Chapter 2: A Red, Red Rose
"Damn! It is cold in here" she decided, frantically rubbing her fingers. This huge old Scottish Pile of his could definitely benefit from central heating.
Loomed over by the ominous bulk of "Beinn Dhuin" (pronounced ben doon), the Victorian baronial mansion had been built by a successful guano merchant from Oban, halfway up a hill, north east of the road from Pitlochry to Killiekranky. Since bought by his father, the property had born the Gaelic name of a nearby rounded prominence, "Mas Ruadh" (red buttock), a name to which his family values had given extra meaning. Though the house faced to turn a depressing cold-shoulder to whatever morning sun there might be, the rosy glow of a sunset could fundamentally improve ones attitude.
The blazing fires in the stone fireplaces were very atmospheric, but the heat seemed to disappear straight up the chimneys; as for the ballroom with it's heavy chandeliers and displays of antlers, you couldn't have found a more impressive setting for the Ceilidh. Although the antlers were no problem, there were mounted stags-heads in the rooms set aside for relaxing and dining. These rattled her, their haughty glass eyes following her around as she tried to concentrate on double- (no, triple-) checking the arrangements.
Everything had to be perfect this time. Not a single Scotch woodcock canapé could be out of place. The cold buffet did look stunning, even if she did say it herself, especially the whole poached salmon - a work of art with its cucumber curls and little mounds of potted crab, stuffed eggs and delicate aspic fingers. Malt whisky of the best brands had been secured: 20-year-old "Arduffearinh" for the connoiseurs and the younger, but very tasty, "Ben Affleck" for general consumption. There were also more tartan and heather decorations then you could shake a stick at. The suggestion of a grin came to her face at the thought of what her granny would have made of all this; granny's phrase "What a load of nonsense" echoed in her head and the grin took over, Oh hell! It was what he had wanted - an extravagantly Scottish experience for his overseas guests.
Bugger the decorations! If nothing else, the freezing temperature should be enough to convince the guests that they were in the wilds of Scotland. More authentic than the Burns Supper they would have been given the other night, down in Stirling, anyway. Time to check in with the staff and make sure that the band, ensconced in the warm kitchen, weren't drinking the good whisky.
All was well. The 'crowning glory', the haunch of venison (hung and spiced for 7 days then marinated to a perfect gamey flavour) was roasting away and the savouries were just waiting to be finished off and served hot; she could safely leave it all in the hands of Janet, a brilliant cook and a dragon in the kitchen. The musicians, a crack ceilidh band from the West Coast, had been restricted to tea and bannocks under her watchful eye.
Time to get ready; the guests should be arriving shortly and this evening her main job was to act as hostess. It had been a surprise when he had asked her to take on the role. Years of being hurled around town hall dances by the local young farmers had honed her dancing style and given her a nimble talent for keeping her feet from being trodden on - no problem there. Keeping the various guests fed, watered and circulating shouldn't be too hard. Family weddings stood her in good stead there - you needed eyes in the back of your head to make sure it all ran smoothly.
As she stood in the main bedroom, pinning the brooch in place to secure her tartan sash, she let her thoughts slide back to the evening of that first event. The scene had been replayed so many times in her head, recalling the shock and delight of her hidden desire was suddenly becoming a reality. The walk from the study to the couch was the most vivid part, her sensation of vulnerability and embarrassment still strong even now. The actual feel of his hand, the hurt, the heat, were now just ingredients of a hazy, jumbled up mixture of emotions. Then there was the strange feeling of deep disappointment welling up when, after racing home, she'd lifted her skirt in front of the mirror only to find that her bottom was barely pink and the delicious heat had vanished.
Well it was something that would have to be explored and experienced again, sometime. Tonight, there was a job to be done, and she must stop thinking about...
But other memories insisted... how she had been shaking, overcome with shame for allowing him to see her like that, letting him observe her surrender over his knee. On the plus side, his immediate reassuring smile and professional manner had swept away her worries at the time; the consequences clause had promised that the slate would be cleared, and so it had been; the working relationship had continued with mutual respect.
Left with the unsettling feeling that he knew just how much turmoil his hand had ignited, she was determined not to let anything go wrong with this evening's event.
As she smoothed down the long tartan skirt, its rough texture rubbed against her bare thighs. Damn! She had cut the lining out, ages ago, when she was in a rush for a length of satin - the likelihood of her ever wearing the skirt again having seemed remote. Never mind, she was unlikely to be off her feet at any time tonight so it wouldn't matter.
The sound of a car coming up the gravelled drive heralded the start of the evening’s activities and sent her haring down the stairs.
Three hours in and things were going beautifully. The band was in full swing, so were assorted kilts, and the food was disappearing gratifyingly fast. The next break was due and the waitresses were buzzing around clearing away the remains of the hot savouries.
