A student takes a part-time job and gets a surprise
By Lorna Monroe
During that strange interlude between finishing my Highers, as A Levels are called in Scotland, and going to university, I answered an ad for a house cleaner in the community newspaper. The address was local, the pay reasonable and three evenings a week suited me very well. Not one to let the grass grow under my feet even then, I rang later that night. Miss Stevens sounded a very friendly and cheerful lady and I was delighted when she invited me to visit for a “very informal” interview a couple of nights later.
As luck would have it, the evening in question saw torrential rain. When I arrived, promptly at 7pm, I was met by a pleasant, fortyish lady in a casual top and jeans.
“Oh, you poor thing, please come in a get warmed up. Isn’t this weather awful?”
I thanked her and heartily agreed. Feeling rather foolish as I removed my coat, dressed as I was in a white blouse and skirt complete with high-heels, perhaps this was not the ideal attire for an interview concerning a cleaning job.
“You look very smart,” she said kindly, but clearly a little surprised.
“Thank you, Miss Stevens, I will of course, be more suitably dressed for work if I am lucky enough to get the job.”
Glancing round the lounge, I noted that it was furnished in a, to put it mildly, rather minimalist style. The main features were a large TV in a corner by the window and an impressive Hi-Fi adjacent to which stood several rather haphazard stacks of CDs. Save for the huge leather sofa we were sitting on, matching armchairs and a pair of Modern Art prints on the wall, most of the remaining space was filled with books, some on shelves but others simply lying in piles around the room. Clearly this was a house which reflected a desire for comfort on the part of the sole occupant, rather than to impress visitors.
As we chatted over tea and biscuits, it became clear that my prospective employer was not accustomed to conducting job interviews. She seemed unperturbed by the fact that I had no actual experience as a cleaner and was impressed that I had been used to helping my mum in the house from an early age. It emerged that she was an Art History Professor and she seemed more interested in my academic aspirations than anything else. She was pleased for me that I had been provisionally accepted by Stirling University, some forty miles away, assuring me that it was a wonderful place to study.
After a while of this pleasant but meandering conversation, she suddenly announced that I had the job and added that in fact, she hadn’t even received any other applications.
“Let me show you round the rest of the house,” she said decisively in the way that teachers do.
It was a charming and spacious bungalow with three bedrooms, one of which had been converted into a study which had clearly been the subject of more thought than any of the other rooms. Her own bedroom was rather spartan, with very basic furniture and yet more books. A typically colourful ‘Henri Matisse’ print lent it a degree of character.
The second bedroom proved to be something of a surprise. There was no furniture at all, just crates lying about the floor.
“I moved in nearly two years ago and still haven’t decided what to do with it,” she said with an engaging smile as she dipped her head in mock shame.
The grand tour over, it was time to say my goodbyes. As I buttoned my coat tightly in preparation to face the unremitting rain, I remembered she hadn’t said when she would like me to start.
“Would 10am Friday be OK? I know it is customary to begin a job at the start of a week but I’m having a party on Saturday and the place really needs a tidy up.”
“Absolutely fine, Miss Stevens, I shall see you then.”
She opened the door and, with a shiver, I stepped out into the downpour. As I shut the gate, the door opened again and her chestnut-bobbed head appeared.
“Please do call me Heather.” I smiled and waved, not sure that I could bring myself to do that.
Friday morning came and, punctual as ever, I was there at ten on the dot clad in faded jeans and an old T-shirt, my long auburn hair worn up, eager to get started on my first ever job. Miss Stevens (being still a school student, and in awe of my elders, particularly those in the teaching profession, I knew I would not be calling her “Heather” any time soon) had some business to attend to in town, so she left me to my tasks.
On her return, with a breezy greeting she disappeared into the kitchen. Within a few moments the air filled with the tempting aroma of freshly ground coffee. My delight must have been palpable when she emerged with two steaming mugs and a plate of Jaffa Cakes, told me it was breaktime, and invited me to sit with her on the sofa.
We talked for some while with my employer apparently in no hurry for me to get back to work, until at last I suggested that I had better finish the ironing.
Over the next few weeks, I found myself getting to know my employer very well and becoming increasingly fond of her. I began helping in the house in ways that went way beyond my not-very-specific job description. At my instigation we even unpacked all the boxes in the spare room.
