Everything is Good for You

I wrote this account in response to an act of rudeness I commited on Yahoo-360. It is a true story.

“Kirsten Louisa Ellison, how could you?”

What on earth was that all about? I was laying on my bed catching up on some enjoyable reading for a change, poetry rather than curriculum, the Songs From The Banjo book actually, (Clancy of the Overflow, a wonderful poem about an accountant swapping places with a stockman), when the shrill voice of Catherine bounded into my room.

“I’m sorry Catie, what have I done?”

“Don’t you bloody ‘sorry Catie’ me, you stuck-up piece of nastiness.”

What on earth?

“Catie I…”

“…stole Mr Philip’s story?”

Man, I thought we’d been through this; it’s been over a week. She came into my room, hands on her hips, (I’m a little sugar-bowl, short and Scot), face like a blaze.

I took a deep breath, “Catie I…”

“Catherine!”

So it’s like that is it? “Catherine. Catherine I did not steal his story, I simply offered to write one in partnership with him since it was about Kirstie and Phil and we’re Kirsten and Philip, but then posted my draft as a complete story rather than sharing it with him first. He’s been ever-so nice about it, as have all my friends. But I promise you, it’s my story, mine alone; that’s the whole point.”

“But after the weekend? Didn’t you learn anything in Brighton?”

“Cate, Catherine. Catherine it was before Brighton: I threw it up on the Friday afternoon before I went to Ireland. It had already been up for a week when we were in Brighton…but you can be certain I had that in mind on the Pier, I still feel horrible about it.”

Catherine deflated. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No Catie-matey, you are entirely right. Yes it was before the talking-to and so I have learned my lesson, but it was still very unkind of me.”

Catie smiled and came over to hug me, but since I was sitting up on my bed she managed only to engulf my head.

“So, no spanking for this one, just asphyxia?”

“Some people find that sexy.”

“Bugger off you kinky kiltygirl!”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

The sound of two girls laughing: all is well once more at Chateaux Kirsten and Company.


But she got me thinking, perhaps Brighton wasn’t enough: I mean, Philip, for all his being “BottomSpanker4u” and his letter in the character of Recidivist’s wickedly accurate story (in response to my own letter), has a point. I was none-too-keen on the abandoned house halfway up the M6 with us beating a path around an empty set of rooms, but something needed to be done: if only to stop me feeling so maudlin about it all. And following Recidivist’s own dose of percussive repercussion for typos, (Miss Holloway, please come into my office,) perhaps something specific in the real world might not be out of the question. The thought then hit me in the stomach like a kick from a fourth-former on Ritalin; I needed a jolly swift caning, just like the one Philip gave Kirsten in that story. Well, maybe I didn’t need it, but I certainly deserved it. No, I needed it too.


But I’ve never been caned before. Not for real. I mean there has been Daniel with the metre-ruler at school, but that’s just fun, and I did get a whack across the bare calves with a stick of wattle when I was eleven, (I nicked some lollies from the Huonville store and the old witch caught me…I felt like Gretel), and Catie has given me a few with a riding crop and a few other things for research sake, but of course they weren’t hard. I wonder, could I really do it?


Yes.


“Paul?” I put my book down and went to find Paul who was sitting in his room and working on his computer. I explained the situation and asked if he would help. Having checked with me that this was healthy, and involving Catherine in the discussion, it was agreed to suspend the “no more spanking” policy of the house for one night.


And so on Thursday night, unlike Kirsten, Paul delivered on his promise. I don’t know where he got it, certainly not Ann Summers because this thing is vicious, but Paul had found a cane: a thick cracky one. It even had the curly end, suitable for purpose. This was not some tomato-stake from B&Q then.


“Are you sure.”

“Yes.”

“We’re really going to hit you with this.”

Gulp. “Yes.”

“Proper hard Kirstie.”

Gulp, blink…blink. “Yes.”

“Six each, Catherine on your pants, me on your bare.”

Unable to speak now I nod.

“Are you sure?”

I smile as the first tear breaks free of its duct; I bet real Subs don’t have this much trouble getting started.

“Please Paul, Catherine.”

“You’re crying.”

“I’m really disappointed in myself, and a little bit scared.”

“Let’s start then, Catherine first.”

The ladies nod. Paul hands her the vicious thing, I turn and place my elbows and forearms on the dining table. Catherine folds up my skirt, but it flops back again. I refuse to take it off so I stand up and we fold it up and tuck it into its own waistband all the way around: if I don’t move it will stay in place.

(And the chances of me not moving are?) I bend over again.

She’s crying: I’m crying: Paul’s not sure whether he’s glum or horny.

“I know you already are my darling, but just so you can relax, I’m asking you to bend over young lady.”

I use Catherine’s words to drop my shoulders and calm myself, I have no real idea how much this will hurt, I’m sure it will, but I know that I am in control and there is no need for a safety word. I wonder, is this how Charles I felt in his last minutes on the block in 1649? Now the position of the Scottish and the English (am I that?) are reversed.

“Count?”

Sob. “I’ll try.”


