With as much grace as I could manage, I folded myself over Ann-Marie’s lap. Once again, I knew that all eyes were on me, but I had recovered some of my composure; getting spanked over an assertive and beautiful women’s knee was something I had dreamed of for many years.
I felt my shift being folded back slowly across the small of my back, felt her fingers patting the cloth to keep it in place. I was inwardly pleased that I had worn my panties that day. Created from a deep, rich red satin, they were lace trimmed and elegant, sexy and sensuous; so fitting, I thought, for the classy, Victorian ambiance of the House of Majesta.
My self-satisfaction proved to be short-lived. Anne-Marie snapped the waistband elastic against my skin and then it seemed an eternity before she spoke. She lectured me as if I was a child.
“What right do you think you have to wear underwear in my household, young lady? You are a neophyte. Neophyte’s have few rights. Until you are accepted, I do not want to see this behavior again. Do you quite understand?”
“Yes, Anne-Marie,” I mumbled, devastated, the wind taken right out of my sails.
She dragged the offending item of lingerie down my legs, and dropped it contemptuously on the floor at her feet.
I had expected her next move to be a slap or perhaps one of those sets of gentle stroking I had heard that took place before a spanking was delivered. I felt her hand creep between my legs, exploring, sensing, judging. I yelped as she grabbed a few strands of my pubic hair, twisted them viciously into a tight little curl and then jerked twice on the little, silky ringlet.
Anne-Marie’s voice had turned to ice, her gentle tone a thing of the past.
“Ladies of the Sisterhood, and especially neophytes, do not have pubic hair!”
My head was hanging upside down and close to the floor, so I could sense but not see the anger on her face. The coldness in her tone told it all.
“You, Monique, will be responsible for this girl’s appearance. It was through you that she got here, so you will bear the consequences. Now listen here, you two…”
She gave my hairs another tug; I assumed the ‘two’ referred to Monique and me.
“…you will both be whipped at sundown for this infraction. Monique, please be kind enough to ensure she is plucked before that takes place.”
As quickly as her temper had been aroused, I sensed Anne-Marie’s mood return to normal. Her voice became soft and creamy again, smooth and mellifluous.
“Justine, would you mind bringing me the ferule? I find myself a bit constrained here.”
Although I couldn’t see her face, I could imagine the smile of delight that would be lingering on Justine’s lips. I was well acquainted now with the perverse sense of satisfaction she got from inflicting pain and wondered how Anne-Marie would involve her in my chastisement. I didn’t have to wait long to discover this, nor to be enlightened as to what exactly a ferule was.
Justine squatted on the floor at my side, a plump, velvet cushion in her arms. It was not a crown that rested on it, but the ferule, the instrument that was about to cause me such pain. Perhaps eighteen inches long, it was a highly polished, brown, pear shaped leather paddle. It had a robust look to it, despite the elegant finish. The crown of Majesta was embossed in gold at its center, and a delicate pattern of inter-twined scrolls marked out the edges; they too were embossed in gold. The handle was bound with leather thongs and an ornately crafted silver hilt was further evidence of the craftsmanship at play.
“Kiss it, Cara,” Justine whispered, “and remember that once Anne-Marie has given you the flaps and released you, you need to request that you be allowed to kiss it again. Remember to curtsey when you are dismissed.”
I was grateful for this coaching, and despite this ridiculous ritual, I was pleased that I had something on which to focus my mind.
Justine disappeared from my view, and I waited, barely able to breathe, for the punishment to start.
“I love the ferule, Cara,” I heard Anne-Marie say; “I find that it is useful to burnish bottoms that have been marked with the cane.”
She rubbed the leather paddle across my bottom, patting it tentatively, inspecting what had to be done.
“You see, Cara,” she was in lecture mode now, “the swishing you received yesterday left some rather interesting marks. Your bottom looks so untidy! Marks here, bruises there; there is just no order! Now, with this flapping, I am going to help you repair this. I am going flap your bottom to French-polish out all the marks; it will take on a lovely, rosy hue, a consistent color across all of your cheeks, a healthy glow which will delight us all.”
Once again she had found her way to make her sadistic approach seem to be a kindness and so reasonable, yet I didn’t take solace from her kind words. I wasn’t so sure in my mind that I was going to be delighted with my bottom being given a healthy glow. It was still tender from my swishing the day before and it felt pulverized from the bobbles that had crushed their way into my flesh while sitting on the Neophyte Chair.
I was surprised at how painful the flapping was. I might have imagined that the sheer width of the ferule would have spread the impact, or that perhaps seeing my obvious plight Anne-Marie would have some pity and go easy on me this once. That is not how it played out; she set in with a consistent tempo, a cadence that didn’t seem to ever let up. I could understand now why she called it flapping; she applied the paddle with a strength that was firm but not brutal, flapping away at my bottom while allowing the leather to do her work. She didn’t have to be brutal; the tender state of my bottom provided her all the help that she needed.
I cried, I screamed, I kicked. Nothing could stop the incredible pain that engulfed my rear. The flesh was so tender that I knew I couldn’t take another swat; yet the flaps kept raining down, with metronome-like regularity, punishing me beyond what I thought a person could endure.
Suddenly it was over and I was left hanging over her knee, blubbing and sniffling like a child, tears pouring down my cheeks, distraught and in pain, shaking in despair . I half expected Anne-Marie to hug me, comfort me like the child I felt I was, console me in my pain, dispelling my fear. Anne-Marie wasn’t made like that; I don’t believe she had a single soft streak in her body or tender words to share.
“You can get up now Cara.”
She game me a nudge, not pushing me off her lap to the floor, but indicating that it was perhaps best that I move away from her now. I obliged, tumbling to the ground and curling up like a fetus in pain. I felt drained and spent, and I didn’t care if the other girls saw me in this state; I simply didn’t care.
“Take her away, Monique. Bath her and be generous with the cold cream. I need the two of you to be in top form this evening for your punishment session. And Monique, don’t forget to pluck her!”
I was in no state to ask to kiss the paddle, and curtseying to the sadistic mistress of the House of Majesta was the last thing on my mind. I was led out of the dining room by Monique, her arm around my shoulder giving me comfort and moral support, tissues on offer to wipe my eyes and to blow my nose. I dimly heard the chatter across the breakfast room table pickup, but didn’t care if they were talking about me; I simply didn’t care.
I felt an intense closeness to Monique at that moment, and knew that with her at my side, anything was possible and I knew in my heart that I wanted to be a fully fledged member of the Sisterhood of Majesta.
“Cara, sweetie,” she whispered in my ear, “remember that a girl never died from a whipping! You will be all right.”