The Lodger Five Years On

A young woman has an unexpected encounter with an old acquaintance

By Steven Wilson

My name is Sally Nugent and I have previously written two accounts of the events that occurred between Mr Robinson and myself which I would hope you are already familiar with. Those events took place five years ago when I was eighteen years of age and I am now a young woman of twenty-three, no longer the naïve teenager I may have been at that time.

Over the last five years I successfully completed my business studies course and am now training to be an accountant with a small local firm. It is not a career that I could have seen myself following in my younger days, and at times I still doubt whether it is the correct choice, but I seem to have an aptitude for it and, as my mother says, it is a sensible career path to embark on.

My parents still run their bed and breakfast establishment in Eastbourne and I am still living at home with them. I would enjoy having a place of my own with more freedom to do as I please, but on the modest salary that I am on as a trainee accountant that is something that I cannot afford at present, so it will have to wait a while longer. There are, however, advantages to living at home as it is undeniably less of a strain on my finances and allows me to enjoy myself in ways I could not if I was having to maintain a place of my own.

I am also no longer the virgin that I was five years ago. While at college I met David and we started a relationship that resulted in him relieving me of my virginity soon afterwards. At one time I envisaged marriage, children, and our being lifelong partners, but after we left college we seemed to drift apart and our relationship eventually ended a few months ago. David remains my only lover as it is only in the last few weeks that I have perhaps felt ready to embark on another relationship with someone. There is a young man called James that I work with who I feel is fond of me, and I am quite fond of him too. I suspect he may ask me out in the near future and if he does I think I would be inclined to accept the invitation.

My work as a trainee accountant mainly involves auditing; it is not the most exciting of tasks but is nowhere near as boring as many would believe it to be. If nothing else it means that I spend a fair amount of my time at different clients’ premises and meeting different people, which I find interesting. Most of our clients are fairly local and within easy reach of Eastbourne. However, our largest client, a manufacturing company, has a subsidiary based in Leeds for which it is necessary for someone to visit for a week to carry out some basic audit checks. I have been assigned to that audit this year and was asked if I would be prepared to visit the Leeds subsidiary, to which I readily agreed. The chance to have a few days away from home, to stay in a hotel and have a break from the normal routine was too good to refuse.

Of course Leeds has a special significance for me as it was the place that I made my, with hindsight, perhaps ill-advised and rather naïve visit to spend a weekend with Mr Robinson five years ago. I wondered whether he still lived there, although I had no idea of his address or even which part of Leeds he resided in, and my parents had heard nothing from him since he departed the second time.

Having passed my driving test, I am now the proud owner of a three year old Volkswagen Polo, and I therefore contemplated driving up to Leeds as the mileage allowance would have been generous, but after much consideration decided to go by train instead. Despite my dislike of using the London Underground, compared with having to navigate around London on the M25 it seemed the lesser of two evils.

On the Monday morning I caught the nine o’clock train to London, travelling as light as I could, my laptop and a case containing some casual clothes for the evening, clean blouses and underwear, and toiletries. I was dressed in my usual business attire of smart grey jacket with matching trousers and a white blouse, and, with it being April and the weather already quite warm, I decided it was not necessary to take a coat. The journey across London by underground was not as horrific as it could have been as I avoided the rush hour commute and I was soon leaving Kings Cross station on the train to Leeds.

As the train made its way north I couldn’t help but let my mind drift back to the events of five years ago and my encounters with Mr Robinson. Receiving physical punishment for the first time in my life had obviously been a significant happening in my teenage years although it had not left me with any great desire to repeat the experience. Indeed, I had not received any form of corporal punishment from anybody since the final slippering I received from Mr Robinson. David had never shown any inclination in wanting to spank me and I had no inclination for asking him to do so.

From time to time over these last five years I have found myself thinking about those punishments, why I willingly submitted to them and why I allowed myself to be undressed and stand naked before Mr Robinson giving him an uninterrupted view of my youthful body. I have come to realise I have a submissive nature but there seems more to it than that. Was I just naïve, out of my depth perhaps, being manipulated in a way that was beyond my comprehension at the time? I deserved the spanking, strapping and caning that I received at my parents’ house for my behaviour with regard to the magazines and for my snooping into things that didn’t belong to me, but what of the spanking and slippering I received at Mr Robinson’s house? There was no deserving reason for those.

