The Appointment

21Feb12

bare bottom in stockingsHelen sat in her car looking at the house. It was appointed in yellow brick with masonry edging at the corners and around the windows and doors. The roof was of dark grey slate and was steeply sloped so that it angled sharply into the early evening sky like a threat.

The house stood alone at the end of a lane, a little beyond the last street lamp on an unadopted road and it could not have filled Helen with more dread if it had been gothic and shrouded in mist.

What was she doing here, she asked herself and not for the first time. It was madness, sheer madness. Grown-up women of 30 did not do this. She was a solicitor for God’s sake. Everything in her life was sensible, controlled and predictable even.

Helen cast an eye around her immaculate car, a two-year-old red and black Mini, which was as clean and sharp as Helen was herself. For a moment she didn’t dare look in the mirror in case someone else was looking accusingly back at her, so she studied the house again for signs of life. Then turning back to the mirror she forced herself to confront the woman in the glass. Her own deep blue eyes assessed her dispassionately and her orange-red hair looked brighter than normal, sharper even, coiled and combed as it was, up and back on her head so that she appeared every inch a predator in her controlled legal world. If only she could become the girl in the reflection; her own double and free of herself, she thought.

She picked a fleck of fluff from the shoulder of her neat dark grey business suit and smoothed down the tight pencil skirt over her thighs. Then with one last glance in the mirror and a lick of her lips she reached for the handle of her car door and opened it decisively.

The black iron gate to the house was already open as if enticing her in and beyond it was a flagstone path with each paving slab set apart in the smooth front lawn like stepping stones leading to the front door. This was John Stamp’s house, she thought, letting the fact comfort her. She liked facts. Facts were control. The trouble was she had no idea who John Stamp was. Not really.

In all their correspondence he had demanded no picture of her and had supplied her with none. In a way that had been part of the appeal. It was dangerous and for once she was not in control.

Helen had first encountered John when she had come across his blog while idly surfing one day. It had been black and grey with no pictures. The neat passages of writing had been tight essays on philosophy and discipline and the philosophy of discipline. The ideas expressed were ludicrous. A litany of patronising prose and sexism that would have been more suitable to another age.

Nevertheless there had been something compelling about the words. They had been erotic in their own way and she had been hooked. Visiting John’s blog had become a secret guilty pleasure and she had come to eagerly await each new post with the anticipation of an addict.

“I once knew a young woman,” John wrote one day, “who was so utterly confused about who she was and in such a mess both at work and in her private life that I had had no compunction against taking down her knickers and putting her across my knee for a very sound spanking.”

Helen had become lightheaded at these words. She had read them and re-read them several times before she had been able to read on.

“She made a lot of fuss at first and her bare bottom became quite red,” he had continued, “But after a time she settled down into a kind of acceptance and finally she had a little cry.”

“‘You spanked me’ she had said, stating the painfully obvious,” John had reported, “but there had been no trace of accusation in her voice. Then she had gone like a lamb to the corner where she remained until I was ready to discuss her problems with her.”

The short passage had been so simple and so specific, it was a wonder that she cared at all. But she had been so angry the first time she read it and the second and third time. She had lain awake thinking about it until she had got up at three in the morning to read it again. Then she had slept and dreamt about dark shadowy men and stinging punishments that she could not quite remember the next day but which left her with a deep sense of longing.

Helen had become an even more avid reader of the blog after that, sometimes checking in two or three times a day, even though she knew the blog was only updated three or four times a week.

Sometimes John spoke casually about the women who came to him. There was no bragging tone to his words and more often his accounts were maddingly short of details. However he never said anything to identify his various mentees and Helen often found herself on a train or at the coffee shop wondering if the women around her harboured such secrets.

Then one day she had set-up a dummy email account. Even then it had taken her a month to actually contact him.

“Are you real?” Was all she had said.

John Stamp hadn’t replied for days until Helen had felt an impudent fool for her ham fisted attempt at making contact. I should have been more respectful, she thought, berating herself. The blunt question had been an insult she realised.

Then about a week later she had got a reply.