Everything was running smoothly without her having to keep watch, and that, of course, was her downfall.
Standing there, chatting away about Scottish traditions, the wicked urge to tease caught up with her. All this prim and proper behaviour was just too stuffy! Before she could help herself, the story of the annual New Year Haggis Hunt was tripping off her lips. Her fascinated audience, some grinning, but some worryingly swallowing it whole, just spurred on her minx side. The classic tale of the wild haggis "renowned for their ability to run round mountains with surprising agility, owing to the legs on one side of their bodies being shorter than those on the other" was ripe for the telling. The interesting fact that the females ran clockwise and the males anti-clockwise led naturally to the enthralling description of how, during the mating season, the hills and glens echoed to the sound of randy haggises hurtling into each other and then bouncing and rolling down the mountainside gripped in coital passion, only parting if a they hit a gorse bush - nasty! The subsequent distraught howling of the pair, racing round the mountain, hoping to bang into each other again, was a chilling sound. It was a scientific fact that they had to make it from the top of the mountain to the bottom or the future of the next generation would be in jeopardy.
The lengths the forestry commission went to, in keeping tracks clear through the firs, were just about to be aired, when a familiar voice broke in and laughingly apologised to the audience for having to drag away their spirited storyteller.
His hand on her elbow, he guided her across and out of the room, down the corridor to a side of the house that had been shut off. Leaving the now warm, friendly atmosphere behind and walking in silence down the cold corridor quickly brought her back to her senses. The horrible realisation came to her that, maybe, she had been a little out of line, spinning stories when she should have watching over all the guests. Damn, Damn, Damn! Why did there always have to be something to spoil the evening? Just as that thought struck, so did the coil of anticipation and fear, twisting around her stomach. She faltered slightly from the feeling, almost stumbled, but his strong hand steadied her. Opening a door he ushered her in, closed it behind them and, switching on the light, turned to look at her.
"Well Miss Crawford? I am sure you have a good explanation as to why you were standing telling stories to a few of my guests, when you should have been circulating, keeping an eye on the catering and the activities, and seeing that every one here is enabled to enjoy themselves."
"That’s not fair!" I blurt. "I’ve spent the entire evening making sure that things are running smoothly!"
Good grief! Did I really say "that's not fair"? I sound like a sulky teenager instead of a professional. That’s his fault! He brings out my rebellious side, standing there, calm and patient, with that vaguely disappointed look in his eyes - just like Mr Palmer, my old school teacher. Suddenly my surroundings come into focus, the map on the wall, the charts, Oh God! The wooden desks - this is a schoolroom!
"I am still waiting Miss Crawford, and I have no intention of leaving this room until the matter is settled. As you can see, this is a schoolroom. My father was taught the three R's here as a child, before he was shipped off to boarding school. His tutor was a lovely old man most of the time but he had a rule: if there was a problem, it would be resolved completely before anyone walked out that door, no matter what it took. So - your explanation?"
What can I say? All the reasonable adult arguments of pleasing the guests with a little Scottish humour have deserted me and all I have left is:
"I couldn't help it! It wasn't in the job description but it was just a bit of fun - a prank that wasn't meant to be taken seriously. I only wanted to make them laugh."
It sounds so weak as I try to explain my way out of trouble.
"I agree, Miss Crawford, there’s nothing wrong with a little humour, but what was worrying my American friend, who told me what was happening, was that some of the guests might not understand your Scottish wit. He felt they might feel later that they had been made fun of by the Hostess - that she might have thought them gullible enough to believe her."
"Honestly I had no intention of doing that at all! Please believe me, I would never want to treat anyone that way."
It comes out as more of a wail than a considered answer. Standing there, I feel confused that things have got so out of hand over a story and so terribly ashamed that I have let him down again. He had continued to employ me after the first blunder; it may not have been a world-shattering mistake but the rules had been precise.
While I’m looking at the floor feeling miserable, the sound of chair legs being scraped across the floor makes me snap my head up. He has pulled the straight-backed chair out from behind the desk and is now standing by it, looking at me. I’m jolted by the returning mix of anticipation and dread - surely he's not going to suggest that again? A little thought springs to mind: "I do hope so!" it giggles.
"Miss Crawford, last time, when there was a problem, I asked you if you wanted to evoke the consequences clause to resolve the matter. However, I don't feel that would be appropriate this time."
In a flash, the fear I was holding back, quivering inside, turns into a lump of disappointment in the pit of my stomach and the anticipation collapses.
"I asked you to take on the role of Hostess, rather than just caterer, a role in which, for most of this evening, you have been a glowing success. The guests are thoroughly enjoying themselves. This becomes a matter between you and me and does not concern your company’s contract."
Relief that the contract is safe, at least, is some consolation.
