With thanks to Paolo of Wholebean and I
Sarah and Mark’s Story began here
“Feck it,” Saah cursed as she undid her tie before attempting the knot for the seventeenth time. “I know how to do this,” she reassured herself. And she did; she had prided herself on mastering this decidedly masculine skill. She had not, however, practised the manuever with the shaking hands that were proving to be her downfall.
She had not anticipated the nerves. She had not been this nervous the last time. If anything, she had only been anxious to get started, Then again, for her first spanking Mark had promised and delivered a gentle introduction, focusing on the sensations rather than the emotions of the experience. He had given her a taste of the pain involved without revealing the full measure he was capable of dolling out. It had been a powerful experience only in that it had been real for the first time.
She had agonised over the feedback message that he had requested afterwards. He had asked for her to tell him how she had found the experience, and, as with all his questions, she had no choice but to be honest. All the same, it felt decidedly wrong to be asking for a harder spanking, to be asking for more scolding, more discipline in her discipline. Wrong in that she did not want to prescribe her own doom any more than she wished to be seen telling him how to do his job in this relationship. She didn’t see that as her place. Nonetheless, she had told him and he had understood, promising a much stricter session this time around. Not knowing what that would entail, she could not keep her imagination from running wild in the few weeks between their meetings. Apparently that had the side effect of fingers running wild as well, which made tie-tying a difficult task.
The knot finally proved acceptable- not fantastic, but less sloppy than her previous efforts- this eighteenth attempt, though the tip reached only down halfway to her navel. She briefly considered trying yet again, but wondered if she were trying his patience.
“Take all the time you need, there’s no rush,” Mark had assured her with a tender kiss to her forehead as he left her in the guestroom to make his own preparations. His offer was sincere. He would wait, and he would understand. She couldn’t even fool herself; she was the one who was in a hurry, she was the one who would judge herself for delaying.
She pulled the navy jumper over her head, hiding the imperfection in the tie, and hastily plaited her hair, having long ago accepted the futility of any attempt to exert standards on that part of her appearance, before examining her reflection.
The school girl staring back at her looked decidedly uncomfortable in her ill-fitting attire, but she did at least look like a school girl. For an outfit assembled with a week’s notice, she felt rather proud of it. She knew he would as well; he had told her in no uncertain terms that he did not expect her to complete the task before they met, given the short time frame involved, but it was an assignment a task he had given her. A way to feel connected while they were away, a way for her to feel his influence from afar. Of course she had completed it, and completed it joyfully, if somewhat sloppily.
Although it had only been a few weeks since they had last met, she had missed him terribly in the interim. She had clung to every message he had sent, tried her hardest to obey every instruction he had given while they were apart. It was an imperfect arrangement, but when she considered how she felt when they were together she knew that it was worth it. It would be enough. She also knew that in all likelihood it would be even longer before their next chance to see one another, and was determined to savour every minute of this evening. And that meant not dallying in her room any longer than was necessary.
After a few false starts and last-minute-mirror-checks for any addressable deficiencies, she knocked on the lounge door before hesitantly pushing it open.
“Sir?” she called out as she stepped into the room. The soft lighting filtered through the room, a space that emanated both masculinity and sophistication. The furnishings were dark, but the space was cheerfully light- a perfect representation of him. The fact that this decidedly masculine space incorporated the nearby kitchen made it even more his own. Food was never far away whenever they got together, and he spoke of his cooking with nearly as much relish as he did their shared fetish. He had truly seemed at home in this space as they had chatted, him lounging back on the sofa, her perched on the edge as they shared a beer. She eyed her half-finished glass, still on the table where she had left it. It was a delicious ale. A shame to leave it unfinished, but her mind had understandably been elsewhere during the pre-spanking chat. His empty glass sat next to hers, but he was not in the seat where she had left him. Where was he now?
“Sarah!” she heard him call from the corridor. Blushing at her mistake, she hurried out to him. She had been listening when he had told her where to meet him, but in light of everything else roiling in her mind, that bit of information hadn’t made much of an impact.
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder to usher her into the room. Her breath caught as she crossed the threshold. It was a formal dining room, attached to a sitting room that somehow did nothing to soften the appearance of the space, particularly given his preparations for this event. As with his lounge- his lair- the walls were light, the decor modern and clean, and the space was controlled by his influence. As she had been immersed in her own preparations, he had been preparing this space to receive her for her first disciplinary meeting.
