Bad Girls (13 page)

He offers me the service of a warm-up, which I accept with a small nod of my head. He assures me that a few dozen stinging slaps with his hand will help me endure the cane. I confess to having ulterior motives: first, I like the idea of his bare hand on my ass, and second, I just want to put off the cane for as long as I can.

I feel his fingers running gently over my ass and downward between my thighs. They feel so good that I wish the caresses would last forever. Suddenly, though, he stops stroking me and begins with a series of loud, stinging spanks that alternate between my cheeks. I lose my balance each time his strong hand lands on my bottom. I hadn't figured how hard he'd spank and how unstable I'd be with my hands gripping my ankles. Soon though, I manage to stay stable, almost leaning back into each blow so as not to stumble forward. He changes his rhythm after the first ten. He ceases giving each cheek a respite after one spank, and instead it's four on one side before he switches to the other. Then it's six a side. The fire that builds as the spanks accumulate becomes unbearable. Each time his hand hits the same patch of pale, soft skin, it explodes with ever more pain. When he gives me ten in a row on one side I wonder how it is I'm still alive. The relief I feel when he stops to move to the other side is instantly replaced with terror when I realize he's just going to replay the same treatment there.

When he's finally done I'm in too much pain to even remember the cane. I momentarily fool myself into believing it might be over. I begin to stand up.

‘Stay bent over, that was just a warm up,' he says, and I'm filled with despair. The skin of my backside is already shocked and burning from the fierce slaps. I remember what he said about the difficulty of distributing ten strokes of the cane evenly across a small bottom like mine, one that is already stinging with the fiery heat. It seems impossible that I'll be able to stand the cane.

I'm on the verge of tears when I hear the drawer of his old wooden desk open and shut, and feel the cane touching my tender flesh when he takes his aim. I flinch each time it makes contact with my bottom. I look back and see him bending the whippy shaft. It's incredibly flexible and looks a lot worse than I remember it.

He's ready to begin and prefaces my caning by saying he's had enough of my degrading myself with cheap tricks and lame excuses. I never have grown up. I should be ashamed of myself.

As soon as he says it, I realize how ashamed I am. Suddenly it seems less because I'm bare-bottomed in the office of my old assistant headmaster, and more because of Aaron, Gene, Nick and Ted, more because of my bratty, bitchy, selfish behavior this week and so many other weeks. I realize how badly I need this – this correlation of the pain and shame of the here and now with the pain and shame of daily life that I hide deep inside. It's such a relief that someone has finally noticed.

I hear the familiar whistle before he lands the first burning stroke. The tears come like a flood as soon as I can breathe again. He gives me time between each one to let me feel the twofold pain of the cane; the initial searing line branded into my flesh followed by the radiating burn that gets worse for several long seconds before it even begins to subside. He watches the lines accumulate on my lovely red ass and hears my cries grow in volume and desperation. For the fifth stroke he aims low, where my thighs meet my buttocks.

He holds me down with his hand when I begin to stand. He tells me that this is what it feels like to be punished, and that if I plan to continue behaving the way I have been I should do well to get used to it. He says he expects me to improve my behavior immediately, and that if I don't he'll hold me responsible for my actions. He reminds me that I still have five more coming, and aims the next one right where the red line just appeared on my thighs. I know it's coming, but I'm shocked by it nonetheless. This stroke is even harder than the previous one, cutting deep into my thighs and skimming my exposed pussy, which pink and soft, glistens amongst my soft hair. I stand up and shriek, grabbing my ass with both hands and breathing hard. I feel between my legs to make sure I'm not bleeding. My pussy shows no sign of the assault on it, but I can feel that my butt is covered with parallel lines, each swelling up so that my poor, formerly smooth skin now feels grooved.

‘Please. Please. No more. No more there, please. I can't make it.' The pain has transformed me from petulant to pathetic. He reminds me that he's not spanking me to be cruel. He doesn't make it hurt because he wants to.

‘Then why did you hit me there?' I ask with tears streaming down my face. I'm scared to criticize him but even more scared of the cane hitting me there again. ‘Why twice in a row? Why did you make the second stroke harder if you don't want to hurt me?'

‘I'm sorry it's so difficult for girls like you, Gwen. You'll need more help than this, I'm afraid. Life is full of pain, and it's best for the pain to come here, in this way, where you're in a safe environment and in the company of people who know you and care about you. You can trust us. You knew that, otherwise you never would have called. Now we'll continue to earn your trust by teaching you the consequences of your actions. We'll do it as many times as necessary, for I sincerely doubt once will be enough for you.'

‘No, I won't come back. I won't need it again. I promise. I promise.'

‘I've given enough spankings to know that even the most dire pleas will be forgotten afterwards,' he says to me calmly. His words aren't reassuring. I'll never forget how much this hurt. I'll never forget how scared I am and how desperately I want it to end.

‘Part of the punishment is the desperate conviction that you can't take anymore,' he continues. ‘You have to understand that you will receive the punishment you deserve, regardless of how much you think you can stand. If you didn't want to be punished this way, you should have tried to behave yourself in a more appropriate manner.'

I know he's right, but I still can't stand it. ‘Please stop. I really need it to end. I've learned my lesson. Why won't you stop? I'll be good, I promise. Why won't you please stop?'

‘Afterwards you'll be glad for having received your punishment. You'll be glad the spanking didn't stop when you begged for it to. You'll be glad I didn't hold back.'

‘No, I won't. I'll never be glad for this,' I protest, tears and sniffles interspersed with my words. ‘I'll never need this again. I'll never come back here.'

‘I'll be so proud of you when you've made it through, and you'll be able to look back at the punishment you endured for strength next time you have to make the right choice. You'll be proud of yourself, too.'

