Story from Februs 38.
A Short Story by Matthew Silk
Sam picked up the phone in her office and shouted, 'Tony get in here!'
She slammed the receiver down in irritation and flung herself back in her chair. Why was it men NEVER did what you asked them to?
A minute later Tony, early 20's, short cropped hair, handsome in his fresh, youthful way, sidled into her office with all the arrogance of his young years.
'Tony, the figures for the Zurich meeting next week. Where the hell are they?' Sam demanded.
'Oh, there was a computer glitch. We're a bit behind. I was going to put them together on Monday,' Tony replied breezily.
'MONDAY!' Sam exploded. 'I fly to Zurich on Monday afternoon. What do you think I'm going to do: read them on the way out?'
Tony shrugged and smirked.
'I want them on my desk 8am Monday morning or you are out of here. And I mean that.'
Tony's face fell. 'Hey, no. I'm taking my girlfriend to Paris for the weekend. I've booked the Ritz and everything. Can't someone else do it?'
Sam leaned forward slowly. 'Tony you've got to realise there are not many 24 year olds on your salary. You've got to earn it.'
Tony left muttering 'bitch' under his breath. Jan, Sam's secretary, come in with a questioning look on her face.
'He's been talking about that trip all week. I think he was going to propose.'
'He'll get over it,' shrugged Sam sweeping back her blonde hair in frustration. 'When I was at his stage I would have jumped at producing those figures. These boys think the city is all champagne, Ferraris and bragging to girls in bars.'
Sam saw Tony surrounded by his mates glancing in sullen rebellion in her direction. She got up. 'I'm going home. I can't stand them all mooning at me like that.'
She walked out of her office across the floor feeling the eyes of the young boys in the bank staring at her resentfully. 'Goodnight boys, see you Monday,' she said cheerily.
As the lift doors closed she gave a long sigh and felt suddenly tired. It was a constant battle with the boys and a battle she had to fight on her own. She knew the senior partners were looking closely at how she was handling the pressure. If she complained how tough it was they would think it as a sign of weakness, but they didn't see it was twice as hard being a woman in the boys' club of the city.
Still, there were compensations. Like the gleaming new Z3 in the underground car park, her luxury riverside penthouse flat and of course George, her butler, even now preparing for her return...
She took the Z3 out into the city traffic opening the roof to the sunshine.
A builder in a white transit whistled as he looked down at her bare legs.
She sped away.
At the next set of lights she nicked open her mobile and dialled George.
'Very good, madam,' he said in his slightly Scottish burr which never betrayed his real feelings.
'Oh, and George.'
She hesitated. This was it. Did he know what she was going to say? She'd been thinking about this more and more through the week. The time seemed right. She was tense and needed to be relaxed for the meeting, but you could never really tell, not until you were there, bottom bared, the strap in his big hands...
'George, will you stay late tonight?'
They both knew what she was asking for. She held her breath feeling as if he had already pulled her wrists behind her back and was bending her over the back of the sofa.
There was a terrible silence at the other end of the line as he decided her fate.
'Of course, madam,' he said in the same calm even tone he always used to address her.
She closed the mobile and felt a thrill of anticipation. There was no other feeling like it in the world. Already the adrenaline was pumping.
She did not have time for a relationship with a man. She could look for a husband when she had made her money for life. Right now she was single and ambitious and happy to keep it that way.
But her life could be lonely and domestic chores tedious after a day of high powered decision making. A manservant seemed the ideal solution. A man who was reliable, efficient, attentive, loyal and discreet but did not went to sleep with her.
George greeted Sam at the door wearing his red striped apron. The flat was filled with the warm aroma of his cooking.
'Hello George,' she smiled conspiratorially. Once she had given her permission the discipline could come at any time.
She waited for an order to go and bend over the sofa with her short skirt pulled up and knickers on view but none came and she walked past him into the living room with its spectacular view of the river.
Another good thing about George, if he had been her lover she could have had to ask him all about his day, they would have been coexisting or he would have been jealous of her career. George was simply there caring for her with meticulous attention.
She threw her bag and coat on the sofa with deliberate carelessness. George hated untidiness, she really did feel mischievous.
He came in without a word of disapproval and picked up the coat and bag. She'd already done enough to be put over his knee and spanked swift and hard with his big, powerful hand but he made no move.
He returned to the living room. 'Would madam care for an aperitif?'
