Abel's spanking blog & stories
So, Alice re-appeared at Mr Jenkins’ house. Not, of course that she’d been forgotten.
He was rather taken aback to see her when she knocked on the door, but the hug was heartfelt. He’d been uneasy about what had happened; about sending her to Mr Murdstone; about how her new owner had abused her during the interview. He’d hoped she was OK. And the chance to hold her tight was delightful; needed.
She was in tears: overcome by emotion at being back in the house that had been her home for so long. He had her sit next to him on the sofa; held her hand; told her of the letter he’d received from her employer praising her for her hard work. He was proud of her. It was so lovely to see her. He pushed the book he’d been reading to one side: “It’s about the Great Exhibition a few years ago. I went, you know: I must have told you about it?”
But why was she here? Murdstone was away for the weekend, it seemed. She’d been lonely and scared in his big house. She thought Mr Jenkins wouldn’t mind if she came to see him…?
Of course not. She was always welcome. But how was she doing? He tried to sound positive, fearing the reply. Her face said it all; he hardly needed to hear her tell that the intimacies she’d been forced to offer in the interview were being required of her regularly. Ashamed; scared; lost. Trembling. No hugs could quell her free-flowing tears.
He hoped she’d understood? That he had had to find her work. That his establishment depended on his so doing. That he’d been sorry to see her go; worried about her; but that he had to think of the other girls – and of future girls he could help. That he’d hoped that she, of all girls, might be strong enough to understand. To withstand. But the crumpled girl beside him clearly could not.
And, she blurted out, she’d lied. Murdstone wasn’t away in the country; she’d simply fled his house. She knew she shouldn’t have done, but she hadn’t been able to stand it a moment longer. He’d told her he was going to use her intimately that night in the one way he’d not yet taken her. She couldn’t bear it; it was so wrong. She was sorry not to have been honest.
He held her hand, shocked at what she’d said. An agreement was reached. He couldn’t keep her here: that she had to understand. She was Murdstone’s now, legally. But Jenkins couldn’t leave the other girls alone in the house; it was too late and dark and snowy for him to send Alice home. (And, anyway, doing so was the last thing he wanted). He’d let her stay for the night; she could use his bed and he’d sleep on the sofa. But in the morning, he’d have to send her back.
She was led upstairs. Only, before bed, he would need to deal with her for lying. She knew that. She’d always been an honest girl, he said. And no matter how hard times were, she should never lose sight of that. He was going to punish her – in the same way he’d punished her the very first time, when she’d arrived at the age of fourteen. Over his knees, her bottom bared. A hand spanking, as hard and sustained as he’d administered in many year. She sobbed. Oh, how she sobbed. And it was a relief to both of them, it seemed, when he could stop and tuck her up in bed with a chaste hug and goodnight kiss.
He turned off the light. He left her crying; prayed she’d find some peace and sleep. And he went back downstairs to finish his book. It was ten minutes later that the quiet evening was disturbed by loud banging at the door…
Now, here’s the thing. This was as intense a scene as I’ve ever played. Up to this point, the account’s written in the third person. It’s about the characters of Alice and Mr Jenkins. And as I started to write what happened next, I could only process it in the first person. Me, not him…
It was Murdstone at the door, demanding to be let in; I’d recognise his voice anywhere. He looked furious; I tried to calm him.
“It’s good to see you.” I reached out my hand. He almost crushed it as he shook it.
We stood in the corridor; I knew Alice must be able to hear what was happening. I dreaded what she must be thinking. He demanded loudly to know where she was: “I know she must be here.”
I explained what had happened as best I could so as to protect her. She’d been out for a walk; the snow had closed in; she’d been scared and had come to my house as it was close by. I’d told her she could stay til morning; I hadn’t wanted her to come to any harm out alone late at night.
“She’s my girl now. You have no business with her.” I was taken aback by the force of his anger; scared at what this man might do. He demanded her back; I told him we’d better go upstairs. (Oh, and later, how I wished I’d told him to leave: that she was sleeping; that she’d be back before breakfast).
She looked terrified as he burst into the bedroom. Cowered as he lectured her. She had no business leaving the house without permission; he’d made that very plain. Had she asked for permission?
I tried to intervene: reminding him how pleased he was with her work, of the letter he had sent. It wasn’t working; nothing I could do could calm his fury. Alice was to be punished, and severely. (But I’d already spanked her. Could I not have told him that? Saved her?)
He asked for an implement. I pointed him to the box of straps under the window. He picked one of the thickest and heaviest. (Should I not have chosen one for him? A light one – severe in looks but less so in application)
He made her kneel up on the bed: shoulders down, bottom high. I walked round and held her hands. The strokes were brutal: I watched her wince and sob through each, powerless to protect her. (But she’d been my favourite girl; my best girl. How could I have let it come to this?)
And then she clenched her fists, pushing my hands away. Absorbed in the battle to take the whipping – or rejecting me? Her former mentor, the person she trusted, who’d abandoned her knowingly to this brute? Her safest place; her home; violated. (How could I have done this to her? Should I not have sent Murdstone away when he first came looking for a girl, rather than ceding to his demands and the lure of his money? Would I not have found another employer for her soon?)
He only, actually, gave her seven strokes before stopping. He’d continue the punishment in private when he got her home – and then there was the other matter he’d told her he’d attend to that night.
I asked him to wait downstairs as Alice dressed. She was shaking as she stood before me. I tried to take her hand, to calm her. She was distant, distraught, desperate to leave. She’d lost any hope, any energy to fight. She was lost to me, for sure. And so I led her to the stairs, to her fate, and hated myself more than anything.
The deepest of roleplay, with such trusted play partners. The depth of my reactions astounded me, as did Alice’s. Or Bambi’s. Or both, as she and I each spent the next few hours drifting mentally and emotionally back from real life to our characters.
The Hunter played his part superbly. Mr Jenkins was genuinely intimidated by him, genuinely scared for Alice. I was at a loss how to dissuade him from his course of action. (And Murdstone’s anger and fury? Goodness, but he’s a good roleplayer!)
Later, Bambi and I cuddled; much-needed tight hugs. We talked about what had happened. About Alice. About what lay ahead for her. About how Mr Jenkins regretted having let her be taken by such a dreadful man; about how he wanted to rescue her – but about how this story couldn’t have a happy ending. Could it?
Wow. Just wow. Roleplay doesn’t get any better than this.