Chapter 1: Food for Thought
How could I forget such a simple thing as an extra jar of cocktail onions?
His endless instructions had been crystal clear and precise, even including a full, painstakingly drafted script plotting out the 1950's-themed evening for twelve.
The staff were to be dressed in appropriate costume, down to the silk stockings beneath the sombre black satin uniforms, and not forgetting starched white caps and aprons.
The meal - every damned course itemized: soup - freshly made consommé; fish - lemon sole not plaice; sorbets – one from fresh citrus fruit, one with Glayva liqueur; pigeon breast - only woodland pigeon ...on and on, and, of course, the years of the wines to be served. Finally, only carefully selected English cheeses to be served, and fruit from British growers. The fruit was to include “Doyenne de Comice” pears and, for some reason, both “Sunset” and “Palmer’s Rosey” apples (which gave me some trouble to track down, after I’d first checked that they do exist).
Everything was to be laid out meticulously. Specifications even included a list of the ingredients to be provided for the aperitifs to start the evening and also the background music to be played before and after the meal - at the top of the list, the velvet tones of Nat King Cole crooning at the piano.
It had all gone so beautifully, I thought – then I remembered that blasted self-styled Colonel and his muted but obvious reaction when there were no more cocktail onions for his second Gibson Martini. He’d already been a little terse with his blonde ‘niece’ who’d asked for an “Orgasm”. Maybe he felt that Grand Marnier and Irish Cream would be too fattening? In any case, he had suggested that “Red Cherry Moons” would be more appropriate, as a reminder of the discussion he would be having with her later! The overheard remark caught me off guard and I'd had to quickly hide a smirk - the more so because, so appropriately, I thought, Nat King Cole’s voice was caressing the words of “Teach Me Tonight”.
Damn it! The terms of the contract had been crystal clear and precise: any blunders on my firm’s part and it would be terminated. There was, of course, the “Consequences Clause”, whatever that entailed. Well, nothing for it but to hope that he hadn't noticed the look of annoyance on the Colonel’s face. If this did become an issue, could I appeal to my employer’s better nature?
As I walk into the lounge I notice how the pools of light from the Tiffany lamps create little glowing islands of colour around the room, and the flickering flames of the fire throw shadows of the luxuriant plants (Chamadorea Elegans alternating with ferns) across walls and ceiling, creating the impression of a dark jungle ablaze around him.
His voice breaks into my into my reverie:
“Miss Crawford, please join me for a night cap"
The tone - pleasant, friendly - draws me to the settee as he pours us each a glass of his 20-year old Islay malt whisky.
“A toast - to a very successful evening, my dear." The delicate, smoky taste of the whisky hits the spot.....I relax … everything is going to be fine.
"Miss Crawford, once again congratulations on a well run evening, but I am afraid I will not be requiring your services in the future"
The smooth malt turns to vinegar and a dread grasps at my stomach.
“We agreed at the outset that detail was the most important thing, but to-night one of my guests was disappointed by a lapse in your catering"
The next 10 minutes are awful. I can't deny the fault but to lose so much from one simple mistake seems far too harsh.
I promise I will double-check everything, triple-check it, but he stands fast. "A promise for the future does not forgive or forget tonight’s blunder." The music has been playing quietly in the background, but only now am I aware that the Nat King Cole album has come round again and is on that “Teach Me Tonight” track. It made me grin earlier – but not now.
I am caught by his eyes, they express sorrow at the action he now has to take, a shake of his head, a held out hand, then…. a flicker in his eye:
“There is always the consequences clause."
The leap of hope twists inside me.
“Miss Crawford, as we know, your contract with me for the coming year is includes several events with a period theme. I may live in the here-and-now but I have always had a fondness for the intrigues, social restrictions and standards of by-gone eras. In previous times, as you may be aware, if a mistake were made and acknowledged then the punishment would be given and the slate wiped clean. That is the principal of the Consequences Clause."
It sounds so practical! The hope that leaped in me has been replaced by an urgent need to find out more. There is a small niggle in my mind, a warning light blinking, suggesting I might not want the full explanation …. but I need to know!
His voice and words slice right through me.
“If you, Miss Crawford, agree to activate the clause, you will go next door to the study now, slip out of your panties, fold them neatly and place them on the bureau. On your return, I will take you over my knee and administer a punishment spanking to your bared bottom. When I am satisfied that you fully understand the consequences of your mistake, and only then, you may leave and the slate is cleared. You have to want to take this course of action, Miss Crawford, to place yourself completely under my authority, because once you accept there is no turning back."
I can feel the colour draining from my face. He looks into my eyes, for what seems to be one last time - and prompts:
"You want to do this, don't you?"
I have to moisten my lips, my mouth has gone completely dry, a shiver shakes through me as his eyes hold mine.
“Then give me a firm ‘Yes’.”
I blurt out "Yes", before my mind has a chance to argue
“Then do as I said, and when you return, young lady, come and stand by the settee"
It is the shock that carries me out of the room - that and a sudden fierce anticipation. All the suppressed longings, the half-remembered thrills of years of coming across spanking references, suddenly wash over me. How many times in the past had I scribbled “TTWD” like a secret sign on scraps of paper, to be crunched up and tossed in the bin, in growing frustration!
Oh my god ….. what am I doing?