I have little doubt that Mr Robinson got pleasure from punishing me and from seeing a young teenage girl naked, although he never made any attempt to do anything improper to me other than punish me. And what about my feelings? I did not enjoy the actual punishments; they were painful and most unpleasant, which is how they should be, but I cannot deny that I got an excitement unlike any other from anticipating them which grew by the day as the time drew ever nearer. And then there were the feelings I had once the punishments were over, when the stinging and pain had subsided a little and it was bearable. Even if I was still sore, were they feelings of pleasure? The bedtime spanking at Mr Robinson’s house had left me in a state of arousal and I had also gained pleasure in a different way from seeing the stripes on my bottom gradually fade away following my caning at my parent’s house. I am still as confused now as I had been at the time. The one thing I can say for certain, though, is that those punishments did not give me a longing to be punished again.

A final question then occupied my thoughts. What would I do now as a young woman of twenty-three if I were placed in those same situations again? Would I willingly submit as I had done as an eighteen year old? I had little time to contemplate an answer to my question as an announcement came that the train would soon be arriving at its destination, so I gathered my things together and prepared to disembark.

I arrived at Leeds station just before two o’clock and made my way to find a taxi to take me to the client’s premises. I would check into the hotel later. The journey to the clients took around thirty minutes, even though the traffic was not that heavy. The factory was larger than I’d anticipated with a small modern office block situated alongside, to which I headed. At the reception area I found I was expected and, after signing, in was taken up to the accounts department where I was glad to accept the offer of a coffee before being introduced to everyone. I was then shown to a desk in the main office which was to be mine to use for the duration of my visit.

The afternoon was by now drawing to a close and I had little appetite for work after my journey, so I occupied myself with making preparations for the following day and finding my way around the office. Five o’clock came as a welcome relief and I was grateful for the offer of a lift to my hotel from one of the women in the office. It was actually quite close to the clients, and I would walk the distance in the morning, but I did not feel like doing so just then with my case in tow.

The hotel was a typical chain hotel, the rooms were clean and pleasant enough with all the facilities required, but had no individuality or character. I could have been in any of their hotels in any city in the country. I felt tired and decided to use room service for something to eat rather than go down to the dining room, and afterwards relaxed in a hot bath before climbing into bed to watch some television before falling asleep.

The next morning I woke early feeling much more refreshed and, after showering, got dressed, had breakfast, and with it being a sunny morning walked the short distance to work. Later, just before lunchtime, I was busy working my way through my tasks when I was suddenly distracted by a voice that sounded somewhat familiar. At first I struggled to place it and then it came to me; Mr Robinson. I looked up, a little way down the office from my desk there was a meeting room and standing in the doorway were two men, one was the facilities manager and the other I couldn’t see properly as he had his back to me. Could it be Mr Robinson?

They shook hands, said goodbye to one another, and then the one with his back to me turned and started to walk towards me. It was Mr Robinson; his hair had gone a little greyer and he looked a little older but it was definitely him. I felt my heartbeat quicken and as I looked towards him I wondered whether I should say hello but found the words wouldn’t come out my mouth. Just as he was about to walk past he stopped and turned to look at me quizzically.

“Sally? It is, isn’t it? Sally Nugent. What are you doing here? Have you relocated?”

“No, I’m still in Eastbourne. I’m just working here for the week. It’s one of my clients.” My voice had thankfully managed to return.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you again, and you look well too. I would love to talk but I must dash, I’ve another appointment to get to and I’m already cutting it a bit fine. You say you’re here for the week? Would you like to meet for dinner tomorrow evening and we could catch up on things? Here’s my card, give me a call tonight and we’ll arrange it.”

He reached into his inside pocket and produced a small business card which he handed to me and then turned and was gone. I sat there for a few seconds trying to take it all in before glancing down to the card. It read ‘Peter Robinson, Project Management and Consultancy’ and contained an office address and a mobile phone number. I put it in my purse and tried to clear my mind of the thoughts that wanted to occupy it and got back to my work. There would be plenty of time to think about his proposal later.

In truth, it was difficult not to let my mind wander that afternoon, but I had to progress with my work so forced myself to forget about it until I got back to my hotel room. Once there, I slipped off my shoes, sat down and let my thoughts drift through my head. My sensible self said that I should not get involved with him again. Peter Robinson was a questionable person from my past, and that is where he should remain. I should forget all about having any further acquaintance with him. Then my more reckless side took over. Where would the harm be in having dinner with him tomorrow night? The one time we had shared dinner together five years ago he had been entertaining company and I’d enjoyed myself and it would be nice to catch up on things with him. Besides, it would be better than eating alone in the hotel restaurant, which always felt a little strange, a feeling of self-consciousness, as if I’d been abandoned by someone.

Of course that previous time had also been a prelude to me being spanked when we arrived home after the meal, but I was now staying in a hotel, not Mr Robinson’s house, so that was not likely to happen this time. I reached into my purse and took out the card, picked up my phone and dialled the number.