The room was dim, lit only by the silent roar of flames in the fireplace, a pair of candles he had placed on the sideboard and a pair of muted lamps on the opposite side of the room. Everything was spaced neatly, deliberately, every item clearly in its place. Her place in this arrangement was just as prescribed as that of the twin bookcases flanking the mantle. He ushered her to a chair and had her sit before the notebook he had laid out on the table.
He had already placed a heading on the page: “Sarah’s First Disciplinary Meeting,” followed by the date. She took a deep breath as she tried unsuccessfully to settle into the chair. He had prepared this, prepared this for her. She was momentarily taken back to her sorority, to her initiation. The order had abandoned the paddle long ago, but this atmosphere was familiar. The elements were similar: the use of an everyday room, re-purposed with a few minor adjustments to lend it significance for the ceremony. The firelight that did not quite banish the shadows, promising to reveal secrets if she could endure the trial she would be set. The props on the table, items of whose purpose she was fairly certain, but she knew would be appreciated on an entirely new level before the night was through. The dark-clad authority figure that would serve as her guide, intimidating and comforting in equal measures. As with her guide for her initiation, she knew he had two purposes there: to ensure she complied with the requirements that would be placed upon her and protect her and intervene if the demands of the trial became too great. He would control the events of the evening to ensure that she was given a proper introduction, a far more true and complete introduction that the brief taste and test he had given her the last time.
“Take up the pen,” Mark instructed. Sarah grasped the pen with trembling fingers before looking up to see him sitting across from her in front of his own set of notes, peering at her over the rims of his spectacles from his seat at the far end of the table. “You will see I have already placed a heading on the first page. In this book, you will keep track of your discipline. Tonight I will introduce the methods that will be used. Under the heading, I want you to make your first entry. Write ‘Writing Lines,’ and underline it.”
She complied, willing her hand to be steady, but only managed a scrawl. By her normal standards it was good handwriting, though the shaky, uneven lettering seemed hardly fitting for a book that was supposed to represent her best behaviour under discipline. She frowned down at the words for a moment before skakily underlining them as instructed and looking back up at Sir.
“Under that, I want you to write ‘I will write lines when Sir orders me to do so,’” he read off his notes, speaking slowly with long pauses between the phrases to make sure she had time to copy the wording correctly. “Do this five times.”
As she wrote, he stood and slowly stalked to her side of the table, watching from behind her as she finished the last few words.
“Very good,” he said as she set down her pen. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he reached out and signed- a large dark SIR that dented the paper- under her last line. “You understand writing lines now?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the page.
“Very good. You will keep this book with you. Whenever I instruct you to do so, you will write lines just as you have here. I will review your work when we meet and will sign each entry. Any deficiencies will be corrected at that time. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she replied. Her voice shook, and she wondered if he knew why. She still had a bit of fear for what was to come later that night, but the dominant emotions at the moment were gratitude and contentment.
“Excellent,” he said before she had much time to dwell on this. “Under that, write ‘Corner Time,’ and underline it. Then write ‘I will stand in the corner when Sir orders me to do so.’” Again, he watched over her shoulder as she wrote. When she had finished and set down the pen he asked, “Are you familiar with this type of discipline?”
“Yes, Sir,” she responded. Of everything he was likely to have her do, this was the one thing with which she had prior experience.
“I have two different versions of this, as you will soon learn. Come,” he instructed as he lead her to a blank section of wall. “Stand here and place your hands on your head.” She complied. “When I tell you to stand in the corner, this is the position you are to take. If I am to leave you alone, you will place your hands on the wall.” Sarah did so, and he adjusted their position to one with which he was satisfied. “While I am gone, you will remain in this position. Look straight ahead, not left or right, and do not move.”
She heard the door open and shut, and remained in place. She heard him moving about the house, doing what, she didn’t know. A small voice in the back of her head launched into a campaign persuading her break position, to glance to the side, to do anything forbidden for the sheer joy of being contrary. He wouldn’t know, but that didn’t matter. She stayed in place. The voice continued to whine on, and she continued to hold out against it until she heard him return. She heard his pen scratch off a countersignature to her last entry. She heard his footsteps return to his seat before he instructed her to return to her own.
