Bad Girls (15 page)

Nick is lining up his first stroke. I know she can feel the cane tapping her ass as he takes aim. I can feel her flinch each time it does. Nick brings his arm back and then swings the cane hard down on the middle of Sharon's ass. I see her flesh jiggle violently in the mirror and feel her every muscle tense up. She squeezes my hand and gasps. I watch the stripe on her ass change from white to red and back to white again when the flesh all around it begins to redden. I feel her face contort on my leg and it's several long seconds before she begins to breathe again. Even then her breath is jerky and snatched. Nick is about to give her a second stroke. She squeezes my hand harder, and the cane whistles before it lands an inch lower down her buttocks. This stripe cuts across the field of pale red that radiated out from the first. By the time Nick is lining up his third the first line across her ass is a dramatically raised welt that's already turning dark blue. The third hits her further down again and I can see where Nick is headed. I see the little bumps and the crease where her buttocks meet her thighs, and I know the next stroke will land there. After that he'll cane her across the top of her thighs, where, if the cane sinks deep into her flesh, it will touch her in the recess between her legs. I can see a hint of flesh peeking out from there, frighteningly exposed to the cane as it whips down into her. I squeeze her hand back.

‘Laura, do you know why Sharon needs this caning so badly?' Nick asks as he takes aim.

‘Because she's acted badly?' I offer.

‘What effect does her behavior have?'

‘It makes her feel bad,' I say, knowing the truth of the matter from experience.

‘What happens when you do things that make you feel bad?' I'm not sure if he's asking
me
specifically or whether he means ‘you' in general. I decide to tell the truth about myself.

‘When I do things that make me feel bad, I stop trying to be good and just get myself in more trouble,' I hesitate and then add, ‘until you spank me.'

The cane hits Sharon's poor bottom again. I can feel her whimpering, trying to keep it inaudible, burying her lips in my legs.

‘It's okay, Sharon,' I say, speaking for the first time without being prompted by Nick. He smiles at me sweetly, and I continue. ‘It'll be over soon. You'll feel better afterwards. You'll be glad you got what you needed.' I know I'm just saying what Nick says to me, but it's so true. Even during the worst pain, I know it's true.

As I expect, the cane lands across her thighs this time and she can't suppress a squeal. The angry welts multiply to six, seven and eight. The sobs of a little girl rock Sharon's beautiful body. I know exactly how it feels. I squeeze her hand and stroke her hair and whisper encouragement to her. Yet I'm also incredibly excited. My wetness has soaked the sheet and the vinyl table underneath. I'm staring at Sharon's ass and I want to run my fingers across the raised lines that stripe it. I even think that if my hand were on her ass I'd find it impossible not to give her flesh a hard squeeze, digging my fingernails into her fiery skin just to express the intensity of my own hunger.

The ninth is across her thighs and she struggles a bit. I press down on her head and hold her hand in place. She kicks her feet and raises herself onto her toes. She shakes her head no, no, no, dragging her soft hair across me. My skin is electric and sensitive to the slightest touch. Some of her hair has fallen between my legs and is wet from my excitement. Her tears flow between my legs, too. On the tenth I can feel her mouth contort and her body bounce with sobs. From experience I know that Nick will try to land the final two right on top of the last, using the newest welt as a target to sear the final two into her. I can feel her breathless desperation and whisper to her to hold on, that it's almost over. But another part of me is disappointed. I wish it would go on, and in lieu of it continuing, I find myself hoping these last two are extra hard.

My beautiful masseuse, the older, angelic woman who greeted me with smiles at the door, who later made me come with her fingers between my legs, is now crying out and begging, smearing tears in my lap and digging her fingernails into my hands. She tries to stand with the eleventh stroke and I hold her in place. When she can't raise her body she tries to put her hands on her fiery ass, but I hold them tight, too. Nick can see I'm holding her tight as she struggles and he takes extra time preparing the last one. Finally there's the whistle and the impact, right on top of the previous two, and Sharon lets out a horrible howl before collapsing into my lap and crying while I stroke her hair and tell her it's all over. Goose bumps cover her bruised, swollen ass. The skin is deeply mottled black and blue in a way I'd never seen before. If her tears are any indication it's still burning badly. I let her hands go. Nick strokes her backside gently and reassures her it's over. He tells her he's proud of her and to remember how this feels when she needs help being good.