She giggled. 'Oh you mean a drink. I thought for a moment you had something else in mind'. She looked at him coyly but his stony expression remained impassive. Another stroke earned. Or perhaps six hard spanks over a kitchen chair with his leather paddle reddening her bare bottom while she counted and thanked him for each one. Mmmm...
She opened the sliding doors and stepped out onto the balcony. She stretched out on the lounger closing her eyes. Someone once told her your butler knows everything about you but says nothing. Sam had not appreciated at first what "everything" meant. Within a week George had tidied her vibrators, discovered the tawse and riding crop she had been using on herself in her knicker drawer and knew exactly what she liked to read in bed.
Once she realised how impossible it was to hide anything from him she found it surprisingly easy to ask him to use the tawse on her himself.
'Please don't be offended I won't mind if you don't want to...'
'Of course, madam,' he had said as if she had just asked him to do the washing up.
Soon after she found herself lying flat on the bed in her bra and knickers with George standing over her sternly, the tawse in his hands. 'It is customary, madam, with your permission, to administer the tawse to the bare buttocks.'
'How do you know that, George?'
'A Scottish upbringing madam, coupled, I must confess, with a certain prior knowledge.'
'George! You've done this before!'
'It is an unusual, but not uncommon request from ladies who have previously employed me, madam,' he said, sliding her knickers deftly down her legs and hooking them like a trophy over the bedpost.
George had proved himself to be a remarkably efficient, experienced and strict disciplinarian.
After that first spanking their relationship took a new, irreversible direction. She never knew how he would deal with her. Sometimes he just appeared with a leather glove on his hand and issued a curt order, 'Over my knee, lassie.'
Or she might find him – standing by a kitchen chair, the belt wrapped round his fist. 'Bend over, lassie.'
There were so many ways. She'd been spanked with wet dressing gown cords while holding onto the cold shower in the bathroom. She'd been laid face down across the solid wooden coffee table, her feet dangling over the edge end felt the smack of the paddle on her arse. She'd been bent over the balcony rail and felt the lash of the martinet as she watched the sun set over the city skyline...
'Your drink, madam.' She opened her eyes with a start to see George holding out a tray for her.
'What time would madam like to eat?'
It depended when she was going to be spanked. Which was better, spanked first then eat with a stinging behind or eat then spanked, or spanked, eat, then spanked again, or spanked between courses... oh stop it! she admonished herself.
'I don't know George. You decide.'
'Very good madam. Shall I run your bath?'
'Yes, George, that would be nice.' It would also give him the opportunity to use those dressing gown cords. The door locked. No escape. God she remembered that night. She shocked herself sometimes how far she allowed him to go.
She sipped her drink and closed her eyes. The cane. George, in his formal butler clothes. She, bending over, fingers pointing to the floor twitching nervously as he swished the rattan behind her. Her backside feeling enormous and so vulnerable.
Or standing underneath the black metal spiral staircase, her soft white dressing gown falling gracefully from her shoulders revealing her elegant blonde slenderness, being ordered to raise her arms, grip the cold metal as he approaches with a blindfold.
'Your bath is ready, madam.'
He was nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
She took off her clothes in her bedroom and slipped on hew dressing gown, soft and warm. George was already testing the water with his hand and frothing up the bubbles. She looked for the damp cords but could not see them, the candles were flickering in the darkness.
He removed the dressing gown leaving her naked before him. He could order her to grab the rail on the other side of the bath. 'Legs straight, ankles touching, bottom out, chin up.' But he simply stood aside and she slipped naked into the warm tub.
'Oh, George, would you put some music on?'
'Certainly, madam. May I suggest Handel?'
'No George. I don't think so. Moby. Play.'
'Very good madam.' He hated "popular" music as he called it. Silly old sod. She smiled naughtily as the clapping rhythm of the first track beat through the flat. 'A little louder, George, I can barely hear it,' she called out, grinning cheekily. There was a pause and then the volume was turned up, but only slightly.
'Three extra strokes for the loud music lassie.' She smiled and sank beneath the bubbles.
* * *
When she was ready to get out, George stood by her with a towel which he tucked round her. Her legs were pink from the heat of the bathwater. She went into her bedroom where she dried herself and let the towel fall to admire herself in the mirror. She turned her back and examined her bottom, round and still young and pert. She moved her hips feeling the undulations of her cheeks as she cupped them in her hands wondering what marks she would bear later, trying to imagine the sting.
