A girl learns it is not wise to pry into things that do not belong to her.
By Steven Wilson
I stood in the doorway and waved my parents off as they headed to the airport. I remained watching as the taxi made its way down the road until it was eventually out of sight, at which point I turned and closed the door. My name is Sally Nugent and my parents run a Bed and Breakfast establishment in Eastbourne. The story I am about to relate started, I think, at this point in time, three weeks ago now, and it’s one that I consider has not yet reached its final conclusion.
It had been a long hot summer and business had been brisk and now, in early October and much to my parent’s relief, it was the end of the season. Having worked more or less every day without a break from the beginning of April, it was their habit to then take themselves off to somewhere warm abroad for a week for a well-deserved rest.
I am eighteen years old, my birthday being in January, and I often wonder if I was conceived on one of my parent’s end of season holidays. I left school earlier this year when summer began and have now embarked on a business studies course at a local college, so normally I have little to do with the day to day running of the bed and breakfast. I am a bright girl, a little shorter in height than I would have ideally wished to be, and although not overweight always seem to be in a constant battle to lose the few extra pounds I tend to put on. I envy some of my friends who seem to remain slim with no effort at all. I think of myself as pretty rather than attractive and have long wavy blonde hair and a willing smile which seems to attract the boys’ attentions, a typical ‘girl next door’ type, I am often told.
Our house is fairly large with accommodation set out over three floors, which includes five guest bedrooms in addition to my own and my parents’ rooms. My own bedroom is on the top floor and if I look out to the left from the bedroom window it affords me a view of the promenade and sea beyond, a view I never grow tired of.
The ‘No Vacancies’ sign had been put up outside, which normally signified the end of the season and that no guests were in residence anymore, except that this year that wasn’t quite correct. There was still one guest remaining. It was unusual for guests to stay for more than a few days, a week at most, but Peter Robinson, or Mr Robinson as I always called him to his face, had moved into the house in the middle of July, nearly three months ago now, and had still not yet departed.
He was employed by a company based in Leeds who were overseeing a new construction in the area and he was project managing the build. It was at a stage where he needed to spend a fair amount of time on site and therefore stay in the area. He said that he preferred the more homely environment of a bed and breakfast to a hotel and had been pleased to find our establishment where we had done our best to make him feel most welcome and comfortable. Some weekends he would travel home to Leeds but on others, given the distance involved, he preferred to stay in Eastbourne. It probably helped that he was single and didn’t have a family to concern himself about.
When he heard the bed and breakfast closed in October, he offered to find alternative accommodation but my mother was having none of it and wouldn’t countenance him moving elsewhere. He had been with us for so many weeks now that he had earned the nickname of ‘The Lodger’ from myself and my parents.
Events had actually worked out quite fortuitously for Mr Robinson, as my parents’ holiday coincided with my half term break and, without too much persuasion, I had agreed to look after him while they were away. The task wasn’t particularly onerous. I would need to make him breakfast each morning, which I am quite capable of doing, and as my mother didn’t offer an evening meal he was used to going out to a nearby café or restaurant instead, so that wasn’t an issue for me either. My only other duties would be to make the bed each day and give the room a clean once during the week, neither of which concerned me too much. Given the time he had been with us, my mother had also decided to give him a front door key so I didn’t even have to be around to let him in when he returned from work or being out for the evening.
I didn’t quite know what to make of Mr Robinson, however. At times he gives me a strange feeling which I find difficult to pin down or understand. He is probably in his late fifties, tall, slim and fit looking with a thick head of greying hair. He is not particularly friendly or welcoming, yet neither is he unfriendly or unwelcoming. He has an air about him of being in control of things, a slight superiority, a confidence that makes me feel a little uncomfortable at times. Maybe that is why he is in the management position he has with his company, as he exudes a calm confidence and efficiency to those around him.
And now my parents have gone and I have the house to myself, well apart from Mr Robinson, I am free to do as I want within reason. There is nobody to tell me to turn the music down or not wander around in my pyjamas if I care to do so, or anything else my mother doesn’t approve of. I would like to have a place of my own one day but that will be some way off as there is little prospect of me affording it in the foreseeable future, not unless I can find a rich boyfriend, a thought which always makes me smile.
