I steadily beat her to tears...a rhythmic smack upon smack, each cheek, each sit-spot; the untamed wilderness of her skirt a well covered continent of exploration by the time I can no longer lift either of my exhausted arms. She is sobbing rather than crying, wracked and compliant she’d not hesitated under my rain but only writhed in response. My hands are swollen and my arms are heavy. My heart, even heavier. This hasn’t helped at all...I feel ever more lonely and ever more lost. This is no longer who I am. She has sensed this, and this is part of why she is crying. She has waited eleven years for me to return to her, and she has failed me.
She rises painfully, and looks again down at me. Her eyes are puffy, her lipstick smeared clownishly on her left cheek and also her shoulder. She is incapable of sitting, and I wonder if she wonders as I do...what if she’d taken the seat at the outset and I'd...
I stand, embrace her, kiss her. I’ve half a mind to lick that smear of lipstick but that passes. I turn and walk out of the shop, pausing to nod to a young woman who had been waiting at the locked door. It is only as I turn down the street and hear her asking for a copy of Raskolnikova that I realise she probably heard us going about our reintroductions inside. I also recognise her voice as that of my cousin with whom I shared a tent when we were eighteen.
But that is another story...
It is cold today, but having just arrived in Trowenna from my new home in Albion I cannot remember whether it is the winter arriving early, or staying late...I find the seasons so confusing these days, and not just those of the climate. I pull my scarf across my chest once more, a long pink twist shaped like a breast-cancer awareness ribbon it crosses my breasts between my overcoat and my jumper, and should be keeping my chest warm. I have Australian flu, (I’ve been coughing up green and gold all morning), and I don’t want to be put to bed: I don’t have long here this time.
I pull my beret down on my head, which is not how it is supposed to be worn, but I’m too cold to be bothered by jaunty or chic. Not that Trowenna is known for such things anyway. We are a culture of food: Atlantic Salmon, cheese, gourmet beer and wine, and the ubiquitous fruit of our history; but we’ve never been ones for fashion beyond the occasional Aran style sweater or a "My XXX went to Trowenna, and all I got..." style garment in some of the waterfront boutiques. There is a plague of them in our capital, Georgian warehouses beneath brooding Unghanyaletta and its silent “Organ Pipes” which remind me of Kaapstadt and a boyfriend I’d rather forget.
The wharf is how I remember it: wharfish, (dwarfish?), and certainly neither a pier or a jetty. There is no funfair at the end of this boulevard of tar and treated pine, neither does it “jet” but rather it runs parallel to the shoreline; indeed it is suspended above it. An old steamer slumps painfully on screaming ropes just ahead of me. Nothing changes, this place has always been old and forgotten. I look beyond the bollards and gulls and see that the pub is still there: and it has been resurrected into something not quite modern, yet nothing like it was. It will have been “gastrocised” now, all Trowennan new-builds are, but I hope it will be homely. I always loved Barrawah’s waterside pub; and I am certain that even after four years since my last coming there is a schooner with my name on it.
I smile with childish delight, and look down at my hands. There indeed it is, a frosted beer glass with the cursive legend across it Caoirstig Saoirse, (what the hell were my parents thinking?): literally a schooner with my name on it. I maintain the smile and show it to the young man behind the bar. I’m sure we had a cheeky snogging session about fifteen years ago, but like most of the boys of summer he’s probably married now.
“You right Kirst?”
(Am I right cursed? Undeniably so.) “Yes thank you Peter.”
“S’bin ages since you bin’ere”
“Four years I believe.”
“For years?”
“Four years, one-two-three-four.”
“Agh so.”
Agh so. My mum says that, I’d forgotten Peter was of Northern Irish stock too, so he is.
“What cha doin’ in Albion now?”
“Fuck knows really.”
He laughs. “Na Kirst, not why you there but what cha do? Fer workin’ at?”
I smile again. “Still in school.”
“Geography wasn’t it?”
My smile broadens, “yes it was, but now it’s Religion Education.”
Peter explodes in a fit of Ulsterism, “fer fook’s en croyen’s sake Caoirstig, now what would ye be goin’ and doing a ting loike dat fer?”
An ever broadening smile, “it’s all much the same thing Pyedor,” (I say in my best Inis Ceithleann accent), “geography, history, RE are all about the reality of a world bigger than ourselves. I hope to show kids how to look beyond their own world, not just for adventure but for society’s sake. Religions Education is the cure for selfishness.”
“Agh so, so is a good hard slap across the backside.”
“Well, since you’re offering...” I give him a wink.
“Cheeky girl.”
“Quite, so I am.”
I am back on the wharf, and so is the rain. I cannot pull down my beret any further for fear of obliterating my view so I huck up my collar and fold my arms across my chest. I stamp my boots on the wet cement: for all the world looking like a little girl in a defiant hissy fit. (For which the cure is the same as that for selfishness.) My car is just over there, but I actually like the rain so I’ll stay out a bit longer. I see Peter locking up the pub; surely only for a moment as although it is getting dark it is still only mid afternoon. It is definitely winter here, I remember now.
Lashing and belting. Which are words to describe heavy rain? I would have been a champion at Jeopardy if ever Trowenna TV had screened it here. I love rain, it always makes me feel special: I’m rather in the mood of a bit of lashing and belting and even though I am wet I am giggling. The water cycle is such an amazing thing, and even as a Geography teacher, (and therefore destined ever to wear brown corduroy ) I never tire of reviewing its miracle. This water running down my jacket and skirt: most of it down the outside of my boots, has been so many places and been used for so many things. I love how rain connects me to the basics of the humanity of strangers: of drinking and cooking and washing. The smacks and skiffs are bobbing about on the water beyond the wharf: there is no wind in this rainstorm so there is nothing to flatten the waves as the tide meets the river on its journey down from Swanport. The schooner sits far more contrite: (as indeed I would in the presence of such wild smacks): its larger size allows a decorum in the midst of tempest which is a lesson for me in the maze of my imagination right now. If only home weren’t so far from life. I need recalibration.
When I was seventeen I began a summer job at the Antiquarian bookseller in Swanport, and at twenty (and University) I was made mistress of the market stall in Barrawah. Now the store itself has moved to Barrawah, and it is here I choose to seek shelter from the inundation. I love rain, but I hate being wet, and in fear of my Australian flu turning Aotearoan, (where you’re coughing up all black), I go inside. The man for whom I worked in the dark and distant nineties is now gone, his daughter was at Ladies College with me and she now sits amidst the dust and flyspeck at the neat yet loaded counter to the left of the door. She greets me with a peck on each cheek, a warm smile, and the correct pronunciation of Saoirse. We’ve not seen each other since graduation from university, me as Mistress of Teaching, she as Spinster of Education (with Honours). Does she remember the books we used to read?
“Caoirstig Saoirse, how lovely to see you darling. I have read of your exploits, and indeed have read from your writings as well. I see that you still...”
I smile nervously and look down at my hands. Men usually find that becoming in me, but does she think me wanton for the substance of my writings?
She smiles back. “I also...yet I cannot hope to write as you do. My husband...dead...and my parents moved to the north island. Alone...just Peter...and sometimes your mother comes to tea when she and your father are down at their shed, but...no-one since you lwent from here and...”
The dark secret, never shared, (only us). Before we found our men folk (...dead...) we had found each other.
“And now Caoirstig Saoirse, you write of it with loneliness.”
“There is no-one, and I have not felt the need to.”
She sighs and a tear forms. “Oh dearest departed I had hoped...”
I reach for her hand, but she is standing too far from me so I abort the attempt. “Describe for me the rain,” I ask her.
“The...”
“Rain. I write with loneliness because I feel lonely. Tell me what you feel. Describe for me the rain.”
“The rain is heavy.”
“Go on.”
“The rain is falling.”
“And yet...”
“Caoirstig Saoirse, the rain is belting. Look out on the water, on the river. Look at the skiffs bobbing. Look at the schooners and smacks! Oh, Schooners and Smacks...do you remember?”
I nod and smile congratulation at her. “Schooners and Smacks...innocently describing the two most common watercraft of Swanreach, Swanport itself and of course Barrawah...yes also words in the Trowennan cant which describe...”
“A tall glass of New South Welsh beer, and also...well...”
“Smacks?”
“Yes, well we always thought that was pretty self evident.” Her smile fades. “So lonely Caoirstig Saoirse.”
“I’m not surprised dearest, it’s a bit isolated down here, out the backside of Unghanyaletta.”
“I meant you.”
There are no secrets that can be hidden from your first love. Not when you write an online story blog under a very thinly designed pseudonym. Even Trowenna, even Barrawah, has t’internet.
I shed a tear.
She takes my hand.
We lock the door of the shop, but do not pull the blind. We go around the end of the row where the travel books are kept, (the holiday aisle), and she pulls out a step used for reaching the uppermost shelves.
She offers me the seat. I pause for a breath, then sit.
She smiles down at me then lays herself across my knees.
Over the course of time I steadily beat her to tears...a rhythmic smack upon smack, each cheek, each sit-spot; the untamed wilderness of her skirt a well covered continent of exploration by the time I can no longer lift either of my exhausted arms. She is sobbing rather than crying, wracked and compliant she’d not hesitated under my rain but only writhed in response. My hands are swollen and my arms are heavy. My heart, even heavier. This hasn’t helped at all...I feel ever more lonely and ever more lost. This is no longer who I am. She has sensed this, and this is part of why she is crying. She has waited eleven years for me to return to her, and she has failed me.
She rises painfully, and looks again down at me. Her eyes are puffy, her lipstick smeared clownishly on her left cheek and also her shoulder. She is incapable of sitting, and I wonder if she wonders as I do...what if she’d taken the seat at the outset and I'd...
