Tuesday morning. Liz Parks hated Tuesday mornings. Just two days since her day off on Sunday, and most of a long week ahead of her. She was tired; she’d been up late the previous night, finishing off her English essay. And here she was again, dressed in the Excelsior Hotel chamber maids’ uniform, about to begin her round of cleaning.
She swore under her breath at her mother, as she did every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. She really wanted to concentrate on her studies, but no, “you’re a big girl now, you need to pay your own way, especially since there’s just the two of us”. So three times a week, for two hours in the week, and all morning on Saturday, she cleared up the mess that middle-aged businessman and furtive adulterous couples made of the Excelsior’s ever-so-nice four-star rooms. And all for a measly three pounds per hour.
She pushed her trolley forwards, and looked at the list. Three rooms done, another two on this floor. She knocked smartly at the door of 231: no reply. She pushed the key into the door, and pressed it open.
The first moment of entering the room was always the moment of truth. It was amazing the state that some people could get an hotel room into in one night!
As she stepped into 231, she breathed a sight of relief. The occupant was booked to stay for another night, so his belongings marked out the room, but he was clearly a neat and tidy man. Liz turned back out to the corridor, and picked up her cleaning box, together with the usual assortment of bathroom sachets.
She started with the bed – not too crumpled; she tidied it up and re-made it quickly, smoothing down the cover. She picked up the cloth, and dusted round the bedside table and desk. There were a pile of papers on top of the briefcase, so she picked these up and placed them down neatly on the desk.
As she did so, the top sheet caught her eye. “Jenkinson Wosterhouse & Briggs Solicitors”, it read – but underneath was the more interesting title: “School Lane Development Proposal”. School Lane – that was right at the back of her house; Liz hadn’t heard of any proposals. She furtively read on. This was awful: if the document was right, they were planning on building a new supermarket. But that would overlook the Parks’ back garden!
Which chain was it? Liz picked up the papers, and sat down the bed, reading as fast as she could. She turned over – still no names. Nor on the third sheet.
This is hopeless, she thought. She put the pile down on the bed, and picked up the remaining papers from the desk. There was a plan folded into the pack – she opened it up, and studied it intensely. This was awful!
Suddenly, she was roused from her studies – someone was coming through the door. But surely he’d gone out for the day??? Liz panicked, grabbing the papers as best she could, and trying to fold away the plan. She turned to the desk – just as a tall, well-dressed middle-aged man walked through the door.
She froze – as did he. The papers were in her hand – what could she say? Play it cool! “G-Good morning, sir. Would you prefer me to come back and finish later?”
“What are you doing with those documents?”
“J-just tidying them up sir – I moved them so I could dust the desk.”
“Give them to me.”
Liz handed them over. The man was next to her now: tall, fierce.
“They’re all out of order.” He looked accusingly at her. “You were reading them!”
“No sir, I was just moving them. I – I’ll come back later and finish off.” She tried to make her escape, but the man blocked her exit.
“Not so fast.” He picked up the pile. “If you were just reading them, can you explain why the plan of the site is unfolded?”
“No sir.”
“In that case, I shall call the manager and ask if he can explain.”
“No sir, please don’t”
“Why were you reading my papers?”
“Sir – Sir, I’m sorry. They just caught my eye. I didn’t take anything in.”
“Liar. I shall call the manager and have you sacked, my girl.”
“No – no -please don’t”.
“But why should I let you off?”
“Please sir – I need the job. It would be awful if I were sacked. What would my mother think?”
“Perhaps she’d think that you’d been a very foolish young girl?”
“PLEASE, sir.”
The man laid down the papers, and paused for a minute. “How important is it to you that you don’t get the sack?”
“Very, Sir – I’d do anything.”
“So if I were to offer to take the matter into my own hands, and not mention a thing to the hotel, you’d be grateful to me?”
“Yes sir, for ever.”
The man sat down. “OK then, this is what I propose. I will say nothing to the manager. Instead, on Saturday, you will come to my house; there, I shall punish you.”
“But I work on Saturday…”
“Not this Saturday, if you want to keep your job”
“And…. you should “Punish me”. What do you mean?”
He glared at her. “I would thrash you. Hard. On your buttocks. And then you’d leave, and no more would be said of the matter.”
This was terrible. “But you can’t do that. It’s… it’s not legal.”
“OK, then, I shall call the manager. You were the one who wanted an alternative.”
“No, no. Wait.” What a choice: the thought of this man hitting her – hurting her. But then if she lost the job? “But I work on Saturdays….”
“Look. Either you accept my offer, and turn up on Saturday, or you go to the manager – now.”
“Where do you live?”
“Lincoln.”
“But that’s miles away!”
“Which is why I stay overnight. You’ll have to get the train, then you can walk to the house – I’ll send you a map. Now which is it to be?”