It is now Monday afternoon and raining outside. I had made Mr Robinson breakfast in the morning before he left for work and I am now feeling rather bored and at a loss for something to do, so I have decided that there is probably no better time than the present to give his room its weekly clean and get that task out the way. An hour later and I have vacuumed the carpet, dusted all around, cleaned the window and generally tidied everything up, and am pleased with how clean and presentable the room is looking. My mother would be proud of me, I think. What I did next I will later find difficult to explain. Was it boredom, inquisitiveness, or just plain naughtiness that took hold of me? Whichever it was, it was totally out of character for me.
I opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers and saw it contained a couple of pullovers and some socks and underwear, nothing exciting. I closed it and opened the drawer beneath. This time there were some casual shirts, all neatly folded, but beneath one, at the bottom of the drawer, there was a large A3 sized brown envelope. I took it out, it was heavy and its contents filled the envelope completely. Looking inside, I could see that it contained three brochures or something of that description, and knowing that I shouldn’t be doing this, I reached inside, lifted out the contents and placed them on the bed.
I looked at the envelope’s contents in puzzlement. They were not brochures as I had first thought but magazines. All had a title I had never heard of before, Janus. What puzzled me, however, were the covers on the magazines. One showed a schoolgirl dressed in a skirt so short it barely made her decent, another showed a girl dressed only in white vest and knickers looking somewhat distressed, and the final one featured two more girls with the description of ‘schoolgirls super special’ on its cover.
I opened the first magazine and as I slowly turned the pages my mouth opened in amazement. The contents were a mixture of stories often with accompanying illustrations, photographs, and a reader’s letters section at the end, but it was the subject matter that had me looking in amazement. It all seemed to be about girls being punished and in many cases girls dressed as schoolgirls in traditional school uniform. I looked at the photographs, there were girls bent over in various positions, their bottoms thrust out awaiting punishment of some description, some with knickers stretched tight across their bottoms others with bottoms bared and with visible red marks on them. In some cases the girls were undressed down to their underwear and in others totally naked. I could feel myself flushing in embarrassment as I went from page to page. The content of the other two magazines were similar to the first.
I put the magazines back in the envelope and carefully replaced it where I had found it under the shirts, and then closed the drawer. I gathered up my cleaning items, left the room, and then headed for my bedroom to try and make sense of what I had found. Sitting on my bed my mind raced. I was aware of ‘girly’ magazines; they were on the top shelf of most newsagents. I had even seen one myself when a boy had brought one into school once, full of pictures of girls in what I considered to be rather lewd and obscene poses that left little to the imagination. I couldn’t see Mr Robinson as being the sort of person who would buy ‘girly’ magazines, but then these were not ‘girly’ magazines as such. Why would anyone want to buy a magazine about girls being punished and why did they even exist? No matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn’t answer my own questions and eventually had to give up.
The next morning the magazines were still on my mind as I served breakfast to Mr Robinson. Had he noticed that I was looking at him a little differently that morning? I would have to forget about it before it became too obvious to him.
That afternoon it was raining again and I was once again feeling at a loose end. My mind drifted back to the magazines. I knew it was wrong to do so, but if I was careful where would the harm be in having another look at the magazines? Nobody would know except myself. I went upstairs, entered Mr Robinson’s room and went over to the chest of drawers and opened the second drawer down. The envelope was still there exactly as I had left it the day before. I took it out and extracted the magazines again. There was a desk and chair in the corner of the room which Mr Robinson used for work some evenings and I sat down on the chair and began to read one of the magazines. Time passed quickly and, realising it was after four and getting close to Mr Robinson’s return, I once again carefully replaced the magazines, ensuring I left no evidence that they had ever been taken out.
This time I had read one magazine virtually from cover to cover and had found the stories and accompanying illustrations rather exciting in a way that I find difficult to comprehend. Not exciting in the way I feel, for example, when I meet a boy I quite fancy, but a different kind of excitement that makes me feel a little strange inside and which I cannot properly describe. I wonder what it would be like to be punished like some of the girls in the stories and photographs, to be spanked over the knee on the bare bottom or, even more so, caned, as I have never experienced either. I am still, however, at a loss to understand why such magazines exist, or more pertinently why Mr Robinson should have them.
