by Susan Thomas
In the afternoon, as I drove to Wheelton to meet Sylvia McDonnell for the interview, my bottom was still very sore. It didn't even cross my mind that it would be a factor in creating a huge storm. We met in The Coffee Mug, a sweet little café in Wheelton. I sat down cautiously and she noticed, but other than raise her eyebrows, said nothing, simply ordered lattes and cakes for us from the young waitress. Sylvia was one of those women that manage to make other women feel under-dressed. Her hair was exquisitely coiffured; her nails long and beautifully manicured; the heels on her shoes so high they made me wince just thinking about walking in them; and her clothes were clearly from some expensive and exclusive boutiques. I realised that now I had money I could look like that if I wanted. I almost choked on my latte thinking about bathing the children looking like that.
She did interview me about why we'd been on that beach and what happened. She asked me about Gary and my parents in law. She loved the way Sally had given up everything to rescue me and the children and sort everything out. She was so understanding of my PTSD and asked lovely questions about how the children were coping. I was lulled into thinking her an understanding friend and not a journalist. Full marks to her for she was good at her job. She managed to convey, without actually saying so, that the interview was over. Now, or so I thought over our refills, we were just chatting.
She had picked up that Sam and Sally were in a separate community. Now quite where she had got her information I'm not sure because the people of Wheelton and all the surrounding countryside were rather protective of it. They knew that 'domestic discipline' would raise eyebrows and curiosity but valued the community and therefore protected it. Residing there were professionals like doctor, dentist and veterinarian besides others such as Sam. Then there was the business and employment it generated plus the outreaches such the meals service. Locals, therefore, tended not to gossip. How Sylvia got wind of it remains a mystery.
Anyway she just raised it casually as if it were of no account. "I guess you must have got spanked to find sitting so uncomfortable."
I, like a fool, laughed and agreed. "Yes, the minister of the church is courting me, but I use bad language quite casually, so he spanked me this morning. Rather I did use bad language casually. I shall be careful in future."
That was just the start and she just kept me thinking we were two friends chatting, having done our business. We parted on good terms and I went back to Sam and Sally's place all unsuspecting. I won't bore you with the whole article but if I tell you the headline was, ‘Terrorist Survivor Joins Kinky Spanking Cult’, you'll get the drift.
Everything went berserk after that. The first thing was that we were besieged by media people. The community had to hire extra security to protect the entrance. Articles, TV and radio reports became more lurid and fanciful every day. In the absence of any real information they simply made it all up. I was very lucky because no one in the community blamed me. They had long expected to attract media attention and simply shrugged, saying that it would all blow over. It didn't blow over.
The first I knew was when Sally asked me to look after Lily and Rose, as well as my own two, because an emergency meeting of the community had been called. I later learned that someone had tipped off the leaders of the community that a huge raid was going to take place. The only person that could have done that was the sheriff, although that was never said. It seemed that the state authorities assumed (solely on the basis of the media hysteria) that the women of the community were being held prisoner and regularly abused. They were going to come in, with lots of state troopers to 'control' the men, and give the women a chance for freedom. The meeting was to plan the community's response.
If you imagine that the response was to barricade the gate and get as many weapons as possible to fight, forget it. The response was far subtler than that. Early the next day the convoy arrived with a huge media presence which was kept at the gate by the state troopers. The troopers acted like they were invading an enemy territory and had expected to have to corral the men. They were taken aback when the men laughed, walked off and got on with their work. The women of the community were separated and given an interview slot. Well they tried to do that to Dr Mary James but she told them she had patients to attend to and they would have to wait until she was free.
I wasn't interviewed as I was a guest but I heard about them. The women of the community simply spent most of the time laughing at the interviewers. When they were asked if their husbands hit them they laughed and said things like, "Don't be stupid." Asked about their religious beliefs (presumably because of the word 'cult' they said that it was their own business and didn't the interviewer understand the constitution. Asked if their husbands spanked them they replied tartly, "My sex life is my business not yours."
One twelve-year-old boy tried to go in with his mum but the state trooper told him to get back across the line. The line was crime scene tape strung between two chairs. The boy refused, and the state trooper actually drew his weapon, until the sheriff told him that he was a fool and asked what threat an unarmed twelve-year boy in T shirt and shorts posed. The boy still wasn't allowed in but a teenage girl did get in with her mum. She gave the interviewer such a bad time that the interview was cut short.
Finally, the charade was over and the whole convoy retreated with red faces leaving the sheriff to make a diplomatic statement to the media. With that the media disappeared and the community celebrated with a huge party. I thought that now it really was all over. It was for the community, but my troubles were just beginning.
---oOo---
Of course after the party, and all the excitement of the huge raid, life had to return to normal and I was to carry on being courted by Tom. I'd really made up my mind by then. I just knew this life was right for me, and my children were really happy about Tom and with Lily and Rose. It seemed as if everything was just falling into place. Of course, Ruth had started school back in England, but here, she and Lily attended a sort of pre-school, that I didn't entirely understand. Now every country has some teachers that are just not very good. It is a fact and trying to pretend otherwise is foolish. Most are wonderfully hard working and really care about the children and young people they teach but there are a few bad apples.
