|All new girls get to spend an afternoon in the Headmaster’s private office. Rebecca has only been there 15 minutes and she’s blabbing like a baby already!|
Friday, 7 May 2021
Thursday, 6 May 2021
A story by Cyrian Amberlake from Februs 1
Angela Bowyer didn’t think of herself as anyone very special. She was a 28-year-old suburban housewife, with a life full of everyday things: housework, cleaning, shopping and cooking. Once a week she went to an evening class in book-keeping and modern office methods. Once a year she went on holiday to the Channel Islands with her husband Rory, whom she loved very much.
Angela was slim and fair-skinned, with hair so dark it was almost black, which she wore in a very short, almost boyish, style. About the house she wore a jogging suit, or jeans and a sweater. When she went out she liked to put on a skirt and stockings. For special occasions she wore her long black and silver dress.
She was wearing it tonight, because tonight was a special occasion, though Angela and Rory weren’t going anywhere. It was Sunday. Angela had cooked a Chicken Stroganoff and they’d shared a bottle of Orvieto, dining alone with the lights dimmed. Over coffee and Cointreau Rory smiled at her and took her hand across the table. Tonight they would leave the washing up and make love. But first, Angela knew, she was due for a good spanking.
It may seem unusual, and in general it presumably would be, that an ordinary young housewife should be sitting, in her best dress, holding her husband’s hand across the dinner table, while calmly and certainly expecting a spanking. But for Angela Bowyer being spanked wasn’t unusual at all. In fact it was an everyday thing, an everyday occurrence. She didn’t quite know how she had come to be quite so much in demand, bent over with her knickers down; but it was so. And once a week, on Sunday night, she would take an upright chair from the dining table and sit before Rory in his armchair, and tell him, as she was about to do tonight, all about her week.
‘Monday,’ Angela said. ‘Monday I went to the doctor’s.’
Dr Crick had been Angela’s doctor since she was a little girl, though it wasn’t until she grew up that he started taking a great interest in examining her skin. All of it. He said she had a circulation problem, which was why she was so pale. Well, it was true her feet were always cold. Dr Crick’s treatment didn’t seem to make any difference, though.
‘Let’s just have a look at your blood pressure, shall we?’ asked Dr Crick.
He wasn’t really asking her. Angela rolled up the sleeve of her sweater and he wrapped the rubber tube around her arm, then pumped it up and checked the gauge.
He smiled at her. ‘Now the other,’ he said, loosening the tube.
‘The other arm?’ said Angela.
‘No, my dear,’ said Dr Crick. ‘The other end.’ He looked at her over his glasses. ‘It is your feet that are the problem, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Dr Crick,’ said Angela.
‘Very well then,’ said Dr Crick; and he gestured at her skirt with a crooked finger.
Reluctantly, Angela pulled up her skirt. Today she was wearing stockings and a suspender belt. She went to unfasten a suspender.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Dr Crick.
Angela sat back and looked at the ceiling while Dr Crick prepared to take her blood pressure. He liked to wrap the rubber tube around her thigh, threading it under her suspenders. It took him a long time to do this. When it was done he sat up, rather red in the face, and pumped up the tube again. Angela held her breath as it squeezed her thigh.
Dr Crick tapped the gauge and shook his head regretfully.
‘We’re going to have to repeat the treatment, I’m afraid, Angela,’ he said. He didn’t sound very sorry. ‘Just pop behind the screen and slip your things off dear, would you?’
‘All of them? asked Angela.
‘All of them,’ said Dr Crick. He seemed to be breathing rather hard.
She could hear him even while she was behind the screen, undressing. Well, he was getting on a bit. She peeked around the screen. While she was taking off her panties, he was putting a fat pillow in the middle of the couch.
Nude, Angela stepped out and went to lie on the couch. The pillow went under her hips, lifting her bottom. She lay there with her head resting on her arms. She watched the doctor shuffle across the room to his desk.
‘Dr Crick?’ she said.
‘What is it, my clear?’ he asked, not looking round. He was feeling about in the drawer.
‘Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ began Angela, ‘but should you really keep giving me this treatment? I mean, it’s a bit, well, strenuous. I was talking to my husband and we thought, well, maybe a physiotherapist —.’
‘I’ll give you a referral to the clinic, by all means,’ said Dr Crick graciously, ‘if you’d like that. But I’d still like to see you myself, from time to time. I’m sure that would be best.’
He was creeping back over to her now, a wooden ruler in his hand.
