Bad Girls (12 page)

I know this sounds like bad porn, Tom. I know this doesn't really make sense, but it does feel like I could never be angry at you because you care enough to do this to me. It would make sense for me to be mad at you for being so harsh, but I just couldn't be. If I gave you mixed messages last night, I regret it and am ready to be punished for it.

Yours

Ellen

At 6:05PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

Yes, Ellen, I think your abuse of the safeword deserves to be punished. Like crying wolf it makes things less safe. Your implicit threat – that you could reproach me later for ignoring you – was manipulative. I understand that you were scared and that you wanted to minimize your pain, but that's not what punishment is about. If you want me to give you what you need, you'll need to accept it. I know it's impossible to be brave when you're being beaten like that, but you'll have to learn to control your worst impulses.

I'm very proud of you for asking for the punishment you deserve, but your ass seems quite insatiable. If you can control yourself during your spanking, then you'll know you've taken a big step towards being able to control yourself in the rest of your life.

Tom

At 6:55PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

All this makes me so hot, Tom, but let's be serious for a minute. I could come for hours when you talk to me like that. God, I love it, but do you see how I am? I talk about wanting you to take me away, release me, push me beyond it all, but when you're doing it I fight you and finally find a way to beat you. I want to frustrate you, to infuriate you. Who do you think you are? I know I can checkmate you with the safeword. Even next time I could.

You see, I work at cross-purposes; finally depriving myself of the very thing I say I need. But what kind of grown woman really needs a spanking? I'm just saying I do so we can both jerk off some more, right? Sometimes I think it has to be more. You'll have to do more to me than just spank me. Sometimes I want you to lock me in a room and take me away from it all. Normally I'm my own prisoner; I guard myself so closely, damning myself to a life in solitary confinement. What if you did it for me? Would I like myself more if I weren't my own worst enemy? So do it to me, Tom. Make me call in sick at work, tie me up, feed me and let me out like a dog, spank me, yell at me, lecture me, hit me, fuck me, watch me cry, be my daddy, because it's not a game. It's what we are and let's stop denying it.

Ellen

PS: What makes me like this?

At 8:00PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

PS: What makes me like this?

Do you want to know? My guess? Maybe it's a sort of haunting. I think you might be haunted by an impossibility, by a man who can be more than a boyfriend or a lover, a man who loves you completely and to whom you feel utter devotion and from whom you feel complete protection. He's serene and beneficent, powerful and authoritative. But this is only one side of him, right? He's an animal, too. He beats you. He takes you, like an angel trapped in the devil's claw. He fucks you and violates you. In other words, he's the daddy you wish you had.

Here's the problem with you, Ellen. You open your heart to me. I'm moved by your vulnerability. I'm accepting of the parts of you that you show to me. I love your bravery and courage, but then, in the middle of it all, you totally provoke me. You provoke me with your manipulation, with your certainty that you can manipulate me. You tell me how difficult you are; how you want to upset me, anger me. The small Ellen, the tender little girl I love, suddenly begins refusing, calling safeword like she's a stubborn bitch.

Then I'll grab your wrists like a child and drag you to your room. I won't even give you the pleasure of thinking you've really enraged me. I might even crack a smile at your feeble effort to lash out. It's laughable the way you try to come back strong and hard after showing me your soft underbelly. Stay with the soft parts. Let the soft parts of us meet without having to harden in anger and rage.

If you won't let this happen, then I'll be glad to lock you in your room. I'll be glad to make you cry and beg and shit and piss in front of me. I'll be cruel and furious. Then there'll be none of that beautiful soul business. None of that baby bird in the palm of my hand shit.

Then I'll humiliate you and fuck you. You will be weak and fragile; you will cry in despair; but I won't come to hold you or comfort you until you've learned that you don't come back at me with provocation and derision. I think this is what you want. I think I should brace myself for whatever is going to get it for you, shouldn't I? Be careful, Ellen.

At 8:12PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

I won't do it. You're being ridiculous. You're taking things too far. Now I can see why you don't have a real girlfriend and have to get off on the Internet. Stop it, Tom. You're really scaring me.

At 8:43PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

You always wondered what it would take to change you. We tried a spanking and see how much good that did? You wear too much armor. It's the armor that makes you act out in the first place. You feel like you float above life; you feel numb, so you need to prod at things a little. You're provoking me because you're desperate to have your armor pierced. You're desperate to feel life again.

But the thought of piercing your armor must be pretty awful. You know just how hard someone would have to be to get that deep into you. You want to be touched, but when someone gets too close you cut them off. You try to drive them away like you're trying to drive me away now. But the one who pierces your armor isn't going to go away. He isn't going to do what you tell him. No one's ever done that before, but it'll happen, Ellen. Trust me, it will happen. I will make it happen.

At 8:47PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

Who do you think you are?