With that, he gently but firmly places his hand on my back and tries to bend me over, but I won't go. I won't be in that position again. I just won't.

‘You promised me you'd be good, Gwen, but you can't even cooperate now. How can you expect me to believe that you'll remember your promises? Now bend over and I'll give you the five more you have coming, plus five for your disobedience.'

Oh God, no. I know I promised to be good, but it hurts too much to be good. The good part of me isn't thinking and now I have five additional strokes to show for it. Filled with sheer despair I see how little choice I have – if I delay further I will only earn more – and resign myself to my fate, even as I doubt I'll ever make it through. I bend over slowly and grab my ankles tight. As I do my sudden compliance makes me wonder if maybe I have learned a lesson. Maybe the need to give up control, to just do what I'm told and trust him to do the rest, is as important a part of what he's teaching me as the need to stay in control and learn to behave myself. Maybe the two are more connected than I think.

He begins counting down from ten. I can tell he's trying to make each one harder than the last. He waits longer between the strokes too, giving the last one more time to burn completely and me more time to anticipate the pain. I tense my ass when I hear the whistling approach. It doesn't make it hurt any less but I can't help it. I'm always surprised by how silently the cane lands. For all the pain it doesn't make the dramatic cracking sound a hand or a paddle does. Yet the silence is invariably broken by my shrieks followed by my tormented panting as I wait for the agony to fade.

I'm sure it's really more than I can endure; yet they keep coming. Four cuts into the top of my thighs again, slicing across my tender labia, but I manage to stay in position. The last three are pure, unrelenting torture. They all land in a single stripe across the middle of my buttocks – he's not even trying to distribute the pain but to focus it and make it stay with me in the form of the deep bruises that will mark the spot for days to come. I'm sure I won't be able to sit for a week. The pain doesn't subside for a long time after he finishes.

Then he holds me, taking me in his arms and guiding me over to the couch. He strokes my hair tenderly and tells me how proud he is of me for taking such a severe punishment. I reach around and touch my striped ass, feeling the raised welts and remembering the stroke that gave me each one of them. I curl up on his lap, my bare ass over his crotch, my wet pussy coating his slacks. I feel the fabric between my legs and rock back and forth a little to soothe myself. My teary face rests against his chest. He holds me and tells me what a wonderful woman I can be and how I'm all forgiven now, ready to make a clean start. He's not disappointed with me anymore. Aaron, Nick, Gene and Ted feel very far away now. I feel clean, even though I'd feel so dirty if anyone else knew I did this. I'll think about my spanking next time I want to come. After I fuck my boyfriend I'll wish I were here, cuddled up in Mr Dawes' lap, cheeks wet and ass warm.

Tomorrow, when I look at photos of blotched and bruised asses on the internet, I won't have to long for the spanking they received, I'll only have to look in the mirror to see proof of my own. I'll probably masturbate all day thinking about it, and about Mr Dawes. My ass burns horribly, but I feel wonderful, like he cares about me and like I really want to earn his respect and be better than I have been. I am glad I took the whole punishment, just like he said I'd be. I am glad he didn't stop.

‘Thank you, Mr Dawes,' I turn to him and say softly.

‘Please, call me Peter.'

I can't help myself and I give him a little kiss on the cheek. I think I see him blush. I don't feel like such a little girl anymore. I'm conscious of being a woman, a naked woman, resting in the lap of this man. I need this, but I need other things as well. I think perhaps that Mr Dawes – Peter – would be wonderful in those ways as well.

When I stand up to get dressed he strokes my ass a little, and when his fingers run between my legs he feels how wet I am. I'll bet it makes it hard for him to concentrate for the rest of his day.

I've already forgotten the promise I made to myself when bending over and being caned. Never need this again? Never come back here? Ha! That's a lie. I've always needed this. Who am I trying to fool? I'll add lying to myself to my list of crimes for next week's punishment.

I want Nick to cancel the appointment he made for me with his masseuse, but he won't. I can't understand why he isn't worried about what she'll think of the bruises. We find a parking space a couple of blocks away from her brick row house and walk in silence. It's not that I'm feeling bad; I'm just nervous. Nick seems unfazed and rings the bell without hesitation. The woman who answers is a lot older than me and radiant. She looks like she gets up at sunrise to do yoga and hasn't been drunk in years. Her hair and skin shine with health. Self-doubt shoots through me and I can't help but wonder what Nick is doing with me when he has friends like this. Why is he taking me here? Why does he want her to know?

He introduces us without the slightest hint of unease or apology. They're sweet to each other, kissing on the cheek and wishing it hadn't been so long. Her name is Sharon, a nice older woman name, I think, the name of a friend of my mother's. Nick sits down in her living room and she invites me to follow her. I look over at Nick, but he just nods and smiles. She guides me to the room where she does massages. It's lit dimly with soft, Third World music playing. She leaves me alone to undress, telling me I can hang my clothes on the hook and lie down between the sheets. I've had massages before and have never before felt self-conscious about being naked during them, but this time I'm mortified. She probably has tantric sex with her lover. I doubt she could ever feel like I feel. What will she think of me? What will she think of him, spanking a girlfriend fifteen years his junior?

After I've taken off my clothes I twist around and look at my ass before I slip between the sheets. I hope that maybe the bruises will be less visible in the dim light, but nothing could be more obvious. I try to resign myself to my fate, but I lie on my back first to postpone the inevitable discovery. I still can't really relax when she floats in, angelic and poised, and begins to massage my face and scalp. She rubs the warm, scented oil down my arms, into my palms and between my fingers. It's lovely and sometimes I manage to lose myself in it. Her hands are warm and strong.

Our conversation is limited. She tells me a little about the massage and asks me if she's doing it too hard. I tell her no. After a silence, though, her voice sounds deeper, more intimate.