Wednesday was a nice day and I had arranged to meet Helen, my best friend, and so spent most of the day away from home, only returning late in the evening. For the first time since Monday afternoon, I had been occupied with other things and thoughts of the magazines had been far from my mind. Thursday, however, was different. It wasn’t raining again, but chilly and miserable and, with no particular need to, I felt no inclination to go out. It was then that my thoughts turned once more to the magazines in Mr Robinson’s room and the enticing prospect of reading another one of them. No harm had come from the previous time so why not, I thought, even though my conscience was telling me otherwise.
I entered his room, went over to the chest of drawers and was relieved to find the envelope still in place beneath the shirts in the second drawer down. This time I felt a surge of excitement as I took out the magazines, selected one of the two I hadn’t read and settled down in the chair for a good read. I wasn’t certain how long I had been reading for, but it couldn’t have been that long when I heard a car draw up outside. I got up and glanced out the window and to my horror saw that it was Mr Robinson. He must have finished work early that afternoon for some reason. In a blind panic I gathered up the magazines and in my haste to get them back in the envelope it ripped, a large rip from top to bottom down the left hand side, causing the magazines to spill out of it back onto the bed.
I stood frozen looking at the scene in front of me, my mind whirring trying to decide what to do. If I put the envelope back in the drawer all ripped it would be obvious that someone had taken it out, and that someone could only be me. Did I have another envelope somewhere that I could use instead? I was thinking hard but couldn’t remember, I was in too much of a panic to think straight. And then the bedroom door was opening and there stood Mr Robinson in the doorway. Our eyes met, mine in panicked horror and his in total surprise. I saw him briefly drop his gaze to the magazines on the bed and then back up to me again.
I waited for him to explode in anger, to start shouting at me, telling me to get out and worse, but he remained silent. When he eventually spoke several seconds later his voice was calm, even and measured and without the slightest trace of anger.
“Well Sally, I have to say I am surprised to find you here. Do you often go prying into guest’s personal belongings when they are out and your parents are not around? I am sure your mother would be most disappointed with you if she knew.”
“No, I…” I couldn’t think of what to say and his being so calm about it, not being angry with me, was disconcerting.
“I see you have found those magazines and you are no doubt wondering why I have them. I presume you have looked inside them.”
I could only nod my head to indicate yes, words were hard to come by at that moment when all I wanted was to wake up from what I hoped was an unpleasant nightmare.
“So you are aware of their content then?”
Again I nodded.
“Good. Well I have an interest in the punishment of young girls, particularly schoolgirls, although not proper schoolgirls you understand, more girls of your own age acting the part of schoolgirls receiving punishments that were commonplace in days gone by, but are now sadly falling out of fashion. You might think it a strange interest but I find it a fascinating and stimulating subject and it is an interest that is more prevalent than you would probably ever imagine, which is one reason why there are magazines published about it. Tell me, did you ever receive corporal punishment from your parents or at school?”
“What, what do you mean?” I eventually managed to stammer out.
“Did you ever receive the plimsoll, strap or cane, for example?”
“No,” I replied, this time shaking my head as I said it.
“A pity, it would have done you good, and there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment.”
That expression ‘at the moment’ was one I would remember over the next few days as I recalled this afternoon’s events.
“Have you ever had a proper spanking then? By that, I mean over the knee on the bare bottom.”
Again I shook my head. My mother had smacked me on a few occasions when I was younger, but only a few smacks on each occasion and never on the bare bottom. This conversation was making me feel uncomfortable and I just wanted it to end.
“Well that may explain why you think it acceptable behaviour to go rooting through guest’s possessions while they are out and show such a lack of self control and respect for other people. Your upbringing has sadly lacked discipline, which is not at all your fault, but is undoubtedly a contributory factor in your behaviour.” Mr Robinson’s tone was still calm and quiet, still no hint of anger in his voice.
“Open that top magazine, any page at random will do.”
I leaned forward and opened the magazine he was pointing at.
“Show me the page.”
I turned the magazine around so he could see. On one side there was narrative from a story and on the other a colour photograph. It was of a girl lying face down on her bed. She was naked and beside her was a man, presumably meant to be her father, who was about to strap her bottom with a leather belt he held in his hand. She had her face turned towards him and her bottom already showed evidence of red marks from previous strokes.