“I’ll come.”
“Right. Give me your address.” He passed over a pen and some paper to Liz, who scribbled the details down in a shaking hand.
“I shall send you a map. Now then: you’d better clean this room. I shall inspect it carefully – it would be in your best interests to make it perfect. And now I’m late.”
With that, the man grabbed the papers, flung them into his briefcase, and turned and left the room.
Liz sat down, shaking. To be thrashed! Surely it wouldn’t be too bad? Her mind raced ahead – what would he do? My God – what if he used something to hit her with? A slipper? A belt? Oh God. This would be terrible.
—
“There’s a letter for you, dear.”
Liz’s mother passed the white, neatly typed envelope across the table.
Liz stared at it – she knew what this would be.
“Well aren’t you going to open it?”
“I – I’ll read it on the bus. I think it’s something about the Guides camp next summer.”
“OK, then.”
Of course, she couldn’t read it on the bus. Not with everyone looking. She’d have to go into the toilets when she got to College. She’d arranged to take the day off on Saturday – the manager hadn’t been pleased, but the fact that the girl’s aunt was over from Australia would seem to be a good reason.
As soon as she reached school, Liz rushed for the loos, and locked herself in. She ripped open the envelope.
—
Waverley House
Stockton Drive Lincoln LN2 1BZ
22 September
Dear Elizabeth,
As agreed on Tuesday, you should report to the above address this coming Saturday, 25 September.
I am enclosing a map showing you how to find the house. You will see that it is no more than five minutes’ walk from the railway station.
You should wear the following garments:
– navy blue skirt
– navy blue pullover
– white blouse
– white knickers
– white brassiere
– black shoes
– overcoat (if required).
You should not wear any other garments or jewellery.
I will expect to see you at 11.30am prompt. Kindly ensure that you are on time.
Yours sincerely,
J.F. Jenkinson
—
1130? But that was so early! And the clothes – so specific! Still – she had a long, winter skirt, which had the added advantage of being extra thick! Yes – that was it – she’d wear a thick skirt, and pad out her knickers. Then she wouldn’t feel a thing… If she put two pairs of knickers on, then her cycling shorts – and perhaps she could lay a couple of folded handkerchiefs inside?
At lunch she dropped into the College library, which kept a copy of the railway timetable. She could leave home at 0725, and change trains at Sheffield: that would get her to Lincoln at 1002. Plenty of time. Plenty.
—
At least, that was the theory. When the 0725 departure on Saturday morning was delayed, however, everything began to look different. Liz was terrified – what if she missed the connection?
0850, Sheffield Station. “Has the Lincoln train gone?”
“Yes, my love. Next one at 1011, gets in 1132.”
But that was too late. “Isn’t there anything before that?”
“No. my dear, not on a Saturday.”
Over an hour on Sheffield station. She bought the latest copy of Cosmo to read, but couldn’t concentrate.
1120. Countryside. Liz gets up, and goes to the door. If it’s just a bit early, and I could run……
1132 on the dot. The train pulls in. Liz jumps off, first, nearly knocking an old lady on the platform over. She gets to the exit, unfolds the map. Left. Two hundred years. Right. The map was perfect – so precise. Left again. Right. Left. The houses were getting bigger – set back from the road.
There it was: Stockton Drive. Third house on the left. She glanced at her watch: 1138.
A big house, set back from the road. Tress in front, screening it. Long drive.
1140. Damn, damn, why had the train been late. She knocked on the door. Waiting, waiting. It opened – Jenkinson, still in his suit!
“You’re late.”
“I’m sorry, the train was held up.”
“I don’t want excuses. Upstairs. Second door on the right. Sit on the armchair in front of the desk.”
She went in. Large room. Big desk in the middle – leather. Leather armchair in front of it, posh swivel chair behind. Bookcases – wood, leather-bound volumes – yes, he was a solicitor – of course. A high-backed wooden chair in the corner, looking slightly out of place. Big bay windows, overlooking a long garden – not another house in sight!
She sat down. Suddenly, the fear welled up inside her. It was almost as if she’d put the reason for her being her out of her mind, and worried solely about the trains!
She heard him come in, and the door shut behind her. Jenkinson walked around the desk, and sat down looking at her.
“On Tuesday, you did a most unacceptable thing. You are here today because of that. Now, I gave you an option then of my going to the manager – I’ll give you one last chance. What do you want- are you to get the sack, or take your beating?”
“B-beating, sir.” She had gone too far now to back down.
“Have you ever been whipped before, Elizabeth”
“No sir.” The very word – whipped.