It was the books that proved to be my undoing. One Monday morning, when Miss Stevens was at a Tutors Conference in preparation for the new term, I decided to bring some of my burgeoning organisational abilities to the chaos that was her library. My idea was to arrange them on the ample shelf-space according to subject and then alphabetically by author’s surname. What could be more logical? The task was a mammoth undertaking, but I didn’t mind in the least staying late to complete it. In fact, I was so happily engrossed that time seemed to become meaningless in the way that it does when you are absolutely absorbed in a pleasurable activity that you know will bring great happiness to someone you care about. So busy was I that I didn’t hear the front door opening.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?”
I turned around with a start. Miss Stevens stood before me, mouth agog, her normally soft brown eyes clouded with anger.
“Oh, h-hello Miss,” I stammered, reverting at a stroke to schoolgirl mode. “I was just sorting your books out for you.”
My answer seemed only to annoy her farther.
“Did, I ask you to do that? Did it even occur to you to ask me if I wanted you to organise my books? If I did, do you not think that I would tell you so and give you very specific instructions as to how I wished you to do it?
“I really am sorry, Miss. I-I only wanted to help.” Tears welled in my eyes, not only because her anger frightened me but also because I had disappointed someone I respected and admired.
She fixed me with a very direct gaze now.
“When I was at school, my headmistress would have given me the tawse for such presumptuous behaviour. Have you ever been given the strap, Lorna?”
“Yes Miss, once, for playing truant.”
“I am pleased to hear you were suitably punished for such an offence. Unfortunately, I do not possess a tawse, but, nevertheless, I do intend to punish you. You are a very good worker and I like you very much and so I do not want to let you go. As you are a practical and sensible girl would I be correct to presume you would be willing to submit to my discipline rather than force me to dispense with your services?”
Still in a state of shock at the rapid and unwelcome turn of events, I struggled to focus my mind. I had become very fond of Miss Stevens and very much enjoyed working for her. Besides, the money allowed me a degree of freedom I had never enjoyed before.
Then there was her stern manner and tone of voice. Her sheer presence. The words ‘submit’ and ‘discipline’. All of which combined to register an impact upon me which I did not yet fully comprehend, but undoubtedly felt on an instinctive level.
As if in a dream, I heard my voice assuring her that I would be glad to accept whatever punishment she saw fit.
She favoured me with the sliver of a smile. “I knew you would. I’m very proud of you, Lorna.” My teenage heart seized the compliment and clasped it tightly.
“Now, before we can get started, I need you to go to my bedroom and fetch my hairbrush, the pine one on my dressing table.”
She hadn’t actually used the word ‘spanking’ when she spoke of punishing me, but while I had assumed that was what she meant, the fact that it was going to involve an implement did come as something of a shock. Holding the flat-backed brush, my stomach quivered as I realised how heavy it was. Even through the seat of my jeans, this was going to hurt. On my return to the lounge, I received a rude awakening.
“Just slip off everything below your waist, please Lorna.”
My concerns must have registered on my face, but she pre-empted any attempt to express them.
“Have you never been tanned on your bare bottom before, dear?”
Reluctantly, I admitted that my parents had sometimes punished me that way. Her penetrating gaze would not release me from its thrall so easily, and I found myself adding, almost inaudibly, that the Headmistress had once spanked me on the bare bottom when I was thirteen.
“In that case it will not come as much of a shock to you then.” She asserted with her rigorous logic. “I can assure you, as a young teacher in England, I caned many a naughty girl with her knickers down. And since then I have dealt with my fair share of mature ones in exactly the same manner,” she added for good measure.
Faced with such reasoning there seemed little else to do but prepare for my punishment. Turning my back in maidenly modesty, as the damsels of the romantic fiction I liked to read always did, I l slipped off my shoes and socks before stepping out of my jeans. Then it was the turn of my knickers. Still with my back to my employer in a foolish desire to postpone, even for a few more seconds, the ultimate embarrassment of revealing my most feminine place, I nervously wriggled out of the white cotton. All too aware of the contrast between my crimson cheeks and the pallor of their lower equivalents, I had never felt so self-conscious.
“Come along, Lorna,” she said a little testily.
Turning to face her, I was met with a sight that made gasp. She had lifted her skirt up around her waist.