Lily and Ruth had a rather sour lady with a negative attitude to her pupils. Neither girl really liked their teacher although they did like the class assistant. I felt sad about that but it wasn't for long and although I could have kept Ruth off I felt it better she be involved. One day as I dropped the children off the teacher spoke to me. It was a cold assessment of my Rose criticising her attitude and claiming that it originated in the condition of dyslexia. My daughter, she claimed, would need 'special help'.
Now I have a fault and admit it. I get way too worked up over things and make mountains out of molehills. Gary was forever calming me down or telling me off for making a drama out of nothing. I knew I should talk to Sally about it and I didn't even really believe it. I'd seen nothing that made me think Ruth had a problem other than not liking Mrs Crask and therefore not always doing her best. To get worked up about it was stupid, but as the day wore on I stewed over it. I spent a little time at Tom's house every day so that we could get to know each other better without the children. I decided to tell Tom but even telling him started at one level and rose higher and higher.
I knew, I just knew I was getting too het up. It was ridiculous, but Ruth was my darling little girl. To me she was perfect but I know what problems a dyslexic child faces. I was bubbling up with worry; my mind adding problems not even faced as yet and compounding them. I knew I was getting loud and I just couldn't seem to stop. I did hear Tom telling me to calm down. I heard him telling me to listen. I knew he was telling me to stop. But I just kept on a stupid, near incoherent, shrill babble. I even knew I was being ridiculous but I just couldn't seem to snap out of it. Suddenly there was a loud sound as Tom's hand smacked down on the worktop.
He didn't shout but his voice would hav
e cut through a battle. "Enough! Stop immediately."
I stopped and he spoke calmly and slowly. "Anne, if, and I repeat if, Ruth is dyslexic it is not the end of the world. She is smart and lively and we will make sure she gets all the right help. She'll be fine in the long run. This behaviour of yours, however, is not fine. You were becoming hysterical and three times you ignored me. That is unacceptable, Anne. Now I want you to go and stand in that corner with your hands on your head and think hard about your behaviour."
I obeyed. As I stood there I knew that for many women this would be a terrible humiliation and that they would probably rebel. I felt pleased. Tom had said, we will make sure she gets all the right help. Ruth was now a shared responsibility again. I had Tom to guide me and help me and I knew he was right. Getting hysterical solved nothing. I thought I'd probably get a spanking now. That wasn't something I wanted but I did want Tom's leadership so I had to accept it. Then I heard him telling me to come and stand before him.
"Well? Did you want to say something Anne?"
"I'm sorry Tom. I behaved badly I know and I know you'll help me with Ruth if she is dyslexic. I don't know why I got so shrill and loud."
"Good. I'm pleased you understand that point. Now I can see that you don't have sufficient control over that emotional-worry side of your character so I am going to have to help you. Now here is a pad of paper and a pen. Sit down there and you will write at least five hundred words, but no more than a thousand, about what was wrong with your behaviour and what steps you will take to stop your worries running away with you."
Immediately I worried about time. I had to pick up the children. I wouldn't have time for this and I started to protest, "But I..."
The look Tom gave me stopped me in my tracks. Talk about red light! I hesitated and then put my hand up as if I was in school. I saw Tom grin slightly. "Did you want to use the bathroom?" he enquired a smile playing on his face.
"No Tom. It's the children. I have to pick them up."
"You have plenty of time if you sit and get on with it. Now do so."
The gentleness of his voice combined with the sheer authority of it thrilled me. I sat down and began to work. The ideas flowed once I knew I had no choice but to do as he told me. I won't bore you with exactly what I wrote but I explained that in not stopping when he told me I had been disrespectful and disobedient. My lack of control did not serve me well at all, or my children, and certainly not him, and that I had to change. I told him I was going to share my worries as soon as they crossed my mind and I was going to count slowly to twenty before speaking. Tom seemed pleased.
"Now I am going to send you a pdf version of the community's domestic discipline manual. I know you've read bits of it but not all. I want you to open a folder for it and I will also send you another interesting guide to DD to put in your folder. I want what you've written today typed up. You have twenty-four hours to send it to me as an attachment. Any later and there will be consequences. I also want you to read one section a day of the community manual and I will discuss it with you. If I think you have shirked doing it, sitting will be uncomfortable; is that clear?"
"Yes Tom."
It is hard to explain Tom's tone. It wasn't threatening or bullying, it was just full of quiet authority, and commanded instant obedience.
"Now then Anne, we just have time for this. Pull your panties down and bend over, putting your hands on that table."
I couldn't help myself. "Why?"
"I am going to give you a quick spanking. You began to argue with me when I set your assignment and now you're are questioning rather than obeying. Obey first then question. I will never be unreasonable Anne, but you must learn that lesson, and I know you want to. I can sense how much you desire this."
I quickly did as I was told. I felt him lift my skirt right up exposing my bottom and I gritted my teeth. He began to spank me with his hand. It was sharp but not hard but my bottom quickly warmed up and began to sting a great deal. Then he stopped.
"May I stand now?"
"No, that was just a warm up. Now the spanking begins."
