Playing the scene

Note from Abel: here’s Cath’s perspective, after she and I played the scene that I described planning  yesterday

The night before, Abel and I had sketched out the scene and gathered some smallish branches from the olive grove over the road.   I returned home from work that afternoon knowing that we would play, feeling like “Sophie” – the English-bred daughter of a Cypriot mother and English father, staying with her uncle (the local chief of police) and cousins in Cyprus for the summer holidays.   Sophie was eighteen and about to start university, so had got a summer job cleaning for Mr Jenkins, a rich ex-pat, in order to pay her tuition fees.

The week before, she had been collecting Mr Jenkins’ mail as usual when she noticed a torn envelope which contained a cheque for €500.   It was made out to cash.   Feeling somewhat short of spending money, and hoping that the wealthy Mr Jenkins wouldn’t notice, Sophie had cashed the cheque locally and spent the money.

Unfortunately, she was about to discover that things hadn’t quite gone according to plan.

“Ah, Sophie,” said Mr Jenkins, smoothly, as I turned the key in the latch.   I had arrived in good time to start my afternoon job, cleaning his house.

“Come here.”

I did as I was told, and sat facing him at the dining table.

“Sophie,” he began.   “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?   To confess?”

I pretended to rack my brains.   “No, Mr Jenkins… Should there be?”

“Sophie, I am waiting for a cheque.   It is an important one and it’s worth €500.   I assumed that the company had failed to send it, but when I telephoned them today, they assured me that they had sent it by registered post.   And then when I checked with the Post Office, I found that it had been signed for.   By a young girl speaking English.   Can you cast any light on the matter?”

I looked – and felt – guilty.   Clearly the game was up.   I could only apologise profusely and promise that such a thing would never happen again.

“You’re quite right.   It won’t ever happen again.   I am going to report you to the police.”

The police?   Surely he wouldn’t do that.   My cousins had already told me that they would do anything to avoid the police being involved in any of their misdoings as my uncle would immediately hear of it and insist on dealing with the matter summarily – and severely.   I gaped at Mr Jenkins in shock.

“Oh, Mr Jenkins, please, not the police.   Anything but the police!”

“Anything, young lady?”

“Anything, sir.”

“Well, Sophie, had you been a local girl, I’d have whipped you for this – it’s what they do.   But you’re English, so I’m going to have to leave this to the police.”

“Sir, please, not the police.   And – I’m half Cypriot…”

“Hmmm….”   Mr Jenkins picked up a local paper that was sitting on the sideboard.   He flourished it at me and started reading out the sentences that local girls had recently received for theft… eighteen months’ detention, a year’s hard labour.   He seemed to be getting rather excited at the thought and I cringed.

“Well, Sophie, if you’d rather be whipped…”

“Please sir, anything but the police.”

“Sophie, give me your skirt and knickers and put your hands on your head.”

I obeyed, suddenly scared.

“Bend over the table and hold tight to the other side.   If you stand up or move your hands, we’ll start again.”

I gripped the edge of the table hard and resolved not to get up as Mr Jenkins manoeuvred himself behind me.   I saw him pick up a wicked-looking birch made of four olive branches, gaffer-taped together at one end.

“Five hundred Euros.   That’s a lot of money.   Forty strokes, I think.   You will count them and thank me”

I yelped as he let fly the first stroke but didn’t let go of the table.   He seemed rather affronted that I hadn’t let go, and started whipping me harder.   Sometimes he spaced the strokes out, and sometimes let loose with a flurry of quick ones.   I find strokes in quick succession rather hard to take, and although I didn’t let go, the table moved several times and I was made to drag it back into position in the middle of the room.

Eventually the forty strokes were done and I breathed a sigh of relief.   I was allowed to stand up and retrieve my clothes.

But then: “I am now going to write a letter to your uncle,” pronounced Mr Jenkins, “so that he knows what you have done and can be assured that I have dealt with the matter.   You will take it to him now and will return within an hour, so that you can start your cleaning.”