I stand, embrace her, kiss her. I’ve half a mind to lick that smear of lipstick but that passes. I turn and walk out of the shop, pausing to nod to a young woman who had been waiting at the locked door. It is only as I turn down the street and hear her asking for a copy of Raskolnikova that I realise she probably heard us going about our reintroductions inside. I also recognise her voice as that of my cousin with whom I shared a tent when we were eighteen.
But that is another story...
The Story of K
Good afternoon girls and boys. (Good afterNOON Miss E-LIS-ern).
I am not in the habit of writing such tales as these, in fact I’m not even in the habit of reading them. But in the interests of artistic endeavour I thought I’d have a turn at writing some smut.
(As you do.)
I’ve not tried this before, so I present this to you as a first try at something beyond the envelope of Curtseygirl’s usual fantasies. So, please don’t ask me again: here’s something I’m making up as I go along. Boys I think you’ll like this. Girls, perhaps best to look away now. (I know I would.)
The Story of K
K had been interested in spanking as a woman since one particularly cute lad in the sixth form had mentioned to her how he’d been at a party where her best friend Amanda had gone over his knee on a dare. She, (K), had been aware since the age of fifteen that spanking could be thought of as “fun” by some adults, but the sensation had never really been hers, and the shy girl that she was she’d never had opportunity to find out much about it. She remembered having asked Amanda about it, and about the boy’s story, but Amanda had been non-committal.
(The thrashing had been going on for quite a while now. He’d used everything in the arsenal and still kept finding more. First there’d been the open palm, directed solely upon her upturned buttocks and thighs as she lay across his lap. Underwear had never been part of the equation, of course a “real spanking” could only be delivered upon the bare. The “Tantric Sex” book had suggested however that nakedness was not the option either and that a woman’s “shame centre” would trigger a deeper sense of pleasure were she to be stripped like a little girl.
“First ask the woman to lift her skirt or pull down her trousers, leaving them around her knees to add to the embarrassment. Then bend her over your lap (best), or a table or chair. Some women find it erotic to bend over a bed, both in link to the sexual act and to punishments received in her bedroom as a little girl. Many women like to be made to feel vulnerable, as a child.”)
What K did know about however, was writing. She’d always been excellent at English Composition and one of her essays had been printed in each of the school’s two previous end of year magazines. This year she was to be one of the student editors. “If I can’t get a smack from a boy, and I’d die to be punished by my parents at this point, maybe I’ll just write about it.
(The palm had given way to the spatula. She had almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but the Tantric Book said domestic objects added to the allure. He had quickly passed on to the equally ridiculous egg-flipper before settling consecutively upon a series of wooden spoons, and finally the cheese chopping board which worked quite well as a paddle. Until the handle had broken.)
K smoothed down her skirt. She’d never really understood the appeal for women in “schoolgirl fantasy”. For men it was obvious, vulnerability and all that, but for women what was it? It annoyed her that her cousin’s rugby team had had a “Sheila’s Arvo” where all the burly men had dressed as females, and so many had come in close fitting uniforms from hers and the ladies’ college down the road. Her cousin had gone as “Miss Tasmania” following K’s absolute refusal to loan him her school kilt and jersey. Where was the Boudicca? Where was the Margaret Thatcher? Why do men who dress as women have to dress as weak women?
(“Over the chair bitch,” he tipped her onto the floor as he stood up, trapping her in a mess of legs and knotted pantyhose. “Across the seat.” She lay herself in spanking position across the chair and he began to go to work upon the upturned buttocks, first with his palms, then with his belt.)
“So what’s sexy then?” K wasn’t even sure where to start. She glanced across at herself in the mirror and burst out laughing. Looking back at her was a seventeen year old red-head in piggy tails and a knitted pinafore. There was a ladder up the inside of her left calf and around her knee, disappearing into the crevice of her skirt. “Stairway to Heaven” she’d been told to call such ladders in pantyhose, not that she’d ever uttered such lurid thoughts. Still, the young authoress noted the coquettish charm of her pose, pen in mouth, head in hand, all tipped slightly sideways. Was this sexy?
(“Table. Up.” She knew this would follow, it always did. Since she’d written it in her first story, the one where the four girls in the share house invite the two boys from next door around for dinner on the last Sunday night of the month; to spank each of the girls in turn for her previous thirty days of naughtiness, she knew that she’s be taking the table position. This involved her kneeling on a chair turned backwards to the table, then bending over the table itself. She’d written it was ‘unseemly’ for a young lady to bend over from a standing position, so had written this ‘S shape’ posture for her character Melissa to adopt each month when Darren would apply wood to nylon, that is, hairbrush to buttocks within pantyhose.)
“ “She knew what was coming from the tone of her mother’s voice.”” K thought that if she was going to write a story she may as well begin on known ground. She’d only ever been spanked by her parents, her mother mainly (solely in the last three years). Mum would smack her on her knickers, across her knee, with K’s hairbrush. This began when K was about six and her last smacked bottom had come three weeks before her fifteenth birthday. K remembered only four occasions when she’s been asked to lower her underpants as well, the last episode as a fourteen year old had been one such occasion.
(The belt again. Usually when sent “to table” the weapon of masculine employ was some sort of cane.)
Dad would smack K on her knickers as well, but since he was stronger than mum he would use his hand. Again K would be over his knee, well she was until she was ten. Dad had stopped spanking K as soon as she began to have periods, but for those last two and a half years he’d been bending her over her bed for her smacks. He had only spanked K once upon her bare bottom, again the last occasion upon which she had been punished by him, when he had asked her to lift up her nightie. He’d used the hairbrush that night as well, perhaps he knew it was the last time he’d spank his little girl so he’d need to make it count.
(“Lap.” So that was it for the table then. She knew the session was coming to a close when she was called to go back otk. She’d only just settled into position and received three stripes from the stiff leather dog collar across her left thigh when his mobile phone rang.)
“ “ Her mother’s voice, but her father’s footsteps on the staircase. Elissa knew this one would hurt.”” K was pleased. “ “ She hadn’t meant to snap at her mother, but the stress of getting ready for the Senior Leavers’ Dinner had put her on edge, and when she put a fingernail through the gusset of her lacy tights as she was hurrying to get dressed she couldn’t help it. Now Michael was to be here soon to pick her up, would her dad really …””
(“Yeah? No, sorry she can’t come to the phone right now.” It had been her telephone, not his. That was going to cost her, perhaps she’d feel the cane after all, she knew it was on the floor beside the chair. “No, she’ll not be available until later. Mmhm. No, she’s been a very naughty girl. No, she’s not in her room. No, she can’t come to the phone right now because I have put her over my knee. Yes, she’s over my knee at the moment. Yes.” Crack! The cane descended across her bottom in an angry arc. She’d felt his hand lift off her back to answer the phone but hadn’t suspected he’d be holding something punishing with the other. She squealed out loudly. “Yes, that was her. No, a cane. Oh I don’t know, maybe the width of her thumb. Of course she’s bare bottom!”)
“ “ Elissa I know you’re stressed now, but there was no need to speak to your mother like that. Now I know you’ve been looking forward to this dance so I’ll not stop you from going.” Elissa hadn’t thought of that, actually being grounded from the dance.” K was pleased. The story had begun well and the upcoming Leavers’ Dinner had given her the idea she needed to set her scene.
(“You think I should what? I want to give her a spanking, not a concussion!”)
Now, how to get a spanking underway. “Just as dad would,” thought K, “just get in there.” “ “ Elissa, if you want to get this sorted out before Michael comes we’d better…” “Yes daddy,” replied Elissa, handing her father the hairbrush she’d been nursing in her lap before beginning to pull down her tights.” Marvellous!
(“That was your boss. She told me it was about time someone gave you a good hiding and that I should use the electricity cord off the kettle to flog you with should the cane fail to make the desired impact.” “Bitch” she replied, greeted with as many as fifteen (she lost count) lashes of the dog-collar. “We don’t do disrespect for authority here, young lady. I’ll not be using the cord, but we will finish you off with a damn solid caning. Belting with the collar first." Thrash!)
K was underway now, describing the tears in Elissa’s eyes as she pulled down her panties beneath the voluminous skirt of her party dress and lay herself across her father’s lap. She cut away from the action to describe the conversation below as her mother explained to Michael what was taking Elissa’s time in coming down …
(Thrash, thrash, thrash.)
… and back to Elissa’s own sense of shame and embarrassment at being bare bottomed across her father’s knee on the night of the Senior Leavers’ while the boy she liked was downstairs hearing it all in the company of her mother. The smacks from the hairbrush really, really hurt; but the embarrassment was mortal.
(Crack, crack. The first two in a long series of concluding strokes of the cane. It was indeed the width of her left thumb, which had been the criteria he had set her when she was sent to Mitre-10 to fetch “a rod for your own butt, at the rule of thumb”.)
K finished her story with a shared father-daughter hug, and dad presenting Elissa to Michael. Elissa dropped Michael a deep curtsey as he took her had to kiss, and father whispered to mother that the hairbrush need never be employed again. K was not surprised to feel her eyes moistened by the story, but the feeling in her knickers was new.
(He had finished the session by reading her the story she’d written as a girl, about a girl her age at the time who had been spanked on the evening of her senior dance. “I always thought it was your best work, this one.” She stood beside the chair gently caressing her bottom. She could feel numerous weals rising across her buttocks and her thighs, and at least three of them were oozing clear stuff. She winced as she touched one particularly open cut. “My bum feels like the ripple strips at the end of the M1, you know where they paint them yellow to stop you crashing into Brent shops.” He just smiled.)
