“The trouble with me punishing you, Caitlin” Anne-Marie opined, “is that you have become immune to it!”
Anne-Marie was in lecture mode; I hate it when she is like that! I have to admit that she was right, to some extent. Yes, the spanking were painful, the belt and the cane so much more so than her hand, yet after a while the pain wore off and was replaced by the most pleasant of glows. It was a glow that I had come to love, one that stoked fires and spread life to nerves that should have been out of play. It was almost worth wile copping a punishment to have that pressure start to build and a fiery orgasm build.
I was standing in front of her desk, with the back of my skirt pinned up, and my panties down around my ankles. Yet, even standing in front of her like that in what should have been a humiliating way, I felt no embarrassment, just irritation at her lecturing. She had seen me in so many compromising positions during all sorts of activities that one sees when sharing a home: being spanked, being loved, sitting in a bath, or masturbating to climax; this was hardly an eye opener.
She put down the cane which she had been flexing between her fingers; long, strong fingers, I noted, which were beautifully manicured. I had visions of her holding a musical instrument with them, perhaps tapping rhythmically on the keys of a flute, or delicately grasping the bow of a cello. Instead, she picked up her pen and drew a notepad towards her. She eyed me contemplatively, and then wrote out a short note in her flowery script, signing it with a flourish.
“Here, take this,” she instructed me, handing the folded note to me over the desk. “When you bring it back signed, I will punish you. Perhaps this will bring the embarrassment of punishment back into your life.”
“Get it signed? By whom? What is the note?”
“Get is signed by anyone, Caitlin; I don’t care who.”
She dropped her eyes and returned to the work on her desk, dismissing me, shutting me out of her mind. I hated being ignored, being shut out like that; it was the worst kind of punishment. Dejected and confused, I left the room, clutching the note in my hand.
Without knowing what I had to get signed, I knew I had to do it; Anne-Marie would just shut me out until I did, and I simply couldn’t live with that. Anything I had to put up with would be preferable to be being cut off behind the invisible walls she erected.
The stationery was Anne-Marie all-over: elegant and tasteful, no expense had been spared. Her signature monogram, an inter-twined “A” and “M” in gold-edged navy blue, graced the top left of the note card, a delicate bouquet of meadow flowers was hand painted in pastel shades on the top right.
Her script was flowing and feminine: “Caitlin is going to be spanked with a cane. She may want to tell you about it.”
The blood drained from my face as I read these words.
The second and final sentence on the notelette caused my heart to thump.
“Please sign below to indicate that she has told you all you wish to know.”
That was it!
The evil genius of this tactic put me into a spin. Who on earth could I get to sign this note? I certainly couldn’t go to my friends or family; I could picture the paroxysms of laughter and ridicule that something like this would invoke. My co-workers, my doctor, my hairdresser, the librarian, the barista……
I spun the list through my mind, frantically searching for a person who I could go to. I drank a cup of coffee alone; I was banished from Anne-Marie’s presence until this issue was resolved. Should I go onto The Net and put a request on one of the forums, or perhaps a CraigsList encounter? Every option seemed to be too dangerous or too personal.
Tucking the note into my purse, I headed out onto the street and down into the subway; I was desperate for inspiration.
I emerged out of the subway into a part of city that I was generally unfamiliar with. It was trendy and vibrant, the people in the streets extroverted and uninhibited. It was a far cry from the genteel and reserved public displays that I was accustomed to in the suburbs. Tattered jeans, hair dyed in neon colors, nose rings and tattoos. For a wonderful moment my mind was taken away from my pressing dilemma, but as I walked down Queen Street, panic once again gnawed at my insides.
Desperation spurs fresh thinking! I was walking past an adult shop when the inspiration struck. Canes and floggers were on display in the window, mannequins were dressed in leathers, gags and slave collars adorning their lifeless figures. One mannequin was dressed as a schoolgirl holding a leather strap, and yet another was depicted sitting a low, old-fashioned school desk on which lay a notepad and a cane. The establishment was named “The Headmistress’s Office”; quite appropriate, I noted wryly.
The best way to describe the sales assistant was “schoolmarmish”. Crisp cotton blouse, hair pinned back in a bun, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose; she looked dry and priggish. There was barely a flicker of acknowledgement as I approached her tentaively, Anne Marie’s note clutched carefully hand. My mouth had dried up and my heart was beating.
