by Fiona Wilde
But he was not alone. I could hear a voice now, female. Soft and girlish and pretty.
“I was on my way here. I promise. Really, Professor, I was!”
My heart sunk. Professor. She’d called him ‘professor.’ I stepped closer to the crack and put my eye to it, watching until she came into view. The voice had sounded familiar, but I wasn’t able to place it until I saw Amanda Whitmer, the pretty wife of the town pharmacist. She was wearing a short plaid skirt, black boots and a rather tight black sweater. Even though she was in her forties I had to admit she looked fetching standing there in an oufit I’d never wear.
“Don’t start,” Ethan said. “Don’t even attempt to explain, Mandy. I can’t believe you were out on the road dressed like that. Look at you! You’re dressed like a tart! But what can one expect of a delinquent?”
“I’m not a delinquent!” Amanda stamped her booted foot hard on the floor, her voice reaching a new and annoying pitch of girlishness as she continued her protest. She obviously relished the role of schoolgirl, even though her style was decidedly different than mine.
“Are you calling me a liar?” The low, menacing tone was all too familiar to my ears and I watched as Ethan approached the pretty blonde, who crossed her arms and fixed him with defiant look. “Petulant Mandy,” he said. “Well, that’s fine with me. I have ways of dealing with the likes of you.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out the tawse.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
I do, I thought.
“No,” she said, her voice disinterested.
He put the handle under Amanda’s chin and pushed it until she was looking at him. “It’s called a tawse. Just think of it as nine tiny belts at the end of a handle, tiny thin belts that sting and bite your bottom and legs differently with each merciless blow.” Amanda was whimpering now. “Not so brave are you, after all? Not so brave now that you realize I’m going to use this on you.”
“No.” Her lower lip trembled as she shook her head.
“Of course, you’re free to leave if you like,” he said. “Free to walk home in the dark.”
“You wouldn’t take me?”
“Not until we’ve settled the matter of your disobedience.”
Amanda whimpered again as he moved her to the same table he’d bent me over, and I wondered if I should look away. But I could not as he pushed her forward.
Amanda was wearing thigh high stockings and skimpy black knickers. Ethan rubbed her generous bottom before lowering the thin triangle of fabric to reveal her shapely bum, skimming the knickers down until they rested on the lower part of her thick, muscular thighs.
“Don’t…”
“It’s too late for that,” he said, and stepped back, his hand still on her bum rubbing and rubbing. I wondered as I watched how many times he’d taken her here. Ethan had never rubbed me like that. Was this his idea of foreplay?
But I didn’t envy Amanda when I saw what that tawse could do. It was worse than anything I’d gotten, and he wasn’t gentle as he struck her bottom with it. A network of lines bloomed across her skin and she wailed as she sunk to her knees, only standing again when Ethan’s hand wound itself into her hair and pulled her back up to standing.
“Hold your position unless I instruct otherwise,” he said angrily and Amanda, blubbering still from that one, first stroke did as she was told even as she begged for mercy.
I’d never seen Ethan’s face when he was punishing me, had never seen the expression. And now I was glad I had not, for I knew at that moment I’d have run away from fear of it. This was a man who enjoyed the pain he inflicted and now, even as his voice feigned patience and paternalistic concern, his eyes gazed hungrily and excitedly at his own handiwork, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he leveled blow after blow at Amanda’s bottom.
It was after a good dozen blows that he left her there like that while he walked over to hang the tawse on the new hook he’d installed for it. And then he walked back around to the desk where Amanda lay, his eyes studying her bottom the way an artist would study a newly completed painting. The lust in his gaze was apparent, seconded by the visible erection in his pants.
“Can I stand up, Professor?” Amanda asked
Ethan walked over and placed a hand on her back. “No, Mandy. Not yet.” He paused as she continued to cry.
“There, there,” he said. “You did very well. You pleased me, Mandy. And you do want to please me, don’t you?”
She nodded and mumbled something to the affirmative.
“Good. That’s a good girl,” he said and leaned over to speak in her ear.
“Normally I don’t get involved with my students, Mandy,” he said. “But there’s something about you that sets you apart from the others. You’re so beautiful, so vibrant, so independent minded. You have a spark about you and I know with the right influence you can become the most brilliant, amazing person.”
“Do you really think so?” she was asking.
“I do,” he said, his hands going to the buckle of his pants. “I certainly do.” And he entered her then, eliciting a moan of pleasure pain from the pharmacist’s wife that was almost primal in nature.
Their backs were to me, and I knew I risked being seen as I slipped from the coatroom. But I didn’t care. I had to get out of there. But first I did one quick thing, not that I’d be noticed.
I sneaked down the stairs as quickly as I could, again doubting that I’d be heard with all the noise Amanda was making. I was sure, though, that he’d hear my car start, hear me pull quickly away. And when he did, he’d turn suddenly and button his pants, making apologies and excuses to Amanda as he did.
Who knows, he may even notice that the class ledger he’d forbidden me to look at was missing, and a shiny glass apple had been left in its place.
I didn’t worry that he would follow me to my house. As far as I knew, Ethan Willoughby didn’t even know where I lived.