“Don’t worry,” she smiled. “I just don’t want the rough denim to scratch those very lovely legs. Now, over my lap please. I will start with a warm up hand-spanking and then, I am afraid, it will be the more serious business of the hair brush.”
She was sitting in the middle of the sofa, which meant that my bottom was positioned across her knees with my legs resting comfortably. All thoughts of dignity had now absented themselves from my mind as I came to terms with the fact that I was now going to receive what would probably be a very painfully spanked bottom.
The first slap was on my right globe and quite bearable really, as was the next which evened things up on the left. However, after a further half-dozen alternating smacks, my bum was certainly starting to smart and my hips began an involuntary sway, which provoked a firm rebuke from my chastiser.
Clearly a very experienced spanker, she soon altered her rhythm with four real stingers to my right cheek, the sound of which resounded around the room. My breathing became increasingly laboured, and when she whacked my left hemisphere in the same way, I responded with a series of heart-felt gasps and moans.
Her return to the right flank with an almighty slap in the centre brought a stunned yelp from me, followed by an instinctive kick briskly punished by a brace of smacks which made my thighs smart.
Miss Stevens placed a firm hand in the middle of my back now, a signal that she was really getting into her stride. The blows fell thick and fast as her pace quickened, causing me to wriggle more frantically under what had once again become alternating slaps which barely gave me time to catch my breath, far less cry out.
When she finally stopped, my head drooped onto the sofa cushion. My eyes were cloudy with tears which I tried desperately to restrain, succeeding with the exception of one forlorn drop. My rear-cheeks felt like toasted buns and instinctively I reached to sooth them.
“No rubbing until your punishment is over, Lorna,” she said, before adding in a gentler tone: “You are doing very well. I will let you rest a moment before I resume with the hair brush.”
A part of me wanted to say: “Please Miss, is it really necessary?” but I knew that would not only be disrespectful to her but also to myself, as it would sound childish and pathetic to try to wheedle out of the consequences of my own actions. No, I was going to show someone whom I very much admired that I could accept discipline and take responsibility.
“I am afraid that this is going to be rather painful, my dear. It will be ten strokes all on the bottom, as a pretty girl like you will want to wear short skirts, and we don’t want reddened thighs spoiling the look, do we?”
“No Miss,” I mumbled, not knowing whether or not the question was a rhetorical one and, despite my predicament, noting the compliment I had been paid.
With a jolt I felt the uncompromising cold of the smooth wood against my already glowing left nate.
A scalding smart splashed over the tender flesh. My head flew back with a flurry of russet hair and a throaty cry. Before I could regain a form of composure, the brush had made another oval imprint on my bottom just above its predecessor.
“Ooooh that hurt!”
“Yes, I know, Darling,” she said, almost apologetically. “Try to be a brave girl.”
The third stroke; same cheek, low down on the seat-swell. I bit my lip hard in an effort to contain the rising scream within me.
It was the turn of my right flank now. The splatter dead centre on the crest. A short pause. Incessant throbbing in my tormented mounds. Another. Above, but by accident or design slightly overlapping the last. My cry commenced with a howl and culminated in a sob.
I guessed the destination of the next stinging slap. Right on the tender sit-spot. The floodgates opened now. Another interlude, one in which my entire world seemed to be condensed into my scalding buttocks.
I screamed uninhibitedly as she returned to the right side with a crack-shot imprinted upon her previous strokes. There was now no area of my bottom that the brush had not already explored. Probably sensing this, Miss Stevens gave me little time to absorb this fact and then slapped me twice on alternate cheeks. I surged and wriggled as only a girl undergoing chastisement can, squealing at the top of my healthy young lungs.
A few seconds elapsed before the last stroke. It was not delivered with as much force, but it didn’t have to be. Catching me on both sides of my rear-cleavage and over roasting hams, it had me writhing like a snake, my feet pounding on the sofa cushion. It seemed like an eternity before my screams subsided to soft, whimpering sobs. In the distance I heard her kind, soothing voice and felt her comforting hand caress my back.
“Let it all pour out, darling, all your tears. Everything will be alright now.”
And It was. Over the years, I have often looked back with gratitude to her for taking me a stage farther down the road of submission, one which is never easy to travel but which, to me at least, has been a path to self-knowledge and fulfilment.
© Lorna Monroe 2019
Lorna Monroe welcomes emails from readers. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org