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Chapter 1 - Archive
Melinda George had arrived at the grand age of thirty-seven without experiencing an orgasm. Or so she supposed; it wasn't really something she brooded about. At odd times during her marriage of a dozen years she had felt, well, pleasurable sensations 'down below' (as her mother would have put it) but under the uninspired pumping of her husband they would come to nothing. Generally she had been left, if briefly, resentful and frustrated with a view of his back. The more forthright agony aunt might recommend masturbation, but she could hardly do that with him beside her and in the morning the issue would be gone from her mind. In any case, an upbringing where female anatomy was a taboo area had left her not only ignorant but had attached to the subject a distaste that kept her wilfully so.

The marriage had ended in divorce after he'd admitted an ongoing affair with a fellow office worker and with no children the break-up had been an occasion for relief rather than acrimony. Thank God it was over. With an honours history degree, Melinda had worked part time for years in the University Library, but her position had disappeared six months before in a series of funding cutbacks. And she was bored. There was the growing feeling that life was slipping by, trickling through her fingers with no residue of stimulation or satisfaction.

And that was her condition when she chanced on an advertisement in the local paper.

There is a vacancy for an Archivist with the Marchmont Collection which is a privately endowed library of historical materials relating to the regulation of the behaviour of women. Applications are invited from suitably qualified women with an interest in sometimes controversial questions of discipline in the home, school and the wider community. A curriculum vitae together with a short account of some personal experience that relates to the collection's theme may be submitted to its Keeper, Miss Samantha Morton.

Salary levels were generous and her experience would place her at the upper end of the range specified. The address indicated that the collection was held at 5 Abbot's Lane, near the heart of the old city where the earliest departments of the University were still housed. Melinda read the carefully worded notice again. It seemed plain that the focus was on the use of corporal punishment in the past, where for some decades it had seemed to have been consigned. Now, though, since its reintroduction on a trial basis in a selection of schools, it had indeed become the object of heated debate between the 'spare the rod' faction and their die-hard opponents.

She was intrigued enough to want more information, but then the last sentence brought her up short. What on earth was this Miss Morton looking for in a 'personal experience'? That applicants should have undergone - or even handed out - a caning or the like? Ridiculous. This was Britain, and, save a few schools, not Singapore.

It was a typical Monday morning in the post office, with the usual queue of people who poured through the door at opening time, each intent on pursuing their individual errands. As they waited in line, most chatted to others in the queue; in a small village, everyone knows everyone else's business.

Or at least that is the perception.

If they had known that their efficient new flame-haired postmistress was sitting behind the counter resting her feet on the cane-striped buttocks of a naked man, they would have had a conversation topic to keep tongues wagging for a decade.

But they didn't know. And as they collected their pensions, bought stamps and chocolate bars, stationery and birthday cards and elastic bands, they were oblivious to the presence of Manfred.

Safely hidden, crouching on hands and knees on the floor, he was in his element. Once a month, by tacit agreement, the postmistress gave him a good thrashing. He wanted it. He needed it. He loved it. And if he had been an especially good boy, he was allowed to serve as a foot stool for Mistress Vanessa to rest her feet on.

Of course, if his naked presence were ever discovered he would be mortified and likely die on the spot of shame and embarrassment. Quite possibly the fear of what could go wrong added to the enjoyment of being thus humiliated. It was a real turn on, and his dick twitched in agreement.

People came and went, and the postmistress operated with timely efficiency as she dealt with the requirements of each person at the counter. She was methodical and business like, polite without being over familiar. On first glance, she was somewhat formidable. Her age was difficult to discern; she could be anything between 25 and 50 years of age, with her red hair pulled back tightly from her angular face devoid of any shred of make-up. There were no escaped curling tendrils or wispy bits of hair to feather against her cheeks and soften the rather severe look. She wore black framed glasses, which gave her a certain intellectual gravitas. Her cheek bones were high and well-defined and her lips were wide and full. Her large almond-shaped eyes were clear blue, and even without mascara or eye liner to accentuate their shape and depth, possessed an almost hypnotic quality.