In work the following day, I had an ever increasing anticipation and excitement at meeting Mr Robinson for dinner that evening and had to force myself on several occasions to concentrate on my tasks in hand. Our conversation the previous evening had been brief, merely agreeing that he would pick me up at seven-thirty outside the hotel entrance and he would take care of booking a table somewhere for us.

Eventually five o’clock arrived and I made my way back to the hotel, showered, washed my hair and then stood naked in the middle of the room wondering what to wear. Last time, I had worn a black dress but I didn’t have a dress or even a skirt with me this time, it was going to have to be either my work clothes or jeans and a T shirt and of the two I thought my work clothes the more appropriate option. I also selected some fresh underwear not that I anticipated letting it be seen that evening.

I didn’t recognise Mr Robinson’s car as it arrived outside the hotel as it had changed from the last time. It was still a Mercedes, but grey rather than the previous blue, and he had to sound the horn before I went over, opened the door and got in.

“I’m so pleased you decided to join me tonight; I’m looking forward to finding out how you’ve been getting on. I’ve booked us a table at somewhere you will be familiar with. It’s the restaurant we went to when I last took you out to dinner, what, five years ago now? It’s changed hands, and you may hardly recognise it, but the food is still excellent and it’s a personal favourite of mine still.”

“That sounds good to me,” I replied.

It was only a short drive to the restaurant and, as we left the car and walked to the entrance, there was an air of familiarity about it, but Mr Robinson was right, it had completely changed inside and was largely unrecognisable from how I remembered it before. We were shown to a table in the corner and, with it being mid-week and fairly quiet, it meant our conversation would not be overheard by any other diners.

Mr Robinson, or Peter as he insisted I call him as I was not a young girl anymore, was once again very good and engaging company. He asked after my parents and how their bed and breakfast business was doing before explaining to me that he had left his previous employer, having decided to set up his own consultancy business, which although hard work was much more satisfying and rewarding. The company I was auditing was one of his clients, which was why he had been in the office the previous day attending a meeting with them.

He then wanted to know all about me and what I had been up to and how I was progressing. He seemed genuinely impressed by my exam success and the career I had embarked on, and thought I had a very bright future ahead of me if I continued to work hard and apply myself.

“And what about boys? I can’t believe that you haven’t caught the attention of some young gentleman, the attractive young lady you are.”

I felt myself blush at the complement and then told him about David and also about James who I suspected might have an eye for me.

“Well don’t you go letting him into your knickers unless you are sure he’s the one for you.” It was said with a laugh but the comment took me a little by surprise in its content.

“No, no, I’ll behave myself.” I managed to reply.

“And are you behaving yourself these days, young Sally?” His tone now had suddenly become serious, no longer jovial. I wasn’t sure how to reply or precisely what he was implying and so in the absence of a reply he continued.

“I seem to remember that you had a penchant for snooping around in guests’ bedrooms, prying into their personal belongings, something I had to chastise you for. I hope you no longer have the inclination to do such things?”

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable at this change in subject matter which I seemed to have inadvertently started when I innocently mentioned James.

“No. I only ever did it the once and it was something I was ashamed of and wished I’d never done.”

“And you fully deserved your punishment for your misdemeanour, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I did deserve it.” It was something I could not deny, whatever my confused feelings afterwards.

“Well I’m pleased to hear that. It seems to have deterred you from doing something similar again, but tell me, has anyone else had cause to spank or discipline you in the last five years?”

“No.” By now I was feeling very uncomfortable with the conversation and could feel myself starting to flush.

“So you have not been spanked or punished by anyone since I last dealt with you? Not even playfully? Say by David, as part of your lovemaking?”

“No. Look, can we change the conversation please, I don’t really like talking about this.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t wish to upset you. Please accept my apologies, but just one final question and then I promise I’ll change the subject. Which punishment that you received did you fear most, or shall I say find the most uncomfortable?”

“I’m not sure, err, probably the cane.”

“Thank you, and now let’s talk about something else. Have you been anywhere nice on holiday recently?” He was smiling again.

That was the end of any reference to the punishments he had given to me previously and to spanking in general and our conversation reverted to more enjoyable topics as if it had never strayed from them in the first place.

Peter refused my offer to contribute to the cost of dinner, or even to the wine of which I had drunk more than my fair share on account of Peter having to drive, and even though I could reclaim it on expenses. He insisted on paying for everything as he wouldn’t feel like a gentleman if he allowed the lady to pay for anything. I didn’t argue as it was a nice gesture.

