In times past, workers were treated strictly. By a new writer to us

By Louise Vancisic

“Dorothy Owens!” Albert Kimble snapped. “You’re daydreaming again! What did I tell you would happen the next time I catch you not doing your work?”

The young man’s tone, and the dead silence which followed, brought the unlucky twenty-six year old back from her reverie. But her normally rosy countenance was now pale and expressionless; her eyes stared fixedly at her desktop, her slender shoulders hunched with dread beneath her starched white blouse.

“Uh, sir, I’m sorry. I, uh, please, I’ll make up for it.” She replied, her tone flat and fearful. For the girl could not help noticing the supple switch in the man’s right hand.

Mr Kimble grimly ordered the girls in the front row to move their table forward a full two feet. Eight shaking hands went under the table, then lifted and moved the table as required. The other three girls moved their chairs forward and pretended to go on with their work. Dorothy started to do the same but found her attempt blocked by Mr Kimble’s left hand.

“You, Miss Owens, will turn your chair around and place it against the table. Give your pattern to Miss Weston as we do not wish to create any wrinkles.”

Tears starting from her eyes, Dorothy obediently passed the garment she was working on to the shop girl on her right. Anne Weston displayed no emotions as she carefully straightened Dorothy’s pattern atop her own. The girls to either side and immediately behind ceased their work as it was considered disrespectful to not attentively observe the punishment of a co-worker. The factory owner considered it worthy of a few minutes of idle time for the girls in the immediate vicinity to witness the consequences of indolence. What they would see and hear over the next five to ten minutes would inspire them to work ever more diligently for the rest of the day. The rest of the girls would carry on as usual.

Dorothy looked at Mr Kimble beseechingly. Ignoring her imploring eyes, he struck the seat of the chair with his stick.

“On the chair, Miss Owens! Lean forward over the table and raise your skirt.”

“Oh please sir, please don’t whip me, please, I beg you!” Cried Dorothy, clasping her hands to her still skirted behind. “I didn’t mean it. It was an accident! Please, Mr Kimble!”

“I will not tolerate indolence, Miss Owens. You shall be soundly whipped for it!” snapped the supervisor, striding behind the table, grimly flexing the stick as he spoke.

Swallowing back tears, Dorothy knelt, and in each hand gathered the fullness of her skirt and the lace-trimmed petticoat beneath. For just a moment, she hesitated, still kneeling, her face reddening with shame at what she knew she must now do. But when Mr Kimble cleared his throat ominously, she bit her lip, and, with a rustling armload of skirts on either side, hoisted them all above her waist as she bent down across the table. At this point, all eyes focused on the drawers stretched snugly across her shapely buttocks, all framed by the fluffy heap of her skirts.

“Pull those drawers tight, Miss Owens. I may allow you the privilege of keeping your drawers but I not intend for this stick’s sting to lose one ounce of vigor in this process.”

Grasping the waistband, Dorothy tugged her drawers upwards as commanded. But this did not satisfy Mr Kimble.

“Tighter, Miss Owens! Or do you want me to pull them down?”

Biting her lower lip, Dorothy pulled and stretched the material until it seemed to make a second skin, morti­fyingly chafed her tender crotch and, through the sheer material, revealed the cleft between her quaking bottom globes. There her fingers remained lest the undergarment not remain sufficiently taut.

Drawing a deep breath, and then letting it out, Mr Kimble measured his distance by extending his right arm, switch in hand, until the rod lightly rested on the seat of the trembling girl’s sheer undergarment. Dorothy, her body already bowstring tense from terror, flinched and gasped involuntarily at the touch of that terrible, limber switch against her thinly clad rear.

Without a word, Mr Kimble drew his arm upward and swung the switch swiftly and smartly to land with a sharp snap across both mounds of Dorothy’s trembling posterior. The girl let out a shrill squeal of pain which quickly dissolved into soft sobs.  Mr Kimble paused, giving his first stroke ample time to smart, while the eyes of all the other workers fixed intently on the kneeling girl, squirming, shuddering and sobbing from the sting.

The girl on Dorothy’s left, Jane Wiggins, was her best friend. Jane felt only the deepest sympathy and focused her eyes on Dorothy’s twisted grimace. Perhaps she felt that the poor girl might obtain some comfort from seeing the concern exhibited by her best friend. Far better than the slightly amused reaction exhibited by Anne Weston or the two girls directly in back.

