Finisagua

Club Finisagua is the most popular drinking place in our Cathedral City. It was originally a barn, built in 1594 by local landholder John of Summerfield, and in 1938 it was moved into the centre of the city to be used as a warehouse. Enterprising young businessmen saw the potential in the old place and in early 2006 it was opened as a quiet pub, (with separate dining room), and a classy nightclub for those who want the excitement of London without the expense and hassle of the one hour’s train ride.


Finisagua is also a short five minute walk from where Catherine works, fifteen minutes from where I used to work, and a favoured drinking place of both ladies and our gentleman housemate Paul. Since Paul had been overseas during the week of his birthday, we girls had decided to meet him off his plane and take him to Finisagua for a drink on the way home.


“Fine, so that’s a pint of Inspecific for Paul, standard order. Miss E?” Catherine was first to get the drinks in, she always was.

“Marlborough Bay Sauvignon Blanc, please. Cool, white, sweet, and made in New Zealand, just like Kirsten.”

“And 12% alcohol by volume,” Catherine warned; I was to be driving us home after all.

“Twelve percent alcohol by volume, just like Kirsten.” Paul was in a cheeky mood. It was good to hear, he’d had a rough trip this time and it hadn’t helped matters that he was alone and busy on his birthday.

“Horrid boy!”


It was lovely sitting and drinking together again. I had been extraordinarily busy over the past month, working on getting policy documents and files up to scratch at school, and had been rewarded by being made “Head of Religious Education” at school. Not really a promotion, there was no additional money to be had, but still nice to have a subject co-ordinatorship of my own. Paul had of course been away, and had been planning for his being away before then, so he’d also been out of society for much of late January. Catherine had been her usual bubbly self, but with her two friends now restored to her as friends and not just grunting shapes in the corridor she was feeling as relieved and relaxed as the other two.


Three drinks in, (one round each), and it was time for Catherine and me to do what girls do: go and have a pee together. “Paulie, you mind the coats, Catie and I are off for a time of female bonding.”

“Don’t fall in.”

“It’s okay Paulie, Kirstie’s an Aussie, she can swim!”


(It’s amazing the rubbish you speak when you’ve had a couple isn’t it? Remember, I was still sober enough to drive home at this point.)


The privies at Finisagua are something to behold. The ladies is up a long staircase, but at the top there is a lovely dresser with a mirror, and a couch sits in a vestibule before you enter the “operational zone”. It was as we turned the corner to begin our ascent that Catherine noticed the problem.


Hens. About twenty of them.


Not of the barnyard variety but of the “oh my God Tracey I can’t believe you’re marrying that git you met in Benidorm he’s such a total gryphon” kind. Drunken English twenty-something women, the bane of Western society. (I suppose that’s what we get for drinking in a pub with a Spanish name.)


They were forming a long queue down the staircase, and one of them had vomited down the back of the girl in front of her, leaving an unattractive pile of porridge on the carpet, and a greasy strip down the front of her own dress and the back of her friend’s. Catherine turned to me, “Euston, we have a problem.”

“Such behaviour is not fit for ‘ladies’ my dear Catie, shall we see if there are better options among the gentlemen?” So it was settled. Catie and Kirstie would use the men’s room.


Now as every girl knows, (and if she doesn’t she’s about to be told), there is never anyone in the bloke’s facility. What we ladies queue for hours waiting to access lays vacant in the room next door, so where’s the harm? So in we went, did our stuff, and out we came. No problem. Until we got back to our table.


“Busy in the ladies then? What were you doing in the men’s?” Paul had seen us exiting the toilets and was rather annoyed at us, to say the least. We explained the hens and the puddle of stomach, but he was not having any part of it, and the raised eyebrow told us what was to come at home.


Raised eyebrow: raised skirt.


Sitting on the couch with Paul I knew, as did Catherine, that a smacked bottom was on its way. But what Paul said surprised me. In our household it is only Paul who delivers punishment. Catherine and I will spank each other for fun, and she also spanks me for “stress relief”, but discipline is the task of the man of the house. (No-one ever spanks Paul.) So what he said came as a surprise.

“Girls, I’m disappointed. I understand your reasons for using alternative sources of relief, but it’s still not lady-like. Are you ladies? Catherine?”

“Yes Paul.”

“Kirsten?”

“Yes Paul.”

“Then you shall be punished for your unladylike behaviour in a ladylike fashion. You will spank each other, but to make sure that you do it properly I shall inspect your damage, and the girl who spanks softest will have her punishment repeated by me. Understood?”

“Yes Paul,” this in unison.

“Good girls. Right, since this is punishment you will both be bare, but since you’re ladies a simple, but I expect effective, hand spanking will suffice. Agreed?”

“Yes Paul.”

“Queries?”

“No Paul.”


Sometimes Catherine and I spank each other for stress release, but usually it’s she spanking me for this reason. Neither of us are particularly interested in what we describe as “girl toys” so when we want to release tension we do it with a little gentle otk. (No boys, I don’t mean dolls, although I do still have my “Baby Beattie” doll who wets herself when you fill her with water: I got her when I was nine and when I was twelve one of my boy cousins filled her with Ribena, I’ll let you work out why.) When we both “want some” we flip a coin to see who goes first. Two pence coins are used, (they’re the biggest round coin of this realm), spanker is “head” and spankee “tail” in the same toss. The same system was employed now.


“Queen”, this from Kirsten.

“Queen”.

“Queen”.

“Fleur-de-lys”. A tail. Catherine will be first to receive.


I had decided to really go for it on Catherine this time. Not that I was angry or anything, after all it was me who had suggested we “present as boys”, in fact it was the opposite. I knew that Catherine blamed me for this, so if I added insult by really belting her she’d retaliate: I was in need of a good spanking from a girl after Daniel’s recent efforts in the cricket bet, and wanted some recalibrating in femininity.


“Catherine. Up, down, down, over.” (Skirt, tights, panties, knee.) I don’t remember how many times I slapped Catherine’s bare bottom, but I know I hit her pretty hard, and she did go rather pink. My hand was stinging by the end of it, but not half as much as I knew my bottom would be in a moment. Paul had not been in the room to witness the smacking, but he came in just as Catherine was replacing her panties.

“I can see I shan’t have to be involved today. Well done Kirsten. No need to look Catherine, I heard you from the kitchen. I’m sure you’ll see your justice served upon our Miss E.”


My turn.

(Hoorah! Oh crap!)


“Miss E. Up-down-down. Bend over young lady.” As usual the tingle of excitement and dread. I enjoy being spanked, I have done for about ten years or so, but it still fills me with a sense of shame to be “doing what little girls do” when I’ve actually been naughty. (I think that’s part of the appeal though, it’s about more than just the physical.) This time I made the mistake of undressing a little too far from where Catherine was sitting and I staggered a bit as I caught my knees together in my tights. I was giggling as Catherine offered me her hand and took me across her lap.

“This isn’t funny Miss E; shall I ask Paul to fetch the hairbrush?”

“No please Catherine. I’m sorry.” I wriggled a bit.

“Settled now?”

“Yes thank you Catherine.” It always pays to be polite when you’re face down and bare up across someone’s knees.

Once again I lost count regarding the number of slaps, but she didn’t disappoint me, or Paul for that matter. He reported later that with Catherine he’d heard her crying as she was punished, but with me he heard the slaps as well as the sobs. I was a very sore little Curtseygirl by the end of the session, and certainly convinced that using male lavatories is not a good plan.


Well, not when Paul can see the doorway anyway.