We drove back to the hotel without making any more conversation. We’d exhausted most topics and the wine was having its effect on me. I was sleepy and struggling to keep my eyes open. I’d enjoyed the evening, despite that awkward couple of minutes when he insisted on talking about punishments, and Peter had once again been excellent company. I was glad I’d decided to accept his invitation rather than sit alone in the hotel all evening.

He stopped the car outside the hotel entrance and turned to speak to me.

“Thank you, Sally, for a most wonderful evening. I really enjoyed catching up on things with you after so long. You are a most delightful dinner companion. I hope my stupidity in mentioning certain past events didn’t spoil it for you.”

“Not at all, it was nothing, I really enjoyed the evening too and once again thanks for paying for everything.” I gave him my biggest smile.

“You are here until the end of the week aren’t you?”

“Yes, I go home Friday.”

“Well, if we don’t see each other again before you leave, take care and look after yourself.”

“Same to you too.”

I had a sudden urge to kiss him on the cheek but managed to restrain myself, and avoided the possibility of him getting the wrong impression of my intentions, and instead opened the car door, got out and closed it again. As I waited to watch him drive away, the passenger window wound down and he leaned over from the driver’s seat and took something out of the glove compartment. He offered it to me through the open window. It was an envelope.

“Nearly forgot, this is for you.”

I took the envelope and, before I could say anything, the window closed and he drove off. I went into the hotel, walked past reception, climbed the two flights of stairs to my floor, went along the corridor to my room, and let myself in. Once inside, I flopped on the bed and then opened the envelope, curious as to what was inside.

Inside was a folded piece of paper or, I guessed from its glossy appearance, a page from a magazine. As I took it out and unfolded it my pulse began to quicken and I had a feeling of apprehension, or was it anticipation, as I gazed down at its content and momentarily froze. It was indeed a page taken from a magazine. It was a photo of two people in an office environment facing one another. On the left was a male, probably in his fifties, in suit trousers, work shirt and tie. On the right was a young woman, probably in her twenties, in a white blouse, neat dark skirt and tights or stockings. He was looking at her angrily as if she were at fault for something, and she was looking downwards as if in admission of her guilt. I turned the photo over and the back contained part of a story, it was incomplete and appeared not to be related to the photo on the reverse side, but its content confirmed what I had already suspected when I first saw the photo. The page had been taken from a magazine whose subject matter was spanking. It occurred to me that it might even be from one of those magazines I had stumbled upon all those years ago, but I couldn’t remember after all this time.

There was one other thing too. Written on the top of the photo were the words ‘Thursday, 7.30pm, outside hotel entrance’. I sat up on the bed, my sleepiness had disappeared, and I was now wide awake and thoughts were racing through my head.

I was transported back to five years ago; the envelopes that had been left for me, the magazine pages contained within that depicted some scene of punishment that I would be subjected to shortly afterwards, the time and date of that punishment written on the top of the page. And then I was back in the present trying to make sense of the page that I now held in my hand. It didn’t take much effort or imagination on my behalf to come to a conclusion. I was to meet Peter, or Mr Johnson, outside the hotel entrance at seven-thirty tomorrow evening and he would then take me somewhere, maybe to his home again, and punish me. What that punishment would be, I had no idea. I had little doubt that the two figures in the photo were representations of Mr Johnson and me, but there was no slipper, cane, strap or any other kind of implement in evidence to suggest what fate might await me.

What fate might await me? That assumed that I was going to do exactly what was expected of me, which was frankly ridiculous. In my mind, I ran through various scenarios of what might happen if I was not outside the hotel at the appointed time. He could just drive off thinking that I had no interest. He might go to reception and ask for my room number so he could come and get me. Would they give it to him? He could probably concoct a plausible reason for them to do so, but if he did arrive at my door I did not have to let him in, and I felt certain that he would not wish to make a scene outside and would soon leave. Or, I could just go and stand outside the hotel entrance at seven-thirty avoiding the prospect of any confrontation, get into his car, and go with him to wherever he has planned.

Two days earlier on the train to Leeds, I had asked myself a question that I had not had time to answer. As a young woman of twenty-three, would I now submit to the punishments I had received when I was just eighteen years of age? That question had been hypothetical at the time but now, sitting here in my hotel bedroom, it was suddenly very real.

It took me a long while before I fell into a restless sleep and I was thankful to get up the following morning, even though I still felt tired, and found standing under the shower helped to waken me up. The question that I still had to answer, however, had not gone away and was in my mind from the moment I first opened my eyes. Common sense told me to just forget about the photo and what it implied, to get back to the hotel after work and go to my room and stay there until seven-thirty was well past, but then when did I ever listen to common sense.