“I most certainly am real,” he had written. “Perhaps you are one of those political types who doesn’t believe there are women who have the courage to see the world how it is instead of how they ‘think’ they would like it to be.”

His reply was typical of his style and instead of being angry, she felt embarrassed. Like an errant schoolgirl who had been impudent to her betters.

Then he had asked, “What exactly is your interest? Or are you afraid to confront that question?”

These questions had troubled her. For long days afterwards she had refrained from replying. She had even stopped looking at his blog.

At first this had worked. It felt decisive and it felt like control. This was familiar territory for her. But her new resolve did not last long. All too soon she was lying awake at night as strange thoughts and feelings assailed her. In her mind she recalled past lovers and for once regretted their absence. Her hands and mind strayed where perhaps they shouldn’t, but instead of men she had known, anecdotes and stories from John Stamp’s blog rattled around her brain.

One night the urge became too strong and she awoke bathed in sweat and haunted by fading dreams. Kicking back her bedclothes, she went to her desk and opened up her laptop. The descriptions in John’s latest post was pure gold and they had left her slick and panting. She had wanted more.

Somewhere an owl had hooted; a stricken sound like a warning. In the years to come she would remember that moment as if that had been the turning point, although she knew in truth, the night hawk had no real importance. The decision had been hers. Instead of stopping, she chose to read on.

“I recently had a brief correspondence with a woman who asked if I was real,” John had written a few days after she had last read his blog. “The young woman, for I am certain she is young, is one of those who is looking for something and although she knows what it is, she pretends she does not. However, what she fears most is that she might find it.”

There was more and the words she read were so close to what she knew to be true that she cried. John had spoken of things that she did not know she had felt until the moment she read them on the screen.

The first of the sun was at her window before she had finished reading, but she knew what she had to do.

“Dear Mr Stamp,” she had written, “First let me apologise for my earlier impertinence, but sometimes things seem so right and too good to be true that you cannot accept them. You are afraid to accept them. But I see that you understand this perhaps better than I.”

They had corresponded for three months before he had suggested this meeting.

Helen took one last look around at the world as if fixing it in her mind against the possibility she would never see it again. The sun was low and burned red casting a bright orange red over everything so that the previously yellow brick house burned gold. Then turning to face the door she pressed the bell-push.

The doorbell sounded benign enough. But it was far off and seemed to belong to another exitence. It took an age before there was any sign of movement from within. Then she heard his footsteps on the passage floor beyond the door getting closer until at last the door opened.

He was a young 40-something dressed in  a sharp grey jacket worn over a black roll-neck and black drainpipe trousers which suited his slim frame. His dark eyes studied her sternly for a long moment before he allowed himself to smile.

“Helen?” He said taking half a step backwards, “Come in.”

John wasn’t surprised that she was attractive. He had already an inkling that she might be. However, he was not ready for this confident elegant woman to be quite such the dramatic beauty she was. As he politely ushered her in front of him he tried not to admire her firm round bottom thrusting defiantly beneath her tight skirt, it was a distraction that blurred his control.

“You know why you are here?” He said once they were inside his airy living room.

She didn’t answer at first but cast her eyes around the fine furnishings and dark brown leather seats set under striking moody landscapes that appeared to be original paintings.

“You may call a halt to the proceedings at any time right up to the point we actually begin,” he continued, “thereafter, although I expect a certain reluctance from you, I will assume you are willing to continue; just as we discussed.”

Helen nodded absently, reluctannt to meet his eyes as she looked about her. His voice was clear and firm she noted, although not especially deep. He had an educated accent, but with a trace of hard urban streets, like one who had been educated late or had risen above a more mundane background.

“What should I call you… I mean…?” Her voice was clipped and smooth with the confidence of an ex-public school girl, but she sounded a little uncertain now.

“Unless you wish to bring matters to and end or until we have a drink afterwards you will call me Mr Stamp or Sir,” he explained.

“Yes Sir,” she said, a little smile touching her lips. She felt a little frisson of pleasure and suddenly felt like she was in a play, devoid of all responsibility but to act her part.