After nearly a full half-minute, Mr Kimble drew back his arm and again the slender rod swished through the air to strike the seat of Dorothy’s stretched drawers. There followed a pained yelp which rapidly descended into anguished heaving sobs.

Jane’s face furrowed more deeply; her hands clasped each other tighter as Mr Kimble slowly drew back the switch and laid yet another cut across the soft summits of Dorothy’s bottom.

“Oooo! Ooooohhhhooooo! Ohhhhhhh! Please, please sir, ohhhhh! Please!”

Now, through the thin, translucent fabric of her undergarment, the raised ridge of two welts could be clearly seen across both cheeks of the poor girl’s burning buttocks, and the weal from the third stroke was beginning to rise as well. Her feet twisted this way and that, and the muscles of her thighs and calves gave vent to long, spas­modic flexions.

In this deliberate manner, Mr Kimble applied another stroke. Jane noticed that her friend’s chin pressed hard upon the upward sloping table while her face turned slightly upward, staring straight ahead. A plain looking girl to begin with, Dorothy’s facial features were rendered even less desirable as her mouth twisted in a hideous rictus of humiliation and pain, her nostrils furiously dilating and shrinking, bitter tears coursing down her flaming cheeks.

But Mr Kimble’s eyes were not cast at all upon her face. Indeed, his attention was consumed by the pulsating globes and the ribboned flesh straining against its taut covering. Or perhaps, as he was admiring the active interplay of the lovely posterior, he was taken by the contrast between its now flaming hue against the soft pink beauty of the upper thighs and lower back.

“Are you feeling sorry for your laziness and inattention, Miss Owens?” Mr Kimble asked rhetorically.

“Why, yes sir,” the young woman tearfully gasped.

“I should think so,” Mr Kimble, re­buked her in a stern voice. “Well, we are not done yet. You have had four strokes; are you ready to receive the rest of your punishment?”

“Y-y-yes, Mr Ki-Kimble, sir,” poor Dorothy quav­ered tearfully in a muffled voice, and glanced nervously to her right side. An unfortunate choice, for Anne Weston quite devoured her exquisitely poignant, sweet young face, flushed and tearstained, the lips and nostrils quivering uncontrollably. Fortunately, the girl’s tear-blurred eyes spared the sight of the amused smile playing upon her co-workers lips. The smile widened as she observed Mr Kimble, once more, raising the switch.

Swish! Thwack!  Twice more, the switch was applied across the seat of Dorothy’s drawn drawers, as she shrieked bitterly from the sting. Stretched across the work table, Dorothy was crying as hard as she could, gasping for breath between each wail, every trace of dignity and composure gone. After that last awful lick of the switch, her knees began a fearful shaking that threatened to upset her precarious balance. Terrified that she might slip off the chair and provoke yet further punishment, Dorothy pushed her chin harder onto the table for stability. After several tense seconds, Dorothy succeeded in maintaining the position for the completion of her punishment.

Although one stroke remained, Dorothy’s friend, Jane Wiggins, observed Mr Kimble’s features relax somewhat, as if toying with the idea of mercy. But then his brows knit, he set his jaw, drew back the switch, and gave the wretched Dorothy another hard blow across her swollen, welted seat. A shudder went through her body, and beneath the taut fabric of her undergarment her thighs and buttocks clenched and unclenched spasmodically as she let out yet another desperate Mr Kimble folded his arms and, with a sense of profound satisfaction, stood watching the suffering young woman continue to cry frantically, her slim body shaking with sobs, still bent across her work table, with her skirts and petticoats still piled up around her middle. Clearly visible through the delicate fabric of her drawers, a lattice-work of switch marks crisscrossed the rounded surfaces of her inflamed bottom.

Several minutes passed before Mr Kimble placed his hands on Dorothy’s shoulders and guided her off the chair and back into a standing position. Though her hair was fastened into a tight bun, the exertion had freed several wisps of hair that now lay across her flushed, tear-soaked cheeks and forehead. As she sniffed and sobbed, Dorothy smoothed down her petticoats and skirt, sneaking a few quick rubs to soothe the throbbing sting of her well whipped bottom now cushioned beneath several layers of clothing.

At last, Mr Kimble released his hold on her arm and ordered everyone back to work. Shamefaced, Dorothy slowly sat down at her place, wincing as she carefully eased her weight onto her welted, smarting buttocks. Though still weeping, she sat up straight, and with all the dignity she could muster, took up her pattern and resumed her sewing.

The End

© Louise Vancisic 2018

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