"The performance I just put a stop was out pf place and unacceptable. You are here to work, not to spend time amusing yourself. The evening will go on - there are guests for you to attend to - but, before we return, this indiscretion must be addressed. I brought you here because I think my father's tutor had the right idea. You are guilty and I will deal with you as I see fit. Only then will we leave this room. Everything will have been settled and you will go back to being the perfect hostess. Do you agree?"
WOW! The tight fear is back but so is the anticipation that I feel again, surging through me. Please, legs, don't let me down! They've gone all wobbly again. Panic also races in, what does he have in mind? My face burns, as once again I agree to his terms. He sits down and, pointing to his side, says:
"Right, Young Lady, come here."
Quaking, yet eager, I walk the few yards and stand next to him. His knee seems so far down and there is nothing to lie on but that! His hand grips mine and with a sudden tug he tips me off balance. I half fall, half place myself over his knee, finding his legs surprisingly hard under my stomach. Balancing on my hands, I try to push back to bring my head in line with my body. His hand presses down onto my back and, raising his knee, he slides my body over, sending my head closer to the floor and my bottom higher in the air. Trapped, and with no way to escape that wouldn't end up with me crashing to the ground, I have no option but to lie still. It is an overwhelming feeling dangling there - so much more intimidating than it had been, lying across his lap on the couch.
The first touch of his hand, smoothing down the fabric of my skirt, makes me shudder and I nearly let out a yelp. The next touch is harder, and the next, and the next, as the spanking gets under way - but there is no sensation of pain, just warmth, insistently building warmth. Staring at my hands pressed flat against the floor, I let my mind float, aware of nothing but the rhythmic slap of his hand. This is not same as last time; the smacks are even and not getting harder, just methodically covering each side in a hypnotic beat. The heat is rising, however, the reaction squirms deep inside me, and teasing butterflies of desire start fluttering for my attention.
"Now stand up."
The instruction catches me off guard.
"How?" I say.
Puzzled by his sudden stopping, and faced with the seemingly impossible task of rising gracefully from this awkward position, I can't help my querulous tone. His hands slide my body back over his lap and, reaching down to clasp my hand, he helps me to my feet. Was that it? Disappointment seems a weird thing to experience after being spanked, but that's what I feel.
Rising to his feet he looks straight into my eyes and, with just the flicker of a smile an almost imperceptible smile, says:
"Now that you are warm, the punishment can begin. Go to the desk and open the right hand drawer."
Nearly skipping with relief that it is not over, I pull the drawer open. I can't believe my eyes! There, coiled in its wooden home, is a thick length of leather.
"Bring it here."
His voice cuts into my thoughts and I reach in tentatively, almost as though I think the thing will bite.
It has been years since I have seen one of these. It jolts my thoughts back to primary school - the dreaded tawse. It was only ever used on the boys, no more than two whacks to each hand, and thankfully it was on its way out even as I started my schooling. Although only time I had seen it used I was so young, the memory of it stayed with me It was now a thing of the past.... or so I had thought.
Looking across the room, I watch, curiously, as he places a leather-topped footstool in the middle of the floor.
"Come along now! The longer you keep me waiting the longer it will take."
Moving as quickly as I can, I skid across the floor, tawse clutched in my hand, my head not quite believing that he is intending to use it. How can I help with the drinks, or dance, with sore hands. He must be mad to think he can do this!
"The tawse, please."
My hands tremble as I pass it over. With dry mouth, I try to swallow as I wait for the instruction to hold out my hand... this really is ridiculous!
"Right young lady, raise your skirt above your knees and kneel on the footstool."
Confused I comply without a second thought. The boy had stood in front of the teacher - maybe it was a height thing.
"Now bend forward until your head is touching the floor."
Comprehension dawns as I sink forward. It's not going to be my hands after all! I don't know whether to be pleased or even more scared. Bent forward, with my head touching my hands, I glance at the only view I have - his shoes. He stands there for what seems to me an age, the turmoil of my feelings churning more and more as each long second passes. He walks out of my line of sight and I flinch involuntarily at the thought of the coming whack. Instead, the next thing I feel is my long skirt being pulled up over my back and down over my shoulders. The plaid material, long enough to pool around my head, shuts out everything, creating a dark enclosing space. My breathing seems louder and my bottom miles away, thrust high and vulnerable... the thrill is amazing.
The touch of his hand this time doesn't catch me out, but it’s the curling of his fingers around my pants and the sharp tug he gives them to pull the material up tight, that causes me to yelp. Good grief - a spanking wedgie! A nervous giggle escapes my lips. Then a cold breeze caresses my exposed cheeks, making me jump. What was that! Did I just hear the door open? Before I can gather my thoughts, his voice cuts in:
"My father's tutor maintained that girls should never be tawsed on the hands - too delicate. I agree with him and this is my own solution, a punishment I call ‘Round the World’. You, Young Lady, are about to feel the effect of a traditional Scottish implement with a new twist. You are to stay still with your head at down at all times, and if you try to move or get up before you are told, I will simply start again."