‘Oh. The ruler again?’ said Angela.
‘Oh yes, my dear,’ said Dr Crick. ‘I think the ruler.’
Angela looked into his kind, crinkly old eyes. How could he possibly mean her any harm? Poor old thing. He was positively panting. She wanted to wipe his glasses for him.
‘I’m sure you know best, Dr Crick,’ said Angela doubtfully, and she turned to face the wall. She clung to the sides of the couch with both hands, feeling the suspense of that awful empty moment before the start of a treatment, before the first —
For an old man, Dr Crick still had quite a swing. Every appointment she forgot, and every appointment he surprised her.
‘With the ruler —’ he said, ‘— one can measure out — the dose!’
And he measured out her treatment with his ruler, scrupulously, across Angela Bowyer’s bottom and down her thighs.
‘What was the dose, Angie?’ her husband asked.
‘Sixteen strokes, Rory,’ she said.
Angela’s mum always came round on Tuesday afternoon for a cup of tea. Ever since they’d had a place of their own her mum had taken to inspecting the house, checking up on the standard of her cleaning, making sure she had the approved brands of everything in her cupboards. Angela didn’t mind, really.
Quite often she needed her mum’s advice, and with a whole house to run it was nice to feel she was being looked after, just a bit, just one day a week.
If only mum weren’t so hard to please.
Mrs Reed was poking around in the kitchen while Angela did the washing up. Angela wanted to laugh. She did look funny on her hands and knees with her head in the cupboard and her broad bottom in its sensible grey pleated skirt sticking up in the air. ‘What’s this?’ said Angela’s mum, her voice muffled by pots and pans.
‘I can’t see, mummy,’ said Angela, smiling to herself.
Mrs Reed backed out of the cupboard and stood up, brandishing a saucepan. ‘Your good non-stick pan I bought you!’ she said indignantly.
‘What about it?’
Mrs Reed thrust the offending utensil under her daughter’s nose.
‘You’ve only been cleaning it with a scouring pad, that’s what! You’ve had all the Teflon off it.’
Angela glanced at the pan. It did look a mess. She rubbed it ineffectually with a fingertip, then dipped her rubber gloves back in the suds.
‘It was probably Rory, mum,’ she said.
‘I dare say,’ said Mrs Reed portentously. But men don’t know about these things. You have to stand over them every minute.’ She clucked her tongue and sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know, Angie. I just don’t know what we’re going to do with you, I really don’t.’
Angela rinsed the last saucer, tipped the water down the sink and dried her hands. ‘Don’t be silly, mummy,’ she said. ‘You know perfectly well what you’re going to do with me. You do it every Tuesday.’
A small spot of pink appeared in each of Mrs Reed’s cheeks.
‘Oh, Angie,’ she said softly. ‘It’s only because I care about you. You know that.’
‘Yes, mum,’ said Angela, forgiving her. ‘I know.’
‘You go up and get ready, then, love,’ said her mother, kissing her on the cheek and patting her elbow.
Here we go again, thought Angela, looking in the bedroom mirror as she unzipped her jeans.
When Mrs Reed came up to see to her a couple of minutes later, Angela was sitting on the bed with her bare legs tucked under her bare bottom. Her knickers and jeans were neatly folded beside her. Without waiting to be told, she got up and stood facing her mother, her hands at her sides.
‘There’s a good girl, Angie,’ said Mrs Reed placidly.
She sat down on the stool in front of the dressing table, smoothing her skirt across her lap.
‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Over my knee.’
Over Angela went.
‘If I’ve got marks,’ she said, ‘it was Dr Crick. He gave me the ruler yesterday. For my circulation. So he says.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said her mother. ‘Dr Crick just knows what a young woman needs, to make her behave herself.’ She put her arm around Angela’s waist and reached down beside the stool for the slipper Angela had put there.
Angela closed her eyes. She pressed her hands against the floor and lifted her head. It wasn’t so bad, her weekly spanking from mummy, not as bad as Dr Crick, anyway.
Yes it was.
‘How many was that, Angie?’ he asked.
‘Six, Rory,’ she said. ‘It’s always six, from mummy.’
Angela was in the kitchen making a cup of coffee when there was a knock at the back door. It was Frank the milkman. And her still in her dressing gown.
‘Seven pound sixty-two, please, love,’ he said, with a big smile and a tip of his cap.
‘I didn’t know it was today,’ said Angela.