K read over the story again and corrected her spelling mistakes. “Now where to hide this” she thought, not wanting to consider what might happen should anyone else ever get to read it.
I am not in the habit of writing such tales as these, in fact I’m not even in the habit of reading them. But in the interests of artistic endeavour I thought I’d have a turn at writing some smut.
(As you do.)
I’ve not tried this before, so I present this to you as a first try at something beyond the envelope of Curtseygirl’s usual fantasies. So, please don’t ask me again: here’s something I’m making up as I go along. Boys I think you’ll like this. Girls, perhaps best to look away now. (I know I would.)
The Story of K
K had been interested in spanking as a woman since one particularly cute lad in the sixth form had mentioned to her how he’d been at a party where her best friend Amanda had gone over his knee on a dare. She, (K), had been aware since the age of fifteen that spanking could be thought of as “fun” by some adults, but the sensation had never really been hers, and the shy girl that she was she’d never had opportunity to find out much about it. She remembered having asked Amanda about it, and about the boy’s story, but Amanda had been non-committal.
(The thrashing had been going on for quite a while now. He’d used everything in the arsenal and still kept finding more. First there’d been the open palm, directed solely upon her upturned buttocks and thighs as she lay across his lap. Underwear had never been part of the equation, of course a “real spanking” could only be delivered upon the bare. The “Tantric Sex” book had suggested however that nakedness was not the option either and that a woman’s “shame centre” would trigger a deeper sense of pleasure were she to be stripped like a little girl.
“First ask the woman to lift her skirt or pull down her trousers, leaving them around her knees to add to the embarrassment. Then bend her over your lap (best), or a table or chair. Some women find it erotic to bend over a bed, both in link to the sexual act and to punishments received in her bedroom as a little girl. Many women like to be made to feel vulnerable, as a child.”)
What K did know about however, was writing. She’d always been excellent at English Composition and one of her essays had been printed in each of the school’s two previous end of year magazines. This year she was to be one of the student editors. “If I can’t get a smack from a boy, and I’d die to be punished by my parents at this point, maybe I’ll just write about it.
(The palm had given way to the spatula. She had almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but the Tantric Book said domestic objects added to the allure. He had quickly passed on to the equally ridiculous egg-flipper before settling consecutively upon a series of wooden spoons, and finally the cheese chopping board which worked quite well as a paddle. Until the handle had broken.)
K smoothed down her skirt. She’d never really understood the appeal for women in “schoolgirl fantasy”. For men it was obvious, vulnerability and all that, but for women what was it? It annoyed her that her cousin’s rugby team had had a “Sheila’s Arvo” where all the burly men had dressed as females, and so many had come in close fitting uniforms from hers and the ladies’ college down the road. Her cousin had gone as “Miss Tasmania” following K’s absolute refusal to loan him her school kilt and jersey. Where was the Boudicca? Where was the Margaret Thatcher? Why do men who dress as women have to dress as weak women?
(“Over the chair bitch,” he tipped her onto the floor as he stood up, trapping her in a mess of legs and knotted pantyhose. “Across the seat.” She lay herself in spanking position across the chair and he began to go to work upon the upturned buttocks, first with his palms, then with his belt.)
“So what’s sexy then?” K wasn’t even sure where to start. She glanced across at herself in the mirror and burst out laughing. Looking back at her was a seventeen year old red-head in piggy tails and a knitted pinafore. There was a ladder up the inside of her left calf and around her knee, disappearing into the crevice of her skirt. “Stairway to Heaven” she’d been told to call such ladders in pantyhose, not that she’d ever uttered such lurid thoughts. Still, the young authoress noted the coquettish charm of her pose, pen in mouth, head in hand, all tipped slightly sideways. Was this sexy?
(“Table. Up.” She knew this would follow, it always did. Since she’d written it in her first story, the one where the four girls in the share house invite the two boys from next door around for dinner on the last Sunday night of the month; to spank each of the girls in turn for her previous thirty days of naughtiness, she knew that she’s be taking the table position. This involved her kneeling on a chair turned backwards to the table, then bending over the table itself. She’d written it was ‘unseemly’ for a young lady to bend over from a standing position, so had written this ‘S shape’ posture for her character Melissa to adopt each month when Darren would apply wood to nylon, that is, hairbrush to buttocks within pantyhose.)
“ “She knew what was coming from the tone of her mother’s voice.”” K thought that if she was going to write a story she may as well begin on known ground. She’d only ever been spanked by her parents, her mother mainly (solely in the last three years). Mum would smack her on her knickers, across her knee, with K’s hairbrush. This began when K was about six and her last smacked bottom had come three weeks before her fifteenth birthday. K remembered only four occasions when she’s been asked to lower her underpants as well, the last episode as a fourteen year old had been one such occasion.
(The belt again. Usually when sent “to table” the weapon of masculine employ was some sort of cane.)
Dad would smack K on her knickers as well, but since he was stronger than mum he would use his hand. Again K would be over his knee, well she was until she was ten. Dad had stopped spanking K as soon as she began to have periods, but for those last two and a half years he’d been bending her over her bed for her smacks. He had only spanked K once upon her bare bottom, again the last occasion upon which she had been punished by him, when he had asked her to lift up her nightie. He’d used the hairbrush that night as well, perhaps he knew it was the last time he’d spank his little girl so he’d need to make it count.
(“Lap.” So that was it for the table then. She knew the session was coming to a close when she was called to go back otk. She’d only just settled into position and received three stripes from the stiff leather dog collar across her left thigh when his mobile phone rang.)
“ “ Her mother’s voice, but her father’s footsteps on the staircase. Elissa knew this one would hurt.”” K was pleased. “ “ She hadn’t meant to snap at her mother, but the stress of getting ready for the Senior Leavers’ Dinner had put her on edge, and when she put a fingernail through the gusset of her lacy tights as she was hurrying to get dressed she couldn’t help it. Now Michael was to be here soon to pick her up, would her dad really …””
(“Yeah? No, sorry she can’t come to the phone right now.” It had been her telephone, not his. That was going to cost her, perhaps she’d feel the cane after all, she knew it was on the floor beside the chair. “No, she’ll not be available until later. Mmhm. No, she’s been a very naughty girl. No, she’s not in her room. No, she can’t come to the phone right now because I have put her over my knee. Yes, she’s over my knee at the moment. Yes.” Crack! The cane descended across her bottom in an angry arc. She’d felt his hand lift off her back to answer the phone but hadn’t suspected he’d be holding something punishing with the other. She squealed out loudly. “Yes, that was her. No, a cane. Oh I don’t know, maybe the width of her thumb. Of course she’s bare bottom!”)
“ “ Elissa I know you’re stressed now, but there was no need to speak to your mother like that. Now I know you’ve been looking forward to this dance so I’ll not stop you from going.” Elissa hadn’t thought of that, actually being grounded from the dance.” K was pleased. The story had begun well and the upcoming Leavers’ Dinner had given her the idea she needed to set her scene.
(“You think I should what? I want to give her a spanking, not a concussion!”)
Now, how to get a spanking underway. “Just as dad would,” thought K, “just get in there.” “ “ Elissa, if you want to get this sorted out before Michael comes we’d better…” “Yes daddy,” replied Elissa, handing her father the hairbrush she’d been nursing in her lap before beginning to pull down her tights.” Marvellous!
(“That was your boss. She told me it was about time someone gave you a good hiding and that I should use the electricity cord off the kettle to flog you with should the cane fail to make the desired impact.” “Bitch” she replied, greeted with as many as fifteen (she lost count) lashes of the dog-collar. “We don’t do disrespect for authority here, young lady. I’ll not be using the cord, but we will finish you off with a damn solid caning. Belting with the collar first." Thrash!)
K was underway now, describing the tears in Elissa’s eyes as she pulled down her panties beneath the voluminous skirt of her party dress and lay herself across her father’s lap. She cut away from the action to describe the conversation below as her mother explained to Michael what was taking Elissa’s time in coming down …
(Thrash, thrash, thrash.)
… and back to Elissa’s own sense of shame and embarrassment at being bare bottomed across her father’s knee on the night of the Senior Leavers’ while the boy she liked was downstairs hearing it all in the company of her mother. The smacks from the hairbrush really, really hurt; but the embarrassment was mortal.
(Crack, crack. The first two in a long series of concluding strokes of the cane. It was indeed the width of her left thumb, which had been the criteria he had set her when she was sent to Mitre-10 to fetch “a rod for your own butt, at the rule of thumb”.)
K finished her story with a shared father-daughter hug, and dad presenting Elissa to Michael. Elissa dropped Michael a deep curtsey as he took her had to kiss, and father whispered to mother that the hairbrush need never be employed again. K was not surprised to feel her eyes moistened by the story, but the feeling in her knickers was new.
(He had finished the session by reading her the story she’d written as a girl, about a girl her age at the time who had been spanked on the evening of her senior dance. “I always thought it was your best work, this one.” She stood beside the chair gently caressing her bottom. She could feel numerous weals rising across her buttocks and her thighs, and at least three of them were oozing clear stuff. She winced as she touched one particularly open cut. “My bum feels like the ripple strips at the end of the M1, you know where they paint them yellow to stop you crashing into Brent shops.” He just smiled.)
K read over the story again and corrected her spelling mistakes. “Now where to hide this” she thought, not wanting to consider what might happen should anyone else ever get to read it.
Sister Madly
Following along my theme of adults in the legitimate role of “student”, (an interest of mine as a teacher I suppose), here’s a story I’ve been stewing on for a while about a student nurse. You’ll find hints of it in the “Student Teacher” stories I wrote for Yolanda and Laura. Please note, I have no medical knowledge so if the “hospital aspects” aren’t correct then get over it. I’m writing a spanking story, not an episode of ER!
