Whip Hands Read online

  Miss Praeger’s tall figure, stylish in her supple maroon dress, stood over Verity. She noticed for the first time how well-endowed Miss Praeger’s bosom was in the low-cut gown. In her garish party costume she once again felt at a disadvantage as the librarian led the way back along the corridor, pausing only briefly to unlock one door and remove the key. She beckoned Verity inside with a level gaze.

  The new room was even larger than the boudoir, but not nearly as inviting. It had a slightly musty small, Verity noticed. There was only a skylight for light and ventilation. The high walls were panelled in dark wood up to shoulder height and then became an indeterminate off-white. There were two rows of old school benches that had clearly seen rough treatment in the past, and before them stood a teacher’s desk on a high dais.

  ‘Look around. You will find I have preserved many of dear papa’s teaching aids. Maps of the classical world, reproductions of suitable urns and vases, even his bust of Homer. The classroom furniture was donated by the school as a token of respect for the thirty years he taught there with scarcely a day taken off ill. It was this dedication and discipline that hastened his death, I am convinced.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, things are quite different now.’

  Verity tried desperately to grasp some meaning from this latest twist. Dutifully she moved to take a closer look at Homer. The buzz of the strip lights was distracting. Then she heard the sound of the key turning behind her. She whirled round to find Miss Praeger standing behind her father’s high desk. Her penetrating gaze rooted Verity to the spot. Miss Praeger suddenly lifted the lid, reached inside and produced something which was not immediately discernible in the dim light. She lowered the lid and the object was swiftly laid on top with a slight slap.

  ‘Now Verity, the time has come for you to take the discipline which by rights you should have received months ago.’

  Verity gulped, thinking that she might be in for a few slaps across the wrist or a tap with a ruler. Surely Miss Praeger, a refined and educated woman, could not be thinking of anything more severe?

  ‘Bend over that desk facing you, with your arms stretched out to rest on the row behind.’

  ‘But, Miss Praeger...’

  ‘Come now, girl. You didn’t for a moment think you would get away with defrauding the library service of more than fifty pounds?’ The woman’s interrogative tone had suddenly hardened to contain a hint of menace.

  Verity’s head whirled once more. ‘Surely it can’t be as much as that?’

  ‘You lost count, didn’t you, Verity? Well, it’s what comes of lapsing into complacency. Believe me, that’s a lesson you will learn painfully tonight.’

  ‘I can’t think what you mean by adopting that kind of tone. There was no intention of fraud against the library. You surely must see that,’ Verity squeaked. ‘No one else was asking to borrow the books.’

  ‘Be quiet, girl. When I address you in this room you remain silent. You speak only when invited to by your teacher.’

  Miss Praeger’s voice was now harsh, almost metallic. There was something very strange about this room and what it was used for, Verity thought. She tried her best to shut certain thoughts out of her mind. And then she saw what Miss Praeger carried in her hand.

  Only a few nights ago, Karl had produced something similar after one of the hand-spanking sessions which by now was a regular occurrence. They had just graduated to a long-handled clothes brush which produced a sharp crack like a pistol shot but resulted in a wonderful warm glow to her trembling globes. It was then he had produced the three-tongued tawse to show her what he called ‘the next pace’. He meant ‘step’, of course.

  Something about the dull gleam of the grey strap had frightened Verity, together with the pungent smell of new leather that assailed her senses. She had not permitted him to use it, and she rejected his invitation to do ‘boom-boom’, as he called it. Now, as in a nightmare, she noticed Miss Praeger was running between the thumb and fingers of one hand an item that was almost identical. The resemblance was uncanny. But this one was far from new and its stiffness creaked slightly in Miss Praeger’s grasp.

  ‘Bend over, now, and take your punishment,’ Miss Praeger ordered. ‘Karl and I have agreed to share out the apportionment of strokes. There will be one for each pound owed to the library authority. You will hardly feel a thing in that outfit and the drink you have taken contains a mild herbal painkiller.’

  At this, Verity found herself being pushed over the desk by a firm hand in the small of her back. Although shocked by the turn of events, she was relieved to remember she was by no stretch of the imagination naked and defenceless. The glossy PVC skin, although now tightly compressing her buttocks and stretching like a thong around her labia, was at least going to take the edge off her first taste of the strap. But it was so humiliating to be treated like a schoolgirl.

  ‘How many?’ she asked in a tiny voice, looking back over her shoulder.