At 9:12PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

Who do I think I am? You want to know who I think I am? I'm the one who will take your shit because I believe in you more than you believe in yourself. I'm betting it'll be worth it, but I'm under no illusion that you'll make it easy.

Go unlock your door. Good. Now put on this blindfold, Ellen. It's Wednesday evening now. The next time you take it off will be Friday morning. When you hear your door open you won't know if it's me or not.

You'll have no idea what I'm going to do to you. You won't even know if I'm there or not. You won't know if I'm going to fuck you or beat you. You won't know if it's going to be a dildo or my cock. You won't know if it's going to be in your pussy or up your ass. When you're hungry and thirsty you won't know whether I'll feed you or let you drink. When you're sitting on the toilet you won't know whether I'm watching and you won't even be able to look at the toilet paper to check if your ass is clean.

Say goodbye to daylight, Ellen, and don't even think about removing the blindfold without my permission. So much as a peek and you're not leaving your room until Monday. Good. Now take off your clothes. Don't protest. This is only the beginning. That's a great ass you've got, Ellen. Maybe we should take a picture so you can remember how it looked before it was covered with bruises. It won't look that good again for a long while.

How's your pussy? Are you having your period? No? You have to piss? No? Good, because it's six hours until you get to go to the bathroom, and if you make a mess before then you'll sleep in it tonight. God, look at those tits. You are a hot one. You know I hear that the most painful part of nipple clamps is when they come off and the circulation returns? I've never quite believed that because I've never made anyone keep them on for longer than a few minutes and they've found that intolerably excruciating, but maybe you'll be able to tell me if it's really worse afterwards.

Oh, and Ellen? I'm going to leave you alone in a minute, but first I'm going to spank you. It will be worse than anything you've ever felt but it will be nothing compared to what's to come. After that I'll leave you alone, in the dark, forbidden from putting on your clothes or listening to music or leaving your room. I'll leave your door open so I can see in, but unless the desire for a good fuck becomes too great, I won't come back for hours. Then it'll be time for your toilet and your real beatings to begin. By then you'll be relieved for any contact at all.

What, no safeword now? Oh, poor little Ellen. You should have thought of how it would feel to really be punished before you cut your little play punishment so short. It's too late for safewords now.

At 9:31PM on 5/11/04,
[email protected]
wrote:

I'm really doing it, Tom. You can't see me, but you have to believe me. It's real, just like the hotel room. My door is unlocked, open for anyone to come in and do whatever they want to me. I'm tied naked to my bed; as well as I can tie myself, leaving my hands free enough to type. I won't untie myself until you tell me I can. I need to pee but I'm awaiting you to tell me I can. If I can't hold it until you do, I'll pee and sleep on wet sheets until you tell me I can change them.

I don't think I'll be able to take it, but I know I have to do what you say. I hope you know best, because I'm in your hands now. I want to tell you I can't do this, but my heart tells me to trust you. Go ahead, Tom, show me what I can take.

Mr Dawes asked me to write down the reasons why I needed a spanking and to email them to him before my appointment. This has been a pretty typical week. Leaving aside even the big issues – not living up to my potential, squandering my time, being careless – a list of the week's misdemeanors would look something like this:

Monday: Convinced a nerdy shoe salesman named Aaron to give me 50% off some very expensive pumps by calling him honey and letting him gaze down my V-neck at my tits.

Tuesday: Called Gene, my editor at work, and told him I wouldn't be in. Cramps. If he kept track he would notice I'm awfully irregular.

Wednesday: Got Nick, a guy with a hopeless crush on me, to take me to lunch because I was broke and then thought less of him because he let himself be played so easily.

Thursday: Gave a designer at work the doe-eyed, hand-stroking-his-chest treatment to get him to cover for me so I could leave early. ‘Oh, would you, Ted?' I cooed. ‘You're such a lifesaver.'

Now it's Friday, and for the first time in a long time, I'm not going to get away with it.

It's generally been my experience that being manipulative, bitchy and dishonest has paid off handsomely. My grades at university and my salary at my jobs have always been artificially inflated. At the same time my police record, my bar tabs and write-ups in my personnel file have a tendency to mysteriously get wiped clean. Thanks to habitual lying, flirting, and the occasional tears, I've been able to go through life permanently late, totally irresponsible and utterly inconsiderate. Even my friends think I'm an immature brat. My shrink tells me my issues are a poignant cry for love and care.

Mr Dawes knows what I'm really crying for, though. I thought he would. That's how I came up with the idea of making an appointment with him in the first place. He remembers me from Bakersfield Hall. We saw a lot of each other, first when he was my favorite teacher and later when he became assistant headmaster. Back then most of the crying I was doing was across his lap. Now I'm going back. I still can't believe I rang him. Nor can I believe he agreed. But he liked me, and Bakersfield Hall has a reputation for being generous to its alumni. We can return whenever we please to use the library or just stroll the grounds. Some alumnae remember the chapel so fondly that they choose to get married there. I wonder if I'm the first alumna to request the use of the school cane.

