The Discipline Begins

At the bell's first jangle Florence jolted upright in the big armchair; how could she have forgotten? Sir Richard had been up in town, to discuss the revised drafts with his publisher, and upon his return she was supposed to have met him at the station with the Bentley. Inexcusably she had allowed herself to become engrossed in the romance that now lay open upon her lap, the tale of an unfortunate heiress sold into white slavery by her unscrupulous guardian; heart in mouth as she read of the travails and degradations endured by the impossibly unfortunate heroine, Florence had quite lost track of time.

Cursing her lack of self-discipline, Florence brushed down the charcoal worsted jacket; if she was going to have to explain herself to Sir Richard it would go best for her if she at least looked smart, and the chauffeuse uniform would serve to show that she had not entirely forgotten the responsibility charged to her. Buttoned high on the neck and cinched in at the waist, the cut of the jacket emphasised her figure, the double front encasing her ample young breasts to present an uncompromising wedge of bosom. Below the jacket, shorts of the same material terminated so high upon the thigh as to almost constitute briefs. So firmly were her nates encased that, other than the open-crotched fishnet tights, she dare not wear anything beneath, lest the pantyline should show; to her deep embarrassment the cloth hugged her outer labia displaying the most distinct camel toe. The high-buttoned knee-length boots had been polished until her wrist ached, while the peaked cap, under which the brunette locks were pinned, completed the ensemble. Bracing herself to face Sir Richard's displeasure, she inspected her appearance in the mirror, not quite able to believe that the liveried odalisque before her was the same girl whose heart beat so fast with trepidation at the coming encounter.

When Sir Richard has shown her to her quarters on the lower floor, the chauffeuse uniform had been hanging in the closet with the others: the navy maid 's dress, perfectly proper yet perhaps a little low at the front and a little high on the leg, the lacy white apron not the most practical; the smart business suit with the shortest of skirts riding up to reveal the lacy suspender belt; the flat cap, corduroy hot pants, collarless shirt and tiny tie-fronted waistcoat, that framed rather than enclosed her breasts, for the garden. All of them tailored to the measurements Sir Richard had requested of her. Nothing had been said but Florence had understood that she was to dress appropriately for whatever duties Sir Richard might require of her.

The job had come to her through a friend of her father; Sir Richard, he had disclosed, was looking for a personal assistant. Resting his elbow upon the mantelpiece as he looked her up and down, her father's friend had suggested that Florence might very well do. Her father, who belonged to the same gentlemen's club as both Sir Richard and the helpful friend, had blown out his cheeks at the suggestion, and had seemed ready to put his foot down, but her mother had been quick to intervene, pointing out that, as a young girl newly down from Cambridge, this was precisely the manner of opportunity Florence should be looking for. A man of Sir Richard's eminence might open all sorts of doors for her. Bravely holding her husband's sternly disapproving gaze, Florence's mother had expressed the opinion that there was a great deal Sir Richard could teach her daughter. At this rare act of defiance from his ever-dutiful wife, the head of the household had visibly slumped. The friend had cheerfully thumped him on the arm: his little girl would have to grow up sometime.

At the interview Sir Richard had made no bones that he was looking for a servant rather than a companion. She would have her own quarters, on which he would not intrude unless it was to inspect them; his own rooms would be accessible between the hours of ten and four to enable her to fulfil her duties, otherwise she was not to enter them unless expressly bidden to do so. Other areas, such as the pool and the garden would common ground, though Sir Richard had warned her that as he liked to exercise in the fashion of the ancient Greeks, she might, if she were easily embarrassed, prefer to avoid using the facilities at the same times. His work required concentration, so while she was about her duties he did not expect her to speak unless first spoken to; if she required his attention she was to cough politely.

Throughout that unnerving initial interview he had referred to her as Miss Roberts rather than use her given name, and in the weeks since she had taken up the appointment he had persisted in this practice, only addressing her as Florence in rare unguarded moments when he had become engaged by some aspect of his work or taken delight in the explanation of some arcane piece of knowledge. The occasion on which, calling her away from her polishing, he had summoned her to his side by the French window so that he might show her the golden-eyed goshawk tearing at the carcass of a starling by the birdbath, he had been almost boyish in his enthusiasm; twice he had called her Florence, and had held her by the hand. For a brief moment he had forgotten himself sufficiently to affectionately fondle her bottom. Florence of course had coloured with embarrassment, and Sir Richard had at once withdrawn the offending hand, but for the rest of the day Florence had gone about her duties with a spring in her step that she could not quite explain to herself.

