On the Bare (2 page)

‘Please – no, stop! I’m sorry – honest! Oww! Please! I’ll never – ouch! – I’ll never do it again, I promise! Please …’

But Peter was never swayed by my pleas or protests.

He didn’t neglect my thighs, either, and those well-aimed smacks made me beg even more frantically. I leaped and tried to kick, but my knickers were tangled around my ankles, preventing me raising my legs.

Finally, he stopped and I sagged against the wall, exhausted. But my relief was short-lived.

‘That’s for your childish behaviour,’ Peter said. ‘We still have to deal with your insolence.’

‘But I’m sorry!’ I wailed, truly and genuinely remorseful. My bottom was raw and aching with heat.

‘You’re always sorry, Angie. Just never sorry enough. At least not until you’ve been taught a firm lesson.’

My face burned as hotly as my bottom. The boards creaked beneath his feet as he moved around behind me, inspecting his work. He pinched the soft flesh of my right cheek and I hissed.

‘Hmm. Yes, that does look a little tender. But I think a few cuts of a switch will make a lasting impression. As we’re here to buy a birch tree I think it only fair to test their suitability.’

‘Quite right,’ our guest said with solemn approval.

I gasped in horror.

‘I wonder if you’d mind keeping an eye on her while I step outside?’ Peter said politely. ‘A little cornertime is always good when a girl’s due a well-deserved thrashing.’

Tears sprang to my eyes as I imagined the businessman’s gleeful expression. The silence stretched to fill the woodshed and I waited for the hated command.

‘In the corner,’ Peter said at last. ‘Hands on your head.’

I shuffled two feet to my left, the flimsy cotton panties like manacles around my ankles. My bottom was still on display, framed by my raised skirt. I laced my fingers on top of my head and touched my elbows to the walls either side of me. I was only too aware how the position arched my back, pushing my bottom up like an offering. Peter approached me and took his time arranging my school shirt carefully above my waist, exposing me fully and leaving nothing to the imagination.

‘Do feel free to smack her if she misbehaves while I’m gone.’

There was a rough scrape as Peter opened the door and a thin bar of daylight rushed to embrace my feet. ‘I shan’t be long.’

‘Take your time,’ said my new keeper. ‘I will watch her closely.’

The door closed, stealing my little beam of light and plunging me into confinement again. My skin prickled with hyper-awareness and my breathing grew shallow as I strained to hear the slightest shift of his weight on the floor. I froze in place, determined to deny him the slightest excuse to take Peter at his word. I expected him to edge closer, to talk to me, perhaps even take liberties. But he stayed where he was, his silence more unnerving than any amount of triumphant gloating would have been. I felt his eyes probing and I pressed my legs together in a futile attempt to hide myself from his gaze.

I squirmed as I imagined Peter outside, unhurriedly examining each little birch sapling, knowing that every minute was an eternity for me. It was made so much worse
by
the shame of being left here with the man I’d wronged. Beads of perspiration welled on my forehead and a droplet trickled down my face as I stood there in disgrace. The passage of time was excruciating, but the dread of knowing what would happen when Peter returned was even worse.

Back home I had the ticking grandfather clock to mark the crawling minutes while I waited for punishment. Here I couldn’t make out even the hint of a wristwatch. My arms were beginning to ache from the position. I shifted nervously and my guardian cleared his throat.

‘Keep still, little girl,’ he said, each word a sharp little barb in my wounded pride.

As if mirroring my desolation, spatters of rain began to fall on my little wooden prison. Before long it was a proper downpour and I pictured the churchgoers scrambling in out of the rain. It brought Peter back as well, but that was little comfort. The rain only ensured that we would have total privacy.

‘Was she good?’ Peter asked.

After a cruel pause my jailer announced, ‘A little restive, but she stayed where you put her.’

‘Ah, very good.’

I didn’t know who that comment was directed at, but I didn’t care. I focused all my attention on the rain pounding down on the roof of the shed, praying it would last, praying it would stop. I had no idea which was the lesser of evils. There was no prospect that Peter would spare me if someone were to barge in. But the longer the three of us were trapped out here, the longer my sentence would be.

At last he said, ‘You can come out now, Angie.’