I secretly hope Mr Dawes will be pleased to see the woman I've grown into. I'm tall, with flowing dark hair. What I've lost in girlishness since the last time he saw me, I've made up for in elegance. I want so badly to feel an undercurrent of lust from him, the same lust I feel when I remember him. I don't think he'll be surprised that I'm in trouble, though. He could see it coming when I was a student, and he warned me that I gave in too easily to my worst impulses. He hasn't seen me in ten years, but he knows me better than most who have. We don't really change, I guess. Who we were when we were teenagers is who we'll always be.

As I climb the stairs to his office, I remember who I was then. My memories take me back even before the first time he disciplined me. I remember when he was my literature teacher. That was four years before the first time I lowered my panties and bent over for him. I was just sixteen. I had such a schoolgirl crush on him. He was tall and thin. He dressed well and had just a bit of endearing gray mixed in his soft, brown hair. He was new at Bakersfield and couldn't have been over thirty-five. More than twice my age at the time, but who cared? I read all the books for his class and loved them. I worked hard to write papers that would please him. He smiled at me a lot – more than at the other girls, I thought. But he was also on guard against our flirtations. He knew well enough to keep his distance, but that didn't stop him from being my all time favorite teacher.

By the time I was in my final year he had been promoted to assistant headmaster. I didn't see him around much anymore. He had his own office on the third floor, far from where students went if they had any choice in the matter. Unfortunately, I frequently found myself having little choice. The first time I was to be punished by him I was secretly glad to have an excuse to be alone with him. But that was before I felt the cane. After that I never ceased to like him, even to want him in my girlish way, but I always feared my visits to his office.

Now I feel the fear again. My breathing is rapid, and not just from the three flights of stairs. A nervous sweat makes my skin tingle under my blouse. I really thought I had felt this sense of dread for the last time. When I think about it though, the trouble I got into then is the same as the trouble I get into now. Maybe I've been feeling that dread nonstop for a decade. The difference is that now I'm facing up to it.

I'm a little proud to have called him and I think I assume he'll be impressed with me for it. He always told me that it was never too late to own up to your behavior. I wonder if I'll still find him as irresistible as I did then. I'm almost excited, the way any single, twenty-eight-year-old would be when anticipating time with a man who once made her go flush in the face and moist between the legs.

I remember the secretary, a Mrs Taylor, who would always look at us mournfully as we passed her desk on our way into Mr Dawes' office. I'm sure we wore expressions of doom on our faces. I can only imagine everything she heard coming from behind that closed door over the years. Afterwards she would glance sympathetically at us, averting her eyes so as not to embarrass us any further but always offering us a tissue if we were still sniffling. She must have retired years ago, I think to myself before I hesitantly knock on the door. The new secretary could very well be my age. What will she think of me? At that moment the door opens and Mrs Taylor appears. I blush and can't look her in the eye. Just like the old days.

‘It's good to see you again, Gwen,' she says. ‘So sorry it couldn't be under more pleasant circumstances. Mr Dawes is awaiting you.' She ushers me into his office and closes the door.

And there he is.

He's the same man, still slim and good-looking, though a little grayer. Age has made him look more stern and more dignified, so that I feel like the relative gap between our ages has increased rather than diminished. He looks at me from behind his desk. I'm speechless, and he does nothing to try to make me feel more comfortable. I can feel my cheeks burning red as he just looks at me with an expression of disappointment on his face. How many times have I seen that expression on the faces of bosses, teachers and boyfriends? It makes me feel a little like crying.

‘Please understand, Gwen, that I tried to do everything I could for you when you were here. I'm terribly sorry to have failed you.'

He's apologizing to me!

‘I give you my word that we will do everything we can to help you. All females of Bakersfield Hall are special to me, even the ones who left us years ago. I remember you especially well. You were in the first class I taught here. Even then I knew you'd be someone I'd always cherish – and someone I'd always have to keep an eye on. I thought you might need to come back. I confess that part of me has been hoping you would.'

At this moment I love him so completely.

‘You understand that I wish I didn't have to do this, yet the pain an undisciplined girl like you can cause yourself is far greater in the long run than the pain I will use to teach you that your actions have consequences.'

When I thought about being spanked at this age, I was even more worried about being embarrassed in front of him than I was ten years ago, but I hadn't even anticipated the feeling of being lectured. Listening to him my shame is deeper and more complete than anything I ever felt when I was a teenager. My fear of what's about to happen becomes overwhelming. I'm afraid I'll die of humiliation if he spanks me like he did then. Surely he can't do it to me like that. He'll have to treat a grown woman differently.