He handed me a note.   Dutifully, I thanked him, and mournfully turned to the door, walking a little stiffly.

As I reached the door, I heard a laugh.   Abel was back.   We hugged and admired my stripes, and headed for the bedroom.   And then, as we cuddled up, a thought struck him…

“Sophie, how would your uncle deal with this?”

Oh no.

“Er… he’d probably strap me, sir.”

“With something like this?”

Abel was now holding a black strap.   It’s one of his meanest implements.   I’d felt it before and knew what a nasty sting it was capable of imparting.

“Bend over the end of the bed.   Forty strokes.”

And that’s how Sophie ended up getting not only a birching, but also a sound strapping – and all before dinner.

18 thoughts on “Playing the scene

  • 21 September, 2008 at 12:15 pm
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    That is quite, quite scary. Better you than me, my dear :)

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 2:00 pm
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    LOL it *was* scary. But it was also really hot. And I do, deep down, know that I can totally trust Abel not to take me to places that I can’t actually go – even if I’m not sure I can do it before I do, if you see what I mean?!

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 2:08 pm
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    80 strokes in total… I agree with Haron, that’s really scary. I think I would probably pass out after about 30 (but then I am a wuss!)

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 7:09 pm
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    I’m so glad there wasn’t a part about having to pick up the bits of twig from all over the floor! :-)

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 8:45 pm
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    Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow… 40 with the strap as well?! I would say that makes you about 40 times braver than me!

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 9:30 pm
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    He didn’t even let you wait until after dinner?! I thought it was supposed to be a bedtime strapping!!!
    I hope you had a nice dinner afterward and dessert.

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 9:55 pm
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    ** NEWSFLASH **

    Young Sophie was arrested yesterday on a charge of theft from her new employer.

    Police gathering evidence questioned her previous employer, Mr Jenkins, and were shocked to find that she had stolen a cheque from him and been punished.

    She confessed her guilt to this new offence, and was taken to the police cells where she was given 50 hard strokes of the cane.

    By late evening, she was still reportedly in considerable discomfort…

    (Phew, that was another very hot scene as a follow-on to the one Cath describes in her post!)

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 10:16 pm
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    Gosh, Abel, didn’t your arm get tired after all that? You poor, poor thing.

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 10:17 pm
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    *shakes head slowly*

    You are quite the sadist, Abel.

    And Cath, I’m impressed! *smile*

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  • 21 September, 2008 at 11:06 pm
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    Wow. Cath is *brave*.

    I hope your arm is tired, Abel. Very tired. I hope it doesn’t recover for, like, a fortnight.

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  • 22 September, 2008 at 12:56 am
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    Hmm… Mr. Jenkins promised not to involve the police and then made poor Sophie deliver a letter to her uncle who is technically a police officer? Not fair at all!

    If 80 strokes is the punishment for stealing, I wonder what the punishment is for misrepresenting yourself and breaking an oral contract? Doesn’t sound good for Mr. Jenkins…

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  • 22 September, 2008 at 3:39 am
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    Indy – sadly, olive twigs don’t shatter like birch ones. Not if they’re from young trees, anyway. They seem to be virtually indestructible. So there wasn’t an awful lot of clearing up to be done.

    Puella – yes, we had a very nice supper, thank you! But I still think the restaurant was conspiring against me, because the seats were solid wood.

    Abel – your description of the follow-up scene *so* doesn’t do it justice. It wasn’t merely “50 hard strokes of the cane.” It was an acrylic cane, which is really dense and painful to start with; then you made me bend really far over so that there was less natural padding in the way. Poor Sophie was traumatised 😉

    (But thank you for a wonderful week and I hope you’ve had a good flight – missing you so much already xxx)

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  • 23 September, 2008 at 6:29 am
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    Great comments! Elspeth’s is interesting: does whacking Cath this hard make me a ‘sadist’?