Half way in the queue, Rick Marshall couldn't take his eyes off her. She was magnificent. She had such a commanding presence he was attracted to it like a moth to a candle flame.

As though sensing she was under scrutiny, she glanced up and made eye contact with him. He found himself caught up in that blue-eyed gaze, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an approaching vehicle. He blushed, suddenly feeling guilty of some grave misdemeanour.

When it was his turn at the counter, he handed over an envelope containing a birthday card for his sister in Australia. "I'd like to send that Air Mail please."

Chapter 1 - Gerda
Harriet Maynard was an old lady, and as such she was content to think of herself. After all, seventy five was old, even in these days when adolescence lasted until one turned forty, and nobody was middle aged until sixty. People never admitted to being old, they simply died in the fullness of their years. Not so Harriet. She had enjoyed a long and full life, and though still employed, her chief occupation these days was taking her ease. That was her invariable habit in the hour before dinner, when she would sink into her armchair by the fire of her sitting room and enjoy a sherry or two, while reminiscing over the various episodes of her life; and often dozing off, sometimes to dream of them.

When I say that Harriet was still employed, I do not mean to imply that she was burdened by heavy cares or exacting duties. She was the nurse at the Red Hills Girls' Academy of which school her nephew, Andrew Fisher, was headmaster, as the post is still called at institutions enjoying a certain quality and the self-confidence it supplies. Harriet had served for many years in posts where real nursing was required and the work of every day, so the odd colds, scrapes and the very occasional sprain or broken bone that afflicted the girls taxed neither her competence nor her energy. The duty that most interested Harriet, and which prompted the clearest recollections that transported her back to a colourful period of her life, was in attending the sessions in which her nephew inflicted corporal punishment upon the girls. Corporal punishment for pupils in their final year had been reintroduced to schools when the government belatedly realized, following the London riots of a few years ago, that discipline was necessary to the young. Red Hills was one of the few schools which adopted the measure seriously.

Harriet got no lubricious pleasure from witnessing such punishments, but neither did she feel sorry for the girls, who endured what she thought of as a few mild stripes. That did not stop them from squealing and kicking as the cane lashed their bottoms, for it usually was the cane that was the instrument of correction.

"My word, what would these soft little darlings think of receiving real punishment," was the thought that always occurred to Harriet when she witnessed a caning. Her duty on such occasions was to ensure that no real damage was done, and to offer such soothing care as she deemed necessary. In truth she considered no care necessary but the passage of a very sort interval of time. Such a contrast to her experiences in a previous position, where post-punishment nursing was the work of several days of dressings, ointments and soothing words.

These musings were interrupted by one of the senior girls with a message from the deputy head, Miss Sloan, who requested Nurse Maynard's attendance in the senior dormitory.

Grace stared in horror at the man groaning on the floor.

"My God Grace, you've killed him! We've barely had this one a day. You're in SO much trouble!" Becka giggled, then knelt to check the body, which was starting to mutter and trying to stand up, "Come on, here we go, up you get, just sit on this chair and I'll get the First Aid kit. We always keep it handy." She bustled out of the office, leaving Grace alone with her victim.

"I - I'm so sorry, I just - I opened the door - I didn't know you were behind it..."

The moaning got louder. Grace stood, helpless and useless, wishing the floor would open up and swallow one of them.

"Here we are, now we'll set you right," Becka scurried back in. As she often pointed out, twenty years of marriage to a DIY 'expert', and four sons navigating through the dangerous waters of the teenage years, meant she could deal with almost anything without turning a hair.

Oddly, twenty-eight years of creating havoc had left Grace totally unable to deal with the results, despite countless opportunities for practice. She watched her latest victim, her blue eyes mournful.

"I just opened the door..."