“Close it and put the magazines in the envelope as best you can and then put them back in the drawer.”
I was trembling but managed to do as I was told, thankful to get the magazines out of sight. While I was doing this, Mr Robinson had taken off his suit jacket, opened the wardrobe door, placed it on a hanger and then closed the door. As we faced each other again he unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt and rolled each sleeve a little way up each arm. He then walked over to the chair by the desk and lifted it away so that it was facing the centre of the room, before sitting down on it and then he spoke.
“Take off your jeans, Sally.”
It was said so casually, as if he were asking for another round of toast at breakfast, and as if he expected his request to be granted without any argument. I once again froze. I am not naïve, I had already worked out exactly where this was heading. I wanted to run out the door, up to my room, lock myself in and stay there until it was safe, but there was something about his voice, his manner, that made me want to obey, and besides, I knew deep down inside that I deserved what he was going to do to me. In later years I would come to realise that I am submissive, but that was a concept that was beyond my understanding at this time.
“Your jeans, Sally, I don’t wish to repeat myself again.”
My hands went to my waist, undid the button on my jeans and then pulled the zip down. Kicking off my shoes, I lowered the jeans down my legs and stepped out of them, leaving them in a heap on the floor. I now stood before Mr Robinson in just a tee shirt, knickers and socks, feeling very exposed.
“Come and stand here in front of me.”
I stepped forward a couple of paces until I stood just in front of him where he had indicated. Without warning, his hands came forward and reached up beneath my tee shirt. I felt his fingers take hold of the waistband of my knickers and in one swift movement pull them down to my knees from where they fell in a puddle around my ankles.
“Step out of them and then come around here and bend over my knee.”
I was in a state of shock and embarrassment but stepped out of my knickers and then rather awkwardly draped myself over Mr Robinson’s knee. After some assistance from him I found myself with my hands on the floor supporting myself at the front and with my toes just touching the carpet at the rear, but more than anything else I was now very aware of my bottom being thrust upwards ready for his attention, fully bared, with my tee shirt having been raised up my back and tucked into my bra so as not to get in the way.
“The spanking I am about to give you, Sally, is well overdue and I think well deserved. Don’t you agree?”
From somewhere near the carpet I managed to give my agreement with a barely audible “Yes”. I was embarrassed at being in this position, frightened at what was about to come, but knowing that it was all my own doing and Mr Robinson was correct, I did deserve it.
I could tell that he was studying my bottom and felt his hand stroke gently over the cheeks. I suppose I have a bottom that is considered perfect for spanking, nicely rounded yet not too big, the skin soft, pale and unblemished. He raised his hand and brought it down firmly on my right cheek, swiftly followed by another smack to my left cheek. I tensed myself. It had started. The smacks hurt but not as much as I had feared and at the moment I was able to cope without too much difficulty.
After a couple of minutes of spanking he paused and let his hand run gently over my bottom again. Had I been able to see, it was getting visibly red and a warmth in the skin was becoming apparent to me. He started spanking me again, only this time much harder. Straight away I was aware of the difference in intensity. What had been a fairly pleasant stinging sensation was now becoming much more painful, the stinging building up into something much more unpleasant and difficult to cope with. I found myself starting to wriggle on his lap, trying without success to avoid his hand. My legs were also up off the floor, splaying around in a futile attempt to reduce the stinging, not caring about what I revealed in the process. Then I felt tears start to form in my eyes, and run down my cheeks until I was crying openly.
And then the spanking stopped. I am not sure how long it had lasted, several minutes perhaps, but it had served its purpose. I had learned my lesson, one I would remember for a long while, and I had been embarrassed at being spanked like a naughty little girl, on the bare bottom over somebody’s knee.
“You can get up now, Sally, your spanking is over.”
Slowly, I slid off his knee and got to my feet again, my hands going to my bottom, rubbing it, trying to reduce the dreadful stinging. I was still crying as I picked up my jeans, shoes and knickers from the floor before heading out the door to the sanctuary of my bedroom. Once there, I turned and looked at my bottom in the full length mirror on my wardrobe. It was bright crimson in colour and, as I gently touched it, the skin felt warm and tender. I lay face down on my bed and stayed there until my tears had dried up and the stinging in my bottom subsided.