‘I knew you could do it, Sharon,' I say. ‘I knew you could.'

She doesn't seem so grown up anymore. She's a woman like me, one who needs help being good sometimes. When I bend over her body and stroke her marked ass and run my hands down to the welts on her thighs and between her legs, I realize she's a woman like me in another way, too. She's soaking wet.

I keep my hand there, feeling her tight asshole tense when I touch it and running my fingers between her slick labia. Her hair is soft and blonde, so pure and feminine. She's still in my lap, barely noting the liberty my fingers have taken. I can touch her anywhere. I want to touch her everywhere.

Then I look at Nick and want him horribly, here, now. He looks at me and I can feel my eyes pierce him and devour him. I slip out from underneath Sharon's head, lowering it gently and letting it rest on the massage table where I was sitting, knowing it must smell strongly of my pussy. Her cheek, moist with tears, rests on the wet sheet.

Then I bend over the massage table next to Sharon, draping my arm around her and feeling the ridges that mar the curves of her ass. Nick knows what I want and I feel him approaching me from behind.

I hear him unbuckle his belt, the sound making my ass tingle with memories. He's already hard and I'm soaking. I arch my back so he can reach me better.

His cock stretches me and I clench involuntarily around it, enjoying aftershocks from the not-so-distant orgasm and the electric anticipation of the orgasm to be, so close already after watching Sharon's caning.

Nick is fucking me hard. I'm gasping with each thrust. I have my eyes closed, imagining the magic intensity of the cane landing on Sharon's ass while I run my fingers over her delicate, burning skin.

The feeling of lips brushing mine surprises me. Sharon, her tearstained, reddened face lying right next to me, has begun to kiss me. I taste tears, and her silent passion feels deep, like it comes from depths that only her punishment can evoke. She's a wonderful kisser, with soft lips and a slow, seductive manner. She lets out tiny moans that are audible over Nick's breathing and my sighs.

Nick begins to move faster and I have to catch my breath too often to keep kissing Sharon.

I look over my shoulder and see Nick's gaze on Sharon's ass, but far from being jealous that he's not looking at me, I wish I could see it too.

Nick speeds up and is about to come. I grind my clit against the padded edge of the massage table, feel Sharon's tongue grazing my lips and imagine the cane landing across her thighs, remembering how her face and hair felt in my lap, how her hand felt in my hand.

I come with Nick and he bends over my back and kisses me gently on the neck, holding me like he does after a good fuck or a good spanking.

It was late on the night of Dr Weaver's retirement dinner, when he told us his secret. The occasion had been quite grand. Dr Weaver had been N— hospital's foremost obstetrician since the early 1950s. As a fellow of medicine at B— University, Dr Weaver had taught generations of doctors the intricacies of delivering babies. Both the hospital and university had been the benefactors of Dr Weaver's good health and robust constitution, which allowed him to continue working well into his seventies. That his exact age was unknown should have been our first clue that there was a secret that pre-existed Dr Weaver's illustrious medical career. It was a well-known fact that he did not follow the traditional career trajectory of most doctors, who privileged and gifted, continued straight through from their A-levels to university to the intricate sequence of their medical training. Dr Weaver, it was assumed, had been able to follow a vague and nontraditional career path due to the chaos of the postwar years, when it had been difficult to find any man whose education and training hadn't been disrupted by his military service. Indeed, this much was true. Dr Weaver had entered upon his medical training after the war when past credentials were not so carefully examined and when the network of personal references that usually handpicked the most gifted and well-connected candidates for medical school were in shambles due to casualties, economic hardship and the attempt of the postwar governments to democratize admissions at all levels of education.