Frank’s smile expanded. ‘Seven pound sixty-two,’ he said again. ‘It’s two weeks, you know.’
‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ said Angela. ‘I haven’t got the change. In fact I haven’t got any money at all. I was going to the bank this afternoon. Are you sure it’s today?’
‘Yes, love,’ said Frank.
‘Well, could you come back later, then?’
‘No, love,’ said Frank.
‘Well, couldn’t we make it three weeks, just this once?’
‘No, love,’ said Frank.
She was only playing for time, she knew that.
Frank shook his head.
Angela opened the door wider. ‘You’d better come in, then, hadn’t you?’
Frank came in. He took off his cap and put it on top of the fridge. He rubbed his hands together, as though he was warming them up. He always looked so eager.
Angela gave him a little smile. She had a bit of a soft spot for Frank.
If only he didn’t always find it so unerringly.
‘The usual arrangement, I suppose?’ she said.
‘Yes, please, love,’ said Frank, promptly.
There were two windows in Angela’s kitchen, both with venetian blinds.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ Angela said, as she lowered the blinds and closed them. ‘I’m sure I paid last week, you know.’
‘I don’t think you did, love,’ said Frank, making himself comfortable on her kitchen stool.
‘Oh well,’ said Angela. She took off her dressing gown and stood before him in her nightie.
‘It’s a good thing I came round early,’ he said, approvingly.
He took her by the hand and drew her between his knees. He lifted her nightie and cuddled her bottom. ‘What is it, fifty p. a smack?’
‘A quid!’ Angela protested.
They settled at seventy-five pence. ‘And a kiss for the odd twelve,’ said Frank.
She gave him his kiss, thinking that perhaps she wouldn’t mention that bit when she told Rory. Then she leaned forward over his leg, supporting herself on her hands, looking round at him. He liked to do her standing up, so he could watch her face. And he made sure there was plenty to watch.
He held her nightie up in his left hand, and smacked her bottom. Angela just smiled at him. He smacked her again, the other side. That one stung.
Frank had hard hands from carrying all those crates. But she kept smiling determinedly.
The next made her gasp. And the next made her cry out.
He paused. The pupils of his eyes were very wide.
‘You know, I think I did pay last week,’ said Angela. ‘But I suppose it’s as well to be sure.’
‘Yes, love,’ said Frank.
‘Ow!’ said Angela. ‘Ow! Ow!’
‘Seven pounds sixty-two,’ said Rory, ‘divided by seventy-five…’
‘Ten,’ she told him. It was ten.’
Angela had had all week to do the homework for her evening class, but somehow once again she’d hardly looked at it. She was slowly working her way towards a diploma, with the idea of one day getting a part-time job, and some extra cash. One day, she thought gloomily, wiping the dust off her textbooks.
The class met in a draughty room at the community centre, under the tuition of Mrs Falmer, a sharp, brisk, executive type who wore lavender suits and starched white blouses. She led them through everything at a cracking pace and had her own way of encouraging the stragglers. She marked their homework and handed them all back but three. ‘Mrs Thorne, Mrs Williams, Mrs Bowyer,’ she called. ‘See me afterwards.’
While the rest of the women filed out, Angela exchanged guilty looks with Callie Williams. Callie was a cheery soul, a big black woman who laughed a lot and was about as clueless as Angela when it came to business methods. It was always Callie and Angela who had to stay behind. Mrs Thorne was older than the others, a former secretary returning to work after raising a family. It was the first time she’d been singled out. She looked apprehensively at Angela and Callie as the three of them approached Mrs Falmer’s big wide table.
Mrs Falmer put on her glasses, which she wore on a gold chain around her neck. With raised eyebrows and pursed lips, she gave them back their homework. ‘Mrs Thorne. You may not yet feel sure about VAT, but the rest of the country does. Mrs Williams: I couldn’t read it, and that’s probably just as well. Mrs Bowyer, I sometimes feel you’d be better off studying something else. Anything else.’
She reached into the drawer of the table. ‘Mrs Bowyer, Mrs Williams: you know the routine by now Mrs Thorne: this is the first time I’ve had to deal with you —’
Betty Thorne looked confused. ‘Deal with me —?’ she echoed.
‘— so I’ll go easy on you,’ continued Mrs Falmer calmly, as if she hadn’t been interrupted. ‘Two for you, Mrs Thorne, to wake you up. Four each, you others.’
She came around the table, holding a three-foot length of bamboo lightly in both hands.