'Let me put an end to those thoughts, lassie. Bend over, that's right, where you are standing with your bottom facing the mirror and your feet apart... Now will it be 12 strokes of the cane or six with the crop?'
'Oh the cane please, sir. Two strokes of the cane are better than any with that nasty crop.'
But George was busy in the kitchen. He really was making her wait tonight.
She went to her knicker drawer and picked out her sexiest black silk underwear. Mischievously, she slipped her dressing gown back on. George disapproved most sternly if she did not dress properly for dinner. If that didn't provoke him she did not know what would.
She went out into the living room. The dining table was laid for dinner with candles and napkin. As George entered with the wine she caught his silent disapproving eye. Her hands reached automatically to the belt ready to disrobe. But he swept past her. This was serious. She was clocking up punishment points by the handful and nothing was being done about them. She felt herself gradually losing control as in a negotiation that was going wrong.
'What's for dinner, George?' she asked as lightly as she could as she dropped her hands.
'Souffle to start, madam, followed by a cutlet of lamb in a rosemary and red wine sauce.' He was pompously proud of his cooking.
'It sounds lovely.'
'It is ready now, madam.' He looked meaningfully at her dressing gown.
A sudden wicked idea came to her. 'Oh, George, it is such a lovely night. You know I think I shall have dinner on the terrace.'
That did the trick. George looked ready to explode. She had him now. She smiled innocently, her hands moving seductively back up to her belt, ready to open her gown and let it fall to the carpet, baring herself before him for the thrashing she now so thoroughly deserved.
'As you wish, madam,' he said through grilled teeth, once again ignoring her.
She was left open-mouthed with astonishment at her let-off as he cleared the table in double quick time and relaid it on the terrace.
'Dinner is served, madam,' he announced a little breathlessly, five minutes later.
The dinner was, needless to say, superb. She sat alone enjoying the view of the many lights of London below and began to relax. She spent her life battling the boys in the office, fighting for deals, fighting for space, never giving in like everyone else in the modern age. It was so relaxing to have someone like George to submit to when you came home.
It was getting chilly. She took coffee in the living room while George cleared up. She asked him to put Handel on the CD player and listened to it on the sofa.
She saw him leave the kitchen and go to her bedroom and she knew he was finally preparing for her.
She began tingling all over as the adrenaline pumped through her. These were always the best and worst moments like just before an important presentation when her nerves were jangling.
'Stand up, lassie, and remove your dressing gown!' The order took her by surprise. George had approached so quietly she had not heard him. Instead of slipping the dressing gown seductively to the floor as she imagined she would, she stood up a little too quickly and gawkily and the gown fell in a lump at her feet.
George's face was as hard as granite, chilling her. 'Step this way, lassie. It's time to pay for your atrocious behaviour tonight. Quick now, you little tart. I'm going to teach you some respect.'
He had never spoken to her so disrespectfully. She stood frozen to the spot not knowing how to react.
'So, disobey would you? Right, that's it. Treat me like a dog and I'll' treat you like a dog. On your hands and knees. NOW! Crawl to your punishment.'
She dropped down on all fours and began crawling humiliatingly past his feet. She had negotiated fearlessly with some of the most powerful men in the city but they were pussycats compared to George in this mood.
Her bedroom had been transformed from the soft room of her sleep into a bare, stark dungeon. The bed had been stripped to the sheets and the pillows removed. Free standing spotlights illuminated the bed in an unforgiving glare. The doors of the wardrobe had been opened so the mirrors inside faced the bed. In the corner there was a table covered with a lace cloth almost like an altar and on the cloth were two tawses, a martinet, a crop and a selection of vibrators.
As she crawled across the soft carpet a tape of a previous punishment began to play through the speakers. The vicious swish! and smack! of the tawse striking her bare behind followed by her cry vividly bringing home her coming torment. She glanced in the mirror at the person on all fours looking nervously back at her and wondered, not for the first time, whether they were really the same person.
George picked up the tawse, every movement precise and composed. She saw him in the mirror stand behind her, the tawse dangling down, her rear nicely positioned doggie fashion. He slipped the leather strands through his fingers, raised the tawse and gave her three smart strokes across her taut knickers.
'Don't disobey me again. Now lie on the bed, lassie.'
