I turned, reaching behind for my skirts and petticoats, then lifted them clear. I bent forward as I threw them up over my back and rested my breast on the desk. I felt Miss Prior’s fingers on the strings of my drawers. They loosened and the garments fell. There was no fire in the school room and my legs became covered in gooseflesh as they were exposed to the chill.
I heard Miss Prior take up her place on my left-hand side. Her clothing rustled, then, without warning, I felt a sharp pain in my exposed bottom, a series of stings all over it rather than the intense burning of a cane stroke. I gasped in shock. I had not been prepared. Unlike the cane, there was no warning tap across my seat, as Miss Prior took aim. She had simply whipped me.
She did so again, across the fullness of my bottom, the pain a little more bearable now that I knew it was coming. She went on at regular intervals, the tails of the whip apparently capable of covering almost all my poor bottom at each visit. Miss Prior was evidently not to be troubled by the problem of aiming, as she was with the cane.
She continued to flog me without mercy, as I gnawed at my fingers to stop myself from crying out. At first I believed it to be less painful than the cane, a gentle burning rather than the intense sting centred along one thin line, but as my punishment grew I learnt the secret of the martinet. Miss Prior was not wielding it with any great force or strength, but the accumulation of the strokes, covering as they did almost my entire nates, soon became unbearable. I sobbed my heart out, my bottom and legs swaying and shaking, but never so much as to spoil Miss Prior’s aim. Such was the power this beautiful woman now held over me.
I have no idea how long she whipped me for; only that by the time she stopped I was crying floods of tears in my pain and shame. Indeed, I barely realised she had stopped, my mind being such a blur of emotions, and not having the familiar swish and whistle of the cane to remind me each new stroke was coming.
Miss Prior left me to compose myself, possibly sensing how confused I felt. Indeed, I was confused. The pain and humiliation of my punishment were such that no human being could have tolerated more, I am sure of it, much less one of the gentler sex, but I also felt pride. Yes, Connie, I was proud of myself for having taken it. I thought of how Miss Prior must have whipped the two French girls in just the same manner, and wondered if they had made as little fuss as I had. I pictured them in a school room just like this, bent over side by side on twin desks, their dresses, the height of Paris fashion of course, thrown up carelessly about their heads. Or had Miss Prior flogged them at bedtime, in the room the sisters shared? I saw one laid face down on the blanket of their four-poster bed, her thick, white nightgown raised to expose her naked legs and bottom to Miss Prior’s attentions, while her sister, a year younger, watched from the other side of the bed, her hands clutched to her mouth in horror and her pretty face framed by her auburn ringlets as she saw what she too was about to receive.
The wanderings of my mind seemed to make the pain in my bottom subside and become bearable, but it did nothing for my beating heart and laboured breathing. I was still bent over the desk but had reached my hands behind to rub my sore bottom. As I thought of the French sisters going under the whip I began to rub a little slower. I do not know whether it was deliberate or due to some uncontrollable force of nature, but I found my hands beginning to pull my bottom cheeks apart, regardless of what I knew would be displayed to Miss Prior.
Her reaction was instant but somewhat surprising. ‘Careful, girl,’ she admonished me, pushing my hands away. I cringed with embarrassment at being found to be so wanton, but my heart nearly stopped on hearing her next words. ‘If you are not careful and do not know what you are doing, you may damage yourself. Let one with experience show you the way.’
I felt her firm hands on my hot and still-sore skin performing the same function mine had just performed. Then her thumbs crept inwards, as her fingers kept my nether cheeks splayed. I whimpered as she made contact with my sex, knowing it to be wrong, but powerless to stop her. She rubbed gently but persistently, opening my lips, which felt moist, but not venturing past the soft portals.
My moans grew once again, but this time it was not pain, but pleasure which drove me forward. Again time became irrelevant as I climbed some sort of emotional peak, my legs shaking as my excitement grew. Then the strongest sensation overtook me. It began in my spot, the very place where Miss Prior was touching me, but spread across my belly and down to my legs, filling my whole being with release, as if every muscle in my body were suddenly being tested.