They spoke for an hour as John showed Helen around the house. Mostly it was John who spoke; his calm assertive voice calming her fears as he spoke about his life and writing interspersed with chatting about the house as they went from room to room.

As she listened Helen felt herself ‘leak’ away as if all that she had been was a facade and only in this house was her true self revealed. She was comfortable in his presence and it was easy to let his words wash over her like a song.

John was pleased by her attentiveness and intrigued by her; she was not only beautiful, but totally unreadable. At any moment he half expected her to say, “I think there has been some dreadful mistake,” or “I have to tell you Mr Stamp, but I am only here to research my book;” it had happened.

However, with her with each passing moment his confidence grew. So he did what he always did in such situations, he tried to compare her with others he had known before; attempting to put her in this box or that as he searched for some clue on how to handle her. Only to have her ask one small question or shatter the picture he had built of her with one smile or even tilt of her head.

He always thought it strange when women told him they found him so intimidating and controlling. As if he were an oracle with all the answers, come to unerringly set them on a path. Didn’t they know that with him, they were on a journey together and he had no more an idea where they were going than they did. That was always assuming that they wanted a journey.

Some women just wanted a ‘scene,’ a game to play as a diversion from their daily lives and he always found that so unsatisfying.

When they finally returned to his front room, a comfortable silence fell and Helen looked expectantly at him. Now comes the hard part, he thought, breaking the ice and making that first move. Many a slip betwixt cup and lip. The phrase came unbidden to him and an unfamiliar feeling tickled in his belly. This one is different, he thought.

“I had thought to spank you,” he said as he pretended to adjust an ornament upon his mantelpiece.

Something surged in Helen at these words and she felt a momentary sense of falling.

“However that would be rather intimate for a first time,” he continued, “Somehow that does not feel appropriate to the occasion.”

She opened her mouth but only a soft breath escaped it.

“In time, if you return that is,” he said firmly, “there will be time enough for that. I will teach you much humility. But for now I think a short sharp submission will suffice.”

“Yes,” she whispered, but more to herself he suspected.

“Please remove your outer clothes,” he ordered.

“My… clothes…?” She swallowed and took a small hesitant step backwards as her hand made a token gesture towards her top button.

“You are not going to pretend that you are surprised?” He was in his element now, this was a reaction on her part that he understood.

“No,” she said breathily, but still she did not react.

“No what?” He let his voice deepen a little, become a little sharper even.

“No Sir,” she blushed and half turned away as she fumbled with the buttons of her jacket.

“I am going to cane you,” he explained, “Just six of the best on your bare bottom this time. It is an old-fashioned chastisement for an old-fashioned mentoring relationship. But it is less playful than a spanking and allows a serious woman like yourself to keep your dignity. As far as that is possible, anyway.”

Helen felt her throat tighten and she was suddenly scared. However, she could not deny that he had read her well. Now that she faced it, the idea of going across a stranger’s knee like a child felt ridiculous and she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

It took her a small while to carefully remove her suit and fold it. It was strange standing in front of a man, especially this man, with no skirt or trousers on, but he was right, she had expected this. She had bought new stockings with suspenders and new underwear especially for the occasion. Her blouse too was one of her best, not to say one of longest so that standing up straight it hung like a mini-dress.

“I am going to ask you to step out of your… smalls,” he said firmly. He was never sure what women called underpants these days and knickers sounded crude for this occasion.

“Yes Sir,” she said, using the term as a mask for her embarrassment. ‘Going to ask,’ she thought, or ‘are’ asking? She was not in control now, it was a strange feeling and exciting. He was calling all the shots and she found herself unable to take the initiative in the smallest regard.

As he studied her, John controlled his breathing. He didn’t want to seem too eager like some callow youth, but he could see a hint of the lower slopes of her bottom beneath the hem of her blouse. What was she waiting for?

“Please if you will?” He suggested, indicating in the general direction of her legs with his hand.

To Helen it was an order and the falling sensation returned as something inside surged. Reaching under her blouse she tugged on her knickers and decisively stepped out of them.

As he watched he saw her unconsciously try to hide both sides of herself at the same time as she bent forward. Consequently he saw a quick flash of her prominent bare bottom in profile before she stepped out of her underwear and came erect again.