Mark was in the living room when I got home. He looked up in surprise when I entered.
“You’re home early,” he said.
“I forgot my textbooks.”
It wasn’t a lie, either, since I’d never actually gone home to get them.
“How was work?”
He shrugged. “Several of us met with the headmaster today. We were loaded for bear and prepared to quit if we didn’t get our demands met.”
“Quit?” I asked, surprised. “I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad.”
“Well, it has,” he said.
“How did it go?”
Mark laughed. “That’s the funny thing, Mary. The man seemed genuinely surprised. He said he knew the lot of us teachers were dissatisfied, but that he didn’t realize the depth of our frustration because we’d never actually sat down and told him how we felt, not as a group, and not in a way that really made him take notice. And you know what? He was right. We’ve all been grumbling to each other and to ourselves and in bits and piece to him, but some people just need things spelled out.”
I considered this. “So you think things will change?”
“Do I think we’ll get everything we want? I don’t know,” he answered. “But I know that he knows where we stand now and how hard he tries will serve as and indicator of how much he values his staff.”
I picked up the teapot sitting on the coffee table. It was still warm and there were two mugs on the tray, even though I hadn’t been home when Mark had brewed the pot. Force of habit, I thought, as I poured myself a cup.
“I suppose it’s like a marriage,” I remarked. “You don’t know what your mate wants if they don’t tell you.”
He laughed. “Exactly.” Then Mark put the paper down he was holding.
“That reminds me,” he said. “I suppose an apology is in order.”
“An apology?” I took a sip of tea, partially because my throat was dry and partially because I felt as if I was going to cry and hoped the cup would cover my face.
“Yes,”
he said. “I realize my remark about the dress hurt you the other night. I’m sorry, Mary. You looked lovely and obviously one dress is not just like another. I’ve noticed you’re making more of an effort to look nice. I’ve been a lout not to notice.”
For a second, I considered making a full confession. But I stopped myself. What would the point have been after all? To alleviate my own guilt? And at what cost? Mark would be destroyed if he knew.
“It’s all right, Mark,” I said. “I should have told you it bothered me rather than pouting.”
He stood and walked over. “You know I do love you, Mary. I’m not as attentive as I should. I know I’m too preoccupied with work but it’s only because I want a better life for the two of us. I need to find a balance; I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, especially since…”
“Since what?” I asked.
“Well, since it seems that something has come between us. I can’t put my finger on it, I just feel a distance, like there’s an invisible barrier. I’d like it to come down. If there’s a way I can help dismantle it.”
“We both can,” I said, knowing that he was right and talking was the only way to do that.
No, I did not tell him what happened. Instead we discussed our marriage and each other and I told him – for the first time – how I longed for a bit more of an old-fashioned touch from him, a bit more control. I did not tell him I longed to be spanked. Perhaps later we could make our way round to that. For now, I knew it would be enough to have him tell me what to wear.
For his part, he wanted me to show more enthusiasm and interest in attending those professional events I become resistant to attending. And he wanted more physical attention, more sex, more holding, more of the closeness I’d denied him as we’d drifted apart during the last year.
And a baby. He said he wanted a baby. This floored me and I told him so.
“I thought you wanted to wait,” I said. “Until we were more stable, until you were happy with your job.”
He laughed. “With this economy who knows what stable is anymore,” he laughed. “And if all goes well I plan to be happy in my job starting first things tomorrow. After all, it’s as much about attitude as anything else.”
“Yes it is,” I thought.
Later we went upstairs and made love. Still worried about my bottom, I made sure the lights were out and Mark, ever accommodating and glad to have the attention, didn’t complain about it. It would be a week before the marks faded away, but the memory of the affair? Well, I’m still dealing with that.
I suppose you’re wondering how that all panned out. After all, you only got a glimpse of my farewell to Ethan Willoughby at the beginning of my story.
I didn’t see him the next day. It was the weekend and I didn’t work weekends. I didn’t see him Monday. My two days off with Mark had been the best we’d shared since our marriage began, and I felt I was finally starting to sort things out. Instead I called in at work to ask Miss Parsham if she’d mind my taking two days off to visit my sister in Kent.
She grumbled and complained and tried to make me feel terrible for calling her on such short notice, but in the end acquiesced and wished me a good visit, which was only fair given that I’d never even taken a sick day.
My visit with Sally made me feel much better. I did not tell her what I did and I knew early on that resisting the urge to confess would be a constant struggle. And it has been. However, when weighed against the cost of disrupting our lives I believe carrying the burden is the least I can do for Mark. And for myself. So every night I ask myself, and God, for forgiveness and commit myself anew to my marriage.
As for Ethan Willoughby, I had convinced myself that he was little more than a player and I was little more than a pawn. I imagined him smirking when he found the ledger gone, and then moving on to replace me with one of the many other discontented village wives.
So when a note arrived at the office addressed to me – a note that turned out to be from Mr. Willoughby - I was genuinely surprised by the intensity of its tone.