I turned to face him, wincing at the pain in my shoulders as I lowered my arms. No use playing it up; it wouldn’t earn me any sympathy.

Peter held up two switches – long and supple and stripped of their leaves. ‘From two different saplings,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps one will be more effective than the other.’

To my dismay, he handed one of the switches to his new friend, who immediately swished it through the air and nodded appreciatively. I looked at the floor.

With a sigh Peter lifted my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his eyes. ‘Now. You know you were a naughty girl,’ he said softly, ‘and you know you deserved to be punished.’

I covered my face and Peter gently peeled my hands away.

‘I am only going to give you six. And then this gentleman is going to give you six. You will count them and say “thank you, sir” after each one. When we have finished you will apologise to him for your childish antics. If we believe you’re sincere, the matter will be forgiven. Now let’s get this over with. Bend over and touch your toes for me.’

His tone was patronising but loving and it was always my undoing. It made me feel like a child, safe and guided. I could seek refuge in a place where all my misdeeds could be corrected with corporal punishment, the slate wiped clean. Nothing in my adult life was ever as certain and there was a strange comfort in the inevitability of his discipline.

I obeyed and Peter took up a position to my left, laying the switch against my bottom. He gave me one light tap before drawing back. I braced myself, pressing my fingertips against my shoes as he whipped the switch down sharply. A line of fire blazed across both cheeks, tearing an agonised cry from my throat.

My hands flew behind me to clutch my bottom and I panted for breath, struggling to regain my composure. Eventually the sting began to dissipate and I got control of myself.

‘One. Thank you, sir.’

The second stroke fell as soon as I was back in position, wrenching the words from me. ‘Two – oww! Thank you, sir.’

Number three was the hardest yet and I bit back a little scream, my knees wobbling unsteadily and my hands wavering for balance. But I got hold of myself and counted.

‘Three. Thank you, sir.’

He didn’t torture me by making me wait long between strokes and I did my best to make him proud of me. I locked my legs and breathed deeply as the pain of each burning stripe pulsed like fire throughout my skin.

‘Four,’ I gasped. ‘Th-thank you, sir.’

Only two more, only two more
, I chanted inside my head. Well, only two more from Peter. I still had another six to come from our guest.

The fifth stroke sliced into my bottom and I peered between my legs at the businessman as I counted. His face was impassive, betraying no sadistic delight in my suffering.

‘Five. Thank you, sir.’

I closed my eyes and absorbed the sixth stroke with only a slight shudder.

‘Six,’ I said after a few moments. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Good girl,’ Peter said kindly. ‘Now show me how brave you can be for the last six.’

The men traded places without a word and I waited in the hollow silence, submissively accepting my fate. The businessman didn’t address the target the way Peter had; he merely brought the switch down, striping both cheeks with flawless aim. Had he done this before?

I inhaled sharply as my bottom came alive with fire again. It was excruciating. But I accepted it, embraced it.

I tensed and relaxed, then counted. ‘One. Thank you, sir.’

Again the switch found its mark with admirable precision. I released the breath I’d been holding and counted, letting the pain wash over me, in and around me. I had found the resonance of the pain and it flowed through me like pure energy, transporting me to a place of serenity. I felt the next stroke land and I counted it, but I was somewhere high above the pain now, floating in a zone where time had slowed down.

I felt as if I had stepped outside myself and I watched in blissful fascination as some other girl – not me – was whipped. She stood obediently touching her toes, her school skirt raised and her knickers around her knees, her
white
knee socks spattered with mud. The Japanese man sliced the length of birch into her bared bottom and she gasped with impossible pain. Or was it impossible pleasure? I couldn’t tell.

In a dreamy voice she counted – four, five …

‘Six. Thank you, sir.’

‘
Very
good, Angie,’ Peter said, his voice full of pride. ‘You may get up now.’

I drifted slowly back to reality, still dazed as I rose unsteadily from my position. Peter embraced me fiercely and I blinked away tears as my arms limply tried to return the hug.

Then he held me at arm’s length and his face grew serious again. ‘Are you ready to apologise now?’

I nodded meekly.

Turning to the businessman, I bowed my head in a gesture of true humility, tears pricking my eyes. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ I said softly. ‘I hope you feel I’ve paid for my behaviour.’