Mrs Thorne stood goggling at her. Angela and Callie looked at each other, then at Betty Thorne.
Mrs Falmer rapped smartly on the table with her cane. ‘Come along,’ she commanded. ‘SKIRTS UP, PANTIES DOWN, OVER THE DESK. You too, Mrs Thorne.’
Callie Williams sighed. She hoisted up her skirt like an ocean-going yacht taking in sail, and pulled down a voluminous pair of bright pink panties, looking sidelong all the while at Angela, who was sliding down her own white cotton knickers. Mrs Thorne was just standing there with her mouth open.
‘I shan’t tell you again, Mrs Thorne,’ said Mrs Falmer loudly, ‘I shall just fail you.’
‘Oh well,’ said Betty, ‘I suppose —’
Bravely, she lifted up her dress and her slip, and, with a strangely delicate movement, drew down her tights. She looked at Angela and Callie, both already in position, and shaking her head anxiously, bent over the desk beside them.
‘Does it really do any good, do you think?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I’m sure it must do, Mrs Thorne!’ said Angela, and silently, secretly, she took her hand.
‘Three bare bottoms in a row,’ said Mrs Falmer contemplatively. ‘I don’t know when I last saw such a sorry sight.’
Callie’s came first: four swift, hissing strokes that Angela knew without even looking would be as straight across her fat black bottom as the lines on Mrs Falmer’s graphs. Callie leapt up, clutching herself and stamping on the floor. She made a hooting noise like a sneezing horse.
‘A little more decorum, please, Mrs Williams,’ said Mrs Falmer.
She came up to the other end of the line, and Betty Thorne. The cane swished, twice.
‘Oh! OH!’ Betty cried. She clapped her hands to her backside but did not rise. She lay there, staring at the wall as if stunned.
‘Now then. Mrs Bowyer,’ said Mrs Falmer.
It was obvious from her tone she had been saving the best till last.
Another four, was that?’ Rory asked.
‘Yes, darling,’ she said.
Four lines of fire that had troubled her all the way home, and made her sleep on her tummy that night.
Friday was the day Dr Crick had arranged for Angela to begin at the physiotherapy clinic.
She got a bus to the hospital, waited half an hour, filled in a dozen forms, waited most of another hour in the corridor, and was finally shown into what looked like a small gymnasium. A young woman in a white coat, with fair hair tied back in a ponytail, and a pair of large round glasses balanced on her small round nose, came and shook Angela’s hand. Her manner was severe, though she was hardly out of her teens.
‘Mrs Bowyer? I’m Dr Cherry. Come and sit up here with me.’
They sat together on an examination couch, rather like Dr Crick’s, Angela thought. Dr Cherry thumbed through a slim folder of notes. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Yours is an unusual case, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure there’s anything wrong with me at all,’ admitted Angela.
‘But Dr Crick says —’ She hesitated, wondering how to put it.
‘Shall we take a look, then?’ said Dr Cherry, patting her on the thigh in a friendly way.
Angela wondered why all doctors referred to themselves as we.
She started to unfasten her clothes. ‘Everything?’ she asked.
‘Everything,’ said Dr Cherry.
Nude once again, Angela lay face down on the couch. Dr Cherry massaged her back. It felt good. She began to relax. She was in safe hands, expert hands. Elderly family doctors were very nice, but there were limits.
‘Your skin does look as though there may be some capillary constriction,’ Dr Cherry observed. ‘Dr Crick has been treating you how long?’ She kneaded the small of Angela’s back.
‘Years,’ said Angela, luxuriating in the sensation. ‘I’m not sure it’s doing me any good. That’s why I asked to come here, really.’
Dr Cherry was up on the couch now, kneeling astride her, digging her fingers in under her ribs. ‘What treatment does he usually give you?’
Angela felt her face begin to colour. ‘He gives me — well, I mean — what I mean is — he gives me —spankings. I suppose you could say.’
‘On the bottom?’ asked Dr Cherry.
‘Yes. And on my thighs. Usually. With a ruler.’
There. It was said. Angela sighed. ‘It’s a bit — unorthodox, isn’t it?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Cherry at once. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
She drew the side of her hand down the cleft of Angela’s buttocks. Angela shivered, deliciously.
‘A ruler would be far too rigid,’ said Dr Cherry softly. ‘What you need, Mrs Bowyer, is some of this.’
Angela sat up quickly.
Dr Cherry was holding a long leather strap, doubled over in her hands.