My cries filled the room as Miss Prior gave my bottom a final rub, and then released me. I sank to the floor, my knees buckling, unable to hold my weight any longer. I grasped the legs of my desk for support. Through the mist which now fogged my brain I heard Miss Prior replacing the martinet in her desk, and then her footsteps as she left the school room. Evidently she had decided it would be best to leave me to myself for the time being. If only she had known the state of utter confusion I was in, Connie!
After a while I rearranged my clothing and retreated to my bedroom. I feigned the headache to avoid dinner, my experience leaving me with little appetite and no wish to sit opposite Miss Prior as she made polite conversation with Father. I am writing this to you, Connie, as I prepare for bed, not knowing if I shall be able to sleep, or what I shall dream of if I can. I do know, however, that I should not wish to change a moment of what happened this afternoon, and wonder at what future adventures my education is to hold. But be sure whatever the future is, I shall write and tell you everything.
I remain your loyal and loving cousin, Catherine.
Adrienne folded the delicate pages carefully and placed them on her bedside table. Her jeans had been opened a quarter of the way through the story. They had been pulled down and off, along with her pale blue knickers, halfway through. Clean on after the shower she’d shared with Maria, the underwear was already damp when she peeled it away from her sex. Pulling the sweater and T-shirt over her braless breasts, she sank back onto the duvet and began to masturbate with her right hand, her left gently circulating on her nipples, moving from one to the other every few seconds. As Catherine’s mind had been filled with images over a hundred years ago, so Adrienne began to paint pictures with her imagination. But it was not the two French girls being whipped by Miss Prior which she saw when she closed her eyes.
For Adrienne, it was Maria who held the whip. And she and another girl were bent side by side over the bed to receive it, all three of them completely naked. As her final orgasm of the weekend crept up on her, the nude body next to hers came into focus. In Adrienne’s mind, Rachel howled as Maria brought the martinet down across her bare, red bottom.
Chapter Six
Maria called Adrienne’s mobile just after nine on Tuesday morning. Before everything got busy, she said. And to give her time to book tomorrow afternoon off.
‘Why?’ asked Adrienne. ‘I thought we were meeting tomorrow night?’
‘We are,’ Maria replied, ‘but for what I’ve got planned we’ll need the afternoon as well.’
‘Since you put it like that,’ said Adrienne, her stomach flipping, ‘I’ll do it, even if I have to fake a migraine. Tell me your address so I can find it on Streetmap.’
‘There’s no need, I’ll take you there. Meet me outside Tottenham Court Road tube at two. No, on second thoughts, make it Centre Point. You should be able to find that, and it’s suitably phallic.’
‘You cheeky bitch! I’ll smack your bottom for that,’ Adrienne whispered into her mobile, checking there was no one passing by in the corridor where she had come to take the call.
‘Excellent. Tomorrow at two, then.’
For the rest of the day, Adrienne was on that knife edge between excitement and fear, as if she were starting a new high-pressure job or preparing to present to an important client. She did not sleep well that night, and was tempted to read another of Catherine’s letters, or masturbate over her coming experience. But she decided against both, b
elieving abstinence would make the next day’s orgasms all the sweeter.
At the appointed time she was outside the giant tower block, which dwarfed all the other buildings around it in New Oxford Street and Charing Cross Road. As office workers rushed in and out of Centre Point, she stared at it, wondering why men felt the need to build anything quite so big.
Just then, she felt a dainty pair of hands covering her eyes from behind. ‘Guess who?’ a familiar voice chirped.
There was no need to answer. Adrienne turned and hugged Maria, the women pecking one another’s cheeks, the only display of affection Adrienne felt they could get away with in public. ‘Had lunch yet?’ asked Maria.
‘No. Too nervous,’ Adrienne replied truthfully.
