Story by Martin Kenway from Cul d’Or 12
Most people who read science-fiction will be familiar with the concept of alternative universes; the idea that the universe we know and exist in is only one of innumerable parallel universes, each equally ‘real’ but each different from the others.
Call ours Universe A. Universe AB might be identical to ours except that all the men are under five feet tall and all the women over six feet. In Universe AG, space travel was invented centuries ago and there are a hundred colonised planets. In Universe LZ the human race never evolved and the Earth is inhabited by intelligent hamsters. And so on.
If this is so there must be a universe very like ours, but with one important difference. It is a universe where an interest in giving or receiving corporal punishment is accepted as normal. The odd crank or eccentric may disapprove, but generally speaking it’s taken for granted as natural and harmless, no more open to criticism than playing golf or growing roses.
The education of the young in such a universe cannot be dealt with here. Instead, let’s speculate how adult life would be different. In that universe there will be no inhibitions about administering chastisement when necessary and deserved.
The girl who is bad-tempered or sulky or disloyal to her boyfriend will soon find herself kicking and squealing across his lap, while an applauding audience urges him to spank harder and longer. The customer who receives short change or impertinence from a pretty shop assistant is invited by the manager into a back room, where the blushing and remorseful culprit will reluctantly take down her knickers before receiving at least six strokes with a supple cane or a thwacking tawse across her squirming bottom. The young social worker who arrogantly exceeds her authority when speaking to an older woman is ordered across a bed, to blubber out abject apologies as she is soundly birched.
Employment and correction seem to go naturally together. Here is Gavin, the genial, middle-aged Personnel Manager, interviewing an applicant for employment. Judith is a self-possessed woman of thirty, with straight blonde hair and big blue eyes. The interview has gone well so far and she leans back confidently in her chair as Gavin picks up the last document on his desk. It is Judith’s discipline record from her last employer. He glances through it, nodding approvingly.
‘They were pretty strict with you, weren’t they?’ he says.
‘Oh yes!’ says Judith. ‘My office manager had a heavy hand, and he didn’t let me get away with anything!’ She squirms uncomfortably in her chair. It is almost as though her bottom has a memory of its own and can vividly recollect each slap, swish and thwack it has received.
‘You’ll find our Mr Taylor very efficient in that respect,’ says Gavin. ‘And of course you will report to me once a month for a review of your behaviour, and appropriate correction.’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Judith, trying not to squirm again. She has a fair idea of what is to come.
‘So I think,’ says Gavin, happily, ‘that we’ll just check on your ability to accept punishment.’
He stands up and opens a cupboard behind his desk. Judith sees a nerve-jangling collection of straps and canes. He selects a broad leather tawse with four tails.
‘We’ll try this, shall we Judith?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Judith. She wants the job and the rules will be the same wherever she goes. She uncrosses her long, shapely legs and stands up.
‘Over the desk please, Judith.’
She obeys. He turns up her pleated blue skirt to reveal brief white panties above self-support stockings. Judith closes her eyes as he takes her knickers down. No matter how often it has happened to her before, it is always a deeply humiliating moment.
For a few moments Gavin admires her shapely bare buttocks, showing faint lines from her last caning. Then he swings the tawse and supple leather thwacks across sensitive feminine flesh. ‘Oooh!’ says Judith. Whack! The tawse descends again and again and again. Gavin notes her squirming, gasping reaction with approval. Judith is neither unnaturally stoical nor hysterically over-responsive. She will take chastisement very satisfactorily. After the fourth stroke she squeals, ‘Please, sir, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry!’ An unmeaning exclamation in the circumstances, but somehow very natural. Gavin straps her wincing bottom twice more. ‘That will do for the moment, Judith. Stand up, please.’
Judith rises, her eyes brimming with tears which spill over to roll down her flushed cheeks, her hands going to her tawsed bottom which is stinging furiously. The punishment she has just received was not earned by any misbehaviour on her part, but she feels no sense of injustice. It is just the way things are. In fact she feels grateful to Gavin for stopping at six strokes.
‘Pull your knickers up, Judith,’ says Gavin, ‘and wipe your eyes That’s a good girl. You can start on Monday. Report to me first.’
They both know what will happen when she does; the traditional ‘warm welcome’. A bare-bottom spanking first, and…? — then the tawse or cane before she is introduced, with tear-stained cheeks and a blazing backside, to her new colleagues.
‘Yes, sir,’ says Judith. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
Almost as soon as she has left there is a tap on the door. ‘Come in!’
A bright-eyed, fuzzy-haired little twenty-year-old presents herself before Gavin with a cheeky grin.
‘Ah, Zoe! Your last day, isn’t it? Got all your leaving presents from your friends?’
‘Yes, sir! And now I’ve come for yours!’
Gavin laughs and sits on the chair which Judith has just vacated. ‘Come here, Zoe!’