I knew it was madness, stupidity, that I had no idea what I would be letting myself in for, but that reckless part of me was telling me to go and be there at seven-thirty. And with that reckless thought came that strange feeling I had not experienced since I was eighteen years old, that excited anticipation coupled with a dread of what would occur that I found intoxicating. I suppose I had known the answer to my question as soon as I thought of it. Yes, I would do it again.

The day passed slowly at work and I found myself constantly glancing at my watch, counting down the hours and minutes to five o’clock and to seven-thirty. I left work on the stroke of five and hurried back to the hotel, quickly showered and then sat on the bed naked looking at the photo. Previously, Mr Johnson had wanted me dressed exactly as the girls in the photos, and indeed I’d received additional punishment the first time for not doing so, but I had no skirt or tights to wear so was forced to accept that my business attire I’d worn the previous evening was the best I could do. I still had one fresh change of underwear with me, and this time I thought, no expected, that it would not go unseen by Mr Johnson. I wished I’d brought something more enticing with me as the bra and knickers I had were plain white and functional rather than provocative.

The one adverse side to my rushing back to the hotel and showering quickly was that it meant that I still had the best part of two hours to go before seven-thirty arrived, plenty of time for common sense to keep nagging at me to stop all this nonsense but it was fighting a losing battle as my mind was made up whatever the consequences. As the time approached, my excitement started to wane a little and was replaced with a greater degree of apprehension, but it made no difference. The one issue that was uppermost in my thoughts, however, was wondering what punishment I was to receive. The previous photos had all warned me in advance, but there was nothing this time to suggest what was in store for me. Would it be something I’d not experienced before, and if so what?

I suddenly realised it was seven-twenty and from having too much time on my hands I found myself rushing around, getting dressed, straightening my hair, and making myself presentable. With a minute to spare, I left my room, raced down the stairs, passed reception and went out into the cool evening air, standing expectantly outside the hotel entrance as I’d done twenty-four hours earlier, only this time I was not waiting to be taken to dinner. In fact, I had no idea what I was waiting to be taken to.

I was not waiting long before the grey Mercedes arrived and stopped in front of me. I opened the door and got in.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Sally. I’m so glad you could make it. I was thinking that I might take you to see my new office. It’s not that exciting but you might find it interesting. You never know.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

It was a bizarre exchange of words. Why on earth would I want to see his office, but we both knew the real reason was unspoken and for the time being would remain so. It would fit in with the photo, however, although there was still no clue as to what he intended to happen there.

It was a ten minute drive to his office, a modern four story building on a business park. We parked the car and approached the entrance and Mr Johnson tapped a code into a keypad and the door opened.

“It’s on the top floor; we’ll take the lift.”

The building seemed deserted, and as I stood next to Mr Johnson in the lift, neither of us speaking, I felt the butterflies rising in my stomach and for the first time began to question exactly what I was doing here, but by now it was too late to change my mind. The lift stopped, the doors opened and we stepped out onto a small landing.

“The toilets are just there if you need them, this is my office just across here.”

There was a door opposite the lift and Mr Johnson tapped another code into a keypad to open it and we went inside, Mr Johnson turning the lights on as we did so.

“Well here it is, there’s a kitchen through there,” he said, indicating a door to the left. “And that’s my office come meeting room on the far side.”

Mr Johnson’s room appeared to be quite large, extending the whole length of the far wall, with glass sides containing blinds that were closed, I presumed, for privacy.

“The main office is a bit too large in truth as there’s only my secretary come PA, Anne, that uses it. Still, it gives room to grow if I ever need to take anybody else on. Maybe I will need an accountant one day, Sally, if you fancy it.”

He smiled and I smiled back, but mine was a forced smile as I was by now feeling increasingly nervous, just wishing I knew what he had in mind. He was right about the office, though. There were only a couple of desks, a cupboard and some filing cabinets in it which looked lost in the amount of space available. It would easily accommodate several more desks if required.

“Come into my office and tell me what you think of it.”

I followed him into the office. At one end there was a smart looking desk and chair, which I presumed Mr Johnson used, a small filing cabinet with a printer on top, but the room was dominated by a large meeting table with eight chairs placed around it. On the wall were several photographs I assumed of projects that Mr Johnson had previously worked on.

“It’s very nice,” was all I could come up with. “That’s a good sized table.”

“I need that for meetings and it’s useful for spreading plans and the like on, although I prefer using my own desk when I can.”

As we stood together, a thought suddenly crossed my mind. Perhaps I had got this all wrong. Maybe he did genuinely want to show me his office and all the thoughts of punishments were just something I had dreamed up in an over active imagination. He turned to me.