Sister Madly
“Who in St Vladimir’s name gave her this?” Doctor Jacobsen was beetroot red as he surveyed the chart. Mrs Evans had been brought into hospital the previous day suffering from chronic diarrhoea and dehydration, and had been immediately medicated and placed on a drip. Now the evidence of a monumental mess-up lay on the trolley beside him. Someone had messed up the delivery of tablets and the poor woman had been given a laxative.
“It is initialled by ‘LE’, that’s Louisa Ellis’ initials. She’s one of the final year nursing students.”
“Can’t she bloody read a simple instruction? A simple chart? Who gives laxative to a dehydrated person, let alone one with diarrhoea? Can’t she see the bloody drip hanging out of Mrs Evans’ arm?”
Louisa was only at the next bed, but behind the curtain she was invisible to the conversation. She had thought the order strange, and had indeed seen ‘the bloody drip’, but she had been told in no uncertain terms by her NUM that to question a doctor’s prescription was the task of the NUM herself, and not some snotty nosed know-it-all from university. (The Nursing Unit Manager at this particular hospital had been born during the war, but whether that was the one against the Germans or the one against the Boers, Louisa wasn’t quite certain. What she was certain of, having been told daily, was that the NUM’s first hospital had been in the middle of a frozen lake in the Sahara Desert and the NUM had had to walk ten miles through snow, uphill there and back, just to buy bandages for the troops, three times a day and out of her own money.) Louisa looked at the drug sheet in front of her, the pharmacist had definitely prescribed and the doctor and NUM had both definitely signed off on a laxative. Louisa had presumed it was some kind of complimentary emetic treatment, (in place of a painful enema), to clear out the gastrointestinal tract from both ends.
The curtain flew back, and there stood Doctor Jacobsen, his head a steamed plum, his body a twitching stick. Louisa stifled a chuckle as she thought of how like a cartoon character he looked. “Did you do this?”
“Sir, the chart said…”
“I know what the bloody chart said girl, I wrote the bloody chart.”
“I saw it was a laxative sir, but I thought it might be emetic.”
“Stupid girl the drug is not the question. It’s the time. You’re three days early! Mrs Evans is supposed to take this at the end of the course of treatment I have prescribed now, to release the pressure of us stopping up her guts for a few days.”
Louisa looked down. The chart was for Thursday, her birthday. Today was Monday. She’d been daydreaming about the party she was hosting and had picked up the wrong file. It was her mistake, but fortunately Doctor Jacobsen had run out of steam and had puffed off to find some more.
“Nurse Ellis?” The NUM. “I believe you owe Mrs Evans an apology. Fortunately she’d not actually taken the tablets, saving them to take with her lunch as you correctly advised. Louisa blushed and returned to Mrs Evans’ bed to offer her regret.
Lauren Evans was twenty-seven years old and had been on her honeymoon when she’d fallen ill. Happily her insurance cover had been enough to see her back to England, but the pain in her stomach and the feelings of dizziness were not what she had been looking forward to a week earlier when Marcus had ever-so-slowly stripped her of her bridal outfit in their suite at St Michael’s Manor. First had come her shoes, then her bodice, skirt, petticoats, and her hair was released from its pins. (“Nails and staples” Marcus had called them. “Wife, were you dressed this morning, or assembled?”) Lauren’s stockings had been next to go, tantalisingly rolled down, (she wondered if he’d done that before), before the button that enclosed her “lady place” was released along with her longing. Now she was on her back in bed, (a good place for a new bride), but surrounded by grunting and farting old woman patients and old man doctors.
“Oh Mrs Evans, I’m ever so sorry.” Louisa quite liked Lauren and had enjoyed looking after her. Lauren had appreciated the bubbly young nurse as well, but was not in the mood for it now. Anything, anyone, who stopped her getting back to Marcus was to be rid of immediately. Lauren merely grunted and closed her eyes.
“Nurse Ellis. As you know this is a teaching hospital and discipline is part of any young nurse’s training. Good patient care, good hygiene, good care taken in all aspects of a nurse’s demeanour, practice, and appearance. We will not suffer compromise in this hospital.”
“No matron.”
“Matron? MATRON? I’m your Nursing Unit Manager and don’t you forget it. Do I look like a Matron?”
(Actually you do, thought Louisa, adding to herself that the war in progress at NUM’s birth was probably that “of the Roses”.)
“Nonetheless standards of excellence and high levels of discipline must be maintained. I must ask you to bend over the chair here.”
(Definitely Wars of the Roses, but was she a Lanc or a York? Tee hee. Umm, hang on, did she just ask me to…) “I’m sorry Ma’am, did you just ask me to bend over the chair?”
“Yes young lady I did. We are a teaching hospital and you are in dire need of teaching. I have sent Nurse Manchester to fetch the rod from my office and I am about to punish you for your oversight in patient care. Must I also add insolence to your record.”
“No ma’am. What do you mean rod?”
“Rod. A stick for beating with, child. Ah, here she is now. Manchester? Manchester, over here with that. Yes girl, now flit away, flit flit!” Louisa looked across at the transaction. Sarah Manchester was handing the NUM a thin cane. “Unless you wish to join Nurse Ellis of course?” Sarah Manchester looked at Louisa briefly, then back at the NUM. She lowered her eyes, whispered a tearful ‘no ma’am’, all but dropped a neat curtsey, and turned away from the scene, her hands absently crossing behind her back to cover her bottom as she scurried out of sight.
“Surely ma’am I, that is to say, you, …”
“Surely nothing Nurse Ellis, now bend over the chair like a good girl, although if you had been a good girl you’d not need to be in such a position now would you?” Just then Mrs Evans rolled back toward the conversation, and raised a slight smile at the sight of the elderly matron, (well, she is isn’t she), waving her cane at the young and frightened nursing student who had tried to kill her. “Ah, Mrs Evans, you’re awake. Change of plan Nurse Ellis. Across the bed. Yes?” This question addressed to Mrs Evans, who smiled again, sat herself up slightly (Louisa jumping in to assist), and nodded her assent. “Yes, caned by me across your patient’s bed. Practically across Mrs Evans’ knee. Very suitable.”
“Please ma’am.”
“Bend OVER young lady.”
Louisa knew better than to argue, and did as she was told. It had after all been her mistake, but was she seriously about to be caned? The first stroke landed across the back of her dress just as the question had formed in her mind. It appeared the answer was ‘yes’, and five more strokes came in support of the thesis.
“Let’s have the dress up then.”
“Pardon ma’am?”
“Six across the back of your dress, three more with the dress lifted. Nine strokes.”
Again Louisa acted smartly to obey, standing immediately to lift the skirt of her dress up above her waist before bending over the bed again, her hands on the other side of Mrs Evans so that the patient had a good view of proceedings, and the foolish nurse was indeed all but bending over her patient’s knee.
“Stockings?”
“Yes ma’am, hold ups are cooler and more comfortable than tights.”
“Nurse Ellis your uniform guideline quite clearly states that female nursing students wear ‘black tights only’ with the uniform blue and white pinstriped dress.”
“Yes ma’am, but I thought that meant ‘black only’ rather than ‘tights only’. I thought it was to stop girls wearing white tights or flesh coloured tights. I didn’t realise you meant for us not to wear stockings. Sarah is…” Louisa stopped herself. She knew that whatever Sarah Manchester was wearing underneath her own dress would in no way alleviate what was coming to Louisa Ellis.
“If you wish to suggest that Nurse Manchester is also wearing inappropriate hosiery then I shall see her later for a good slippering. This does not concede anything to your case for being out of uniform.”
“No ma’am”
(Whack!) The first of the new set of strokes took Louisa completely by surprise, bisecting her bottom into even halves of pain. She raised herself slightly on her arms but was bent over again before the NUM could comment.
“Three further strokes were owed for your messing up Mrs Evans’ dosage. I’ll give you an additional four for being out of uniform. Two smacks for each illegal stocking; you’ve just had one of the three.”
“Yes, (whack! Whack!), ow, yes ma’am.”
“Stand up.”
Once more Louisa obeyed. She had not been spanked much as a child, and schools had banned the use of corporal punishment for girls before she had ever deserved its application. Still, she knew the protocols of a smacked bottom and how it always went better for the girl who was prompt.
“Hand me your plimsoll.” Louisa looked down as the NUM took up a seated position on the chair beside Mrs Evans’ bed. Without any further instruction she took off one of her ward slippers and handed it to the NUM. She then folded up her dress again and laid herself across the NUM’s knee. Four smart smacks of the sole of her left shoe struck her, two on her knicker-clad bottom and one each on the naked strip of thigh between the black nylon and the white cotton.
The NUM had left the ward to enquire after Nurse Manchester’s uniform and Nurse Ellis had dabbed her eyes dry when Doctor Jacobsen entered the ward, beaming widely. “Good catch Ellis. We’d forgotten to take into consideration that Mrs Evans had been hospitalised before her arrival in England, the course of laxatives may begin immediately.”
Sister Madly
“Who in St Vladimir’s name gave her this?” Doctor Jacobsen was beetroot red as he surveyed the chart. Mrs Evans had been brought into hospital the previous day suffering from chronic diarrhoea and dehydration, and had been immediately medicated and placed on a drip. Now the evidence of a monumental mess-up lay on the trolley beside him. Someone had messed up the delivery of tablets and the poor woman had been given a laxative.
“It is initialled by ‘LE’, that’s Louisa Ellis’ initials. She’s one of the final year nursing students.”
“Can’t she bloody read a simple instruction? A simple chart? Who gives laxative to a dehydrated person, let alone one with diarrhoea? Can’t she see the bloody drip hanging out of Mrs Evans’ arm?”