His calm authoritative tone, and the threat of more, pins me to the floor as I waited in growing dread for the first whack.
A sharp crack echoes in the room as the leather bites down on me. It falls across both cheeks, creating a line of fire unlike anything his hand had caused. I can't believe it could burn so quickly, the second bite sinking in and re enforcing the first. Gasping and struggling to cope with this intense feeling, I can hear him walking around to my other side followed by a crack as the the thing falls again. This time I can feel the twin tongues of the tawse clearly on my skin, striking the outer curve - God! - that hurts! Again it falls!
I am glad the skirt is covering my face. Struggling not to cry out, I screw my courage to the sticking point and my fingers try to grip the wooden floor. His quiet tread as he walks back to stand behind me, gives me a few seconds grace. Then suddenly the leather tongues flick down on to the top of my right cheek. Ooowww! That hurts in a whole new way! It seems so much more sensitive there, the burn flickering quicker and sharper. Then two more on each already-sore cheek have me losing the struggle for silence and yelling out loudly. I find myself swaying, trying somehow to diffuse the pain.
"Stay still!" - this time it’s a threatening order.
He moves again, his footsteps louder, coming to a stop in front of me. An electric ribbon of pain courses through me, as this time the broad strip of leather smacks down over already hot, sore skin, its evil tips biting into the oh-so-tender flesh at the curve where my legs meet my bottom. This rocks me forward. Panting hard, I brace my forearms against the floor and can't help the loud cry the next one rips from me.
"Two more and we are finished."
The thought of two more makes me cringe - and yet it also has me arching my back a little more, conflicting emotions clashing again. They come - one (mmmph!), two - aieee!). Finally, with the crack of the last stroke still in my ears, and the sting from the tips spreading out, I give up on the hold I had been striving to hang on to and, with a groan, collapse onto my shaking arms. I barely register the cold draft on my nether region as once again it caresses the now much hotter skin.
The brightness of the light, as he lifts the skirt from around my head, is bewildering. I feel light-headed with relief and raging emotion, and his hand, offered to help me up, is so very welcome. Standing there dizzy from the effect of being upside down, trying to calm my wildly beating heart, I'm not sure if I can walk, let alone return to the Ceilidh.
"Miss Crawford, please take a few minutes to compose yourself, then I expect you to remove your pants, place them with the tawse in the drawer and join me in the ballroom."
He hands me the innocent looking strip of leather and, turning, leaves the room. As soon as I can gather my thoughts, I start to walk across to the desk but the rub of the rough plaid across my cheeks makes me yelp. I so need that lining now! The strange feel of the hot sting at the base of my bottom, flaring up with the movement of my legs, also has me faltering.
Get a grip girl! Trying to walk with a purposeful air, I reach the desk. Slowly and with trepidation I lift my skirt high and reach round to feel the heat - not only heat but raised welts! Amazed at the sensation, I rub slowly. I consider how thrillingly it burns. Knowing his mind, I’m sure he’d link that to Burns, but I can’t imagine him uttering the words I now put in his mouth:
"Your bum is like a red, red rose
That’s newly come to bloom"
Then I remember where I am and a blush reddens my cheeks, as effectively as the leather has reddened the lower set. Gripping the waistband of my pants, I ease them down, cursing at losing my only protection from the scratchy wool, but now is not the time to disregard any orders. With one last thoughtful and wondering rub, I place the lacy pants in the centre of the coil and close the drawer. As I return to the other part of the house, each step yields a sting that sends weird and wonderful sparks around my body. The only visible reaction is the broad smile threatening, once again, to split my face in half.
The heat and noise of the reception room, as I open the door, helps to steady my nerves. Surely no one can tell? Skirting round the edge of the various groups, I walk into the ballroom, eyes searching for him. He glances my way, detaches himself from his old friend, Mr Saunders, and walks over. The blush blooms again but his voice, playful and reassuring, shoos it away.
"Miss Crawford, I think it is time we had a dance together."
The band launches into the Gay Gordon's and his hand on the small of my back swirls me into the throng of enthusiastic dancers. The dance causes my skirt to slide and rub against the tender flesh but it brings no tears to my eyes, just laughter to my throat. All too soon it’s over. He leads me from the floor and over to Mr Saunders, who is standing watching. Something about the glint in his eye worries me...
"Todd, I believe you have already met our hostess and storyteller, Miss Crawford?"
As Mr Saunders reaches out to take my hand, he gives a slow wink.
"Such a naughty spinner of tales! I hope you will join me for a dance, now you are all warmed up?" he says, with a smile. "You certainly have roses in your cheeks!"
Before I can reply, he leads me to the edge of the dance floor, just in time to join in a 'Strip the Willow' set.