Zoe drapes herself across his lap in the position she has so often occupied, wriggling in anticipation as her skirt is turned up and her panties lowered. Gavin caresses the bare, brown, apple-round buttocks offered for spanking. ‘I am going to miss you, Zoe,’ he says, but I am going to give you something to remember me by!’
But of course people give or take punishment for all kinds of reasons.
Three or four girls in their late teens or early twenties, sharing a flat, will agree upon an elaborate code of rules, and any girl who breaks them will have her bottom well and truly whacked by the others. No-one is shocked by the middle-aged man whose ripely-curved teenage nieces philosophically accept that their weekly visit to Uncle Edgar always means a tearful ten minutes across his knee, probably followed by an energetic caning from Auntie Rose to heap fresh coals of fire upon a shapely seat already desperately hot and sore. And the newly-arrived au-pair girl is not at all surprised to find a tawse and a cane hanging behind the door of her room. The wooden-backed hairbrush on her dressing table will be used to spank her hard and often, and on her very first evening she will be sent to bed with a soundly smacked bottom as the quickest and surest way of making her feel ‘one of the family’.
Then there are the sponsored spankings. On the local level, that might mean that nice young Mrs Godley from the post office, who you’ve always rather fancied, is prepared to go across your knee and have her bottom smacked in aid of the church restoration fund. At the other extreme is the star-studded spectacular in which gorgeous female celebrities sacrifice their comfort and their dignity by offering to take punishment if enough money is raised for the current Good Cause.
There is the famous actress whose pert posterior you have long admired, kicking and howling across a matronly lap, skirt up and knickers down, weeping buckets as she endures a devastatingly thorough slippering. There are the bouncing, bubbly gameshow girls, all teeth, tits and giggles, their lovely faces showing unusual depths of emotion as they take turns to bend over a padded trestle in the centre of the stage with those long, perfect legs twitching with nervous tension and wait to feel the swish and sting of birch twigs across a tender bare bottom.
The glamorous singer, zany comedienne, cute weather girl, dignified newsreader, elegant ballerina, shapely young athlete, even, perhaps, a plucky young member of the Royal Family, each in her turn arrives on stage, smiling bravely, to announce the sum she wants to raise for charity and the punishment she is prepared to accept. Nothing too drastic, but there won’t be anything faked or half-hearted about it. She knows she will have a very sore bottom before the evening is over. There is a morale-shattering wait as the offers come in and the figure on the indicator rises slowly but inexorably. The specified amount is reached at last. Gulping, trembling, devoutly regretting her impulse to volunteer, the lovely, luckless young lady goes to the matron who is going to chastise her. The matrons are all professionals from various establishments and this is the highlight of their year. For months to come they will gossip and boast about the famous bottoms they whacked on Charity Night. In front of the TV cameras and a live audience of thousands, the blushing celebrity goes across matron’s knee or over the trestle, or touches her toes. At this moment her fame and wealth mean nothing to her. She is just a scared, shamed, young woman whose knickers are about to descend to her ankles, before her vulnerable buttocks receive the punishment she has invited. By the time she is allowed to rise, wipe away her tears and join those sniffling, shamefaced girls already standing miserably under the spotlight on the Platform of Penance, she cannot be consoled even by the knowledge that her dearest professional rival will be the next to suffer.
There are Correction Clubs of all kinds, some professionally organised with facilities for elaborate role-playing. The majority, though, are amateur and informal. The typical C.C. will have perhaps twenty members, not all of whom will be present at any one meeting. There will be a few basic rules designed to make sure that all members get their fair share of bottom-warming without being led further along the path of punishment than they wish to go. They may hire a room but are more likely to meet in a member’s house. Some accept members on personal recommendation only, others advertise in the press. There are individual advertisers too, something like our ‘lonely hearts’ columns. ‘young man seeks mature and understanding woman to initiate him into all aspects of recreational C.P.’ ‘Female executive, 35, in responsible position, needs lessons in humility. Ready to hear from disciplinarians of either sex.’ ‘Mischievous twin girls aged twenty, too old for Daddy to spank, need a firm hand to make them behave. Will accept tawse, cane or moderate birching. No whips or chains, please.’
As an alternative to advertising or joining a Correction Club, a girl may decide to visit a Punishment Room. These are provided as a public amenity by the local authorities and have a high reputation for the standard of discipline provided. Let’s follow a visitor to one of them:
Carol Farr is a slim, attractive brunette who works in a city centre bank. Her working day is over and she can go where she will. It is some time since she was last chastised; now, for reasons too complex to analyse, she feels the need to submit to correction again.
Punishment Room Number Seven is about a mile away. She could travel by taxi or bus, but she always walks. The nervous tension which mounts steadily as each step takes her nearer to her self-imposed fate, the mental images of pain and humiliation which make her heart thump and her stomach churn, these are part of the experience. When she gets there, there is a flight of stairs to climb. She goes up, legs trembling, lips compressed, fighting back the panic. Once, years ago, her courage failed halfway up the stairs, and she turned back and left. No-one else knew, but she has never forgotten the shame she felt and she has never done it again.
She goes through the door and to the middle-aged woman at the reception desk.