Once out of her knickers she turned to face him with her hands clasped in front of her guarding her front. She wore an expression like a naughty kitten. Then as she watched him, he sauntered over to a writing desk in the corner and opened its scroll-down lid.

Helen couldn’t help herself and lifting up on her toes tried to see past him at what he was reaching for.

“This is a larger grade school cane,” he said casually, seeing her interest. “It doesn’t bite as much as some.”

“I thought a cane would be a cane,” she said as conversationally as she could manage.

“Length, weight, thickness, they all vary,” he said as if talking to a child. “This is just about the least bittiest I would ever use. In truth I should employ a senior cane or even a dragon.”

He held the dark stick out towards her and she recoiled from it with a gasp and her eyes went wide.

“Is a dragon cane the worst?” Turning the situation with chit-chat made her feel less vulnerable. Not that it worked. She was already naked from the waist down and acutely conscious of that fact.

“Getting there I suppose, but no… there are worst, that is to say better ones.” He smiled and flexed the cane between his thumbs.

“How…? What…?” Helen was lost now, her doom was at hand. Or at least that was how she felt now.

He cut the air with the cane and she jumped a little.

“I want you to turn around and bend over,” he said.

She gaped at him and let her mouth hang open before closing it. Then she turned slowly away from him without taking her eyes off the cane in his hand until she was looking steeply back over her shoulder.

“Bend over,” he ordered.

She hesitated and then tearing her eyes away, she slowly dipped forward. As she did so, the hem of her blouse crept north slowly unveiling her pale bare cheeks until she was hard over with her hands on her knees and her bottom was fully exposed.

John’s stomach tightened and he felt himself stiffen. “Are you ready for your six?” He said as he moved closer.

“Yes Sir.” It was a sigh on her lips. She wondered if he could see her sex from behind as she bent and if he could, was he aware that she was… aroused?

John’s nostrils flared and he tried to breathe through his nose. Her bottom was exquisite, but her firm thighs were closed like gates, a typical stance for a first timer. There was only a hint of her sex to be seen, but enough to reveal that she was a natural redhead. Standing close her could smell her; the tang of her arousal merging with her expensive perfume. The head of an erection twitched beneath his trousers.

“I will deliver these slowly but if you move or make an undue fuss, I will give you extra strokes. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir,” Helen whispered. Her head was directed forward, although her eyes twisted back and forth as if she might see behind her without turning her head. Some of her hair had worked itself loose from the pile atop of her head and now hung waywardly over her face. Then time seemed to standstill as anticipation seized her.

The passing of the stroke was soft and the impact quieter than she had expected. There was almost no pain for a long moment and then it was almost more than she could bear.

John saw the empty line of the impact fill with colour as it turned from white on pale to deep pink. Then as he watched, the low ridge of the track mark slowly rose like bread in an oven.

“Okay?” He asked. Many a woman had started dancing at this point and once the proceedings had come to an abrupt halt. But Helen only nodded rapidly.

John placed the second stroke below the first and then watched as Helen dipped at the knees a little and did a little shimmy. The two pink lines were bright but slowly darkened as he looked on. He loved a hard red, but so few women had the complexion for it. Redheads were invariably given to pink just as dusky maidens went a plum. Helen was on the red side of pink; not at all bad.

The third stroke was more widely spaced than the first and caught her much lower than he meant. She felt it too and her shimmy was more animated and she had begun to breath more audibly.

“You’re doing well,” he said kindly, “how is it?”

Helen glanced back over her shoulder and he saw her eyes were misted. “I’m sorry if… I’m not…”

He nodded and went to cane again so she whipped her head back to look away a she did when getting an injection.

The fourth caused her to step forward, but she quickly got back her position, parting her legs a little to reveal the tight neat purse of her sex.

It was an eternal truth that the caner needed more discipline than the caned. John wished now that he had suggested more; he could have caned her all day. But patience was required if he was to guide this woman to his ways.

The fifth stroke made Helen growl out an angry “eh” and her whole body tightened. The tramline was near to the fold with her thighs and would have hurt. So for the last stroke he aimed high again. Helen wailed a little at its coming, but the regret in her tone matched his. Was she sorry it was over too.