The duties expected of her were not onerous, she tended to the household accounts and engaged tradesmen as required, cleaned and tided, tended the garden under Sir Richard's supervision, assisted him with his correspondence and undertook discrete pieces of research. And she did the driving - or at least she was supposed to. The station on the branch line was unmanned and there were no cabs; Sir Richard would have had to walk the two miles. She pulled back the curtain; the night outside was foul.

Florence knocked gingerly at the panelled study door. "Come," came the command. She entered to find the slim, greying Sir Richard stood stiffly before an electric fire -- the grate, which she had neglected to make up for his return, being cold. He was steaming - quite literally so. His unruly quiff was plastered down on his forehead above the misted glasses while vapour visibly transpired from the sodden tweed jacket. His right foot, in the ruined patent leather shoe, was tapping ominously.

"Ah Miss Roberts, there you are; I trust you have had a pleasant evening?" he barked, dripping sarcasm with the rainwater. "I have had a most bracing walk from the station."

"I am terribly sorry, sir," Florence blurted, launching into an explanation in which she vainly attempted to find excuse for her shameful dereliction. "I did not mean to forget," she ended lamely, her eyes cast down, unable to withstand Sir Richard's impassive gaze.

"But you did forget," her employer answered. "And the result of your thoughtlessness, girl, is that I am cold, wet, and most profoundly out of temper." And indeed, it was apparent that only by an application of iron will was Sir Richard able to reign in his fury. "Can you think of any reason, Miss Roberts, why you should not be punished for this intolerable neglect?"

Poor Florence could not. "No sir," she sniffed, wondering balefully what Sir Richard might have in mind.

"No, neither can I," the knight snapped, "but your discipline shall have to wait. Be so good as to run me a bath Miss Roberts, and I shall have a little something to eat, an omelette perhaps."

Twenty minutes later Sir Richard stepped out from the bathroom in slippers and dressing gown to find a fire blazing in the hearth, and a bottle of burgundy breathing on the refectory table. As he helped himself to a large glass, Florence came bustling in from the kitchen. After running the bath for him, she had run downstairs to change and was now in the navy maid's dress, complete with suspender belt, black stockings and three and a half inch heels. Thinking to find favour with Sir Richard, Florence had left the dress unbuttoned to below her breasts, the material pulled aside so as to expose as much décolletage as possible. Her breasts, pushed up from below by a quarter cup brassiere, formed blossom tinted cushions rising above the starched white apron, while her nipples raised tiny tents in the stiff linen.

Sir Richard cast an appraising eye as she leant over to put the plate before him. "An appetising dish," he commented.

"Thank you, sir," replied Florence, pleased.

As she went to take a step back Sir Richard laid a firm hand on the stockinged thigh. "You may stay while I eat."

Stood to attention, Florence waited patiently as her employer silently finished his meal, her crotch, lace pantied beneath the short navy dress, inches from the grey-haired knight's face. From this vantage point she could see the bald patch beneath the thinning mop, and as his dressing gown fell open it exposed the white chest hairs. The pectorals were less firm than in a younger man, and the skin lacked the elasticity of youth, but he had not run to fat and his shoulders remained broad and his bearing upright. He was, Florence reflected, a fine distinguished gentlemen, and this thought she found gave her a most delightful squidgey feeling. How fortunate she had been to be taken into the household of this man who had so much he could teach her; and what a fool she had been to incur his wrath. She would not let him down again, and whatever he might ask of her, she would not hesitate to do his bidding. Smiling to herself she fantasised ways she might please him, imagining herself kneeling before him as she untied his gown, holding the semi-flaccid cock against her cheek, planting dainty kisses upon the shaft as it stiffened in her hand, the glans emerging as she ran her tongue along the rigid shaft, her lips wrapping themselves around the pulsing purple head...