‘Come on, you’ll need to keep your strength up for the rest of the day. I know a great place.’ Adrienne found herself being pulled through the traffic and down a couple of side streets until they reached a tiny sandwich bar. Over an espresso and a chicken baguette she chatted to Maria, who answered between mouthfuls of her brie. It was small talk, and Adrienne could not ask the question she really wanted to – what kind of sex are we going to have today?
It was only supposed to be a quick sandwich, but Maria seemed to make it last for ever, perhaps on purpose to heighten Adrienne’s anticipation. If that was her intention, it certainly worked.
In her working clothes Maria looked very different. Her demure navy skirt and matching jacket, set off by tan tights and a spotless white blouse, blended in with all the other office girls bustling about. Adrienne’s own business suit was sharper and more expensive. They looked like any pair of professional women, possibly an executive treating her PA to lunch.
Except they were not, and Adrienne could not forget it. So she was relieved when Maria finally pushed her plate forward and told her it was time to go. Adrienne followed blindly, wondering where to exactly.
They went even further into the maze of side streets before stopping in front of one particular building. ‘Here we are,’ announced Maria, ‘my Aladdin’s Cave.’
Adrienne looked about her. They were in the heart of Soho. ‘What are we doing here?’ she asked.
‘Expanding your horizons,’ Maria replied. ‘Come on – inside. I’m a good customer, we’ll get star treatment.’
Maria pulled Adrienne by the hand toward the shop. On the outside it was unremarkable, with nothing to attract the eye, then she saw exactly why that was. The windows were blacked out, the same black as the heavy frames and front door. The door was not completely blank, though. A small sign in the centre announced they were about to enter a licensed sex shop. ‘Maria, wait! We can’t go in there!’ Adrienne came to a halt, despite the insistent force on her arm.
‘Can’t we? Oh yes, that’s right, we’ve forgotten our dirty brown macs!’ Maria’s tone was light, but Adrienne could still hear her disappointment.
‘But won’t it be full of dirty old men?’
‘Possibly. But if it is, they’ll be more scared of you than you will of them. You’re a flesh and blood woman. Closest most of them get are the magazines. Come on; do yourself – and them – a favour.’ With a final tug, Maria opened the door and hauled Adrienne inside. She decided to follow – it seemed preferable to being seen standing on the street arguing about not going in.
She was surprised at how neat and tidy everything was inside. It was a medium-sized room with a bookshelf up each wall and another double one down the middle. The shelves were lined with magazines and paperbacks. At the far end another door was covered by a macramé screen, while the end they had entered by was given over to the till and counter. A balding, middle-aged man in jeans and a check shirt was perched on a stool behind the counter. As they came in he looked up from the dog-eared novel he was reading and gave Maria a smile of recognition. ‘Hi there, great to see you again. And you’ve finally brought a friend.’ Adrienne blushed deeply, imagining he must have guessed instantly the precise nature of her relationship with Maria.
‘Hi Bill,’ Maria answered sunnily. ‘A bit quiet today?’ This was an understatement. She and Adrienne had just become Bill’s only potential customers.
‘Middle of the week,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘It’ll pick up at the weekend when all the travelling sales reps come in for a magazine or DVD to take home. Anything particular I can do for you today?’
‘I’m just showing my new friend around, thanks,’ Maria told him. Adrienne blushed again, but smiled in return to Bill’s welcoming nod.
‘Help yourselves,’ he said, and went back to his book. Adrienne noticed it was a John Grisham, and wondered if being surrounded by pornography all day eventually put you off reading it.
She followed Maria, who’d headed for the nearest rack of magazines. When she caught up, Adrienne scanned the titles and realised why Maria had been so keen to get her in here. Every single one was about spanking.
She picked up the nearest title, a publication called Rosy Cheeks. Rather prosaic, she thought, given the subject matter. The front cover bore a photograph of a middle-aged man looking sternly at a young woman in a French maid’s outfit. Flicking the magazine open, she watched the story unfold as the man caught the maid stealing from the hotel mini bar, lectured her, put her across his knee, lifted her skirts and spanked her, then made her strip naked and lie face down on the bed, before caning her with the long bamboo handle of her own feather duster. There was a text to the story, but Adrienne did not bother reading it. The pictures seemed explanatory enough and she was too busy looking at the blonde girl’s lovely round bottom and imagining how it would feel under the sweep of the rod.