‘My name is Carol. I’m here to be punished.’
‘How old are you, Carol?’ The question is necessary; no girl under eighteen is allowed in a P.R.
There is a ritual to be followed. She waits for the next question.
‘Have you been a naughty girl, Carol?’
Her answer will determine the severity of the punishment she is to receive. ‘I’ve been a naughty girl,’ means the lowest level of correction, usually a sound spanking on the bare bottom. ‘A very naughty girl,’ means that the spanking is followed by the cane or tawse. ‘An extremely naughty girl,’ is the most severe level. Two hours of imaginatively varied punishments and penances which will be remembered with wincing clarity for a long time.
Carol licks her lips and says, ‘I’ve been a very naughty girl.’
The woman nods and makes a note on a card. She hands it to Carol.
‘You can go in now. Give this to Miss Harris.’
Miss Harris is a square-jawed, eagle-nosed woman in her early thirties, tall and extremely fit with wrists like supple steel springs. She remembers Carol from previous occasions and greets her cheerfully. Strong white teeth gleam as she reads the card ‘Very naughty, eh? We’ll have to do something about that.’
Carol doesn’t answer; she is very scared and very embarrassed. There is no privacy and three of Miss Harris’s colleagues are watching her with obvious amusement. In one corner of the room a plump, red-haired girl of about twenty is standing with her nose almost touching the wall and her hands clasped on top of her head. She is naked from the waist down and her chubby buttocks show the effect of a skilful and severe caning. She is weeping bitterly. One of the women strolls across to her and delivers a resounding slap to one quivering bare cheek. ‘Only another ten minutes in the corner, Sally. Then you can go back across my knee for another good spanking — with the back of a hairbrush this time. Won’t that be nice?’ She smacks the other cane-wealed cheek and walks away, laughing.
Miss Harris sits down and beckons. ‘Come on, Carol, your turn now.’
Lying across Miss Harris’s muscular thighs, staring at the grey carpet, feeling her knickers come down. ‘Last time you were here,’ says Miss Harris, ‘I promised you something special next time you were a bad girl.’
‘Yes Miss Harris.’
‘So I am going to spank you soundly with my hand, then start all over again with a slipper.’
‘Oh please, Miss Harris!’ That’s no good, it’s never any good, it only makes the watching women laugh.
Then the spanking starts, and Carol tries to be brave, but no girl can hold back the tears for long when Miss Harris sets to work in earnest. Squirming, sobbing, blubbering out vain regrets and shrill promises of reform, agonisingly aware of the sting of hand and slipper on tender bare buttocks and the utter indignity of being spanked before the laughing women.
On her feet now, tears streaming down her face, miserably obeying Miss Harris’s order to bend over the padded table. ‘You were tawsed last time, weren’t you, Carol? We’ll try the cane today. Nine strokes, I think, or shall we say ten?’
‘Make it a round dozen,’ suggests the woman who smacked Sally.
‘Please!’ whimpers Carol ‘I can’t take twelve, I can’t!’ But she knows she will have to.
Time seems to stop as though there were no past or future but only an eternal, unbearable now of scorching, shameful pain flooding her wincing, quivering bottom, of abject humiliation as the spectators see and hear her writhing and sobbing and pleading while the smilingly efficient Miss Harris transforms the smooth warm curves of her shapely buttocks into twin globes of exquisitely hot and stinging torment.
Over at last and she changes places with Sally in the corner. Her bottom is burning and throbbing unbearably but she is not allowed to touch it. As she endures her tearful penance, she hears yelping and pleading, and the rhythmical thwack! thwack! thwack! of hard wood upon plump bare buttocks. Poor Sally has been an extremely naughty girl and she is all too well aware that she is not even half-way through her assigned period of correction.
Carol is allowed to leave her corner, to kneel before Miss Harris and kiss her hand and thank her for the punishment. She is not allowed to put her knickers back on. They are pinned to the back of her dress, between her shoulder blades as a sign that she is in disgrace. She is not allowed to wash away the tear-stains. She is scarlet with shame as she steps into the street, aware that everyone who sees her will know what has happened.
A tall, grey-haired woman stops and looks at her. It is Mrs Fay, her superior at the bank.
‘Have you had your bottom smacked, Carol?’ The tone is a mixture of sympathy and amusement.
To her horror, Carol feels the tears welling up again ‘Yes, I’ve been spanked,’ she confesses ‘And c-caned as well!’ She doesn’t want to cry there in the street with everyone watching, but she can’t help it. She dreads what Mrs Fay will tell the others at work about her lack of self-control.
‘If I’d known you were ready for punishment, Carol, I’d have dealt with you myself.’ Mrs. Fay doesn’t sound cross. ‘Still, it’s not too late. Come home with me, my dear, and I’ll demonstrate my special training methods for pretty young colleagues I’m supposed to be quite an expert in the use of the tawse.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Fay,’ says Carol, meekly.Of course it couldn’t happen here. But in that alternative universe — who knows?