Two dark eyes glared at her for a moment, then refocussed on Becka as she held a coldpack to the egg-sized swelling on his forehead.

This was a new record. Usually they lasted at least a week.

They were called Administrators, or Co-ordinators, or Managers, but the job was the same, whatever the title. They were the constant effort by the company to keep control of the crazy geniuses in the Research division. The exact proportion of craze to genius was under debate, but the labs kept producing, bringing in the big contracts, including certain work done for the government, involving terms like Top Secret, and High Security. Which meant that someone had to supervise, and check, and make it look like there was some sort of control over the brilliant, lucrative lunatics.

There was a ferociously high turnover in the job. Currently the new Administrative Supervisor was slumped in a chair, seeing double.

"Gracie, what have you done? Oh you poor man, let me look after you!" Gina swept into the room in a cloud of concern and expensive perfume. She fluttered over to her target and scooped the coldpack out of Becka's hand, deftly elbowing her out of the way at the same time. "What happened? Has Gracie been clumsy again? Honestly, she's a disaster, isn't she! We should call her Grace-LESS!"

Becka shrugged and stepped back. Grace stood there hating Gina for being taller, slimmer, blonder and totally NOT clumsy. Any one of those was hard to forgive, but all of them together were nauseating. And calling her 'Gracie' was almost grounds on its own for justifiable homicide.

Gina made a few more soothing noises over the sufferer, took a few steps towards Grace then hissed softly, "Haven't you done enough? He won't want to see you right now, will he? As if he ever would. Now why don't you run along and try to keep out of trouble, if you can, you clumsy oaf. And remember, I saw him first!"

That First Punishment
We'd met online. I was a virgin (in the spanking sense); he an experienced Dom. In spite of it, we'd' 'clicked' immediately. He loved my feisty humour, my quirky sense of fun; I admired his tremendous intellect; laughed at the sometimes outrageous 'rules' he imposed when we played on Messenger. Coincidentally, we had spent our childhood in the same village, our early youth frequenting many of the same haunts. It seemed almost certain that our paths had crossed at some point.

From on-line to real life. We'd exchanged telephone numbers, and spoken frequently. After a few months we met socially ... lunch and a few drinks, before going home to our own beds.

Eventually ... inevitably ... he had spanked me, helping me to overcome my initial fears and uncertainties, pushing me a little further each time, testing my limits and my tolerance.

Now, almost two years after our first Internet encounter, we were married. And although there was seldom a day when my bottom wasn't reddened and sore, I was happier than I had ever been.

Until today. Today, I was terrified. Because today I was to be punished for the first time.

Oh, I'd been spanked to tears on many occasions, welted so that I couldn't sit ... but those sessions had always ended in laughter and love-making, with me giggling through my sobs, and him carting me off to bed for our mutual carnal pleasure.

This was different. This time I had embarrassed him in front of a whole pub full of people, including his best friend. I'd let him ... and myself ... down badly.

At the beginning of our relationship, I had been surprised at how few restrictions he'd actually imposed on me. From what I'd read in stories and gleaned from chat-room conversations, a submissive's life was one endless struggle, trying to keep in mind the thousand-and-one petty rules and regulations set by the dominant.

The reality was quite different. In truth, I was able to do pretty much as I pleased, within the bounds of common sense and propriety. James didn't spank me if dinner was a minute or two late, or the particular shirt he wanted wasn't ironed; he didn't punish me for spending a couple of extra pounds at the sales, or for neglecting the dusting for a day or two. Of course, he often spanked me for nothing, or for the breaking of some arbitrary rule he'd made up on the spur of the moment as an excuse to take me over his lap. But that was all part of the fantasy role-play we both enjoyed.

Not today.

The day had started well enough. I had been up early, hoovering and polishing, and getting the spare room ready for Martin, a mutual friend who was coming for the weekend. He was a member of the same site on which we had met, and we liked to get together a few times a year.