‘Oh,’ said Angela.
Dr Cherry flexed the strap. She said, ‘And I suppose he puts you across his knee, does he?’
‘No, he puts me on the couch with a pillow under me,’ said Angela rapidly. ‘Mummy puts me —’
She stopped, feeling very foolish.
Dr Cherry was nodding understandingly. ‘And does she use a strap?’
‘A slipper,’ said Angela, wide-eyed.
She lay down again, defeated.
‘Better,’ Dr Cherry conceded, ‘but I still think we should try you with the strap. And you’ll find your pulse rate is faster or slower according to your position.’
She leaned over Angela again, pressing her hand to her bare breasts. Angela stared up at her. Dr Cherry was feeling her heartbeat. That was all, surely.
‘That’s satisfactory,’ Dr Cherry said. ‘So let’s see what we can do to get it up a bit further, shall we? Lift your knees up to your chest. Can you do that for me?’
Reluctantly, Angela exposed the most intimate view of herself to this rather serious young woman.
‘Hold on to your legs,’ Dr Cherry instructed her. ‘No, no — don’t close them.’
She gave Angela a clinical little smile through the vee of her raised legs. ‘You might like to watch this,’ she said.
Angela had never watched herself receive a spanking before. She was not sure she wanted to now.
‘Now,’ said Dr Cherry, running her fingers along the taut skin of Angela’s thighs, ‘I’m going to cover your vulva up, just to protect you. You wouldn’t want me to miss and hit you there by mistake! But don’t worry, I won’t miss, I promise. I never miss.’
Angela believed her. Smiling, the young doctor slipped her hand between Angela’s parted legs and settled it gently over her crotch. ‘My goodness,’ she said primly. ‘I do believe you’re getting excited. You naughty girl,’ she said, lightly, and the strap came down.
That’s a new one,’ said Rory. ‘How many did she give you?’
‘Sixteen,’ said Angela. ‘The same as Dr Crick. The dose as before.’
But she didn’t mention what she had let Dr Cherry do after the treatment was over, which had also helped raise her blood pressure, and which she would never have let Dr Crick do.
The doorbell rang. It was Clare Gidding from round the corner. She was smoking a cigarette. She looked angry. ‘What happened to you last night, then?’ she demanded.
Angela’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, no, Clare! I promised to babysit, didn’t I? I completely forgot! Oh, I am sorry…’
‘I rang when it got to eight,’ Clare said, ‘but there was no answer.’
Angela had been in the bath at eight, soaking herself, recuperating after her exertions at the physio clinic. She’d heard the phone and decided to let it ring. Her meeting with Dr Cherry had put all other thoughts out of her mind.
‘So you just forgot,’ said Clare disgustedly. She drew on her cigarette, hard.
‘It’s too bad of you, Angie, it really is,’ said Clare. ‘It was our anniversary, and we were going out. We couldn’t get anybody else. We had to ring up and cancel.’
‘Look, Clare, come in. Please.’
Angela went and made a cup of coffee. When she brought it in Clare was sitting on the couch leafing irritably through a magazine. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and accepted the cup. ‘Ta,’ she said ungraciously.
Angela slipped her shoes off. She knelt down on the floor by Clare’s feet. She said quietly, ‘You’re very cross with me, Clare, aren’t you?’
‘Wouldn’t you be, if it was me?’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Angela at once. ‘I let you down. I ruined your evening. It was stupid and thoughtless of me.’
Clare looked away, taking a last drag on her cigarette and stubbing it out hard in the saucer of her cup.
Angela put her hand on Clare’s knee. She said, ‘I suppose you want to punish me.’
Clare swung around, looking hard at her. ‘What?’
‘Well, everybody else this week has.’
Clare reached for another cigarette and lit it. ‘What are you talking about, Angie?’
‘I keep getting spanked.’
Clare sipped her coffee. ‘Are you trying to be funny, Angie?’ She sounded suspicious.
Angela shook her head. She got up, unzipped her jeans and pulled them down to her thighs. ‘I’ve got bruises,’ she said. ‘Can you see?’
Clare made a sort of gulping noise. She put her coffee cup down carefully, the cigarette burning in the saucer. She gazed at Angela’s bottom.
‘Is this Rory?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Angela. ‘You can touch, if you like.’
She felt Clare’s fingers on her bottom, moving tentatively to the inside of her thigh, just below her panties.