The graphemes which compose the sentiment “whoosh-crack!” do not do justice to the sound that vicious thing made as it came towards me and made contact, but that’s the best I can offer. Soon enough they weren’t the loudest sounds in the room anyway as Catherine caught me with her most full-powered hit right on the crease between buttocks and thighs. Again, there aren’t graphemes, phonemes, or even words to describe the sounds I made. Suffice to say they were passionate and ended in a flurry of tears and sobs.


Catherine handed Paul the vicious thing, then gently pulled down my tights for me, offering with the best of intention but with unintended gravity, “I wouldn’t want to tear these.” I sobbed at the thought that that might just be possible, not for the prospective loss of functional underwear, but for the torn flesh inside them at the time.


Again whoosh-crack-squeal, or sounds in that direction, and a third time, with the blows coming to the centre of my bottom, and, more painfully, across the tops of my bare thighs.

“I’m sorry Kirstie I just can’t do this any more.” Catherine handed the vicious thing to Paul, (actually she threw it at him), and ran out.


“Are you sure we need to continue Kirsten?”

“Please Paul.”

“Knickers down then.”

There’s that doped-up fourth former again.

I stood up, pulled the cotton over the welts, and resumed the position, squirming as raw flesh rubbed itself in the movement.

“I’ve no intention of dragging this out Kirsten, hold on tight.”

I think I nodded, Paul certainly thought I did as the indescribable sounds were repeated three in quick succession, blows to my buttocks with a force beyond what Catherine could even imagine, let alone muster. He almost knocked me through the wall. The fourth one, hitting across Catherine’s second mark elicited a scream and the action of me jumping vertical.

I see that Paul is close to crying. “Kirsten, turn around.”

“Oh Paul please, it hurts so. I will go again, but just…”

“Kirsten,” he closes his eyes, “I can see your front.”

I look down. My skirt, still rucked up ra-ra style, with tights and knickers around my knees, has left my “front” partially uncovered. He’s never seen that before, not mine anyway. Can this get any worse? I turn around but remain standing.

“I’m sorry Paul; it’s my back to you now.”

“When you’re ready, replace your clothing.”

I bob to reach for my knickers, then turn to him, bottom sticking out, “but Paul that’s only four.”

“Last two on the hands. Ideal punishment for a lady writer. Besides, you should see your bum.”

“It can’t be worse than twenty-four with the strap, surely?”

“No, but it’s all lines and it looks freaky.”

I decide to pull my knickers and tights off rather than on, but have to sit down to do this. (Girls will understand that tights can be tricky to handle when standing up, especially when you’re shaking and sobbing.) Sitting doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it still hurts. I untuck my skirt, take off my shoes and underwear, and stand up on bare feet.

“Again Kirsten, without discussion. Hold out your left hand.”

I sob, drop my eyes, and obey.

“Look up at me please.”

As I am lifting my eyes the sound returns: whoosh-crack-squeal. I pull my arm back sharply.

“Now, do you want this on your right hand, since you are right-handed, or do you want another on the left?”

I don’t have any will power at all to raise my left arm again, but would choose right anyway. I raise my head, and my hand, and look Paul directly in the face.


When the two locked eyes,
And for a moment I was taken.

I don’t even hear whoosh-crack this time, the squeal is some other sound, and we are finished.

Catherine is waiting at the door and takes me down to my bedroom; I go via the toilet and throw up down the bowl: Catherine holding my hair back for me and looking close to sending her own dinner after mine. She helps me lay on my bed, in the “Recovery Position”, (I’m sure International Red Cross never had this in mind when they wrote the CPR manual), and lifts back my skirt. Unladylike words escape from her as she surveys the damage back there as I struggle to lie without burying my face, and yet trying not to use my hands. Since we aren’t a “spanko house” there’s no specific lotion in the place, but we make do with some gentle bottom rubbing and hair stroking. Catherine picks up my hairbrush, (yes, that one), and begins brushing my hair with it: it feels lovely.

“Catherine.”


And all paths lead to a single conclusion.

“Catie, it’s Catie now.”

“Catherine, you still owe me three strokes. It was to have been six from each of you.”

“Oh Kirstie no, you’ve had enough and so have I. I won’t take up that cane again.”

I sob. “These are the consequences of a broken promise Catherine; you don’t want to be that girl too.” I have my head in her lap now as she brushes my hair; I roll forwards and catch myself in a crouch to stand up.

“Kirstie no, I won’t do it.”

I shake my head, “not that, slide down”, I tap the mattress with a swollen hand. She responds, sitting now in the middle of my bed rather than near my pillow, still uncertain of what I want her to do. I lay myself across her knees, and she lets out a big sob when I flip back my skirt and say, “use the hairbrush.”

“Kirstie I…”

“Catherine. Please.”

A long pause, then “okay.”

There is no mistaking that sound, it’s a much more common whack-whack-whack, but my cries have a deeper passion in them than is usual. She hit hard, as I’d hoped.

“Kirstie I’m so sorry.” She puts down the brush and rubs me until I stop crying.

“Catie,” I sob above a whisper, “thank you.” I lift myself up on my elbows, (hard to do on a mattress), and we shuffle back into my-head-in-her-lap position. She starts brushing me again

Catherine tells me she thinks me very brave, I know I feel much happier about myself now. At some point I drift off to sleep in her lap, she still brushing my hair and massaging beneath my eyes.

Everything is good for you
If it doesn't kill you
Everything is good for you.