Louisa was only at the next bed, but behind the curtain she was invisible to the conversation. She had thought the order strange, and had indeed seen ‘the bloody drip’, but she had been told in no uncertain terms by her NUM that to question a doctor’s prescription was the task of the NUM herself, and not some snotty nosed know-it-all from university. (The Nursing Unit Manager at this particular hospital had been born during the war, but whether that was the one against the Germans or the one against the Boers, Louisa wasn’t quite certain. What she was certain of, having been told daily, was that the NUM’s first hospital had been in the middle of a frozen lake in the Sahara Desert and the NUM had had to walk ten miles through snow, uphill there and back, just to buy bandages for the troops, three times a day and out of her own money.) Louisa looked at the drug sheet in front of her, the pharmacist had definitely prescribed and the doctor and NUM had both definitely signed off on a laxative. Louisa had presumed it was some kind of complimentary emetic treatment, (in place of a painful enema), to clear out the gastrointestinal tract from both ends.
The curtain flew back, and there stood Doctor Jacobsen, his head a steamed plum, his body a twitching stick. Louisa stifled a chuckle as she thought of how like a cartoon character he looked. “Did you do this?”
“Sir, the chart said…”
“I know what the bloody chart said girl, I wrote the bloody chart.”
“I saw it was a laxative sir, but I thought it might be emetic.”
“Stupid girl the drug is not the question. It’s the time. You’re three days early! Mrs Evans is supposed to take this at the end of the course of treatment I have prescribed now, to release the pressure of us stopping up her guts for a few days.”
Louisa looked down. The chart was for Thursday, her birthday. Today was Monday. She’d been daydreaming about the party she was hosting and had picked up the wrong file. It was her mistake, but fortunately Doctor Jacobsen had run out of steam and had puffed off to find some more.
“Nurse Ellis?” The NUM. “I believe you owe Mrs Evans an apology. Fortunately she’d not actually taken the tablets, saving them to take with her lunch as you correctly advised. Louisa blushed and returned to Mrs Evans’ bed to offer her regret.
Lauren Evans was twenty-seven years old and had been on her honeymoon when she’d fallen ill. Happily her insurance cover had been enough to see her back to England, but the pain in her stomach and the feelings of dizziness were not what she had been looking forward to a week earlier when Marcus had ever-so-slowly stripped her of her bridal outfit in their suite at St Michael’s Manor. First had come her shoes, then her bodice, skirt, petticoats, and her hair was released from its pins. (“Nails and staples” Marcus had called them. “Wife, were you dressed this morning, or assembled?”) Lauren’s stockings had been next to go, tantalisingly rolled down, (she wondered if he’d done that before), before the button that enclosed her “lady place” was released along with her longing. Now she was on her back in bed, (a good place for a new bride), but surrounded by grunting and farting old woman patients and old man doctors.
“Oh Mrs Evans, I’m ever so sorry.” Louisa quite liked Lauren and had enjoyed looking after her. Lauren had appreciated the bubbly young nurse as well, but was not in the mood for it now. Anything, anyone, who stopped her getting back to Marcus was to be rid of immediately. Lauren merely grunted and closed her eyes.
“Nurse Ellis. As you know this is a teaching hospital and discipline is part of any young nurse’s training. Good patient care, good hygiene, good care taken in all aspects of a nurse’s demeanour, practice, and appearance. We will not suffer compromise in this hospital.”
“No matron.”
“Matron? MATRON? I’m your Nursing Unit Manager and don’t you forget it. Do I look like a Matron?”
(Actually you do, thought Louisa, adding to herself that the war in progress at NUM’s birth was probably that “of the Roses”.)
“Nonetheless standards of excellence and high levels of discipline must be maintained. I must ask you to bend over the chair here.”
(Definitely Wars of the Roses, but was she a Lanc or a York? Tee hee. Umm, hang on, did she just ask me to…) “I’m sorry Ma’am, did you just ask me to bend over the chair?”
“Yes young lady I did. We are a teaching hospital and you are in dire need of teaching. I have sent Nurse Manchester to fetch the rod from my office and I am about to punish you for your oversight in patient care. Must I also add insolence to your record.”
“No ma’am. What do you mean rod?”
“Rod. A stick for beating with, child. Ah, here she is now. Manchester? Manchester, over here with that. Yes girl, now flit away, flit flit!” Louisa looked across at the transaction. Sarah Manchester was handing the NUM a thin cane. “Unless you wish to join Nurse Ellis of course?” Sarah Manchester looked at Louisa briefly, then back at the NUM. She lowered her eyes, whispered a tearful ‘no ma’am’, all but dropped a neat curtsey, and turned away from the scene, her hands absently crossing behind her back to cover her bottom as she scurried out of sight.
“Surely ma’am I, that is to say, you, …”
“Surely nothing Nurse Ellis, now bend over the chair like a good girl, although if you had been a good girl you’d not need to be in such a position now would you?” Just then Mrs Evans rolled back toward the conversation, and raised a slight smile at the sight of the elderly matron, (well, she is isn’t she), waving her cane at the young and frightened nursing student who had tried to kill her. “Ah, Mrs Evans, you’re awake. Change of plan Nurse Ellis. Across the bed. Yes?” This question addressed to Mrs Evans, who smiled again, sat herself up slightly (Louisa jumping in to assist), and nodded her assent. “Yes, caned by me across your patient’s bed. Practically across Mrs Evans’ knee. Very suitable.”
“Please ma’am.”
“Bend OVER young lady.”
Louisa knew better than to argue, and did as she was told. It had after all been her mistake, but was she seriously about to be caned? The first stroke landed across the back of her dress just as the question had formed in her mind. It appeared the answer was ‘yes’, and five more strokes came in support of the thesis.
“Let’s have the dress up then.”
“Pardon ma’am?”
“Six across the back of your dress, three more with the dress lifted. Nine strokes.”
Again Louisa acted smartly to obey, standing immediately to lift the skirt of her dress up above her waist before bending over the bed again, her hands on the other side of Mrs Evans so that the patient had a good view of proceedings, and the foolish nurse was indeed all but bending over her patient’s knee.
“Stockings?”
“Yes ma’am, hold ups are cooler and more comfortable than tights.”
“Nurse Ellis your uniform guideline quite clearly states that female nursing students wear ‘black tights only’ with the uniform blue and white pinstriped dress.”
“Yes ma’am, but I thought that meant ‘black only’ rather than ‘tights only’. I thought it was to stop girls wearing white tights or flesh coloured tights. I didn’t realise you meant for us not to wear stockings. Sarah is…” Louisa stopped herself. She knew that whatever Sarah Manchester was wearing underneath her own dress would in no way alleviate what was coming to Louisa Ellis.
“If you wish to suggest that Nurse Manchester is also wearing inappropriate hosiery then I shall see her later for a good slippering. This does not concede anything to your case for being out of uniform.”
“No ma’am”
(Whack!) The first of the new set of strokes took Louisa completely by surprise, bisecting her bottom into even halves of pain. She raised herself slightly on her arms but was bent over again before the NUM could comment.
“Three further strokes were owed for your messing up Mrs Evans’ dosage. I’ll give you an additional four for being out of uniform. Two smacks for each illegal stocking; you’ve just had one of the three.”
“Yes, (whack! Whack!), ow, yes ma’am.”
“Stand up.”
Once more Louisa obeyed. She had not been spanked much as a child, and schools had banned the use of corporal punishment for girls before she had ever deserved its application. Still, she knew the protocols of a smacked bottom and how it always went better for the girl who was prompt.
“Hand me your plimsoll.” Louisa looked down as the NUM took up a seated position on the chair beside Mrs Evans’ bed. Without any further instruction she took off one of her ward slippers and handed it to the NUM. She then folded up her dress again and laid herself across the NUM’s knee. Four smart smacks of the sole of her left shoe struck her, two on her knicker-clad bottom and one each on the naked strip of thigh between the black nylon and the white cotton.
The NUM had left the ward to enquire after Nurse Manchester’s uniform and Nurse Ellis had dabbed her eyes dry when Doctor Jacobsen entered the ward, beaming widely. “Good catch Ellis. We’d forgotten to take into consideration that Mrs Evans had been hospitalised before her arrival in England, the course of laxatives may begin immediately.”
The Visit
A story I wrote for my 360 friend Yolanda Carrington. It is fiction, I never got to meet her, but she helped me with some of the information. This story was my first commission.
Saturday, May 19th, 2007
London
(Written for Yolanda and Laura.)
Preview
“I’m sure I want to do this, she seems nice enough online.” Kirsten was sitting on the train on her way into London and to the first time meeting with her online correspondent Yolanda. The women had been posting on Yahoo 360 for four months and had arranged to meet up at Yolanda’s flat to get to know each other better and to play out some of their common stories. Kirsten was looking forward to the meeting, and all that the afternoon might entail, but she was still conscious of the uncertainty gnawing in her stomach.
“I told her our fantasies are me being spanked by someone else and you spanking me and someone else.” Yolanda was rather excited at the prospect of seeing these desires met, and was reminding Laura of why she and Kirsten had agreed to meet up in the first place. “Kirsten’s a school teacher, from Australia, and told me she is bringing a scenario she had been working on for a story she’s writing. She also said she wanted to try out some things she’s not done before, especially the leather paddle. I said we like schoolies, and office scenarios.” Yolanda had been spanked by only five other women before (and one man) and was looking forward to being asked to “bend over” by a new female voice, and whilst Laura had not played a major part in the correspondence she had readily agreed to meet Kirsten.