I didn’t see Mr Robinson again that evening. By the time I emerged from my bedroom, he had gone out and he didn’t return until late, by which time I had already gone to bed. My bottom still showed faint traces of redness but the stinging had now gone although I still had a bit of discomfort when I sat down. I felt more embarrassed than anything else about the whole incident. Embarrassed at letting Mr Robinson see my bare bottom, and more besides, but more than anything else, embarrassed at my own actions which had led to the spanking in the first place.
I was dreading seeing him at breakfast the following morning but when he came into the dining room it was as if nothing had ever happened. To my relief there was no mention of me being found in his room, the magazines or the spanking. It had all apparently been forgotten.
Later that morning I went up to my bedroom and was surprised to see an envelope addressed to me lying on the bed. I recognised Mr Robinson’s handwriting immediately. My heart started to beat faster as I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a piece of paper which I took out and unfolded, and then I froze. The paper turned out to be a page taken from one of the magazines, in fact the very one I had opened it to when told to do so by Mr Robinson yesterday afternoon, the one with the naked girl lying face down on the bed being strapped. At the top of the page were written the words: ‘Wednesday PM’, in Mr Robinson’s handwriting. No further explanation was necessary.
My parents were creatures of habit and it was a weekly habit of theirs to go shopping on a Wednesday afternoon before visiting my aunt, my mother’s sister, for afternoon tea. They would leave around one o’clock and return around five without fail. I concluded that Mr Robinson must have been aware of this and hence the message at the top of the page, and of its meaning. He was intending to strap me like the girl in the photograph next Wednesday afternoon. My mouth went dry as I contemplated the prospect.
My parents returned from their holiday on the Sunday evening, mother asking if I had coped alright and if there had been any problems in looking after Mr Robinson. I could feel myself starting to flush as I replied that no, everything had been just fine and there had been nothing untoward, apart from me getting my bare bottom spanked by him. I didn’t actually say that last bit about the spanking, but it was there in my mind.
Mr Robinson had gone home for the weekend, returning on the Monday. With mother now back home, and with my duties therefore now at an end, I managed to avoid him for the next two days. However, I could not avoid thinking about the photograph and about Wednesday. In fact at least twice every day since I had received it I would take it out and look at it, trying to imagine myself in the position of the girl in the photo about to have her bottom strapped.
The prospect both terrified me and yet excited me in that strange indescribable way I had felt when reading those magazines. What would it be like to be punished like that? The sensible thing would be to go out that afternoon and return after my parents had done so. He would not dare to punish me with my parents in the house as he would surely be found out, but there was something else, that other strange feeling that I got when in his presence. He wanted to punish me on Wednesday afternoon, indeed expected to punish me, and I didn’t want to say no to disappoint him. I had to do as I was told and go through with it. And then there was also the nagging thought in the back of my head that I deserved it for prying in his room the previous week. I deserved to have my bottom strapped, if that was what he wanted.
Wednesday came and Mr Robinson left at his usual time for work. I lay lazily in bed, not wishing to set the day’s workings in motion any sooner than I had to, until I was told to get up by my mother. I showered and dressed and then sat and watched the clock, finding it difficult to concentrate on anything, pretending to read whenever my mother was around. At one o’clock my parents left for the afternoon and I was once again alone in the house. The clock ticked on and it was now getting on for two, and there was still no sign of Mr Robinson. Maybe I had misinterpreted everything, maybe my thoughts of the strapping were in my mind only, but then what was the purpose of the photograph on my bed?
As the clock chimed two o’clock my heart leapt as I heard a car outside and then a key in the front door. I got up and went into the hall to be met by Mr Robinson standing there.
“Ah Sally, I am pleased to see that you are here. Go up to your room and prepare yourself and I will be along shortly to deal with you.” With that he turned and headed up the stairs to his room.