“Your third heading is ‘Over the Knee,’” he declared, and he waited for her to write and underline the words before continuing. “‘I will go over Sir’s knee for my spanking when Sir orders me to do so,’” he read out slowly as she copied the words. “Write that five times.”
Sarah complied, listening to his footsteps pacing the room as she wrote. The tiny voice in her head distracting her from the solemnity of the situation, laughing at how the word “spanking” appeared decidedly sloppier than the rest of the sentence in every single repetition.
“Are you familiar with this type of discipline?” he asked when she had finished and set down the pen.
Sarah wanted to reply with something smart; he had, after all, been present and actively involved when she was introduced to this type of discipline, but instead only meekly nodded.
“Come here,” he called as he walked to the sofa. She timidly walked over to where he sat, taking care to not make too much noise as though she might thus hide from him.
As he guided her over her knee, she wondered what made her more nervous- that he would grant her request for a harder spanking or that he might not. Which he chose was evident from the start. There was no gentle warm-up, but firm slaps that smarted even over her skirt before he lifted the garment after only a few swats to continue over her panties. As the pain built, she tried to comfort herself with the thought that, unlike with her first spanking, she was certainly not numb to his ministrations. Spankings did indeed hurt. This thought was little comfort in the moment as she writhed on his lap. Try as she might to relax as he had instructed her before the punishment began, she found herself tensing repeatedly and kicking about.
As he had the first time, he paused periodically and gently rubbed her behind. These breaks were shorter and fewer though, and never gave her enough time to completely recover before he began again. For the first few of these breaks, she panicked a little, worried that it was over already. However, these worries were later replaced with hopes that he would indeed declare this portion of her punishment complete, hopes that were crushed when his hand sent her kicking and squirming again. Still, when he finally did declare the spanking over and sent her back to the wall with a last stinging slap, one mutinous part of her mind begged her to disobey and remain over his knee to prompt a continuation.
The part of her mind more concerned with self-preservation won out, however, and she scampered back to the wall. He left her there for few moments as he reviewed and signed off the last instalment in her copy book before summoning her back.
“Fourth: slapped hands,” he announced for her next heading. “I will offer up my hands to be slapped with the ruler or the tawse when Sir orders me to do so.”
A thrill ran through her as she copied the words. There was something magical about this particular punishment. It had long held her fascination, and her limited experience with it the last time they had met had more than lived up to her expectations. She couldn’t quite hide her inappropriate eagerness as she wrote as fast as she dared before turning to him.
He directed her to stand in the middle of the room, alone, vulnerable, and exposed, and to offer up her left hand. She tried to look up at him as he approached her with the ruler, to see her disciplinarian in all his strict glory, but she couldn’t bring her eyes up from the floor. She winced as she saw him raise the ruler in her peripheral vision. He brought it down with three sharp cracks before asking for her other hand to repeat the procedure.
When he turned his back to retrieve the tawse, she rubbed her palms gently- ostensibly to ease the sting, but mainly in anticipation. The ruler had stung, but the pain faded quickly enough. She knew the next phase would leave more of an impression. She offered her left hand again when he returned, struggling to keep it steady as he lined up his stroke. She managed to look up at him just long enough to receive a stern glare before her eyes were forced back to her upturned palm. As before, he laid on three strokes, heavier and slower now to give the pain a moment to set in before redoubling it with the next stroke. After a matching set of three strokes on the other hand, she was ordered back to the wall, resting her hands on her frizzled hair as they recovered.
And thus a pattern was established. Proclamation, notation, explanation, demonstration, reflection. He guided her in following the pattern precisely through a series of implements.
There was the hairbrush- the implement that terrified her not from its severity, but from its tendency to be applied in doses of minutes rather than strokes. At first it teased her into relaxation, the thick but hollow plastic imparting more noise than pain. It didn’t take long for that to be reversed, and she was lightly kicking by the time her introduction to this implement was complete.
There was the slipper- two slippers, in fact. One that left more thud than sting and one that gripped and dragged her bottom with each stroke, an odd sensation that almost but not completely distracted her from the pain.