“Of course, Sally, as you are probably aware, for an office or indeed a business to function well it has to be run efficiently and that means following rules and being disciplined in your work.”

I felt a sudden jolt within me, it was that word, ‘disciplined’. Had I been right after all and was I now about to find out what all this was really about?

“Are you disciplined in your work, Sally? It’s important that you are if you are to achieve your goals and become successful in your profession.”

“I think I am, yes,” I could hear the tremor in my voice

“Good, good. But thinking you are doesn’t suggest to me that you are entirely sure about that. Are you?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“There you go thinking you are again. There’s a lack of certainty in your answers that worries me and doesn’t bode well for your future. I can’t say I’m surprised, however, after what you said to me last night, that you haven’t been disciplined by anybody since I last had cause to chastise you. In my view, a disciplined approach can only be maintained if there is real discipline used to enforce it, wouldn’t you agree?”

I wasn’t quite sure what his words meant, but I knew what this was leading to and I could feel my nerves increase with each passing second.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Again the nerves were evident in my voice.

“Good, good. Well I think we need to address that issue, don’t we? And I need to give you a reminder of the discipline that has been sadly missing from your life over the last five years, something to help concentrate your mind while you are at work tomorrow and in the future. Do you agree?”

“Yes,” I replied, although I found my mouth dry and words difficult to extract.

“Excellent, Sally. I’m pleased you are in agreement with me.”

By now Mr Johnson had moved down the room and was standing behind his desk. “Come, stand in front of my desk.”

I did as I was told, my nerves now at breaking point but also accompanied by that indescribable excitement I had felt before. I wanted to be here doing this but at the same time I didn’t. I stood and waited expectantly.

“Remove your clothes, Sally, all of them, place them on the table behind you.”

I hesitated. Suddenly I felt like I was eighteen years old again, being asked to undress in front of him for the first time, embarrassed and unsure what to do. He must have sensed my hesitation.

“Come on, Sally, I have seen you undressed before. This isn’t the first time you have done this. You didn’t expect to be disciplined with your clothing on, did you?”

I slipped my shoes off first, my feet were bare. That was the easy part. As my fingers tried to undo the fastening on my trousers and then lower the zip, I could feel them trembling but eventually I managed to get them off and placed them on the table behind me. My blouse followed, again with trembling fingers, which left me in just my underwear. I reached behind me, unclasped my bra and removed it, then quickly slipped my knickers down and stepped out of them, placing them with the rest of my clothes on the table, then turned to face Mr Johnson.

Unlike the first time I undressed for him, this time I kept my arms by my side and looked straight ahead, not attempting to hide myself, letting him see me fully naked. My body is still slim, my legs toned, indeed I have managed to lose those few extra pounds I always seemed to have when a teenager, due I think to taking up swimming a couple of years ago. My breasts, although not large, are still firm and pert. The one noticeable change in my appearance is my lack of pubic hair. I found, when I took up swimming and wore a costume regularly, it was preferable to shave myself in that area. Did I enjoy letting him see me like this? Did I find it exciting? I had asked myself those questions many times before and I would ask them again in the future.

I could feel Mr Johnson’s eyes taking in my body.

“Turn around.”

I did as I was told, knowing that his eyes would now be focusing on my bare bottom, something he would no doubt be concentrating on in some other way in just a few minutes time.

“And back again.”

Again, I did as I was told.

“Well done, Sally, you have developed into a very attractive young woman. You should be proud of your body. I want you to go into the main office and go to the cupboard on the far wall, open it and you will see something hanging there. Bring it to me.”

I turned and left the room. It felt strange walking across an office completely naked. I imagined doing it with others around, all clothed, staring at me as I displayed my body without shame. I suddenly became aware that with the lights on and no blinds on the windows I would be visible to anyone outside who happened to look up. I hoped there was nobody around, but I would never know.

I arrived at the cupboard and opened it, then stopped, momentarily frozen. I knew now what my punishment would be. Hanging on a hook inside the cupboard was my instrument of correction; a cane. Eventually I reached out and took it from the hook. It was a typical school cane with crook handle at one end, maybe three foot in length, and as I flexed it in my hands I found it was more flexible than I had anticipated. I couldn’t be sure, but it could well have been the same cane that Mr Johnson used on me last time. If not, it was something similar. I imagined it making contact with my bottom again and my apprehension rose as I tried to remember how much it had hurt on that previous occasion. I closed the cupboard and hurried across the office, hoping I wouldn’t be seen. As I walked past Anne’s desk, I wondered if she had ever been disciplined with this cane. Did she have to bend over naked to receive it, and was that why it was hanging in the cupboard?

I was grateful to reach the privacy of Mr Johnson’s office and handed the cane over to him.