What had not been revealed until late that night, when a small group of Dr Weaver's closest friends and colleagues had gathered around him to be regaled by his stories, was that Dr Weaver had possessed no university degree at all prior to entering medicine. Moreover, he confessed to being at least a decade older than even the oldest estimation of his age. He had, he admitted, pursued another career prior to medicine, a career he'd been able to carry on during the war because by 1939 he had not only already completed his military service but also exceeded the maximum age that one could be called back for another tour. This explained the fact that unlike so many war veterans, Dr Weaver had never regaled us with stories or basked in nostalgia or even chastised the later generations for a softness unheard of in his. We had previously assumed that this was due to Dr Weaver having an embarrassingly banal assignment during the war. Maybe he'd been a clerk or driven a truck that delivered the post.

This turned out not to be the case. In fact, Dr Weaver revealed that he spent the war in his shop in the upper story of a fashionable clothing store near Seville Row. There, Dr Weaver admitted to us that night, he had been a tailor.

‘Though perhaps you'd be more accurate to say I was a weaver,' the doctor laughed, setting out a mystery before revealing the truth in the way that made his style as a raconteur so engaging. ‘In fact, so much like one that I took it as my name.'

He went on to explain that while it wasn't so bad to have a Jewish name like Rothsmann in the clothing business, it would have been quite limiting in obstetrics. As Weaver he could apply to medical school under an Anglo name, though not a name that disregarded his heritage altogether.

‘That's why I chose cardiology. The English just aren't going to let a Jew finger their women's cunts.' Dr Benjamin Cohen announced to the other doctors who, it must be said, laughed delightedly at such multicultural vulgarities. Even Dr Alton, Dr Helen Alton, the only woman present, laughed, much to everyone else's relief. Her blush wasn't so much because of what was said, but rather because she realized that every man present looked at her as if she, because she had a cunt that had been fingered, were the final arbiter of what was or was not offensive.

‘Not at all, Ben,' Dr Weaver said. ‘I'm afraid you're making the mistake of generalizing from your own experience. The English will never let
you
finger their women.' Laughter. ‘I, however, had been fingering their women since the late 20s. No, the truth is that the senior fellows of medicine were anti-Semitic, not the English cunts.'

There was more laughter. Dr Cohen turned red and knew that the others were pleased he had been denied the bond of brotherhood by his coreligionist.

‘I remember those senior fellows,' reminisced Dr Wilson. As the only doctor present who came close to Dr Weaver's age, he had earned the right to join in the reminiscence without being interrupted. ‘Though rich as princes themselves, they suspected the Jews of only wanting to train in medicine for the money. They rationalized their exclusion of Jews by claiming that the Jews would ruin the reputation of medicine by only tending to the rich. Jews, they claimed, were
tight
.'

‘They didn't know the half of it, did they Dr Weaver?' Dr Owens, the young obstetrics fellow who said this, had probably drunk one glass of port too many, because it only occurred to him after he'd finished that Dr Weaver's most lasting legacy to the obstetrics department may in fact have been less well known outside of his specialty. It was already too late when it dawned on Dr Owen that maybe he should have thought of being discreet before being clever.

The other doctors looked at each other awkwardly. They especially looked at Dr Alton. But Dr Alton knew. Everyone knew. Dr Alton, desperate to demonstrate that she could be counted on not to take offense or shackle the inside jokes of the evening, said, ‘Don't let me stop you from letting the cat out of the bag.'

Dr Wilson, still crafty in spite of his age, picked up Dr Alton's handbag and, speaking into it, said, ‘Here, pussy, pussy, pussy.'

‘It's not really about letting the pussy out of the bag, is it? It's more like taking the bagginess out of the pussy,' said Dr Cohen. This comment went over better than his first, and he thereby succeeded in regaining what he'd lost a moment before: the privileged place as Weaver's ethnic brother. For the description he offered was an only slightly inaccurate description of Dr Weaver's most significant contribution to the field of obstetrics. The gentleman's stitch, it was called.