My lips do a kind of stammery thing but no sound issues.
“I would ask you to explain your flagrant breaking of bounds by entering my study regardless of my strict prohibition, but I’m sure nothing enlightening could possibly result from such a line of enquiry, so I will refrain. The facts of the case are clear; I forbade you to come in here and you chose to disobey me. It only remains to administer the necessary deterrent to your pursuing further infractions of my rules in future. Do you have anything to say, Miss Newland, before I commence with your punishment?”
I could try, but my mouth still appears to be made of jelly, so I leave
it for now.
“Not even an apology?” His hushed indignation causes the jelly-feeling to spread across my whole face and down the line of my torso.
“I…er…sorry, sir,” I whisper.
“No you aren’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “But you will be. I intend to ensure that you will be feeling sorry for some days to come.” He holds my eye while he removes his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Although I know exactly what this signifies I can’t resist a tiny tingle at the sight of his strong forearms and his absolute firmness of purpose. However much it hurts…and I know it will hurt a lot…this is still an illicit dream made flesh.
He turns to his bucket of implements in the corner and selects a long, thin round-handled cane. Aha, I was right. What’s the bonus question? He taps it in the palm of his hand, demonstrating its flexibility and strength. My blood coalesces.
“The cane,” he says, his tone low, almost seductive. “A last resort for the truly incorrigible. The ne plus ultra of disciplinary tools; it can make even a strong man buckle. I don’t use it lightly, Miss Newland, in any sense of the word, but you have earned it today. My prediction is that, by the end of this session, you will take every precaution to make sure you don’t earn it again.”
He caresses its whippy rattan length, then uses it to point to the desk, rapping it down sharply on the aged wood. Eek. I startle and jump slightly.
“Palms flat on the desk, Miss Newland, bent at the waist, please.” I scurry to comply, now having the sincere wish to get this over with. “Feet further apart.” I feel an unwelcome tap on the inside of my knees and reposition so that suitable triangularity is attained. He places the cane on the desk in front of my nose and I have to avert my eyes. I am craning my neck up at one of Sinclair’s fat-bottomed-girl prints on the wall when he prowls up behind me and raises my skirt to the waist, resting his hand on my cotton knickers, patting them slightly as if assessing my flesh’s level of resistance. This is a truly sinister gesture and I squirm beneath it.
“Now then, Miss Newland,” he intones to my presented posterior. “You will receive six strokes of the cane for your disobedience, and a further two for incorrect uniform.” Not fair! I gasp, but sense that resistance will be futile. “But first, I need to address your incomplete lines. Thirty nine short. Shall we make it a round forty?”
“Forty?!” I shriek, and he chuckles slightly at the misunderstanding.
“Oh, not with the cane,” he reassures. “Just as a little entrée…a warm-up if you like. With my hand.”
My shoulders drop with relief, but not for long, because he tugs at my waistband and before I have time to think, my knickers are around my knees, stretched as tight as they will go.
“After each stroke, Miss Newland, I will require you to repeat the line. Can you remember what it is?”
Duh, can I remember? I’ve just written the bleeding thing 161 times. “I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times,” I parrot.
“That’s right. Very well, we will begin.”
I feel erroneously blasé about the process before it begins; erroneously because my little chorus of ‘yeah, yeah, hand spanking, how bad can it be?’ shatters into a cacophony of outraged shrieks once the first mighty crack of palm against skin jolts me into the desk. I mean, ouch! I always forget how hard the man can spank without recourse to any man-made assistance.
“Oh! I will obey Professor Sinclair’s instructions at all times.” Brace, grit teeth, screw eyes tight shut. I’m going to be here for some time.
By the time the full forty have been absorbed into the heated flesh of my rump, I am presumably well-reddened and I really feel that I am suitably chastened already. Is that cane really necessary?
“I’m sorry, sir,” I pipe up hopefully. “Truly. I won’t do it again, I swear.” His hands are slowly travelling across the warm globes and I wriggle them into his touch, figuring that perhaps I can divert him into a nice desktop shag instead. He laughs and pinches the sizzling surface so that I wince.
“Nice try, Miss Newland, but brazenness will not spare you.” Abruptly his hands are withdrawn and the cane is swiped up into the air away from my face. The next thing I feel is its cold wooden length against my buttocks, pressing into the sore heat that is throbbing there already. He places it consideringly against various points along the cleft, perhaps measuring angles and distances. He seems very thorough in his task. At length his scientific study appears to be complete and he takes up position to my left, just beyond my line of vision.
“You are required to maintain your position throughout, Miss Newland, difficult as this may be. Should you try to jump up or out of the way, or touch your behind, I will have to apply the cane to your hands, which, I assure you, is even more painful. I want you to count each stroke and thank me once all eight have been administered. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I snivel.
“Are you ready?”
No, of course not! “Yes, sir,” I snivel.
He lays the cane once more in a line against the centre of my bottom, then raises it. He pauses a while, so I am caught off-guard by the low whooshing behind me and then, with a deadly wrist-flick, the rod snaps across my bum and I…oh, it doesn’t hurt…oh…yes, it bloody DOES!
“Aaaiiiieeee!” I am appalled at the vicious streak of fire that sears a line where the cane landed. Man alive! This is intolerable. I can’t possibly take even one more of these, let alone seven. Is there no way I can soften his heart? “Oh please,” I babble, “I can’t…I’m sorry. I won’t do anything like it again.”
“As ever, the first stroke brings forth an outpouring of false contrition,” says Sinclair disdainfully. “Take your punishment with dignity, Miss Newland; there is no escape, so you may as well make the best of it.”