Putting it back on the shelf, she selected another edition of the same magazine. She was drawn by its cover girl, already being yanked over another woman’s knee. The woman reminded her a little of Rachel. This time the scenario was a tenant being punished by a landlady for playing too much loud music too late at night. Adrienne studied the girl on the receiving end carefully. She really did look very similar to her outrageous friend. Adrienne sniggered at the thought Rachel could be leading a double life as a spanking model.
Adrienne felt relaxed now, despite her surroundings. Maria had also been flicking through the magazines and they began comparing what they had found, making the odd catty comment about some of the men in the photo stories, or noting how pretty the girls all seemed to be. They spent half an hour browsing; in that time, five or six men had come into the shop. Adrienne had at first been mortified, but soon realised they were all smartly dressed business types like her and Maria and they did actually seem more scared, or at least surprised, to see the two women than she did to see them.
After some discussion, a lot of page flicking, and no small amount of conspiratorial chuckling, Adrienne and Maria settled on a magazine each to buy. Adrienne chose the edition of Rosy Cheeks with the redhead who looked like Rachel, trying to push aside the thought that she was giving herself an unconscious message. Maria went for something completely different; an American glossy with the subtle title Paddled Lesbians. Page after page depicted glamour girls with impossibly pumped-up breasts spilling out of skimpy bikinis as they whacked each other raw beside some Los Angeles pool or in the living room of a mansion. Adrienne imagined the elfin-figured Maria was attracted to the contrast of a busty blonde.
The brunette took the magazines to the counter and handed them to Bill. ‘Can you wrap these for us while we take a look in the tool shed?’ she asked. As Bill put the glossies into a thick brown paper bag and started to tape it shut, Maria took Adrienne’s hand and led her to the back of the shop. Adrienne saw they were heading toward the door covered by the screen, with a small notice above the frame announcing that this was “The Tool Shed”. Maria brushed the cord curtain aside and pulled her through.
She found herself in a large alcove with another extensive display, not literature or DVDs this time, but the implements used by people who appeared in them. Large and small leather straps, each with a price tag around a care
fully cut handle, were piled on two of the shelves, while along one side canes of different lengths and thicknesses hung from hooks in the ceiling. On the opposite wall were long- and short-tailed whips, dangling by the loops of leather through the bases of their handles. The two shelves below were loaded with paddles: some wood, some leather, some round, some rectangular, a couple even cut into the shape of a hand. They all looked fearsome.
Adrienne stared around in wonder. ‘Pretty neat, huh?’ she heard Maria say. ‘I’ve got a few of these babies myself. I thought it would be the ideal place for you to start your collection.’ Adrienne looked at her but was too stunned to answer.
Undeterred, Maria picked up one of the paddles and tapped it gently against her palm. ‘Solid leather, excellent workmanship and reasonable prices. You can’t buy better in Soho. What takes your fancy, mistress?’
Adrienne had recovered a little. She was staring up at the multi-thonged whips, recalling Catherine’s description of Miss Prior’s martinet. Maria saw where her gaze was going. ‘Ah, a cat! Would you like a cat o’ nine tails?’
‘Don’t the French call them martinets?’ As she said it, Adrienne wondered if she had given too much away. If she had, Maria did not let on.
‘I believe they do, but whatever you want to call them, the result’s always the same – a deliciously sore bottom! OK, choose the one you want. I can’t reach them.’
Adrienne pulled down two of the whips. She did not really know what she was looking for but eventually settled for the smaller, lighter, and less expensive of them. She handed it to Maria.
‘Good choice,’ she said, stretching the thongs between her fingers. ‘Now a cane.’
Catherine's Letters Page 6