    I think if I’d given this number of strokes to someone unwilling, or where it went way beyond their tolerance levels, that it would indeed be sadistic.

    But with a partner who craves hard spankings? The motivation’s not to pain her but to give her pleasure through pain. Which isn’t a sadistic motive at all…

    Em: Mr Jenkins saw there being a big difference between the girl being dragged before the courts, damaging her family name and her uncle’s reputation, and it being dealt with by him and her uncle directly. And he wasn’t to know that Sophie’s uncle would take the strap to her, was he?! 😉

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  • 23 September, 2008 at 5:07 pm
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    I daresay it’s a matter of perspective and interpretation. I self-identify as a submissive-masochist; my love self-identifies as a dominant-sadist. The giving of pain for mutual sexual pleasure is a thing we define (as do many others) as being a form of sadism.

    I was not trying to label or otherwise define you or your actions. My comment was ill-considered, but I assure you, I had no ill-intent. If anything *faint smile* I was admiring.

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  • 23 September, 2008 at 6:39 pm
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    Abel: with the greatest respect, don’t even try to suggest that you whip me purely for my gratification! 😉

    I’m taking a wild stab in the dark here, but I have a vague suspicion that you were deriving pleasure from the experience itself, as well as from my enjoyment of the situation – otherwise you might as well be vanilla, which you totally aren’t 😉 And that, my dear, makes you something of a sadist. Which is one reason I love you.

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  • 24 September, 2008 at 6:33 am
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    Hi, Elspeth – don’t worry: I didn’t take your comment as being critical, and it was very considered. It really sparked my interest.

    And whipping Cath is most gratifying!

    I think what I’m floundering with is that the concept of a “sadist” implies – to me – that the person concerned takes pleasure primarily or purely from another’s pain. That is, his own gratification is the most important thing – indeed, perhaps the only important thing.

    Were I a pure sadist, therefore, I’d thrash every girl I play with to the same extent as in this scene. Which, of course, I don’t: it has to be influenced by what the bottom concerned can take (nay, likes?) in terms of severity.

    So I’m intrigued by Elspeth’s idea that the phrases “mutual” and “sadism” are not incompatible. And I like Cath’s “something of a sadist” – LOL although I wonder whether that’s akin to “something of a virgin”: surely you are, or you aren’t?

    Fascinating. I must read some more de Sade!

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  • 24 September, 2008 at 7:20 pm
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    Oh, dear. I’ve really started something, haven’t I?

    *ponders*

    It’s always problematic, when a label is used as a definition, which I think is part of what’s going on here. I do feel there are degrees of sadism: absolutely. Likewise, masochism runs the spectrum from mild, occasional and circumstantial to extreme and ever-present. So the phrase “something of a sadist” is appropriate. (In general, I mean: not knowing you, I cannot say if it’s applicable to you, Abel).

    But then there are also various “types” of sadism: physical versus emotional, for example. I have no interest in being involved with a man who is an emotional sadist. That’s not the sort of masochist I am.

    It’s just a matter of determining — if one is interested in performing such a self-analysis — where one falls on the spectrum. In my experience, it’s going to vary over time, with maturity, due to one’s health, and depending on one’s partner, and so on. Amongst other things, we humans generally tend to temper our needs according to those of our partners.

    I’m intrigued by Elspeth’s idea that the phrases “mutual” and “sadism” are not incompatible.

    Mmm. Well, I was speaking personally of course, referring to he-who-is-known-as-Hawk and myself. He derives pleasure (I’m trying to be non-explicit here) through giving me pain. Likewise, I derive pleasure from receiving said pain from him. So it’s mutual, and it involves the infliction of (his choice of) pain, so that’s sadistic; and even though it hurts like a blank-blank-blank I like it, so that’s masochism.

    By my definition, anyway. And perhaps I’d best stop there! *smile*

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