But even as I comfort myself with these thoughts, I know they're not true. When I was eighteen I made the same argument to him. ‘I'm a grown woman,' I remember protesting, ‘You can't spank me bare-bottomed and bent over like some eight-year-old.' A grown woman? Ha! Even then I knew how little separated me from that naughty eight-year-old. Now I feel just like I did then, and I know that I'm going to get the same treatment as well.

‘I'm disappointed with you, Gwen. You're quite old enough to know better, but since you don't you'll please bend over.'

‘What?'

That's all the credit I get for coming here? I suddenly realize how much I want him to praise me for my courage. Can't he be the least bit understanding about how difficult this is for me? I give my best pout but he's unmoved. Certainly many girls go their whole lives behaving quite badly and are never brave enough to call the only man who's ever been honest about punishing her? I want him to like me, but at the same time I realize he does. If he didn't, he wouldn't have said yes. What do I expect? If I want him to respect me, I'll have to behave differently.

‘You heard me. Bend over. If you're going to pretend everything is okay, if you're going to pretend this is some friendly social call, then it's all the more indication how badly you need to be shown it's not.'

‘Please, I'm sorry.' I give up on composure. There's no way I can face the consequences of my actions with dignity. I'm desperate and ready to resort to lies and manipulations. ‘I'm afraid you misunderstood. I just needed to see you. I wanted your advice. This isn't really what I wanted.'

‘Bend over, Gwen,' he says firmly.

‘Please?'

‘Gwendolyn, this is the last time I'm asking. You can leave if you like, but you'll hate yourself for it. You're only showing me how much you need this spanking.'

My full name pierces me deep inside. He's right, of course. I bend over, though I can't make myself do it completely. I hear him sneer at my lackluster obedience, and I know I've pushed it too far.

‘Grab your ankles,' he snaps. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. I'm eighteen again, hot for him and scared of him and ashamed all at once.

He folds my skirt up above my waist. I begin to protest but stop myself. Deep down I knew this is how it would be when I decided to wear this skirt. Only my white panties cover my ass now. They're pulled taught across the valley that descends between my legs. They're the kind I wore back then. I thought them more appropriate for the occasion than the thongs I usually wear nowadays. Besides, they offer more modesty and protection – things I expect to be in short supply. I feel him looking at my ass, which is sticking up in the air like I'm waiting to get fucked by a man standing behind me. Instead I'm waiting to get spanked. I wonder whether he can see deep enough between my legs to make out the contours of my labia. He asks me if I know what's going to happen now.

‘I remember,' I say quietly.

‘Tell me,' he demands.

‘You're going to spank me.' I can barely get the words out and my voice falls to a whisper. It would be hard enough to say it without having to address him bent so low that I'm looking up at him from between my legs.

‘That's right,' he says. ‘But first I need to make sure you are adequately ashamed of yourself, not only for the way you've been behaving but for the shame you've brought on your alma mater. Now pull down your panties.'

Oh no, I think. He can't. Not now I'm grown. These days my panties only come off for boyfriends and doctors. Even in school he only made the worst girls get it on the bare. It only happened to me a fraction of the times. I can walk away. I'm an adult. How dare he?

I want to refuse, but I can't. It's taken all my courage just to come here. Now I've made it this far I can do nothing but give myself over to him. I'm his, but the stubborn little girl in me won't give up all the way. I slip my fingers in my waistband and lower the back of my panties a little way down my bottom. Maybe the top of my crack peaks out from above my waistband, but nothing more. They're still higher on my hips than my low-rider jeans.

‘All the way,' he says, bemused by the immaturity of my halfhearted attempt. I roll my panties down to my thighs and feel the air against my crack and my labia, now moist with nervous sweat and, truth be told, my arousal. The fresh air cools my backside. I know he can see everything. I'm unusually conscious of my asshole. So much for protection and modesty.

But it gets worse. He tells me he has a new way of spanking girls, so it won't be like I remember it. He used to be limited by the tradition of the school to giving the girls no more than six strokes with the cane. The boys, however, had been permitted ten.

‘In one of the stranger steps we've taken towards gender equality at Bakersfield Hall,' he explains. ‘We've increased the number of strokes permitted a girl by four. You'll note that the stripes become quite a bit worse with strokes seven through ten. Also, with so many strokes to deliver over such a small bottom, you can be assured that I'll have to land several on the same area of raw flesh. And please don't disturb Mrs Taylor with unnecessary crying. It will do nothing to diminish the severity of your punishment.'

Should I be happy that he called my bottom small? We used to hear a lot about those extra four strokes from our boyfriends. We had always considered ourselves lucky to have escaped them, wondering after our own punishments how the boys could possibly stand four more. Now, thanks to one of the more dubious accomplishments of the feminist movement, the girl pupils no longer have to worry that they receive fewer than the boys. I'm sure they are deeply relieved.