“Dear Mary,” it read. “What can I say other than I’m sorry. When I saw you drive off last week I was devastated to think I had hurt you and I can only imagine what you think of me. And while I know I have no right to ask this of you, would you please meet me Tuesday evening on the corner by the Fox and Goose Tavern? It’s quite public so you don’t have to worry that I’ll try anything. I just want to see you one last time. I’ll not ring you at work and will simply trust you to show up at eight o’clock if you agree. Fondly, Ethan Willoughby.”
Miss Parsham was dying to know who sent the note.
“Just a man who appreciated my help with a gift selection,” I said. “Nothing more.” But I could tell by her glare and subsequent silent treatment that Mrs. Parhsam felt slighted at not being allowed to read it. But I didn’t let that bother me. She’d get over it. She always did.
I suppose Ethan wanted his ledger back. I’d taken it with me to my sister’s and looked at it in the privacy of my room. I wasn’t surprised to find that his student “roll” listed not just my name but the names of other women in the town – Amanda, Helen and a number of others I knew by sight if not personally. Beside them he’d written the types of punishment he’d given each of us, as well as “traits.” I, apparently, was the “smart” one. He’d also given us a grade and I could only assume it was for sexual performance. I got the highest mark in the class; it was not a distinction I was proud of and I threw the ledger in my sister’s pond. Professor Willoughby, I told myself, would just have to understand.
I went back and forth over whether to meet him, but in the end decided I needed this one last test, if nothing else so I could prove to myself that I did not need him, did not want him, did not care about what he had to offer.
It was raining that night, a steady, cold rain. I half expected him not to show up, but he was there.
“I know what you must be thinking,” he said when he saw me.
“I seriously doubt that, Ethan,” I said. “And even if you did I doubt you’d care. It was all just a game to you.”
“No it wasn’t, Mary,” he said. “You were different.”
“Please,” I said, disgusted at him, disgusted at myself for ever believing in him.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he said. “All I ever wanted to do was to make you dreams come true – yours and theirs. Was that so wrong?”
“Yes,” I said. “We’re married women. You’re lucky no one got physically hurt, Ethan. Broken hearts are one things. Broken bones are better.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m careful to choose...” His voice trailed off.
“Let me guess,” I offered. “You choose women who are dissatisfied, but not so dissatisfied that they’d risk their marriages to expose you or themselves.”
He looked down. “Something like that.” Then his eyes met mine. “Still, you have to admit it wasn’t all bad.”
“No,” I said. “But it was bad enough that I’ll never forgive myself, Ethan. What I did was wrong and I’m not completely blaming you. I could have walked away, but at the same time you could have been honest. If you had been it would have made it easier to do.”
“Maybe I didn’t want you to walk away,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He took a step towards me. He was still so handsome in his overcoat, his rain-slick hair falling over his shoulders.
“I know I tell the women they’re different. It’s a line. So sue me. But you, Mary, you are different. Of all the others you were the only one who played the game in a way that made me not just enjoy it but believe it. You made it more real for me than it has ever been! It was fabulous with you. You’re so…genuine, so natural. When I was with you, I was Professor Willoughby!”
“No,” I said..
“Yes!” He reached out, taking my hands as his eyes searched mine.
“It doesn’t have to be a game, Mary. We could live like tha
t 24/7. I’m lonely, Mary. I know I may not seem like it, but I am. When I said I wish I were lucky enough to have a lady like you I meant it. We’d be perfect together.”
“No,” I said again.
“Yes!” he said. “Just think about it! We understand one another. We could slip in and out of any role we liked. We could travel through time and be whatever we wanted to be for one another.”
I smiled sadly. “I believe that,” I said. “You’re right. We could be anything the other wanted, as long as it never became real. We’d have a lifetime of make believe without a genuine moment, Ethan. We could spend a lifetime together and never really get to know one another. And when we got too tired or old or sick to play, what then?” I paused, looking at him. “What then, Ethan?”
His eyes became confused. “I don’t think like that,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. “But I do. That’s why I need a real man and not a playmate.” I stepped away.
“Goodbye, Ethan Willoughby.”
“So that’s it then? We’re finished, just like that?”
I looked at him standing there in the rain, distress etched into his handsome face. It was the first time I’d ever seen him look vulnerable, weak, out of control. And it was just how I wanted – no, needed – to remember him if I was to do what I knew I had to do.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re finished.”
He took a step towards me. “No.” And for a moment I wavered and nearly succumbed to the desire to fall before him and admit that he was right, that I needed him - to plead with him to take me back and punish me for even thinking I could be this strong.
But deep down I knew it would be a lie, just another part of what had become an intoxicating, addictive game I could no longer play
“Yes,” I said. “We’re finished Ethan. You always told me, didn’t you, that I was capable of being a good girl?” Tears welled in my own eyes now. “Well, here’s my chance.”
Suddenly, like a small gift from a twisted patron saint of unfaithful wives, something coalesced in my mind. I remembered Miss Parsham's confusion when I showed her the paddle, her near certainty that she'd never seen it before. I remembered, too, how quickly Ethan, who supposedly was browsing, had returned to the counter. Distracted as I was by doing a good job on the gift-wrap, I hadn't really noted it at the time, but he had not been out in the store for more than two minutes... if that.