There was the tawse- her first implement-love that fulfilled her expectations on this occasion more than suitably. It imparted rather more pain than it had on their previous meeting, though, just as before, it lit up all of her nerves in the most delightful manner. She relished the sensation even as she grunted to bear the strokes as they increased in weight.
As significant as each step seemed, she knew it was also merely a prelude to the main event- an event that was inching ever closer.
“Turn around and return to your chair,” she heard his voice call. She sat down gingerly and took up the pen, knowing what was to come. He had told her a week ago what he had planned to do. It would be no surprise, though that hardly decreased her trepidation. It, like the implement, had loomed at the other side of the room. Ever present, patiently waiting for its moment.
“Eight is the cane,” he announced. She glanced up to see him standing at the far side of the room, his black attire sharply defining him against the pale wall. The fire behind his legs and metal starburst hanging behind his head made him imposing enough, even without the rod that he flexed between his hands. He held her gaze as he swished the rod through the air and began to slowly approach her.
“You will write ‘I will bend over the desk to be caned by Sir when he orders me to do so.’” She wrote the words carefully, delaying the inevitable as long as she could. She was deeply curious about the cane, but also deeply fearful. She had seen what the rod could do in the hands of the careless or sadistic. She trusted him, but couldn’t keep the tendril of fear from curling its way through her insides. She carefully sculpted the last few letters and had almost set the pen back down when he spoke again. “Full stop. Second sentence: ‘I will count aloud each stroke and apply “Thank you, Sir,” for each one.’”
Right, she thought, the ceremony is part of the implement. Although such words had sometimes seemed forced in the accounts she had read, sitting here in the flickering firelight with the occasional swish of the rod to keep her on edge, she could picture herself saying the words aloud and they seemed perfectly fitting.
Finally finishing her transcription, she set down the pen and folded her hands in her lap as she waited for further instruction.
“Get into position,” he instructed. She bent back over, resting on shaking arms.
“You’ll find these are easier to take if you know how many you are to receive,” he told her as he approached. “Today you will take twenty.”
Twenty? Surely she had heard something wrong. Wasn’t everyone supposed to start with six? It was in the spanking book of law, or something. Twenty seemed far too many for a first caning, even before taking into account the previous events of the evening.
She shook slightly as he took up position behind her. She trembled as she felt the rod tap her cheeks. The weight lifted and descended with a sharp crack. Her trembling stilled as she processed the pain. It hurt, though not as much as she had feared. She should have known better. This was Mark; he would test her, but he would not damage her.
“One, thank you, Sir,” she counted, her voice soft but sure. The next stroke landed when she finished the count, a little sharper than the first but still well within her ability to tolerate. The pain built gradually, both from the previous strokes as they simmered on her behind as well as the new stripes which he expertly laid on. She had briefly entertained an irrational fear that the light strokes he was using would deprive her of the horrific experience she had heard others attribute to the implement. Just as before, she needn’t have worried. He continued to increase the force of the strikes, until she was barely able to maintain position for the last few, the table jerking as she writhed against it after the last stroke. “Twenty, thank you Sir.” she managed to proclaim in a clear voice, proud of herself for surviving the ordeal and proud of him for trusting her to do so.
He gave her a moment to recover before signing her book and directing her to kneel in the middle of the room facing the fire. She complied and listened to him pace behind her a moment, then the cane appeared in front of her face.
“Take it,” he ordered and then set it in her upraised hands. Hold it up, stay in position until I tell you otherwise. He left the room, leaving her to absorb the experience on her own. Kneeling alone before the fire, carefully positioned with the rod raised as if in offering, she felt like a priestess of some occult order. She had been chastised and sent to reflect on what had lead her there, both the general parts of her history that lead her to choose this path as well as the specific events of the evening over the course of which she had been inducted. She knew this path held many secrets of which she was not yet fully aware, but also knew that this was the path for her.
She did not know how long he left her there, lost in thought as she was, but she gradually became aware of his presence behind her. When had he returned? He took the rod from her before resting his hands on her shoulders, calmly soothing her, telling her that she had done well and that it was over. He hugged her briefly from behind before helping her to her feet and into a more traditional embrace.
“Was this closer to what you are looking for?” he asked as he held her.
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered into his ear. “Thank you, Sir, it was perfect.”
To be continued