Arrival
The doorbell rang, the friends met with hugs and kisses, and all moved into the front room. Laura was dressed rather formally in a skirt suit, as Kirsten had instructed, and Yolanda in a school uniform. Following cups of tea and some ice-breaking conversation about preferences and postures, (Yolly and Kirsten had similar tastes, although Kirsten had never been spanked with a leather paddle and her preferred implement was her wooden hairbrush, something Yolly had confessed to not enjoying), Laura suggested getting underway.
“What is it about the leather paddle that interests you Kirsten?”
“It’s just that I’ve never received it before. The man that shares my house with me and my friend Catherine, Paul, sometimes whips me with the strap when I have been naughty, but the paddle is new.”
“And you’d like to try it out?”
“Yes please.” Kirsten could feel the knot in her guts rising again, excitement and apprehension all at once. She looked down at her shoes. All of the spanking this afternoon was to have been “fun”, and Yolanda had suggested that Laura’s fun spankings had never caused her to cry, but Yolanda had also said that she could take quite a long spanking, “my bum turns deep pink rather than red or crimson”, and Kirsten knew that she was not so resilient. Kirsten looked back up to see that Laura had the paddle in her hand and was beckoning her towards her. Yolanda had stood up and was standing beside the easy chair she had just been sitting in.
“Let’s show you how it’s done first, and then you can have a turn.” She nodded at Yolanda, who turned and bent over the arm of the chair. Laura came into position and began the demonstration.
Kirsten was pleased to see that whilst Yolanda was wincing, and moaned quietly as each smack landed upon her bottom, the paddling didn’t seem to be terribly painful, even after Laura had paused briefly to ask Yolanda to raise her skirt. Not that she was counting, but there must have been about fifteen smacks to each of Yolly’s skirt, and then panties.
“Would you like a turn now?” Laura was holding the paddle out to Kirsten. Kirsten wasn’t entirely certain whether she was supposed to take the paddle to spank Yolanda herself, or to “assume the position”, but as she walked across to the easy chair Laura deftly turned the paddle in her hand, presenting Kirsten with the handle. “Is this okay?” Laura seemed to be asking Yolanda.
“Yes, of course,” replied Yolanda, still bending over the arm of the chair.
“Now Kirsten, I’m sure you know how a paddle works,” smiled Laura, stepping back.
Yolanda was wearing a rather pretty pair of French knickers below her school uniform, which covered the entire area of her punishment. Kirsten would like to have seen the damage to Yolanda’s bottom before continuing, but that wasn’t possible. She delivered six firm smacks to the silken hemisphere in front of her, the fourth one eliciting a small “ow!” from Yolanda.
“Would you like a turn now?” The same question Laura had asked earlier, but this time there was no doubt as to what she was offering to Kirsten. She stood back to allow Yolanda to stand up, and was about to take her position across the arm of the chair when Laura suggested the back of the sofa as a better position. “It’s a little higher up, so affords a better angle for contact.” Yolanda nodded in agreement so Kirsten took up her position there. “Ready?”
The first smack was much as Kirsten should have known it was, central to her bottom, firm but not harsh, familiar (she’s been on the receiving end of several table tennis bats in the past) yet different as well. The smacks that followed forced “ouch” from Kirsten on several occasions, but were not unpleasant. Still, she could feel a tear welling in her eye, but whether that was from pain (unlikely) or from the excitement of finally being here with Yolly and Laura she wasn’t certain.
Laura asked Kirsten whether she would be willing to raise her skirt. Kirsten readily agreed, but had to stand up to do so. “You’re wearing tights?” Laura commented.
“I usually do,” Kirsten explained. “I like to be wearing tights, what with the idea that what is on display is attached to that area of private pleasure; my tights, which can be seen by the public connecting my skirt and shoes, also come up to cover my bottom”.
“And the cotton pants?”
“I don’t wear thongs, and don’t like frilly underwear under my tights.”
“Fine with me. Bend over young lady.”
Kirsten smiled; her favourite phrase as published on her 360 page: Laura had done some homework too. She bent over the back of the sofa and her spanking resumed. Whether the removal of the layer of skirt really made that much difference, or whether Laura was smacking harder, Kirsten noticed that she was beginning to hurt now, although she tried to keep that fact from the other two by biting her lip. The tears began rolling down her cheeks, (but then that was not unusual for Kirsten), and the moaning became a quiet sob. She knew she was having fun, but it was still painful.
Student Teacher
“So, Kirsten, why ‘Curtseygirl’ as a nickname?”
“Well, Laura, it is kind of cute don’t you think, but basically it’s because my name is Kirsten and it just sounds similar. When my family first took me to Australia, from New Zealand, I was six years old, and the way I was pronouncing “Kirsty” at school didn’t sound like the way the other children spoke. And I like the idea of the curtsey as a feminine form of respect since it can’t really be done effectively in trousers.”
“That makes sense,” Yolanda was sitting in the same chair she’d been spanked across, nursing another cup of tea.
Kirsten smiled back, “I used to be a bit militant about it, ‘You can’t make me bow or break: I curtsey and bend because I want to,’ but now I’m a bit more grown up.”
“And this scenario you have for us?”
“Student teacher. I have always been fascinated as a teacher with the idea of adult students. I remember seeing a sketch on TV in Australia, Benny Hill or something like that, I don’t know what. It was based in a ‘teaching hospital’, and a chief doctor was going around the wards caning the old men patients who weren’t getting better quick enough. I went up to my room and wrote a story where it was the nurses who were caned, bending over their patients’ beds if the patient’s condition wasn’t improving. It was the first story I wrote, I was about sixteen, and the first one I acted out with some friends in my first student flat. I was about twenty then, and of course I was a nurse. One of the girls in the next flat was a student nurse, so we were able to wear the real uniforms, (and not some Anne Summers latex mock up), and we used a green cane from the local garden centre; the sort you use to hold up tomatoes.”
“And cane wayward nurses,” laughed Yolanda.
“When necessary. It got me to thinking though that in such a situation the girls who get spanked are punished for something that isn’t necessarily their fault: and that a situation where a student teacher might be punished for the unruliness of her class might be a fun idea.”
The story
Laura: in the role of head teacher at a mixed comprehensive secondary school.
Yolly: as a sixth form pupil at the school
Miss Ellison (Kirsten): as a pre-service teacher at the school on her final practice placement before qualification.
“Yolanda, are you responsible for this?” Miss Ellison had had enough of 6C and was looking forward to the bell. She was not entirely certain that teaching Australian History as a unit for these sixth formers was such a good idea, but the University had disagreed and now here she was.
“Yeah, but this is boring Miss, how come we have to learn about convicts and natives, it’s all rubbish. It’s not like I’m going to smelly Australia anyway, if I want a suntan I’ll go to Ibiza.” 6C were also sick of Miss Ellison, and Yolanda in particular. She had initially welcomed the young teacher and was quite looking forward to being let off from the rigours of the Tudor Monarchs which the crusty old Mr Bates had been teaching, but then Miss Ellison had got all stressed, and that had made her cranky.
“I’ll give you another sort of tan in a minute!” Kirsten was getting frustrated now. “You know that as a VC school we are still allowed to use corporal punishment here, even though it has been banned in government schools.” It was an idle threat, Miss Ellison was actually opposed to physical punishment of children, but that Yolanda was really rather nasty and she had almost certainly been the one responsible for snapping the stick on the New South Wales state flag that had been sitting on the front desk.
“You and what army? The Rum Corps I suppose? A bit of British military discipline? 500 lashes of the cat-of-nine-tails tied to the triangle outside Macquarie Barracks?” Yolanda smirked around the class, gaining the required assents of grunts from the boys and smirks from the girls.
Kirsten smiled. “At least I know you’ve been paying attention to the subject matter.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. Kids like us being sent to the other side of the world for doing nothin’, just nicking an apple and stuff. But you’re drillin’!”
“And the flag?”
“What? Oh yes, YES IT WAS ME OKAY. What are you gonna do about it Miss, spank me?”
“Exactly. Come here.”
“You can’t!”
“What did you just call me? I’LL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT.”
“No Miss, I said ‘you can’t’, as in, ‘you can’t spank me’. I’m eighteen years old, and besides there’s boys here.”
“You’re a pupil in this school, a student in my class, and the rules say I can do what I need to to maintain order. Come here now.” Amazingly, Yolanda did as she was told, Kirsten wondered whether she’d been baited into doing this all along. She was not adverse to a bit of “fun spanking” herself, when she was home, in fact she’d been across her housemate Catherine’s knee just the previous night for not putting away all the washing up. Nineteen smacks with the wooden spoon: six to each of skirt and tights, and seven to her bare bottom. The last seven had been meant as chastisement and their memory was still fresh. Perhaps Yolanda was looking for a spanking. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yeah, you gonna cane me.” There was a glint in Yolanda’s eyes, Kirsten was sure she’d been set-up.
“Girls aren’t caned at this school. Girls are spanked. Bend over my knee young lady!” Miss Ellison decided that if Yolanda was looking for a smacked bottom she’d find one. The glint was still there as Yolanda gracefully placed herself across her teacher’s lap. Kirsten paused to look down at the upturned skirt before her, and the black nylon legs poking out beneath: she was really going to do it, really spank one of the girls in her class. She was going to spank Yolanda, and Yolanda wanted her to do it.
The first spank came as a surprise to Yolanda, she hadn’t expected it to hurt as much. What she did not know was that Miss Ellison wasn't using her hand to spank her, but was using the decorative wooden boomerang that she’d been showing to 4B in the previous lesson. Its odd shape made for quite an effective handle and paddle. Again and again it came down, Yolanda began to cry out. Was she enjoying it? She wasn’t sure, she certainly had been setting Miss Ellison up to do this to her, but was it worth the embarrassment of having the boys watch her gets her bottom smacked like a little girl? Yolanda hoped that it was.