"It's time I wiped that smile off your silly face," Sir Richard announced, breaking her reverie. Florence gulped as the knight rose and stood to face her. Florence was not more than five four, but Sir Richard not being a tall man, teetering on her heels her eyes were on a level with his. Hazel flecked with green met blue steel.

"You are fortunate Miss Roberts," he said, a twinkle in his smile, "that now that I am bathed and fed, I find myself in a rather a more amiable frame of mind than when first I returned home."

"Thank you, sir," said Florence reciprocating his smile.

"Do not thank me. I said more amiable, not more forgiving." His face hardened. "I do not believe in dishing out punishments in the heat of the moment; when one is in a passion punishment may be unjust or undeservedly harsh. The wisest course by far is to let one's initial temper subside and take a little while to reflect, which I have done. I hope you have also used the time to reflect upon your failings."

"Oh yes," replied Florence eagerly, all thoughts of swollen cock put aside. "I am so disappointed in myself," she said truthfully, struggling to hold back tears. "If you give me a second chance I promise I wont let you down again."

"That I doubt," said Sir Richard, suppressing a smile. "But if you do you shall be punished, as you are to be punished now."

Florence's eyes widened. What could this stern but kindly man have in mind?

"I know that you did not intend to neglect your duties, and I am sure you are suitably contrite and unhappy, but nevertheless you have put me to considerable inconvenience and discomfort. I am cross with you, and I do not like to be cross; the doctors tell me it is not good for my blood pressure. So for both our benefits you are to be chastised for your negligence. Your sufferings, which upon this occasion shall be more mild than you can expect in future, shall serve to assuage both my anger and your guilt. The whole unfortunate episode will be done with, and you and I can return to being friends. I assume this is acceptable to you Miss Roberts?"

To Florence it seemed that despite the bold confidence of his tone there was that in the grey-haired knight's voice that was hopeful rather than demanding. Florence was not entirely sure she liked the sound of sufferings, no matter how mild, but she did very much want this man whom she so respected to be her friend, so she nodded enthusiastically.

"Good. I am pleased," said Sir Richard, patting her hand. "Stand with your feet three feet apart and three foot back from the table, and rest your hands upon the edge. Now lower your head until your chin is level with the lip of the table."

Florence obediently did as she was bid, Sir Richard's hand gently pressing upon her back to guide her into the correct position. He placed a hand upon her stockinged thigh, just above the knee. "Further apart, please." Lifting her right heel she spun on the toe, and then on the heel to reposition the ball of foot, gaining a few more inches. Grunting approvingly, Sir Richard had her do the same with the left, then placing his hands upon her hips, instructed her to keep her head down as he pulled her towards him, causing her bottom to thrust up higher.

She was straining now to hold the pose, her hamstrings uncomfortably tight, pulling in her abdominals to protect the lower back, while an ache crept into her shoulders. "Wait a moment," Sir Richard ordered.

He returned, after what seemed like minutes, but was probably less, with his shaving mirror, which he placed on the table in front of her, angling it so that standing behind her and to one side he was able to watch her face, and she to observe him. Then he dropped down out of view.

Squatting on his haunches between the elegantly splayed stocking clad legs balanced on high heels, Sir Richard took hold of the hem of her dress and raised it to expose an inch of creamy white flesh above the tops of the stockings held aloft by the black lace suspender belt. Florence felt his breath hot upon her thighs, as he walked his fingers up the bare flesh of her hips, slowly hoisting the hem before flipping the dress over her back to expose panties of lilac satin in a swirling rose bud pattern edged with midnight lace. Florence hoped that her employer would approve of them

"I administer spankings upon the bare bottom," Sir Richard explained, hooking his thumbs into the waistband. From the increasing heat of his breath she felt him lean in closer as he drew the tight material inch by inch down over the fleshy cushions, exposing the deepening, darkening crack, the pinched little starburst of her arsehole, the plump outer pussy lips with the inner lips neatly folded inside, and the bush of black curls peeping from between her legs.

"All women respond differently to the chastisement of the flesh," Sir Richard continued, "and observing how the the skins colours helps to judge correctly the severity of the blows. I should not wish to do you more harm than I intend."

