Unrepentant

Back last November, I played a great scene with the lovely Lily Bolane, who comments here on a fairly regularly basis. She subsequently wrote a story inspired by our little encounter. With her permission, and rather belatedly (mea culpa!), I’m pleased to publish it here for your delectation. Enjoy!

 

Unrepentant

Kitty looked down at the neatly printed letter again, still wondering, several days after receiving it, how anyone had managed to find out.

Katherine Granger,

It has been determined that your conduct of late has fallen some way short of the standards that you are expected to uphold. Particularly, our attention has been drawn to the number of ‘cheeky’ emails, verging at times on insolent, that you have been sending. In addition, we understand that you have been spending a considerable amount of time reading erotic publications and websites, and encouraging others in reckless behaviours via a number of internet forums.

An appointment has therefore been booked for you with a Disciplinary Officer at 10.30am sharp on Tuesday, 22 November in Belgravia. You should report to the Victoria Disciplinary & Correction Centre five minutes before the time stated above.

You should ensure that you are dressed smartly, although please note that you may be required to remove certain garments (or have them removed) during the morning. To avoid possible confusion, you should understand that corporal punishment will be administered to you during your appointment.

Please confirm receipt of this note by return. Tardy responses or ones with an inappropriate tone may result in an increase to the tariff already being considered for your correction.

Yours faithfully,

A. Parks

HM Disciplinary Services

South-East Division

Kitty frowned at it again as she pushed open the door to the Disciplinary and Correction Centre, then put it back into her pocket. Someone must have snitched. It was the only explanation. Time to figure that out later. For now she just had to get out of here, take it, and escape. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done, and she wasn’t going to let the fascist bastards break her down.

A dried up looking matron –type pointed her too a hard wooden chair in the foyer, and picked up the phone. “Mr Parks will collect you shortly.”

Kitty nodded and began to play a game on her phone to distract her. Time ticked past, 10.30 came. And went. He’s making me wait she thought, on purpose. Bastard. Her score racked up. So did the passing minutes. Wants to make me think about what he’s going to do with me. She gave a sour frown at her phone. Bastard. It was working too. The reports were widely discussed on the forums and the news groups. Lucky girls got a hand or a paddle for the first offense. Others were not so fortunate. And repeat offenders muttered darkly about the tawse and the crop and the cane. And they all agreed on one thing. It hurt more than anything else. Like nothing else they’d ever experienced. Even the women who’d had babies said it was worse.

10.45. Bastard.

“Miss Granger.” Kitty stood to see Mr Parks, at her shoulder. Damn he could move quietly. The middle-aged man looked more like a teacher or an office worker than someone who beat young women for Her Majesty’s Government. This way.” She tucked her phone back in her jacket. Time to get this over with. “

The room he took her too was institutional. Magnolia walls, an incongruously jaunty and colourful Mondrian print on one wall. On the other a rack of implements. A shelf on top with a selection of paddles. Hanging underneath, a selection of canes, and straps and tawses. In the centre, the punishment bench with its padded top. Mr Parks sat on a dark ladder- back chair next to the desk.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Because someone either snitched or fucked up. “Yes Sir.” And suddenly she couldn’t look at him. She wanted to be proud and defiant, but it was like someone had just cut her strings. “I’m told my communication style can be…” she struggled for the words, “inappropriate,” she decided at last.

Stony silence yawned ahead of her, demanding she fill it. “And I like to read…” be honest, you like to read porn, glorious erotica full of group sex and lewd acts that get you all hot and turned on. “…naughty stories,” she finished lamely. At least they hadn’t found out what she wrote… She stared at the linoleum floor, bald grey tiles devoid of personality.

“And what do you have to say for yourself.”

Kitty shrugged, “I’m bubbly, I’m not sorry for being myself.”

A look that said, “You will be” greeted her. Then Mr Parks said, “You are going to receive a hand spanking and the paddle to warm you up. Then you will receive your actual punishment. Twelve strokes of the tawse. Do you understand?”