Angela turned, her jeans slipping down to her knees. ‘I’m very very sorry about last night, Clare. It was my fault. All the things I’ve been spanked for this week and this is the only time I actually deserve it.’
She took Clare’s hand, looking down gravely into her eyes. ‘Where do you want me?’ she asked her.
‘I can’t spank you, Angie!’ said Clare crossly, taking her hand out of Angela’s and gulping at her coffee. ‘You’re a grown woman, for goodness’ sake!’
‘That doesn’t stop anyone else,’ Angela pointed out.
‘But I’ve never spanked anyone in my life!’ Clare complained.
‘I don’t suppose it’s very difficult, Clare,’ Angela said. She stepped out of her jeans. ‘Didn’t you ever have your bottom spanked when you were a little girl?’
Clare looked away, embarrassed. ‘That was a long time ago!’ she objected.
Angela folded her jeans and hung them on the back of a chair. She sat down beside Clare on the couch, in her panties. She put her hand on Clare’s knee again.
Clare looked at Angela’s hand, at Angela’s bare thighs. She looked away again. ‘My mum,’ she said, ‘used to use a wooden spoon…’
Angela got up and hurried into the kitchen in bare feet. She looked at the jar of wooden spoons on the window sill. No one had used a wooden spoon on her before. She wondered which one would best. In the end she took Clare the whole jar.
‘My physiotherapist says I should lie on my back with my legs up,’ she said, while Clare tried to concentrate on picking a spoon. ‘For my circulation,’ said Angela. She stroked Clare’s arm. ‘I’d much rather go over your knee,’ she admitted.
Clare started to blush. ‘Well, I don’t know!’ she exclaimed. ‘I really don’t! Come here, you!’ She grabbed Angela around the waist and hoisted her across her lap.
‘You have to take my knickers down first,’ Angela said, face down.
‘What? That’s cruel. My mum never took my knickers down.’
‘It’s not a proper spanking,’ said Angela decisively, ‘if you keep your knickers on.’
‘You really are the limit,’ said Clare. She took hold of Angela’s knickers and tugged them down to her thighs. ‘How many?’
‘Eight,’ said Angela. ‘Make it a round number.’
‘Eight’s not a —’
‘Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter,’ said Angela quickly. ‘Tell me how cross you are with me. Then spank me hard. Eight.’
‘All right!’ said Clare determinedly. ‘You’re a wicked girl! You ruined our evening. Our anniversary, it was, and you spoiled it! I’ve a good mind,’ she went on, almost shouting now, ‘not to ask you to babysit ever again!’
She spanked her with the spoon, once, sharply — smack! She did it again, on the other cheek.
‘I’ll warm your bottom for you, my girl!’ cried Clare, thoroughly into it now, ‘and then you can stand in the corner until I say you can come out. There!’
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
‘Right,’ said Rory.
‘Yes, my love,’ said Angela.
‘Every day this week you had your bottom spanked,’ he said, marvelling.
‘Let me see it now.’
She stood up and lifted her black and silver dress for him, turned and bent forward as she eased her panties down. Her skin was smooth and clear, quite without a mark. He stroked it, she trembled.
‘You really have the most extraordinary imagination, my love,’ he murmured; and stooped to kiss her bottom.
‘Yes, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, really I am.’
‘I think it’s time you fetched your hairbrush,’ he told her.
Angela pulled up her panties and ran upstairs. In the dim light from the landing she looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was flushed. Her mouth was dry.
The hairbrush was on the dressing table, waiting for her. She seized it and ran back downstairs.
Rory was sitting totting up the figures on a piece of paper. He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Sixty,’ he said, grimly. ‘A round number.’
‘Oh no,’ said Angela, and hid the hairbrush behind her back.
Rory raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure it’s enough,’ he said. ‘For telling all those incredible lies.’
Angela started to back towards the door. ‘I’ll be good,’ she said quickly, ‘I promise…’
Rory came and put his arms around her. With one he stroked her bottom, thoughtfully; and with the other he took the hairbrush out of her hand. It was made of wood, with a well-shaped handle and an oval back almost the size of the palm of Angela’s hand. She had had it a long time. She was very fond of it.
‘Take off your dress,’ said Rory, ‘and your panties. Come here. Kneel down.’
He looked at her then for a while with pleasure, without saying anything, as she knelt before him in her bra and stockings, her head bent submissively. He caressed her hair.
She looked up, rubbing her mouth against his hand.He lifted her up and hugged her, and then he laid her across his knee.