I stood for a moment in a state of shock; again it was said so casually as if what he was about to do to me was a perfectly normal occurrence and nothing out of the ordinary. Eventually I set off up the two flights of stairs to my bedroom on the top floor, closing the door behind me once I had entered before sitting down on the bed. He wanted me to prepare myself, what did he mean by that? I knew the answer all too well but was trying to delay the awful event for as long as I could. In the photograph, the girl had been naked and that was how he would want me too. In preparing myself, he was meaning for me to get undressed, totally undressed. I stood up and stripped down to my bra and knickers and then hesitated, the thought of being totally naked before him was just too embarrassing to contemplate. I had not been seen that way by any male for several years. At last I came to a compromise, he had already seen my lower half bared when he had spanked me and there was little doubt he would be expecting to strap me on the bare bottom too. There was therefore little to be gained from trying to keep my knickers on so they could come off, but I would keep my bra on. It might only be one article of clothing but it meant I could preserve some modesty and would not be fully naked. I slipped my knickers off and then sat on the bed again and waited.
Several minutes passed and with each passing minute my nerves and the tension grew. Then I heard footsteps on the landing outside, and then the door was opening, and then he was standing there, and then the door was being closed again. It all seemed to happen so quickly and now there was no way of turning back for me.
I noticed that he was holding a leather strap in his right hand. It was quite thick and split into two tails at one end. It was a genuine Scottish tawse, but that description would have meant little to me had he told me as I had never heard of the word before. I wondered where he had got it from and then remembered his trip home that weekend. He must have brought it with him when he returned.
“Stand up.” His voice, as before, was calm and measured, one that I felt compelled to obey and so I did so, standing up nervously by my bed, hands clasped in front of me.
“Why have you not done as I asked? I requested that you prepare yourself, which you must surely have known meant removing all of your clothing, so why have you not done so?”
“I, I don’t know,” I stammered in reply.
“Take your bra off now. I do not expect to have to repeat myself and you will receive extra punishment for your disobedience.”
His manner was that of someone used to being obeyed and I, despite my reluctance, could not disobey and so I unclipped my bra and removed it, swiftly covering myself with my hands as best I could.
“Stand up straight and put your arms by your side, let me look at you.”
Once again I did as I was told and I could feel my face start to redden in embarrassment as I now stood totally naked before him. I was aware of him looking at my body, at my pert breasts, my blonde pubic triangle at the top of my legs and it made me blush even more.
He seemed to be studying me for ages but in reality it was only for a few seconds before he then stepped forward and, going to the bed, folded the duvet up on the centre of it before placing the pillow on top of it.
“Lie face down on the bed with your hips on the pillow.”
I did as I was instructed, grateful to no longer be standing full frontal, on view to him. The duvet and the pillow raised my hips and bottom up and I rested my head on my arms in front of me, burying my face into the mattress. I then felt him take hold of my ankles moving them further apart, causing my bottom cheeks to spread further. I didn’t even want to contemplate the view that he must have of me in this position.
“I am going to give you ten strokes for your behaviour last week, and then a further two strokes for disobeying me just now. The strokes will hurt but I expect you to take the punishment without undue fuss and not to try and get up from the bed. If you do, we will start again, which I am sure neither of us would want. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I managed to reply.
I felt the tawse tapping lightly against my bottom and couldn’t help but clench the cheeks in anticipation.
“Try to relax your bottom, Sally. It will be better for you if you do. Try to accept the punishment and not fight it,” he said gently.
Seconds later there was a loud ‘crack’ as the tawse made contact with my bottom for the first time. The spanking of the previous week had not prepared me in any way for the sensation I now felt. The stinging from the spanking had built up gradually and had initially been quite bearable, but this was very different. There was an immediate intense sting that seemed to spread over my entire bottom causing me to gasp out in shock.
Approximately thirty seconds later, the second stroke landed and the stinging increased, this time causing me to cry out audibly, my hips rising from the pillow and bottom cheeks clenching before relaxing down again. Three more strokes followed, each causing a similar reaction in me and I could feel tears starting to form in my eyes.
There was then a short respite as he paused and let his hand stroke gently over my bottom, soothing the discomfort a little.
“You are doing well, Sally. Five more strokes to come; keep yourself as still and relaxed as you can.”
Those five strokes landed in something of a blur for me, each increasing the intensity of the stinging to a new level, each causing me to cry out in pain and wriggle around on the pillow but somehow I managed to resist the urge to get up or attempt to shield my bottom. And then there was another brief respite, a pause in the proceedings while he once again stroked my bottom cheeks.