Suddenly there was a horribly intense sting on my right cheek and I yelped. "What was that?"
"A wooden spoon. Remember the rule to obey immediately."
There was another of those horrid sharp smacks on my left cheek and then a steady repetition of right cheek, left cheek until my bottom was dancing to the pattern. I kept yelping and crying out but not once did it cross my mind to leap up. The spanking didn't last long but my bottom was burning and throbbing when it finished. I hadn't realised just how painful a wooden spoon could be. Mark you it wasn't one of those lightweight cheap supermarket jobs. It was a solid, heavy beech spoon.
Tom kissed away my few tears and I rushed to make myself presentable for picking up the children. Tom kept me to it; I had to send him my typed up writing and begin a methodical study of the community manual plus the other guide he'd sent. I was finding it all extremely satisfying and was already discussing, with Sally, plans for the wedding.
Then Tom went away for a week. There was a church conference he really had to attend and I was amazed at the hole his absence left in my life. The conference also came at the worst possible time because two days into Tom's absence the security person at the gate phoned through... my parents were at the gate.
---oOo---
I recognised my dad's attitude immediately. It was the ‘I'm not taking any argument’ one that had served him well in business and with us girls when we were young. My mum had her ‘Don't you answer me back young lady’ look that I remembered from my childhood and teenage years. I was bewildered as to why they were like that but swiftly found out.
"Anne," my father said briskly, "you are to pack everything you have and get ready. We are taking you and the children home. Your mother will help you."
I laughed, which made my dad glare at me. "Why on earth would I do that? I am going out with Tom and we intend to..."
"You'll do such thing Anne. We're not having our daughter and grandchildren snared up in some kinky cult. This Tom may have addled your brain and made you think he is the messiah or something but he is just another cult leader who entraps gullible women."
My mouth fell open with astonishment but before I could say a word I heard laughter. It was Sally.
"Tom isn't a leader. He is the minister of our church. Much like a parish church in England. And at present he is only temporary. This isn't a cult..."
"Enough Sally." My father was now working up to anger I could see. "We understand that your terrible loss led you to seek out a place like this but we're not having Anne and the children sucked in. We expected better of you."
Sam came out of his office to see what all the fuss was about and he demanded to know who was shouting in his house and why. Sally explained and Sam, in most reasonable tones, tried to explain that the community wasn't a cult or even religious. It was a secular community but one with church-going folk in it. He didn't get far I have to say.
"Don't try to soft soap me. I hate communities like this where the men believe they have some sort of divine right to correct (that was said with a sneer) their women folk who must live in submission to them. You may have bamboozled Sally and got her to submit to your beatings but-"
My dad got no further because, there in front of him, was a Sam I'd never seen. "Silence! I remind you that you are in my home and that is my wife you are insulting. I can take your ignorant insults but I fail to see why Sally has to. I expect you have been paying attention to those ludicrous media ravings so will make allowances; but you, sir, will moderate your tone and be polite."
My dad shut up, which was a first for him. However, he turned to me and said, "Get packed, you're coming home."
"No. No Dad, I'm not. I'm not a teenager but a grown woman. I'm staying."
The expression on my dad's face was now one of triumph. "Oh, I don't think so. You forget we have power of attorney for you. We have allowed you to spend money in coming her
e but we have control over all your finances because you were so ill after the murders. We'll put a stop to all that. You'll have no money whatsoever. Furthermore, we talked to Social Services before coming out. They are very worried about the children being brutalised by this cult. As we have power of attorney they feel that they have enough to take your children into care. Since the state authorities here are already very worried, we can get a court order to have them removed from you, and into our custody to take home."
Sally was about to come in like some sort of helicopter gunship but I silenced her. "Thanks Sal, but this is my battle. OK Father, you've won this round. I'll come home, for now, but don't think this is over. I know you won't listen to reason but you are so way off beam. More so even than that stupid magazine report; Sylvia didn't really believe all that, she was just selling a story."
It was horrible packing to go. The children loved their grandparents but they were distraught at being taken away. I could see my mother was beginning to have doubts but my father was implacable. What he didn't know was I had already began the fight back. Even before we left the US I had an email exchange with the therapist that had treated my PTSD. He made an appointment to see me and reassess my condition. I also made an appointment with a solicitor to discuss getting the power of attorney stopped. It wasn't with my father's solicitor, who handled most of our extended family's business, but with one specialising in family law.
When we got home the children were depressed. They missed Lily and Rose, Sam and Sally and all their friends. They also missed Tom and wanted to return to the peaceful valley. My parents hadn't expected that at all. I barely spoke to them but kept my appointments. My therapist listened carefully and asked a great many questions. He understood domestic discipline relationships. He explained that controlling men who abuse their wives or partners are not the same as DD men but that it is an entirely different mind-set. Men operating a DD relationship carry a huge responsibility and constantly have to consider the needs of the woman. In real DD, men do not have a strong need to control every aspect of their woman's life. They do not demand constant contact or demand their permission is sought before the woman even leaves the house. Most of all their authority is a loving one. He felt that I was recovered from my PTSD, and, if I wanted to enter a DD relationship, then I was perfectly entitled to do so, even if others did not approve.