“Thank you, I trust you now know how I am going to discipline you this time, Sally. You said last night that the cane was the implement you feared most, so I think it proper that you try and overcome those fears and take your discipline bravely.”

I could only nod in acknowledgement.

“I’m going to start with six strokes. Bend over my desk, I want you right down, grip the far side with your hands and keep your chest pressed down on the surface. I want your legs straight and bottom well out.”

I bent over the desk as instructed. The desktop felt hard and cold against my breasts and I straightened my legs out behind me, hoping I was presenting myself to his satisfaction.

“Nearly there, Sally. I want you to part your legs for me a little, though.”

I spread them slightly apart and waited.

“More please; there’s no need to be embarrassed.”

I spread them wider.

“Excellent, that’s exactly how I want you, Sally. Now, I want you to ask me for each stroke when you are ready for it, and when you do, I want you to get up on your toes and really push your bottom out for me. I want it really well presented for the cane. Now, shall we begin?”

I took a deep breath. I wanted that first stroke, but then I dreaded it too. I was a mixture of contradictions.

“Please, can I have the first stroke?”

I raised myself up on my toes and thrust my bottom out as far as I could. I was desperate to get started. I felt the cane tapping lightly against my bottom and I couldn’t help but clench my cheeks together in anticipation of the stroke to come, and then, just as I momentarily relaxed again, there was a swoosh and a crack and an intense burning across my bottom that seemed to grow in severity for several seconds. It took me by surprise. Could it possibly have been this painful when I was caned previously? It had been so long ago I couldn’t say.

I steadied myself and took some deep breaths, then raised myself up on my toes again and once more thrust my burning bottom out.

“Please, can I have the second stroke?”

This time there were no preparatory taps. Instead, the cane bit into my bottom without warning, causing me to cry out in pain as the burning sensation increased due to this newly applied line of fire. I took longer to compose myself this time before raising up and presenting my bottom for the next stroke.

“Please, can I have the third stroke?”

This time there was more of a delay as I had once again clenched my cheeks in anticipation, and the stroke didn’t land until the moment of relaxation again. I cried out and couldn’t help but sway my hips around, trying to lessen the pain, but to no avail, not caring what I might be displaying in the process. I forced myself to breathe deeply and gripped the desk tighter before presenting my bottom again.

“Please, can I have the fourth stroke?”

This time, the cane landed instantly before I had time to clench my cheeks. It was agony and I released my grip on the desk and started to rise up, my hands desperate to get to my burning bottom. A hand pressed down on the centre of my back, forcing me back down onto the desk.

“Stay down, Sally, and under no circumstances attempt to touch your bottom or we will start again, do you hear? Now, grip the desk tightly and be brave; you are doing well.”

I composed myself again and thrust my bottom out.

“Please, can I have the fifth stroke?”

Again, it landed quickly and I cried out on its impact, gripping the desk tightly for dear life. The tears were now flowing freely down the cheeks of my face.

“Well done, Sally. One more to go. Tell me when you are ready.”

I wanted it over with so raised myself up and thrust my bottom out for the sixth time.

“Please, can I have the sixth stroke?”

The sixth stroke landed on the crease between my bottom and thighs, causing me to yell out loudly. If anybody else had been in the building they would surely have heard me and wondered what on earth was going on. Again, I attempted to reach out to my bottom, but a firm hand pushed me back down on to the desk, preventing me from doing so. My bottom was burning and throbbing. It felt as if it had doubled in size and I was in agony.

Then I felt a hand on my bottom. It was gently rubbing the cheeks, massaging them, easing the pain a little.

“Well done, Sally, you have taken those strokes well. However, I think you would benefit from a few more.”

“Please, I’ve had enough. I don’t want any more, I can’t take it.” I managed to get out through my tears.

“You may think that, but you can and will be able to take a few more and they will benefit you when it is over. I will deliver these final strokes quickly and you will not have to ask for them or present yourself up on your toes for them. Would you like a brief rest before I begin or shall we start now?”

I was resigned to my fate. Nothing I could do or say would spare me this further caning, so I decided to get it over with now and bring matters to a close.

“Do it now.”

“Good. Be brave and it will soon be over. Now spread your legs and keep them straight, bottom well out, and press yourself to the desk and keep a firm grip with your hands.”

I adopted the position requested and waited, but not for long. I received another four strokes which were delivered with only a brief pause between each stroke, each accompanied by an ever more urgent cry from my lips. The quickness of those strokes caused the burning in my bottom to increase in an intense crescendo at the end of which I lay in tears on the desk top, too exhausted to reach back to my throbbing cheeks.