“In which case, it will be a doubly unpleasant experience for you. Now, I had planned on giving you six strokes of the tawse. As you are late, I shall add another two, making eight in all. If you flinch at any point, or cry out, or touch your backside while I am flogging you, I will give you another stroke. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The punishment will be inflicted across your bare buttocks. I should therefore like you to stand up, stand directly in front of the bookcase to your left, and lift up your skirt.”
But the padding… what if he found it?
She walked to the bookcase.
“Skirt up.”
She reached down and pulled it up with both hands, revealing her cycling shorts.
“What are you wearing?”
She stood silent.
“Drop your skirt, and turn and face me. Now strip – top half first.”
“But Sir.”
“Do it.”
This was not happening to her! She pulled off her sweater, and unbuttoned her blouse, placing it on the chair.
“And your bra. If you are wearing extra clothes, the only way I know that you aren’t cheating is to make you undress.”
No man had ever seen her breasts before. She unclipped the bra, and threw it onto the chair, covering herself. She wasn’t big – 34B: she felt embarrassed about them
“Now take off your skirt”
She had to lower her hands, unzipping the skirt and adding it to the pile.
“Now the shorts.”
If she could pull the whole lot off in one? She pushed them down, onto the floor.
“Give those to me.”
He grabbed them, and turned them inside out. The handkerchiefs tumbled out.
He glared at her. She covered herself – one had on her breasts, the other over her pubes.
“Clasp your hands together behind your head.”
She obeyed. She was totally naked to his gaze, her sandy-coloured triangle exposed to a man for the first time.
“I make that four extra items of clothing. I am sorely tempted to double your punishment, but I shall be generous and simply give you one additional stroke for each garment, making twelve in total.”
He walked over to the side of the room, and picked something up off it. My God! That was the tawse! Long, made of thick black leather, with two slits in the end of it. And then he picked up the chair with his other hand, and moved it into the centre of the room.
“Bend over the back of the chair, and hold its front legs.”
She felt completely, helpless, in this man’s total power. She bent over.
“Tighter than that – hold the chair further down the legs”.
She felt her backside rise up, a clear target, and prayed that he was not getting a more – intimate – view of her. She waited. He had walked round the desk, and taken off his jacket. Now he was thwacking the tawse through the air, and flexing it in his hands. And so soon it would be on her – surely it couldn’t be that bad.
Jenkinson came back round the desk. She closed her eyes, tensing herself for the impact. She heard a swish through the air, then the leather landed across the centre of her buttocks. She felt her backside go numb for a second – then the pain: spreading out, burning her – like nothing else she had ever experienced. She bit her lip, as tears welled up in her eyes. Why was this happening to her? It was as if she was in a bad dream – a really bad dream.
Then the second blow, harder, increasing the pain of the first and adding more pain of its own. This was AWFUL.
The third blow seemed even harder again, the three tongues of the strap each bringing their own distinct agonies. And the fourth… he was beating her relentlessly now, whacking her arse with his heavy leather, waiting for the pain to rise just to its peak, then whacking again. Varying the height of the stroke; varying how far across her it fell, and all the time building the pain, burning her, bruising her, making her weep.
And yet… as he flogged her… there was something about the frequency of the blows; the intensity… something strangely… reassuring? Something between the tears and the pain that almost calmed her, reached deep into her, something almost comforting. About being alone, naked with this stern older man. In his power. Correcting her for what she had done wrong. Making her understand what was right.
And then he stopped. She had lost count of the number of strokes, lost in the rhythm of the blows. She sensed him, standing behind her, and felt him lay the strap gently on her back. “Very good, my child. You have been very brave.” And then he picked up the tawse again, and she felt him tap gently with it on the inside of her thighs, lecturing her about being honest, and being brave, and how girls who have been bad need to be punished. And she craved him to keep touching her with the leather… to touch her higher……
And suddenly he walked away. “Get dressed” Suddenly stern again.
As she pulled on her clothes, he threw a plastic bag at her. Harrods. “To put your extra items in.” Harrods. Of course. He would go there, wouldn’t he, when he was in London? She wondered what he bought there – whether they sold tawses?
Dressed now, she looked at him again: this man who had punished her. So strong, so stern, so powerful.
And then he pointed, directing her gaze behind the door: my God – a video camera. He hadn’t been… he had!
“I thought I should keep a little record of our meeting, my dear. In case you ever decided to cause me any trouble when it comes to the public enquiry about the supermarket. Don’t worry, I’ll send you a copy – for your files.”
“But….”
“No buts.”
“Well…er…no.”
“Now leave. Close the front door behind you.”
That was it? Over? Her punishment done? She stumbled with the words: “But… I mean… Thank you. For looking after me. I mean for punishing me. For not telling the manager.”
He remained silent. She turned, and left the room: down the stairs, out of the front door, along the drive.
Her experience of corporal punishment over.
Or maybe just beginning?
