A Bad Day for the Curtsey Girl

“Wizzit?” Paul had heard my key in the door, but as all keys sound alike he was still at a loss to know who it was entering the house.

“S’me Paulie. How was your day?”

“Which me?”

“Kirsten Louisa Saoirse Ellison, your lovely housemate!”

“Both my housemates are lovely.” (Ooh, isn’t he just the sweetest? Ha, keep reading; you know how additions to Kirsten’s blog usually end.)

I looked up the hallway to where Paul’s bedroom is, but the door was ajar towards closed. Best not disturb him then. I turned left and walked down towards my room, which is at the back of the house and overlooking the garden. A long day at work, first day back at school, and we all know how it ended with Mr Roberts don’t we children!

“Miss E? Catie’s not in yet, can you come up here for a minute?”

I was sitting in my room, on my bed, when I heard the voice from the front of the house. Boots off in preparation to get changed into my tracky dacks, (sorry, that’s “tracksuit bottoms” for those of you not raised amongst convicts), but no further into the regime of undressing I wondered what he wanted. And he’d called me “Miss E.” Not necessarily a bad thing, in our house it’s interchangeable whether I’m Miss E or Kirstie, (but nowhere else; let me warn you, my name is Kirsten!!), but something seemed strained in it. (Also, ‘Kirstie’ never gets spanked, but sometimes ‘Miss E’ does. I’m usually punished as ‘Kirsten’.)

“Y’all right Paulie?”

“Come up here please.”

Ooh, now that was scary, I was in trouble. I stood up and went straight up to his room, fully dressed (sans boots). “Paul, is there something wrong?”

He was sitting at his computer, books all over the floor, and papers on the desk beside him. Paul is some kind of ICT guru, not a fixit-man but a programmer, and he’s only been back from a trip to Ireland for a few days: he was fitting some system for some big company over there. (Sorry, I’m a bit of a girl when it comes to anything beyond email, Microsoft Word, and my interactive whiteboard.) “Did you use my computer while I was away?”

Ah. Yes. You see, that’s why my communications can be a little sporadic to you all; nothing for a week then suddenly I’ve been in and posted three stories and answered all your messages. I don’t have internet access at home. I use my laptop, (the one I’m using now), and then download all of a sudden at school. Or I work at school after hours. (I don’t want people looking over my shoulder at school and reading the sorts of things “Curtseygirl” and her friends have to say!) Paul does have internet on his computer, but he’s banned Catherine and me from using his machine without his supervision as he has all sorts of important stuff on it that “you girls will mess up”. (Such a boy, what does he think we’ll do, put lipstick on it or something?)

“Not while you were away Paul. But I did do some downloading from my laptop onto the school’s internet site on Friday. Some new RE stuff.” I knew where this conversation was heading; it’s a One Way Street when “Paul’s One Rule About His Stuff” has been violated. It involves whichever girl broke said rule, but it does not involve her panties. Catherine and I both know this, and she had indeed been reminded of it in “hands on fashion” just before Christmas.

“How long were you up for?” Paul was calm, but obviously something was wrong, something more than that I’d spread my “girl germs” everywhere.

“Ah, about forty minutes.” Actually I’d spent about thirty seconds downloading onto my school’s website, about five minutes downloading my stories into Yahoo 360, and about half an hour answering messages and sending new ones to those of you so lovely as to have written to me last week. (Mostly boys asking when the cricket thing would be finalised. Mean boys!)

“But on Friday? Why didn’t you ask me to help? I know you’re busy with your new school thing, so a bit of sneaking in while I was away might have been ignored, but three quarters of an hour on Friday?”

(Well I could hardly ask his help to upload “Finisagua” could I?)

“I’m sorry Paulie, I was just ‘zoned-in’ on getting the work done before today, I didn’t even think. It was while you were out at Sainsbury.”

“Well whenever it was, one of my files disappeared. It was a document I had on my desktop and you seem to have deleted it.”

(Aagh! I hate it when that happens.) “I’m so sorry Paulie, I really am. Is it lost forever?”

“No, in that I had it backed up on my tag,” (Paul’s funky word for memory stick), “but it could have just as easily have been anything.”

Yes, definitely the One Way Street this conversation: Kirsten was about to get her first real punishment spanking in over three months.

(No, Finisagua doesn’t count: even though that actually happened. Since it was Catherine’s hand and not, well you’ll see what it wasn’t, it doesn’t count. But it did hurt though; she’s got a nasty slap on her, does our Catherine.)