“Well, what can I do for you?” she inquired. Her voice was raspy, her manner taciturn.
I handed the note across to her, and stood waiting in front of the counter, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my skirt, my eyes downcast. I had flashbacks to an incident in my schooldays when I had stood just like this in front of the headmistress’s desk. It had not gone well, and I had walked out of her office some time later with tears running down my cheeks, and pain coursing through my bottom.
“Miss Courtney,” she said, addressing a younger, but equally severely dressed lady ,who had joined her behind the counter, “please take over for me out here. I need to go back to the office and address a matter with this young lady.”
She opened a door, and beckoned me into her office.
She was sitting behind her desk, the note laid out in front of her, looking at me expectantly.
“Well, girl, what is this all about?”
The fact that I was a professional woman in my mid thirties seemed to have escaped her.
Her fingers drummed impatiently on the note, waiting for me to start. I seemed to be back in that time warp; this was schooldays all over again.
I could feel that my face was flushed and I could hear my voice trembling nervously as I began to speak. I explained my relationship with Anne Marie and how on occasion, I failed to live up to her expectations. This morning I had been particularly immature – a tantrum, a blatant disregard for the decorum of the household, a snippy comment in response to a request.
As I spoke, I realised that deep inside, I really was still a little girl; the thirty-five something woman was simply a façade, an illusion that fooled most but through which others saw right through; Anne Marie, and this woman in front of me were two who came immediately to mind.
I confessed to this stranger, expressed my regret at my behavior, and promised I would never do it again.
At last she seemed satisfied, and with a disdainful look at me, she signed the note. My relief turned to panic as she picked it up and rather than handing it to me, she slid it into the desk’s top drawer.
“Please may I have it back? I need to take it back to Anne Marie!”
The woman stared at me, and then a sardonic grin played across her pursed lips.
“You gave me the note. It’s mine. To get it back you will have to pay.”
My mind rushed; this was a shakedown that I could never have anticipated!
There was no shortage of merchandise in the office; I had already realised why the establishment was called “The Headmistress’s Office”. The currency of payment also became quickly apparent. Moments later, I found myself stretched across the desk, legs spread wide and my skirt flipped up. Cold fingers tugged at my panties elastic, dragging them down to stretch tautly across my buckled knees.
Her inspection of me seemed interminable and her snarky comments cut to the chase. With each comment, she tapped at the offending body part with the tip of the cane, driving her point home and putting me down. Sometimes the taps were light, sometimes she traced a pattern with the dreadful implement, sometimes she flicked me painfully on my most sensitive skin.
I felt vulnerable and shamed, yet strangely aroused.
Her comments were biting: “A chubby bottom you have here, girl!”; “These thunder thighs were made to take a belting!”, “Oh look, your quim is getting aroused; you really are a nasty piece of works.”
And so it went on, no real pain administered, but a shaming the likes of which I had never previously experienced.
Without warning, the physical punishment began.
I had forgotten how vicious a caning felt. Strokes of pain that deepened with every second; the crack of wood against flesh; bundles of nerves that erupted into excruciating pain. Pain layered on pain. Just when the previous wave was starting to subside, a new and even more ferocious assault on already battered flesh. I seemed to be living in a waking nightmare. Tears and snot dribbling onto the desk; legs kicking uncontrollably in a desperate attempt to find relief, heels hammering loudly on the hardwood floor, fingers clutching wildly to grasp the edge of the desk.
I felt overcome by shame: shame at being whipped, shame at having to offer my bottom like that; shame at having my privates exposed to a stranger, shame at having my perverted arousal out on display.
Anne Marie’s words came flooding back to me then: “The trouble with me punishing you, Caitlin,” Anne-Marie opined, “is that you have become immune to it!”
This was different; this was someone seeing me at my most vulnerable and layering on the punishment and shame.
I gratefully retrieved the note from that woman at last, and gingerly made my way out of the shop and headed down Queen Street towards the subway entrance. It was a long trip back to Anne-Marie’s apartment on the train; I had to stand the whole way.
On the one hand, I dreaded going back up to face her, to face the music and pay my outstanding penalty, for I knew that regardless of what had just taken place, I still had a spanking due. On the other hand, I had her note and knew that she would take me back in again, and all would be forgiven and made right again once all dues had been paid.