“Return to your seat. Actually, go to the toilets and wash your face first.” Kirsten was exhausted, not by the physical effort of spanking Yolanda but by the thought that she’d actually had the courage to do it. To put the girl over her knee and smack her bottom, and to smack it quite hard, quite a few times, with a wooden stick.
Yolanda stood up a little shakily and went out to the toilets, to wash her face and to survey the damage. She had to stand on the bench to get the right angle for the mirror, but having pulled her skirt down (it was too tight to pull up) and pulling down her tights and knickers she was both chagrined and pleased to see a soft pink glow spreading across her “seat of learning.” “Oh yes,” she said to herself, “we’ll be doing this again.”
“Kirsten, it seems as though your practical teaching round is going quite well, but you are having trouble with one of the sixth form groups?” Laura had been head teacher of the school for six months now, Miss Ellison was the first pre-service teacher she had had to work with. “I believe you spanked Yolanda C today?”
“Yes Laura. I had good cause to. No I am quite pleased with the way things have been going, but I do struggle with Yolanda and her group.”
“Many teachers do. Still, I am pleased you did not shy away from corporal correction, let’s hope it was effective. It does however raise an issue: I believe you waited too long.”
“Too long?”
“You should have spanked her, and I dare suggest Melissa and Deborah, much earlier. The class is at the brink of anarchy and I am calling you to account. I’m afraid I must ask you to…” (Am I really going to do this? thought Laura. Yes, it’s what’s required by the governors, and it will be of help to Kirsten later.) “I must ask you to bend over my desk.”
“Excuse me?” Kirsten was stunned. “Are you suggesting you’re going to cane me because the students in my class are rowdy?”
“You know very well we don’t cane girls at this school. In fact the regulation doesn’t specify “girl” it specifies “female student”, and since you are a female student, albeit a university student in her twenties, you are still under my duty of care. You will be spanked, but I can hardly put you over my knee can I, so I want you to bend over the desk.” Laura had stood up and walked across to the desk as she had been speaking, and Kirsten saw for the first time the space that had been cleared of stationery on the front of the long wooden desk. Laura had the paddle in her hand, a flat wooden object with air holes cut in it which was used to punish the boys under thirteen and the girls older than thirteen. (Older boys were caned, younger girls hand-spanked.)
Kirsten considered arguing her case, she was twenty-three years old after all and far to old to be having her bottom smacked by the headmistress, (that hadn’t happened since she was fourteen). But she could see that Laura was not to be deferred from her position. “Of course.”
“Right, let’s have that skirt up then. It’s always “on the underwear” when a student comes in here for punishment, let’s not make it any different for you. “Trousers down young man, skirt up young lady, fair is fair.” An odd mix of reluctance and excitement rose in Kirsten’s stomach as she lifted the back of her skirt and bent over the desk. “Good girl, or at least you will be when I have finished with you.”
There were twelve spanks in all, each of them very much a discipline spanking, and by the end of it Kirsten was sobbing loudly. She had cried out with the first two, and final four hard smacks.
“Right, since you are a teacher I think we should make your punishment a little more severe than that given to the girls. I want you to pull down your tights and knickers for me.” Kirsten was lost in her tears and embarrassment and complied without question or comment, sobbing loudly she pulled down her tights to just above her knees and her knickers to mid thigh; their usual places when spanking at home went to “bare bottom phase”. She bent over the desk again, resting her weight on her forearms. It was a full ten seconds before the first stroke fell. The cane.
Laura had been uncertain about using the “boy” instrument, but thought that as Kirsten was a teacher there should be an ultimate sanction. What better than six of the best across a bare, just-spanked bottom? Kirsten cried out in shock, but apart from writhing sideways somewhat she did not lift from the desk. She had never been caned before and was amazed at the stinging it produced. Eight further strokes were applied, the final two cutting across the seven parallel tramlines that were forming welts on Kirsten’s pink bottom. “Thank you Miss Ellison, you may leave now and I shall expect better of 6C come Monday.” Kirsten stood and gingerly replaced her underwear and skirt. “Of course Ma’am,” replied Kirsten, “thank you Laura for taking such a keen interest in my progress.”
Saturday, May 19th, 2007
London
(Written for Yolanda and Laura.)
Preview
“I’m sure I want to do this, she seems nice enough online.” Kirsten was sitting on the train on her way into London and to the first time meeting with her online correspondent Yolanda. The women had been posting on Yahoo 360 for four months and had arranged to meet up at Yolanda’s flat to get to know each other better and to play out some of their common stories. Kirsten was looking forward to the meeting, and all that the afternoon might entail, but she was still conscious of the uncertainty gnawing in her stomach.
“I told her our fantasies are me being spanked by someone else and you spanking me and someone else.” Yolanda was rather excited at the prospect of seeing these desires met, and was reminding Laura of why she and Kirsten had agreed to meet up in the first place. “Kirsten’s a school teacher, from Australia, and told me she is bringing a scenario she had been working on for a story she’s writing. She also said she wanted to try out some things she’s not done before, especially the leather paddle. I said we like schoolies, and office scenarios.” Yolanda had been spanked by only five other women before (and one man) and was looking forward to being asked to “bend over” by a new female voice, and whilst Laura had not played a major part in the correspondence she had readily agreed to meet Kirsten.
Arrival
The doorbell rang, the friends met with hugs and kisses, and all moved into the front room. Laura was dressed rather formally in a skirt suit, as Kirsten had instructed, and Yolanda in a school uniform. Following cups of tea and some ice-breaking conversation about preferences and postures, (Yolly and Kirsten had similar tastes, although Kirsten had never been spanked with a leather paddle and her preferred implement was her wooden hairbrush, something Yolly had confessed to not enjoying), Laura suggested getting underway.
“What is it about the leather paddle that interests you Kirsten?”
“It’s just that I’ve never received it before. The man that shares my house with me and my friend Catherine, Paul, sometimes whips me with the strap when I have been naughty, but the paddle is new.”
“And you’d like to try it out?”
“Yes please.” Kirsten could feel the knot in her guts rising again, excitement and apprehension all at once. She looked down at her shoes. All of the spanking this afternoon was to have been “fun”, and Yolanda had suggested that Laura’s fun spankings had never caused her to cry, but Yolanda had also said that she could take quite a long spanking, “my bum turns deep pink rather than red or crimson”, and Kirsten knew that she was not so resilient. Kirsten looked back up to see that Laura had the paddle in her hand and was beckoning her towards her. Yolanda had stood up and was standing beside the easy chair she had just been sitting in.
“Let’s show you how it’s done first, and then you can have a turn.” She nodded at Yolanda, who turned and bent over the arm of the chair. Laura came into position and began the demonstration.
Kirsten was pleased to see that whilst Yolanda was wincing, and moaned quietly as each smack landed upon her bottom, the paddling didn’t seem to be terribly painful, even after Laura had paused briefly to ask Yolanda to raise her skirt. Not that she was counting, but there must have been about fifteen smacks to each of Yolly’s skirt, and then panties.
“Would you like a turn now?” Laura was holding the paddle out to Kirsten. Kirsten wasn’t entirely certain whether she was supposed to take the paddle to spank Yolanda herself, or to “assume the position”, but as she walked across to the easy chair Laura deftly turned the paddle in her hand, presenting Kirsten with the handle. “Is this okay?” Laura seemed to be asking Yolanda.
“Yes, of course,” replied Yolanda, still bending over the arm of the chair.
“Now Kirsten, I’m sure you know how a paddle works,” smiled Laura, stepping back.
Yolanda was wearing a rather pretty pair of French knickers below her school uniform, which covered the entire area of her punishment. Kirsten would like to have seen the damage to Yolanda’s bottom before continuing, but that wasn’t possible. She delivered six firm smacks to the silken hemisphere in front of her, the fourth one eliciting a small “ow!” from Yolanda.
“Would you like a turn now?” The same question Laura had asked earlier, but this time there was no doubt as to what she was offering to Kirsten. She stood back to allow Yolanda to stand up, and was about to take her position across the arm of the chair when Laura suggested the back of the sofa as a better position. “It’s a little higher up, so affords a better angle for contact.” Yolanda nodded in agreement so Kirsten took up her position there. “Ready?”
The first smack was much as Kirsten should have known it was, central to her bottom, firm but not harsh, familiar (she’s been on the receiving end of several table tennis bats in the past) yet different as well. The smacks that followed forced “ouch” from Kirsten on several occasions, but were not unpleasant. Still, she could feel a tear welling in her eye, but whether that was from pain (unlikely) or from the excitement of finally being here with Yolly and Laura she wasn’t certain.
Laura asked Kirsten whether she would be willing to raise her skirt. Kirsten readily agreed, but had to stand up to do so. “You’re wearing tights?” Laura commented.
“I usually do,” Kirsten explained. “I like to be wearing tights, what with the idea that what is on display is attached to that area of private pleasure; my tights, which can be seen by the public connecting my skirt and shoes, also come up to cover my bottom”.
“And the cotton pants?”
“I don’t wear thongs, and don’t like frilly underwear under my tights.”
“Fine with me. Bend over young lady.”
Kirsten smiled; her favourite phrase as published on her 360 page: Laura had done some homework too. She bent over the back of the sofa and her spanking resumed. Whether the removal of the layer of skirt really made that much difference, or whether Laura was smacking harder, Kirsten noticed that she was beginning to hurt now, although she tried to keep that fact from the other two by biting her lip. The tears began rolling down her cheeks, (but then that was not unusual for Kirsten), and the moaning became a quiet sob. She knew she was having fun, but it was still painful.