He couldn’t suppress a smile as he wrapped his arms around me and told me I was forgiven.

‘I think the rain has stopped,’ Peter said brightly, ‘so we should return to our selection. Tell me, Angie – which one of these was more effective?’

I blushed, gingerly pulling my knickers up over my scorched bottom. I smoothed my skirt down and gave him a pouty look.

‘If I may repay your kindness,’ said the businessman with a polite smile, ‘take both the trees. With my compliments. Prune them regularly and I’m sure they’ll flourish.’

At our surprised expressions he added, ‘My supplier keeps me well stocked.’

The Good Old Days

‘
IT’S POSITIVELY VILE
!’

Amelia wrinkled her nose in disgust. She lifted the pleated grey skirt with two fingers and dropped it onto the desk like a dead rat. ‘I’m not wearing it.’ She folded her arms across her chest, signalling an end to any further discussion.

The bookish woman behind the desk adjusted her glasses and gave a polite little cough. She lifted the phone and dialled a sequence of numbers while Amelia waited huffily.

‘Mr Chandos? It’s Miss North here. Sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if I could impose on you to come to my office? We have a …’ She glanced up at Amelia, then back down at the desk. ‘Situation. Yes, very good. Thank you.’

Miss North rang off and gestured expansively for Amelia to sit in one of the chairs opposite the desk. ‘Mr Chandos is on his way. You may speak to him about your complaint.’

‘Thank you,’ Amelia said with excruciating politeness.

She sat down, feeling a minor triumph already at the extra attention. Yes, she’d signed a contract and yes, she’d agreed to sacrifice a little glamour for the sake of authenticity. But the uniform was a step too far. The housemates on
Big Brother
got to wear their own clothes; why couldn’t the participants in this show wear their own school uniforms? Amelia was proud of the subtle alterations she’d made to hers, so that it set off her shapely
figure
. But in the drab grey monstrosity Miss North had given her, she’d look like an evacuee from the Second World War.

Mr Chandos arrived and Amelia rose to greet him. He was younger than she’d been expecting – mid-forties, she guessed. She had imagined a crusty old buzzard of a headmaster, but the man in the crisp white shirt was darkly handsome.

‘The young lady has a complaint about the uniform,’ said Miss North in a patronising tone. ‘She refuses to wear it.’

Amelia ignored her, giving Mr Chandos her sweetest smile. ‘It’s only that it’s so unflattering for TV. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ he said pleasantly. ‘We’re going to be recreating the school environment of the 1950s. Authentic uniforms are an essential part of the atmosphere.’

It was a tone he might have used to impart some dry historical fact – the date of a battle perhaps.

‘Look, I realise what you’re trying to do here and I’m being perfectly reasonable.’

‘Miss Rutherford, it’s quite straightforward.’ His tone was sharper now. ‘Either you wear the proper uniform of Queen Mary’s College or you will not be a part of the show.’

Amelia’s eyes flashed. She desperately wanted to be on TV, even on a silly reality show like
The Good Old Days
. The whole point was exposure and a shot at fame. But to imagine her friends seeing her in such a horrid uniform … no make-up … To say nothing of the film directors who might see the show …

‘Oh, bother!’ she said at last, her mouth set in a resentful pout. She snatched the hateful garments from the woman’s desk and stalked off to find the dormitory.

Mr Chandos smiled knowingly.

The Good Old Days
was the show everyone had been waiting for. A social experiment on the effectiveness of school discipline. Twenty pupils had agreed to spend six
weeks
in a recreated 1950s school, subject to 1950s discipline.

The theme had been explored before with modern students eating Spam fritters and languishing under the archaic ‘chalk and talk’ teaching regime. However, the authenticity had been severely compromised by the lack of corporal punishment – a famously prevalent feature of any such education in ‘the good old days’. Critics had derided the concept of a post-war English school giving timeouts instead of canings for bad behaviour.

Mr Chandos intended to rectify that. His 1950s establishment would be authentic in every respect – especially the most vital one. And his guinea pigs knew exactly what they were getting into. They were all of legal age. They had signed consent forms and agreed to enter into the spirit of the thing. They would not be harmed or damaged – merely treated to the same punishment regime enjoyed by previous generations. They all seemed to think it was a small price to pay for being on TV.