John loved the way Helen stayed bent over pushing her bottom out. The posture and her discipline was perfect. Almost imperceptibly, she rolled her bottom, a short shimmy in a vain attempt to throw of the pain.

“Stand up,” he said.

She rose slowly and reached back to rub her bottom.

“How was it?”

She looked at him with something like awe. Her mouth open sensuously and her eyes rimmed in red and watering. She could only nod.

“Drink?”

She nodded.

He poured two G&Ts he had already to hand and then went to hand her one.

She was standing with her back to him massaging her rear and making no attempt to dress. “I could have taken more I think,” she said, her smile was uncertain.

“You will,” he said handing her her drink, “Next time.”



18 Responses to “The Appointment”

  1. More please! I didn’t want it to end. You’re a wonderful writer.

    Love,
    Kitty

  2. 2 George

    Excellent!

  3. 3 Susan

    Loved the content. I would like to meet someone like him and remove my skirt and panties for a good caning. I think I could take the dragon cane.

    • 4 Garth

      Pity You are so far, for I think I can make your dreams about the dragon cane come true. Garth (garth.brent@yahoo.com)

      • 5 Susan

        I believe that if you have done something wrong then you should be chastised for it right there and then. I hate someone close to you bearing a grudge for days on end. If i am to blame then I will accept my punishment and if that means a spanking or caning so be it. After the punishment you can get back to loving the one that you care about.
        Trouble is that my partner does not believe in spanking so I have to find someone that i can bear my guilt to and put me over their knee or bend me over a chair for a paddling or caning. I feel much better afterwards.

  4. 6 saucywriter

    Another great story from a writer who has a true love – and intimate knowledge – of his subject.

    Literate, powerful in its imagery and very arousing.

    You are a writer, sir, and a fine one. Thank you.

  5. 7 paul1510

    Damian,
    this is excellent, I hope that we can read more of Helen.
    Mr Stamp is very good at what he does; is this a self portrait? 😉
    Paul.

  6. 8 Rike

    This was very good and intense.
    Waiting for more of her and / or him!

  7. You know what? I loved this one. It felt closer to what you might feel, what you might think. I’m not suggesting it’s any more your real life than anything else you write, but the best fiction represents something closer to the truth than real life can manage. You did that here.

    Encore?

  8. 10 Heavyhand

    I really empathized with this story. I cane a number of women – all of whom are professionals in high power jobs.
    You have described very precisely how they have felt when visiting me for the first time. For all of them, it is about relinquishing control to a stranger and submitting to a much desired, and ofttimes, needed punishment.
    Like Paul, I almost always start with a “six-of-the-best” caning on the bare that leaves them needing more. Subsequent visits, whilst slightly less nerve wracking may well end up in them wanting less!
    Great admirer of your writing. Thank you for sharing with all of us

  9. 11 DJ

    kind words – thanks all.

    drew a little on real life – Ihave certainly known women like Helen if not always quite so intimately.

    DJ 🙂

  10. 12 Ehlane

    Not only is my name similar to Helen’s, I also identify with her need for control, discipline and to be able to take canings well.

    “It was an eternal truth that the caner needed more discipline than the caned.”

    Before reading this masterpiece, I have only heard such wisdom from one man and I wear his ring. Not to mention the marks from his cane.

    Thank you.

  11. Great piece. If you don’t mind, I’ll mention it on my blog as a “must read”.
    S.

  12. 15 S

    My master published the note at http://scomme.wordpress.com/2012/02/25/rendez-vous/
    I am sure your French is good enough to read such a short note but do not hesitate to ask if a translation is needed.
    Regards.
    S

    • 16 DJ

      Thanks S (and to your Master)

      My French is not so great – but I got it thanks.

      And the picture was borrowed so why not re-borrow 😉

      DJ

  13. Came across this story under one of the “related” posts. I love canes but that’s not my favorite part of this story. You capture the apprehension and conflict a woman can feel before submitting so well.


  1. 1 chross.blogt.ch

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