"Thank you, sir," said Florence, judging this to be the appropriate response. "You are most considerate."

"I shall try a few practice swipes, to get my eye in. Please prepare yourself." Florence instinctively clenched. "You would do better to try to try to soften," Sir Richard observed, his finger tips gently kneading the presented buttocks. In the mirror she caught him smiling reassuringly and smiling back she allowed the tension to ebb from her body under the skilful massage, his fingers pinching and pulling the flesh, tracing swirls up on the soft globes, running teasingly in tiny steps down the parted crack. "That's right, Miss Roberts, just let yourself relax," Sir Richard said approvingly. "That way you shall be much less likely to bruise when you are beaten."

The dreamily smiling Florence sprang awake as the first blow fell, flat and solid upon the left cheek, stinging the bared flesh.

"Do I have your attention now?" asked Sir Richard, the smile playing at the corner of his mouth revealing amusement at the startled expression in the mirror.

"Yes, sir," replied Florence, thinking to herself, as the smarting sensation faded, that that had not been too bad; that she could do this. The second blow was no worse, and as Sir Richard tried a few more experimental swipes Florence found herself brightening. He was measuring his blows, holding back his full strength and giving her time to recover. Sir Richard continued his testing of her response, varying the angle, the degree of force, the spot where the blow landed. Each additional smack stung that little bit more, and the cumulative effect was mounting uncomfortably, but Florence felt that this was pain she could endure. In fact she thought she might be beginning to enjoy her punishment. Perhaps it was the heat from her inflamed cheeks transferring itself to her loins, or perhaps it was simply the thrill of so brazenly exposing herself to her master. That's right, not her employer, her master. She toyed with the concept. Yes, she felt a wish to belong to this older man, to surrender her body to him to be his to chastise, his to take in pleasure in.

Taking a peak back through her parted legs Florence saw that Sir Richard's exertions had caused his dressing gown to fall open; she was heartened to glimpse a stiff, engorged cock. It was sweet to endure sufferings that could elicit such a response in one whom she so craved to please.

The next swipe made her gasp. Fuck that hurt. Maybe this wasn't going to be quite so okay after all. In the mirror she caught Sir Richard smiling wickedly. "I think I have my eye in now," he informed her. "Two dozen should be sufficient, don't you think?"

Two dozen? Of those? But wanting to gain her master's, yes, her master's, approval, she replied, "I am sure I shall be grateful for whatever you may decide I require."

"Excellent." And with that Sir Richard began in earnest.

Ouch. "One."

No not yet - shit! "Two. Try to stay still."

Oh fuck. "Three."

Oh Jesus. "Four. Legs straight please, Miss Roberts."

Jesus Mary Mother of God. "Keep your head down please. Five."

Please -- oh... "Six."

Mercy. "Seven."

Mercy, mercy, mercy. "Do stay still you wretched child. Now where was I? Eight."

Make it stop, please make it stop. "Nine, you are trying my patience."

No, no, no no. "That's better. Ten."

Please, no... "Good girl. Eleven."

Please.... "And twelve."

Stoically Florence fought to hold up under the stinging rain of blows, refusing to beg for the mercy her inflamed rear cried out for. Her knees buckled and in the high heels she struggled to keep her balance, but after each blow she composed herself to receive the next, allowing her never before violated arse to be transformed into one crimson ball of burning pain under the skilfully vicious strokes. She was openly sobbing, each cleanly delivered swipe of her master's hand a more ghastly horror than the last, her suffering an ordeal to which she had no response but bawling self-pity. What a worthless fool she was to have incurred the wrath of this man.

There was a pause, in which Florence contemplated the contorted, tear-reddened reflection in the shaving mirror; in the background she saw her master looking upon her with open concern. Obscurely she felt that she was letting him down. She forced herself to smile wanly at him. "I didn't meant to wriggle so much, sir. I shall try to stay still for the rest."

"Your are doing very well, Florence." Florence! "But perhaps the remaining strokes, should go on account. They can always be added to the tally if I should have call to beat you again."

Florence felt a surge of relief, no more stinging blows to turn her legs to jelly and blister her tender bum! But no, she would not have him hold back - how could she surrender herself to him if he could not bring himself to trust in her ability to submit? "