Twelve with the tawse? For the first offence? (Be honest Kitty, first time getting caught) That was unspeakable. “Yes Sir.” It was the safest thing she could say.

“Bend over my lap.”

She did as she was told, balancing precariously on her heeled boots and hands. At least she would get to keep her clothes on. There was no further preamble. He spanked her, hard. Blows rained down and she lost count, back and forth on each cheek, high and low, until her entire bottom was tingling.

“Stand up.” She pushed herself up awkwardly. That hadn’t been so bad. “Remove your trousers.” She blushed, even though she had been warned it might happen. Kicking off her shoes, she turned her back, unable to undress facing him. Suddenly awkward fingers fumbled with her fly, and finally she got the trousers undone. Then she hesitated again. She looked at the Mondrian. The bright colours were distracting. She didn’t want to strip in front of him. “You are not here for art appreciation. Remove your trousers.”

Finally she was able to push them down and hang them on a hook next to the Mondrian. Then she was instructed to resume her position. There was a small oval paddle in his hands, probably retrieved when her back was turned. With heels off, her balance felt more secure. That was good, she felt better able to withstand the impending onslaught

“You will now get twenty with the paddle. And whilst I administer them, I want you to dwell on why you are here, and the importance of not crossing the line between bubbly,” there was a slight hint of sarcasm, “and impertinent. Understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Ready?”

“Yes Sir.”

She was expecting slaps. But she felt a finger in the waistband of her knickers, and the flimsy fabric was drawn down to her knees. She was going to get it on the bare. Evil sod! Twisted bastard was probably enjoying this too, sick little –

Crack! Crack Crack! A fusillade of blows echoed around the room, and she stopped thinking of anything other than the pain. Her backside sang and throbbed and all she wanted to do was straighten up and rub her poor behind. But that wasn’t going to happen. Kitty just gritted her teeth and glared at his brogues, black and neatly polished. The pain was building, but still tolerable, though now she was breathing hard.

“How many was that?”

Huh? Mr Parks’s question brought her attention away from her breathing. How many? She wasn’t sure. “Ten Sir? I think.” Silence. It was ten wasn’t it? She hadn’t been counting closely. “Definitely ten.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir,”

No comment on whether or not she was right. “Then there’s ten more.”

She gave his shoes a foul look. She had no idea if she had shortened or prolonged the ideal. No, not shortened. She would not have been let off with less. The paddle rained down again. “That was five.” Kitty didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. She was focused now only on breathing, and staying upright, keeping her hands flat on the floor. There was just a short break, two breaths, maybe three, and then the last five were delivered, just as swiftly just as hard.

He put his hand on the centre of her back as the fading echoes of the smacks were covered by her heavy breathing. “Breath deep, breathe slow,” he murmured. He allowed her a few moments to compose herself, and then helped her to stand. “I think a short break. Stand in that corner, face the wall, hands on your head.”

Without speaking she gratefully headed to the indicated position, tugging her knickers up as she went.

“Stop!” Mr Parks took her arm and pulled her back over his lap and the paddle was applied again, a dozen more brisk strokes. “You weren’t given permission to pull your knickers up. Now back over there.”

She shuffled to the corner and put her hands on her head, blinking away the tears that threatened to spring up. Insult to injury, she tried to not think about what was coming next, but it kept creeping back in. Twelve strokes of the tawse. Was she going to make it? Yes she was. She was, she absolutely was. They were not going to break her. She was not going to let them win. But her buttocks were on fire already, and she couldn’t think more than two words without the throb from her rear interrupting.

Just as she thought he’d forgotten about her, she heard him unhook his chosen tawse. “Remove your knickers and come here.” Hands trembling she unhooked her knickers from her knees and stepped out of them, taking a few moments to fold them neatly. Then she slowly walked over to where he stood next to the punishment bench. She couldn’t look at him, sternness and disappointment was radiating from him, she couldn’t bear to see it. Shame and humiliation fluttered in her heart when all she wanted was to be strong and defiant.