The study is in welcoming darkness as I walk up to the bureau. My shaking hands reach down and lift my dress; my thumbs hook themselves into the top of my french knickers. Standing there frozen, with a hundred different images, daydreams streaming through my head, my hands take on a life of their own and I feel my knickers slide ...quickly down ... crumpling round my feet. Like an automaton, I bend to pick them up and catch my breath as the cool satin of the dress slides over my bare bottom. Folded knickers placed, I turn and look at the open door.
Can I do this? Can I not do this?
It's not just keeping the contract that pulls me back to the door, it is also the burning desire to know. What is it like? Why does it make me feel scared yet so suddenly alive? There is a snake of fear in my belly, squirming, turning me to jelly inside.
The coloured light from the lamps may cover the growing red blush on my cheeks but the burning sensation causes me to lower my eyes, to hide, as I walk into the lounge. He is sitting there, waiting for me. My legs wobble as I try to lift feet weighing a ton each across the all too short distance to the settee. With each heavy step, I can feel the cool air on the underside of my bottom and the intense vulnerability that leaving my knickers behind has caused.
All at once I am there, his eyes looking straight into mine. A sudden hysterical urge to laugh threatens to ruin the moment, but, thankfully, he takes my hand and tips me over onto the cushion on his lap.
This is IT, the moment I have dreamt of for so long, the experience I wanted but had packed away into a trunk hidden in my mind’s attic, to become a Pandora's box of suppressed desires.
I feel his fingers smoothing the satin over the curve of my cheeks, his stroke seeming to emphasis my naked state underneath. I can't hold my breath any longer. How ridiculous is this - I am impatient for him to begin!
The first strike of his hand, a louder sound than I had ever imagined, ignites a tingle. A spark is lit. His hand falls again and again and the spark spreads, warming the surface of my bottom. A delicious heat … his voice, distant, drifts across my senses.
A sudden draught as my dress is pushed up out of the way, brings me back down to earth, the embarrassment of knowing he has my naked bottom on display making me squirm. As I lock my thighs together, the stocking tops seem so far down my legs.
Oh G*d! I'm naked from the curve of my back to the cold tops of my thighs! The blush burns deep on my cheeks.
“Pay attention, young lady! I expect you to stay still and keep your hands under your head, Do ... You ... Understand? ... (the last three words punctuated by hard slaps of his hand.)
“Yes!” I gasp.
I can't help but moan as a torrent of smacks sweeps down on to my up-thrust bottom, then the sighs that escape my lips, turn to yelps when a particularly sore one lands.
Oh! .... the incredible heat .... the sensation of his hand bouncing off resilient flesh.... the rising level of pain… the sting that reaches down into my stomach and curls around the core desire that has always been there.
A sane thought forces it way into my head, pushing aside the tide of acceptance - I can't just lie here and allow this to happen! But my treacherous thighs are loosening their hold as the pain increases; the sense of a craving being satisfied, the need to be here, to be over his knee, pushes those attempts at modest concealment into the background. I feel myself sinking into his lap, my legs relaxing, careless of the effect.
No! No! I can't let this go on!
A half screamed, half spoken protest forces itself from my lips as I try to clutch at my bottom. This is too much. I've had enough. I won't lie here passively!
The stinging smacks stop. At last!
“Young lady! I told you to keep your hands under your head! That earns you another 5 minutes."
His hand grips my flapping fingers and presses them firmly into the small of my back. What a wonderful release that pressure brings - his hand holding mine, not with a lover’s touch but with a firm controlling grasp. I’m restrained, yet not scared; immobilised, yet as free as I want to be.
The spanking continues, its rhythm steady, its effect more and more punishing. With my hand trapped, I feel the freedom not to struggle any more; the intensity of my emotions is able to grow, feeding on that so painful, yet astonishingly intense, toe-curling ripple of sensation that spreads from my bottom when his hand lands. It's almost unbearable.
“I am so sorry, I should have been more careful" ... a plea.
His hand stops and comes to rest on my thighs, the heat from it searing my skin.
"It is not just me you let down tonight."
His voice is soothing, yet makes me cringe in embarrassment. It is true - I let myself down. There was no excuse for not checking.
“ I Know" ... barely a whisper.
The cool satin dress, as he smoothes it back down, triggers a yelp in my throat, instantly stifled. Now is not the time to cry out; I’m not even sure if it would be in pleasure or pain.
He helps me to my feet and stands to join me.
“The matter has been laid to rest, Miss Crawford. I take it you wish to continue with the contract?"
The "Yes" I manage sounds so small, but has determination behind it.
I stand there swaying slightly, desperately wanting to hold my bottom ....to feel the hot skin in my hands, to sooth it, to delight in the feel of my first spanking.
Even now the feeling is changing. In the last couple of minutes it has gone from a surface fire burning brightly, to a steady, intense heat; sinking down like the embers of a well-built fire, glowing as intensely as the brief flames, yet destined to burn for much longer.
On the step outside, with the closed door behind me, I stand for a moment, letting the cold night air cool my reddened cheeks. The project binder I had been handed is shaking slightly. I glance at the instructions for the next event and my heart sinks: Scottish Country Dances - in a cold Country House!
As I reach for the car door handle, I can't help smiling. In fact the smile is threatening to split my face in half - ”I wonder if I’ll make another mistake!” The thought leaps up, unbidden. Good grief! I’ve just been spanked by a man I hardly know and here I am anticipating, rather than fearing, our next encounter!
YEE-ouch! The car seat is suddenly way too hard.
In the still dark study, a smile crosses his lips as he lifts the folded pants and slips them into a drawer. It should be an interesting year.
The End