“I’m so sorry Paulie.” He turned to look at me then, and all doubt that an alternative outcome was possible, (to be honest, there wasn’t any, One Way Street and all that), evaporated. I looked at the clock beside his bed, 18:02. Just over an hour since Daniel had caned me and I was looking at real punishment now. I looked down, again feeling like I was about to puke, and saw that again my hands were sweaty and fidgeting with the hem of my jumper. I also noticed I was standing on my left foot, with my right foot on top of it, two stockinged feet rubbing together for comfort. Paul stood up and said the words I’d been dreading, yet expecting.

“Miss E, fetch the strap.”

I think I’ve told you that, visits to the boys’ toilets notwithstanding, Paul is the bringer of discipline in our little household. To be honest it doesn’t happen that often, we’re a sensible bunch and there’s not too much that two professional women in their early thirties can do that merits corporal punishment, unless they’re looking for it. We don’t “do spanking” for such things as unmade beds or dirty dishes. And we don’t do “bare bottom” that much either. Again, most of the spanking that Catherine and I share is the stress relief or girlie-play stuff I’ve described in other postings, usually a good otk hair-brushing (for Kirsten) or wooden-spooning (for Catherine) or hand spanking on the skirt/tights/panties; and Paul doesn’t usually get involved. Punishment however is always bare, always Paul, and usually involves use of an implement we never use for fun. Paul’s special, wide, leather belt. Apparently it was the punishment inflicted upon Paul when he was a boy, but unlike the ladies of the house who employ their own “girlhood fear” (Kirsten’s brush and Catherine’s spoon) for fun now, Paul has no interest in being punished as an adult. Hence the belt, or “strap” as we all knew it as kids. (Even though Catherine and I never got the strap as girls, it existed as the school punishment at both our schools, mine in Tasmania and hers in Scotland.)

“Miss E, fetch the strap.”

“Yes Paul.”

The strap is kept in the little cubby above the fridge, in the kitchen. I was back in Paul’s room quite quickly, (astonishingly, considering how close I felt to being physically ill), and he gently took the strap from my hand. He lead me, (he actually took my hand and lead me), down to my bedroom, and gesturing with our clasped hands in the direction of my bed instructed: “Kirsten. Up-down-down. Then bend over, young lady.”

Very gingerly I reached up underneath my skirt and pulled down my tights, (the same butterfly-patterned black ones Daniel had so effectively laid his ruler across only ninety minutes earlier), pushing them to just above my knees. Then my knickers, to about two inches above the bunch of tights. I bunched up my skirt, baring myself towards the wardrobe, (Paul was slightly in front of me and beside me so he couldn’t see my bottom yet), and bent over the end of my bed. I began to cry immediately: I always cry when I’m being “properly punished”, but as you can imagine I was sincerely dreading this one. Paul came around and wrapped the strap around his hand to get the required length, before looking up to mark his first lash.

“Shit! Kirsten, what happened to you?”

I was crying too much to make much sense, but he got the message. “I made a silly bet with Daniel Roberts from school about the cricket. England beat Australia, Dan beat me.” More sobbing now, even some of those lovely “wah” sounds from proper crying.

“Did you agree to this?”

“Yes Paul

“Then you’re a (thrash, squeal! sob, sob) very silly girl.”

“Yes (thrash, squeal, gasp) ye-es Paul.”

“And why do I have you here Miss E? Bending over your (thrash, gasp) bed like a naughty little girl?”

“Because I have been a (thrash, sob sob) naughty girl. I used your (thrash, sob) …”

And at that point I lost the ability to speak. Tears took over. I know the script, it’s always the same, you’ve seen it in my stories yourselves. “Why are you here? Because I’ve been naughty. And shall you be naughty again? No I shall not.” Despite the loss of dialogue the strapping continued, as of course did the squealing and the crying. Paul assures me, (I lost count), that he delivered “the standard order”. Twenty-four lashes of the strap across the bare bottom, bending over her own bed: Catherine and Kirsten both know the score when it comes to answering for being a properly “very naughty girl” in this house. Happily it doesn’t happen very often, but we both know when we have been punished.

So here it is Tuesday morning, and I’m back at school. I am walking normally, (thank you for your concern), but I still feel a bit sore: and my bottom looks a bit like “the end of the M1 at Brent shops”. I am wearing trousers today, with my softest cotton panties and knee-high stockings, and am off to a four-day workshop in a few minutes so at least I don’t have to teach today. I will, of course, have to sit down though. Ow. Yesterday was not a good day for The Curtsey Girl. (But then, since she was both silly and naughty, she had it coming eh?)