Once again, I felt a hand on my bottom gently massaging it, feeling the raised welts and bringing some relief to my painful rear. The massage extended to my thighs and lower back and somewhere, in amongst the terrible agony of my caning, I perhaps felt a slight feeling of something more pleasurable.

“Well done, Sally, it’s over. You took that well and you will look back on this in the future and think how brave and disciplined you were to take such a caning. Now, stand up and let’s get you dressed.”

As I stood up any stretching of my bottom cheeks caused a new wave of discomfort to spread through them. Mr Johnson helped me dress and soon I was walking stiffly across the car park to his car. Sitting was uncomfortable and we drove back to the hotel in silence as I had little ability or desire to make any conversation. When the car stopped, I opened the door and got out.

“Goodnight Sally, I hope the evening was of benefit to you. Look after yourself.”

I didn’t answer but closed the door. I walked quickly past reception, ignoring the pain in my bottom, trying to look as normal as possible, making sure they didn’t notice my red puffy eyes and that I had clearly been crying. Once in my room, I undressed and stood in front of the mirror and turned to look at my bottom. Raised stripes from the cane were clearly visible and there was the first hint of bruising starting to develop. I touched the raised wheals; they were tender, as was my whole bottom. By now the throbbing and burning had subsided and been replaced by a more tolerable warmth. I didn’t feel hungry, so decided to have an early night. I got into bed face down on my stomach as it was too uncomfortable lying on my back. Maybe it was because I was unusually naked in bed, or perhaps it was the warmth coming from my bottom, but I was suddenly taken back to five years earlier when I had lay in bed in similar fashion after my spanking in Mr Johnson’s house.

Surprisingly, I slept well and, after showering, inspected my bottom in the mirror. The wheals had gone but the cane stripes were still very evident and the bruising which I’d noticed the previous night had become more pronounced. My bottom was still sore in places and sitting down was still something I had to do carefully. I looked at the stripes again and felt a sense of pride and satisfaction in them. I was hungry so dressed and went down for breakfast. I wondered what others in the restaurant would say if they could see my bottom, and then wondered if any of them were sporting a set of stripes like I was.

I was relieved that it was Friday and my last day at the clients, as I was not in the mood for work. Luckily, I had made good progress in my tasks and soon finished my remaining work before lunchtime, which enabled me to catch the twelve-fifteen train back to Eastbourne and meant I would be home at a reasonable time. I had nearly been caught out on one occasion that morning when one of the girls in the office caught me wincing when I sat down too quickly. I explained that I’d banged my bottom getting out of the bath and was glad she accepted my explanation.

The journey home was without incident, but I had forgotten that, being a Friday afternoon, the underground in London was busier than usual with people leaving early to get away for the weekend. For once, it didn’t bother me having to stand, however; in fact it was a welcome relief.

The journey home also gave me ample opportunity to reflect on the events of the previous night and to try and put some sense and reason behind my actions. Just four days earlier, I had asked myself the question would I do now what I had done as an eighteen year old. I had well and truly answered that one and now the pertinent question was; why? I could no longer say it was the actions of a naïve teenager as I was now a more knowledgabe young woman. So why did I undress for a man I had not seen in five years and allow him to cane my bottom?

I came to the only possible conclusion; I wanted to do it and I enjoyed it. I did not enjoy the actual caning itself; it was extremely painful and distressing, but I did enjoy the anticipation and the after effects of it. I enjoyed the combination of excitement and anxiousness I felt beforehand. I enjoyed the mixture of embarrassment and stimulation I felt at having to undress and display myself naked for him and I enjoyed positioning myself for the punishment, legs spread, thrusting out my bottom provocatively as if daring him to cane it. And once the caning was over and the intense pain had started to subside, I enjoyed the feeling of warmth in my bottom and the arousal that it caused in me.

And finally there were the stripes. Initially, they were painful to touch, but they also gave me a sense of pride that I had been able to withstand their application, a reward for taking my caning like a good girl. They would be my companions for several days to follow until they gradually faded away, my little secret that nobody else was aware of. Although I would gladly forgo the actual punishment if I could, the pleasure it brought both before and after outweighed the pain of the act itself.

It took me a while to accept my conclusion, that I had taken the caning because I wanted to and enjoyed it, but there was no other plausible explanation. That then led me to a new question; would I do it again? I had no great desire to experience another punishment or seek one out, but was that really the end of a chapter in my life?

I had no time to contemplate this further as my thoughts were interrupted by the announcement that the train would shortly be arriving at Eastbourne station. I gathered my things together and made for the door, ready to disembark for my journey home and the meal that my mother will have made that awaited me.

The End

© Steven Wilson 2019