Student Teacher
“So, Kirsten, why ‘Curtseygirl’ as a nickname?”
“Well, Laura, it is kind of cute don’t you think, but basically it’s because my name is Kirsten and it just sounds similar. When my family first took me to Australia, from New Zealand, I was six years old, and the way I was pronouncing “Kirsty” at school didn’t sound like the way the other children spoke. And I like the idea of the curtsey as a feminine form of respect since it can’t really be done effectively in trousers.”
“That makes sense,” Yolanda was sitting in the same chair she’d been spanked across, nursing another cup of tea.
Kirsten smiled back, “I used to be a bit militant about it, ‘You can’t make me bow or break: I curtsey and bend because I want to,’ but now I’m a bit more grown up.”
“And this scenario you have for us?”
“Student teacher. I have always been fascinated as a teacher with the idea of adult students. I remember seeing a sketch on TV in Australia, Benny Hill or something like that, I don’t know what. It was based in a ‘teaching hospital’, and a chief doctor was going around the wards caning the old men patients who weren’t getting better quick enough. I went up to my room and wrote a story where it was the nurses who were caned, bending over their patients’ beds if the patient’s condition wasn’t improving. It was the first story I wrote, I was about sixteen, and the first one I acted out with some friends in my first student flat. I was about twenty then, and of course I was a nurse. One of the girls in the next flat was a student nurse, so we were able to wear the real uniforms, (and not some Anne Summers latex mock up), and we used a green cane from the local garden centre; the sort you use to hold up tomatoes.”
“And cane wayward nurses,” laughed Yolanda.
“When necessary. It got me to thinking though that in such a situation the girls who get spanked are punished for something that isn’t necessarily their fault: and that a situation where a student teacher might be punished for the unruliness of her class might be a fun idea.”
The story
Laura: in the role of head teacher at a mixed comprehensive secondary school.
Yolly: as a sixth form pupil at the school
Miss Ellison (Kirsten): as a pre-service teacher at the school on her final practice placement before qualification.
“Yolanda, are you responsible for this?” Miss Ellison had had enough of 6C and was looking forward to the bell. She was not entirely certain that teaching Australian History as a unit for these sixth formers was such a good idea, but the University had disagreed and now here she was.
“Yeah, but this is boring Miss, how come we have to learn about convicts and natives, it’s all rubbish. It’s not like I’m going to smelly Australia anyway, if I want a suntan I’ll go to Ibiza.” 6C were also sick of Miss Ellison, and Yolanda in particular. She had initially welcomed the young teacher and was quite looking forward to being let off from the rigours of the Tudor Monarchs which the crusty old Mr Bates had been teaching, but then Miss Ellison had got all stressed, and that had made her cranky.
“I’ll give you another sort of tan in a minute!” Kirsten was getting frustrated now. “You know that as a VC school we are still allowed to use corporal punishment here, even though it has been banned in government schools.” It was an idle threat, Miss Ellison was actually opposed to physical punishment of children, but that Yolanda was really rather nasty and she had almost certainly been the one responsible for snapping the stick on the New South Wales state flag that had been sitting on the front desk.
“You and what army? The Rum Corps I suppose? A bit of British military discipline? 500 lashes of the cat-of-nine-tails tied to the triangle outside Macquarie Barracks?” Yolanda smirked around the class, gaining the required assents of grunts from the boys and smirks from the girls.
Kirsten smiled. “At least I know you’ve been paying attention to the subject matter.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. Kids like us being sent to the other side of the world for doing nothin’, just nicking an apple and stuff. But you’re drillin’!”
“And the flag?”
“What? Oh yes, YES IT WAS ME OKAY. What are you gonna do about it Miss, spank me?”
“Exactly. Come here.”
“You can’t!”
“What did you just call me? I’LL NOT BE SPOKEN TO LIKE THAT.”
“No Miss, I said ‘you can’t’, as in, ‘you can’t spank me’. I’m eighteen years old, and besides there’s boys here.”
“You’re a pupil in this school, a student in my class, and the rules say I can do what I need to to maintain order. Come here now.” Amazingly, Yolanda did as she was told, Kirsten wondered whether she’d been baited into doing this all along. She was not adverse to a bit of “fun spanking” herself, when she was home, in fact she’d been across her housemate Catherine’s knee just the previous night for not putting away all the washing up. Nineteen smacks with the wooden spoon: six to each of skirt and tights, and seven to her bare bottom. The last seven had been meant as chastisement and their memory was still fresh. Perhaps Yolanda was looking for a spanking. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Yeah, you gonna cane me.” There was a glint in Yolanda’s eyes, Kirsten was sure she’d been set-up.
“Girls aren’t caned at this school. Girls are spanked. Bend over my knee young lady!” Miss Ellison decided that if Yolanda was looking for a smacked bottom she’d find one. The glint was still there as Yolanda gracefully placed herself across her teacher’s lap. Kirsten paused to look down at the upturned skirt before her, and the black nylon legs poking out beneath: she was really going to do it, really spank one of the girls in her class. She was going to spank Yolanda, and Yolanda wanted her to do it.
The first spank came as a surprise to Yolanda, she hadn’t expected it to hurt as much. What she did not know was that Miss Ellison wasn't using her hand to spank her, but was using the decorative wooden boomerang that she’d been showing to 4B in the previous lesson. Its odd shape made for quite an effective handle and paddle. Again and again it came down, Yolanda began to cry out. Was she enjoying it? She wasn’t sure, she certainly had been setting Miss Ellison up to do this to her, but was it worth the embarrassment of having the boys watch her gets her bottom smacked like a little girl? Yolanda hoped that it was.
“Return to your seat. Actually, go to the toilets and wash your face first.” Kirsten was exhausted, not by the physical effort of spanking Yolanda but by the thought that she’d actually had the courage to do it. To put the girl over her knee and smack her bottom, and to smack it quite hard, quite a few times, with a wooden stick.
Yolanda stood up a little shakily and went out to the toilets, to wash her face and to survey the damage. She had to stand on the bench to get the right angle for the mirror, but having pulled her skirt down (it was too tight to pull up) and pulling down her tights and knickers she was both chagrined and pleased to see a soft pink glow spreading across her “seat of learning.” “Oh yes,” she said to herself, “we’ll be doing this again.”
“Kirsten, it seems as though your practical teaching round is going quite well, but you are having trouble with one of the sixth form groups?” Laura had been head teacher of the school for six months now, Miss Ellison was the first pre-service teacher she had had to work with. “I believe you spanked Yolanda C today?”
“Yes Laura. I had good cause to. No I am quite pleased with the way things have been going, but I do struggle with Yolanda and her group.”
“Many teachers do. Still, I am pleased you did not shy away from corporal correction, let’s hope it was effective. It does however raise an issue: I believe you waited too long.”
“Too long?”
“You should have spanked her, and I dare suggest Melissa and Deborah, much earlier. The class is at the brink of anarchy and I am calling you to account. I’m afraid I must ask you to…” (Am I really going to do this? thought Laura. Yes, it’s what’s required by the governors, and it will be of help to Kirsten later.) “I must ask you to bend over my desk.”
“Excuse me?” Kirsten was stunned. “Are you suggesting you’re going to cane me because the students in my class are rowdy?”
“You know very well we don’t cane girls at this school. In fact the regulation doesn’t specify “girl” it specifies “female student”, and since you are a female student, albeit a university student in her twenties, you are still under my duty of care. You will be spanked, but I can hardly put you over my knee can I, so I want you to bend over the desk.” Laura had stood up and walked across to the desk as she had been speaking, and Kirsten saw for the first time the space that had been cleared of stationery on the front of the long wooden desk. Laura had the paddle in her hand, a flat wooden object with air holes cut in it which was used to punish the boys under thirteen and the girls older than thirteen. (Older boys were caned, younger girls hand-spanked.)
Kirsten considered arguing her case, she was twenty-three years old after all and far to old to be having her bottom smacked by the headmistress, (that hadn’t happened since she was fourteen). But she could see that Laura was not to be deferred from her position. “Of course.”
“Right, let’s have that skirt up then. It’s always “on the underwear” when a student comes in here for punishment, let’s not make it any different for you. “Trousers down young man, skirt up young lady, fair is fair.” An odd mix of reluctance and excitement rose in Kirsten’s stomach as she lifted the back of her skirt and bent over the desk. “Good girl, or at least you will be when I have finished with you.”
There were twelve spanks in all, each of them very much a discipline spanking, and by the end of it Kirsten was sobbing loudly. She had cried out with the first two, and final four hard smacks.
“Right, since you are a teacher I think we should make your punishment a little more severe than that given to the girls. I want you to pull down your tights and knickers for me.” Kirsten was lost in her tears and embarrassment and complied without question or comment, sobbing loudly she pulled down her tights to just above her knees and her knickers to mid thigh; their usual places when spanking at home went to “bare bottom phase”. She bent over the desk again, resting her weight on her forearms. It was a full ten seconds before the first stroke fell. The cane.
Laura had been uncertain about using the “boy” instrument, but thought that as Kirsten was a teacher there should be an ultimate sanction. What better than six of the best across a bare, just-spanked bottom? Kirsten cried out in shock, but apart from writhing sideways somewhat she did not lift from the desk. She had never been caned before and was amazed at the stinging it produced. Eight further strokes were applied, the final two cutting across the seven parallel tramlines that were forming welts on Kirsten’s pink bottom. “Thank you Miss Ellison, you may leave now and I shall expect better of 6C come Monday.” Kirsten stood and gingerly replaced her underwear and skirt. “Of course Ma’am,” replied Kirsten, “thank you Laura for taking such a keen interest in my progress.”
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