But looking down she could see the tawse. It was maybe an eighth of an inch thick, made of old, supple, well cared for leather. It was perhaps 3 feet long in total, 18 inches being divided into four lashes about a half inch wide each. It looked almost innocuous, and yet from all reports it was fearsome.

“I trust you are beginning to appreciate the consequences of your behaviour?” Mr Parks said quietly. “That you must behave with all correct decorum in future, that you cannot continue in such an unmannerly fashion.”

All she could mumble was a barely audible “No Sir.”

“Bend over the bench and put your hands on the top.” When she had taken position, bracing herself against the onslaught, he continued. “You will count each stroke and thank me for it. If you cannot maintain position, not only will you will be tied down, but I will be forced to begin again from the beginning. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Whether Kitty was gritting her teeth from fear of the pain, or outrage at the added indignity of thanking him, even she didn’t know.

SMACK!

She gulped in a breath of air and then hissed it out through clenched teeth, rocking on her arms as the blow hit her.

Mother!

Fucker!

The howl of pain and fury was entirely internal. All she vocalised was “One, thank you, Sir.”

SMACK!

Shit! Bugger! Fuck! It was a long moment before she was able to squeak out, “Two, thank you, Sir.”

SMACK!

This time she couldn’t even manage words, just curled her fingers into claws to hang onto the top of the bench rather than leap up. “Three…Thank you… Sir.”

Four passed with a whimper before she could speak. With the fifth she let out a yelp, and at the next stroke it was a howl that she hastily turned into “Six, thank you sir.” She couldn’t even describe the pain anymore. Just wanted to roll into a little ball and cry. But not in front of him. No. No, no, no. She wasn’t going to be so weak.

He walked around her, judging the condition of her bottom. After a pause he said. “All the way onto the bench. On all fours.”

She crawled into position, unthinkingly obedient, just wanting the ordeal to end as quickly as possible. The new position made her buttocks tense, and the tender flesh began to throb again.

Crack! Seven hurt more than ever. Her arms buckled, and she ended up with her cheek pressed against the leather of the bench. The count was just whispered. He must have been feeling generous because he didn’t correct her position.

Eight landed and she screamed loud. He hadn’t adjusted her position, because he must have known it word hurt more. The count was caught between sobs, and she struggled up on wobbly arms.

Maybe he was feeling merciful. Nine through eleven came so fast she barely had time to count, and by the time he paused she was crying freely wailing, sobbing out loud and if she was counting, it was barely audible between the howls and wails. He gave her time to compose herself. In reality it was just time for the sharp pain to fade, but the deep throbbing pain to build until every twitch set off new agony.

She heard the twelfth stroke before it landed. The tawse hissed as it cut the air with all the force Parks could give it.

WHACK!

She screamed a long high pitched wail of agony. The force of the blow through her forward and she collapsed on top of the punishment bench, crying uncontrollably. Parks merely waited until she got her breathing under control enough to finally get out a subdued and miserable, “Twelve, thank you, sir.”

“You can get dressed now.” He turned away and she stiffly raised herself from the bench, and scrubbed her tears away with the back of her hand. Pulling her clothes on was just a new torture against her tender skin, and her soft bottom now felt solid, like a pound of well tenderised steak.

“I hope you understand now the error of your ways.” Mr Parks said as she turned to face him once her trousers were fastened. “Curb your enthusiasm in future.” He held his pen out to her so she could sign the form to acknowledge receiving her sentence.

She signed with a shaky hand. And then Mr Parks escorted her back to the front office. “I hope I don’t see you again, Miss Granger.”

“No Sir.” Kitty muttered, before gratefully escaping into the fresh air and freedom, walking away from the Corrections Centre as fast as she was able. After a few steps the pain began to lesson. By the time she was at the end of the lock, she was smiling. She had survived, oh it was terrible at the time, but the pain was a fading memory already. She had survived, and she could survive it again, if she had to. By the time she reached the end she was signed in to her naughty twitter account, and working out her tweet.

Survived Sentence. 12 with tawse on bare! Bowed, metaphorically bloody, but not broken. Only sorry got caught. #dontletthebastardsgrindyoudown