“That would have been your punishment over, Sally, had you done as you were told, but I am now going to give you two additional strokes for not undressing properly. I will give these strokes in quick succession so brace yourself and it will soon be over.”
By now my tears were flowing freely and I readied myself, just wanting to get the strapping over with at any cost. The two strokes landed almost simultaneously, taking the stinging and my distress to an entirely new level. I was vaguely aware of the bedroom door opening and closing and of my now being alone again, but for several minutes I remained motionless face down on the bed until my tears subsided.
Eventually, I got up and went over to the mirror and looked at my bottom. It was an even deep red colour from the top of the crack to the top of my thighs, as if I had been sitting in a very hot bath. On the right cheek there was an obvious mark from the split tail of the tawse where one stroke had extended a little further than the others. As I gently rubbed my cheeks they were sore and tender from the thrashing I had just received. There was also a distinct inner warmth that I could feel emanating from my bottom which, despite my other discomforts, I found rather pleasurable.
I stayed in my room until after my parents had returned and I was called down for tea. I washed my face and hoped they wouldn’t notice my still puffy eyes from my crying, and dressed in a skirt rather than my more usual jeans. I also decided to go without knickers as their tightness made the discomfort in my bottom all the greater. I was careful when sitting down not to show how uncomfortable it was for me and was grateful when I was finally able to leave and return to my bedroom where I remained for the rest of the evening. When I later undressed for bed, my bottom was still red but nowhere near as bad as before, although there was a sign of some bruising developing in a couple of places. I was still sore and the discomfort would remain to some degree for the next few days.
The next morning I had risen early, showered and dressed and felt much better than the night before despite, my still tender bottom. My mother called through to me from the hallway.
“Sally, do you want to come and say goodbye to Mr Robinson? He’s finally leaving today.”
Still somewhat embarrassed by the previous day’s events, I rather reluctantly entered the hallway to find my mother standing next to Mr Robinson deep in conversation.
“You should really call me Peter after all this time, not Mr Robinson,” he smiled.
“If you insist,” replied my mother. “It just sounds a little informal, that’s all.”
“Well I think I’ve been here long enough for us to be a little informal, don’t you agree? Oh, and I should return these to you while I remember.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a set of keys which he handed to her.
“Thank you, Peter,” she smiled in return.
“I was just wondering, actually, I need to return to the area at the end of next month for a week, just to see how things are progressing on site, and I was wondering if you might be able to accommodate me again. I realise you are normally closed at that time and so if it’s inconvenient just say and I’ll find alternative accommodation.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it; of course you can stay here for another week. It would be no trouble at all. You can have the same room too. In fact, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but we have tended to call you ‘the lodger’, given how long you have been with us.” She laughed.
“The lodger? Yes, I can see the reasoning behind that,” he laughed. “Anyway, I’ve been grateful for your hospitality and it’s a relief to know that I can count on it again next month.”
It occurred to me this was probably the first time I could ever recall seeing Mr Robinson, or Peter now to my mother, laugh and it made him seem a lot more friendly and approachable, perhaps a different side to him that I had not seen before. I went over and joined them and Mr Robinson turned to me and spoke.
“I would also like to thank your lovely daughter for looking after me last week and keeping me, entertained.”
Our eyes met and we both knew what he really meant but thankfully it passed over my mother’s head. My bottom was still reminding me of the ‘entertainment’ he referred to that I had received the previous afternoon.
Our farewells were said and at long last Mr Robinson departed, at least until the following month. I was still trying to understand my feelings towards him when I was in his presence, and come to terms with the fact that I had let him spank and strap me and had stripped totally naked before him. I wondered what my mother’s reaction would be if only she knew.
Later that morning, I went up to my room and to my surprise there was another envelope on my bed addressed to me in Mr Robinson’s hand. That surge of excitement went through me again as I eagerly picked it up and opened it. Inside was another page taken from one of the magazines. This time it was a photograph of a girl dressed in school uniform. She was bending forward over a desk, her skirt raised, and behind her stood a man dressed in a suit with his fingers in the waistband of her knickers, pulling them down to bare her bottom. On the desk next to her lay a crook handled cane.
There were a few words written on the top of the page, ‘Wednesday PM, November’. My pulse started to race in anticipation, no further explanation was necessary.
© Steven Wilson 2018