She sat on the edge of the hotel room bed, looking up at him, as if trying to read his mind for clues as to what might be about to happen. Her wrists were raw from the cuffs, just removed: had no-one seen them as he’d marched her in from the car, through the lobby and into the lifts? Had no-one thought to help the girl in the gingham school dress, being led through the crowd?
“So, we have an agreement. After your behaviour last Saturday, you’re going to demonstrate your obedience this evening. To show me that you can be a good girl, after all. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Last Saturday. Last Saturday. When she’d run from the house, from the ‘gentlemen’, from their insistent hands. Half naked, she’d not even made it to the end of the driveway by the time he’d caught her. The marks from the whipping he’d inflicted after he’d taken her home had faded from her back – but not one iota from her memory. “I want to be your good girl, sir. To make you proud of me again.”
James bent down and kissed her, surprising her with his tenderness. “I’m glad. I know you’ll be brave. And I love you.”
Loved her. Whatever that actually meant.
The knock at the door was loud, demanding. His demeanour changed, as if duty had suddenly taken over from pleasure. “Open it, and let our guest in.”
Their guest worn a mask when hosting the previous weekend’s party, but she wouldn’t forget his voice: what he’d told her to do then, calmly, softly, even as he’d abused her. Again, tonight, he was politeness incarnate. Discreet, too, as if this was their first introduction: “Good evening, young lady; how lovely to meet you.” For surely she wasn’t so forgettable, a mere few days after what had happened?
She might have guessed that it was to him that she would have had to make amends, mind.
He spoke first: “Does she understand the rules?”
The new arrival turned to the girl. “And do you?”
She gulped, her confirmation a confession of her intended compliance: “Yes, sir. I am to do whatever you tell me.”
“Good.” He removed his greatcoat, laying it neatly over the back of the desk chair, and turned back to her. He lifted her chin in his hand and raised her eyes to meet his. “Then strip.”
She hesitated – for just a fraction of a moment too long, allowing the gentlemen to exchange glances. Before she knew it, James had seized her; was pulling her to the sofa; had upended her over his knees and was spanking her so hard that the tears sprang straight to her eyes. Over her dress, incessant, insistent, and then he was lifting its hem and tugging down her knickers, baring her and grasping her wrists in his left hand as his right did its work. “It’s unfortunate, is it not, that Mr Smith has to start his evening by seeing how a badly-behaved little girl has to be punished?”
She slumped to the floor at his feet, sobbing, when he’d finished. This was not how she’d meant the evening to be; not how she’d intended to demonstrate her love, nor to make amends for having let him down the previous weekend. Having let herself down, as he had been at pains to point out.
They watched her. Let her compose herself – for a composed girl is far more cognisant of what is happening to her; of what’s about to happen.
It was Smith who picked her up – roughly, by the hair, dragging her to her feet. “I believe you were going to strip for me?”
Not daring to pause, she bent down to unbuckle her shoes. The white knee-length socks came off next; then the short cotton dress. And she thought of their agreement; of how he loved her; of how she loved him – and covered herself as best she could once her bra and knickers had joined the pile of garments on the floor.
“Hands on your head. And keep them there.” Keep them there whilst Smith inspected her; whilst he touched, stroked, his fingers circling her nipples before he squeezed. Squeezed harder. Squeezed until she could not help but cry aloud. Whilst he slapped her, hard, across the face for so doing.
He worked his way lower, feeling the warmth of her spanked cheeks, gently at first then pressing, hurting, tormenting – and then reaching between her legs. “You’re very dry, my dear. Very tight. We need to rectify that.”
He drew away, and picked the pillows from the bed, positioning them half way down the duvet. “Lie face down over them.” She obeyed without hesitation, shaking as she wondered what he had in mind, until his next instruction followed: “Now touch yourself for me.”
This time it was the unbuckling of James’s belt that greeted her momentary delay. “Please… please, sir. I’ll do it.. I’ll…”
“Indeed you will. Once I’ve whipped you. I shall teach you obedience if you’re not willing to offer it freely when it’s required of you, as you’d promised.”
He talked as he beat her, the harsh strokes applied slowly, purposefully. “She’s used to the taste of leather, you see, Mr Smith. Aren’t you, young lady?”
Through the tears: “Yes, sir.”
“Would you like to tell Mr Smith why you get the belt?”
No. No, she wouldn’t. It was too – too private. Yet she so wanted to demonstrate that she was capable of the obedience which she had pledged. “When… when… I let myself down, sir. When I break the rules we’ve agreed.”
“And… and when you’re kind to me, sir, and try to help me to be better and…”
“… And you take down the punishment book and make me think about the things I’ve done wrong.”
“Very good.” And then he fell silent, and upped the pace, whipping the belt down ferociously until she writhed under every stroke. A pause, then a whispered question: “So are you ready to masturbate for Mr Smith?”
Her hand reached down to touch herself in that oh-so-familiar way. When she was in bed alone, she imagined herself doing it for James. With him watching, obeying him for the man standing next to him to see, she reached a peak quicker than she would ever have thought possible. Breathless, she curled into a ball on the bed, oblivious to their gaze.
Smith’s voice: “And now you’ll come here and make sure I’m hard, so that I can fuck you.”
And then silence.
Absolute silence. Until she realised. “I didn’t mean to… Of course I will. Let me…”
Smith again. “Disobedience?”
They both lifted her to her feet this time and pulled the begging girl to the end of the bed. Ropes, wrists, ankles; pleas ignored. And then the sort of caning James had only ever given her once before, teaching her a different lesson on a different evening, that she’d never since forgotten. Eighteen strokes cut into her buttocks and thighs; the full weight of his body swinging the rattan across its target each time.
When Smith fucked her, still bound in position, it came as a relief. She was broken; needed release; needed it to be over – needed James. Sensing that, perhaps, their visitor, though forceful, was mercifully brief: taking her abruptly, thrusting against her fresh weals. Using her, for his pleasure alone. Telling her when he was done that she was a good and pretty girl.
Smith stepped aside; it was her lover’s hands who untied the knots, released her. And then, before she could turn and press into his protective body for the cuddle that she craved, it was James who bent her back over the end of the bed and roughly took her arse.
By the time he’d finished, raised her up, held her close, they were alone in the room. He led her to the bed; laid down next to her; held her close and whispered the kindest words into her ear. Reminded her of his love. Of his pride in her. Of how she was the bravest of girls.
And later, when it had fallen dark outside and she’d woken from the deepest sleep into which she’d fallen, protected in his arms, he’d helped her into a beautiful dress he’d conjured from his bag. “I suspect Mr – erm – ‘Smith’ will still be in the hotel bar, and it’d be good to introduce the two of you to each other properly at long last…”