She scrambled to her feet, her cheeks stinging and lay flat out on the bed on her stomach, her arms stretched out above her head and ankles pressed together. She thought of the boys in the office – how they would love to see their boss stretched out like this waiting meekly to be spanked. Or one of the Swiss bankers she was to meet next week, 'Certain interesting information has come to light about you, Miss Brown. Before we begin this meeting we are going to bend you over this table and Heinrich here will lift your skirt and administer traditional strokes of the cane to your English bottom. Kindly count the strokes clearly and thank us for each one. Afterwards, your knickers will be taken down and your marks inspected, when you have been chastised to everyone's satisfaction we will begin the negotiations.'
She searched George's impassive features. He would never betray her, would he?
He unclipped her bra, neatly removing it and then slipped her knickers smoothly down her legs, hanging them on the bed post. She closed her eyes and saw a vision of Tony smirking at her predicament. (Hello, Miss Brown, George has told us all about what you like and how you like it...)
Smack! The tawse landed across her bare behind opening her eyes in an instant.
She had barely time to catch her breath before the tawse landed again equally sharp and uncompromising. She looked up pleadingly at George but his Celtic features remained stern and determined, betraying no emotion.
After six he ordered her, 'Turn round, lassie.' She obediently lay facing up to him gingerly placing her tender bullocks on the sheet.
George looked down at her and then look a firm grip of her ankles with his left hand and raised her feel so they were pointing straight up at the ceiling, lifting her half off the bed.
'Whoh!' she cried, taken by surprise. She flung her arms out wide and grabbed the sheet on either side to steady herself. The flat leather tongues smacked her bottom forcing an immediate, yelping cry from her lips.
He lifted her higher by the ankles, his fingers pressing into her bone and spanked her again, holding her tight as her legs twisted in his grip. She tried to cover her bottom with her hands but he simply yanked her higher so she was resting on her shoulders unable to prevent the furious lashes of the tawse across her behind. She begged to be spared but he was so strong it was impossible to escape. He held her comfortably, as if from a hook, and ignoring her shouted apologies and promises never to treat him disrespectfully again, continued to strap her behind and thighs with free, unfettered swings of his arm. She had long lost count of the number of strokes when he suddenly let go of her ankles and dropped her back on the bed.
She rolled onto her side clasping her hands to her burning rear while he went to the table and returned with the crop and a vibrator.
'You were a very naughty wee lassie, tonight,' he said calmly.
'Naughty, yes,' she confessed in a whisper, desperate to please.
'And what happens to naughty lassies?'
She eyed the crop suspiciously. 'Oh no, George.'
'Oh aye, lassie.'
He took hold of her feet again pushed her up the bed and lifted her ankles back over her head until they were hooked through the bedrail above her.
She looked straight up at him through her bent knees. 'No, George, please...' But he remained coldly formal and unmoved.
He took a wooden ruler from his inside pocket.
'Stop your whingeing, lassie. Now open your mouth.'
She opened her mouth and he placed the ruler between her teeth pressing it hard against her lips.
'Bite down on it.'
She clenched her teeth tasting the wood with her tongue.
'Now shout as loud as you can.'
'Nngghhhnnnnnn,' she yelled, barely making any sound.
'Good, we don't want to disturb the neighbours,' he said.
He knelt on the bed and switched on the black vibrator gently pushing it into her just a little at first but sending the buzzing rhythms through her in waves.
She began to moan as he slid in deeper, harder and stiffer than any man could be and as totally reliable and efficient as George himself. He thrust it in and out smoothly, her moans growing louder as the humming shaft drilled deeper.
Then he withdrew it wet and glistening. She watched him stand and raise the crop and saw him swing it down across her buttocks with the full force of his arm.
'NNGGHHHNNNN.' She yelled as loud as she could but making barely any sound at all. She hung on the rail, the effects of the stroke burning deep into her as he observed her, totally detached from her suffering.
When he was ready he delivered another stroke and then another, cruel and precise in their execution, their effects searing through her. Then he inserted the vibrator, slipping it in and out of her, then the crop lashing her again, then the vibrator, on and on, open to both, never to be forgotten...
* * *
She lay face down on the bed basking in the warm afterglow, the stripes, still stinging, lined across her backside, binding her like an embrace. George had been superb tonight. He had never taken her that far before. Still, she fingered the ridges across her cheeks, and smiled shyly to herself, she had deserved it, she had really been a very, very naughty lassie.
She heard George cough politely behind her. 'Will that be all, madam?'
'Yes, George,' she sighed. 'For tonight. Oh, and George?'