‘And I love to hear all the desperate apologising, and begging, and promising to be good,’ added Richard. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Music to my ears,’ said Allyson. ‘OK, then, let’s start with Blake and the strap. Give her thirty, hard.’
Emma liked the strap, but she didn’t know Blake and was a little anxious that he might not be as expert as his co-conspirators.
The first stroke was a relief, falling in the right area, a good sizzling lick that set her up for more. She had had tops who hit too high, or let the belt curl around her hip, and that wasn’t fun.
Blake was able to handle his leather, and Emma relaxed into the strapping, enjoying the growing heat, identifying his rhythm and adjusting her breathing accordingly. The leather had to be very thick to really hurt her, and this was a lovely supple length, stingy but not thuddy, almost a luxurious sensation.
But, of course, thirty nine wouldn’t see it that way.
Emma was ten strokes in before she remembered that thirty nine would be flapping and squealing. Unless she was the silent, defiant, stoic type. Yes, that’s what thirty nine would be. Full of stubbornness, determined not to show weakness.
If they wanted to break her, they’d have to work at it.
So she let out no more than angry panting, letting her fingers curl, white-knuckled, around the metal bar of the spanking bench.
‘You’ve got a fighter here,’ commented Allyson as the strap fell, over and over, getting hotter now, getting sore.
‘We’ve had plenty of fighters,’ said Richard. ‘None of them have beaten us. In the end, you’ll be just as sorry as the others.’
Emma gritted her teeth and shut her eyes through the last ten strokes. Blake could have been harder on her. He could have hit the same spot over and over. He could have concentrated on her tender thighs. He could have swung wider, put more force into it. But this was an introduction. Of course, there was plenty of time for that.
‘A good thirty,’ said Allyson. ‘Thanks, Blake. Now she knows what it’s like to have a bright red, spanked bottom. How does it feel, thirty nine?’
‘Fine, ma’am,’ said Emma through still-gritted teeth.
‘Fine, eh? Well, it looks lovely. Let’s just give you a minute or two to get used to it before I take my paddle to you. You won’t be feeling fine after that, I promise.’
The three of them sat around Allyson’s desk and chatted about the journey and the weather for what seemed to Emma an intolerably long time. They knew she’d just want them to get it over with, but they weren’t going to give her anything she wanted.
Blake, she learned, was a paramedic and he had a long conversation with Richard about this. It seemed he and Richard were meeting for the first time this weekend, although both of them knew Allyson.
It was boring and annoying to be bent over a stepstool, bare, stinging bottom on display, while people behind you droned on about their work as if you didn’t exist. She kicked in her bonds, frustrated, and heard Allyson laugh.
‘Somebody wants more attention,’ said Blake. ‘She hasn’t had enough, has she?’
‘If attention’s what she wants, attention she shall have,’ vowed Allyson. ‘I’ve got a nice wooden paddle here, thirty nine. You’ll see that it feels nothing like the strap. I wonder if you’ll find it better or worse?’
‘A lot of our inmates hate the paddle most of all,’ said Richard. ‘Though the majority fear the cane more.’
‘You’ll be able to do a full comparative study very soon,’ promised Allyson. ‘Now. Stick that bottom out nice and high. You’re going to get twenty.’
The first stroke landed with indecent loudness, fat and full on the centre of her backside. Emma couldn’t help a whimper. She really wasn’t a fan of the paddle.
‘This’ll get the message across,’ said Allyson, in a low, fierce whisper. ‘You can’t ignore it. I’m going to have you begging for mercy.’
Emma had learned how to cope with the paddle, but it had been a long, hard road. Thirty nine was at the very beginning of that road and, for Emma, it was rather liberating to be able to give voice to hearty yells of protest each time the wooden oval seared into her skin. Only a few strokes in, it really was like being paddled for the first time. The panic of feeling that she couldn’t take it flooded into Emma in a rush – a response she had thought to have overcome and controlled long ago.
‘Oh, no,’ she whimpered at about stroke six. ‘Please, no.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Allyson, dealing stroke seven with relish. ‘Not so easy to take, eh?’
‘Ow, no, I can’t!’ She tried to move her bottom away from the inevitable descent, but the knee straps held her in place.
‘We’ll remember this,’ said Allyson. ‘Any bratty behaviour from you, and the paddle comes straight out. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you’ll be touching your toes for twenty hard strokes. Better get used to it.’