  ‘We will begin with twelve now. But your partner will be administering some more later tonight.’ Verity’s shocked face was turned to face the front firmly but gently. ‘You will help me by counting. Start with “twelve to go, miss”.’

  ‘Twelve to go, miss.’ Verity heard the creak of the ancient tawse on its upward and return journey. The sensation was only a slight burning.

  ‘Eleven to go.’ The next time was definitely harder, and Verity now suspected she was being broken in gently by the experienced librarian. There was a slight pause as Miss Praeger adjusted her sleeve. On the fifth stroke she swore she heard Miss Praeger grunt and after that she knew the final stretch would be a trial indeed.

  The head librarian pushed Verity hard down on to the desk. Her nose was against the pitted surface. To her left she could see someone’s initials carved with a penknife.

  ‘Five to go.’ Again the unmistakable grunt and now the burn grew in sharpness before eventually fading.

  ‘Four to go.’ This time there was practically no pause before it was administered, much lower down and below the panty line. Verity sprang up and rubbed her backside furiously, angry despite herself. Then, in a trice, she remembered where she was.

  ‘Your apologies are, I’m afraid, insufficient,’ Miss Praeger declared. She had a gleam in her eye that Verity did not like. ‘You will receive an extra one for indiscipline. And this time it will need to be without the catsuit.’

  ‘Miss Praeger, please. I’ve had enough.’

  ‘You may have, you silly girl. But I have not!’

  Despite Verity’s struggles the librarian swiftly began to unlace the catsuit. She pushed the girl back down and put a knee on the small of her back to hold her in place. Verity had not realised Miss Praeger was so strong. She felt the cooler air on her back as the laces were pulled free of the eyelets; down, down as far as the very top of her buttocks.

  Then Miss Praeger made Verity stand up. She was instructed to strip the garment away. When the sleeves were free, the second skin was pulled down roughly to her knees, revealing the thong she had decided to wear underneath. Miss Praeger saw it and shook her head more in sorrow than anger.

  Verity was manhandled round and made to bend over the desk once more. Her legs were shaking and she wasn’t sure if it was with cold or not.

  ‘Now, in future you will be much more obedient, Verity, both to Karl and to myself as your superior in the library. Do you understand?’

  ‘To Karl? But I’m not his wife. Surely you can’t mean that I should do exactly as he says.’

  ‘Verity, you have not properly learned your lesson.’

  Again Verity heard the creak of leather and the tawse made its inevitable journey to brand her upturned globes with a stripe of fire. She struggled, but to no avail. This time the initial sharpness took far longer to go away. The tawse burned her again. She felt herself becoming tearful as Miss Praeger raised her arm for a further stroke.

  Then the f
ront door buzzer went. Taking advantage of the distraction, Verity struggled free. Miss Praeger shot her a quick glance, which bore a touch of exasperation.

  ‘Now, I think I know who that is. You will be excused further punishment at my hand after all. But I see there are dark stripes left on your costume. Get out of it and I will bring you your coat.’

  As Verity stripped the pink garment off her legs she could hear Miss Praeger talking to someone over the intercom in the hall, but failed to catch the words. She was standing naked but for the thong in Miss Praeger’s strange schoolroom when the librarian returned with her coat. Miss Praeger placed it on the high desk, then made Verity turn round and display her glowing haunches.

  ‘I seem to have let you off lightly,’ she observed as she stood, arms akimbo, smiling lazily. ‘Karl says he is in no hurry, so bend over again as you were. This time I will use the usual weapon for punishing beginners.’ She brandished a heavy wooden twelve-inch ruler quite unlike the thin plastic kind used in Verity’s schooldays.

  This time Verity distinctly heard the whirr and knew the implement would be harder. The slap of the flat wooden surface surprised her. She had never dreamed the pain could be so sharp. Holding her firmly down, Miss Praeger inflicted five more in quick succession before releasing the writhing girl. Tears of vexation sprang to Verity’s eyes.

  ‘Ow, that really hurt!’ Verity could think of nothing more original as her hands went to smooth her flaming cheeks. To her dismay, a tear rolled down one cheek.

  ‘Only a foretaste, Verity,’ Miss Praeger replied. ‘Never mind, your Karl will finish off the job later. Put on your coat. I will keep hold of this for tonight and give it to you clean tomorrow.’ She held up the catsuit.

  Verity felt she must find out the truth, even if it was unpleasant. ‘How do you know so much about Karl and what he wants from me?’

  To her surprise, Miss Praeger came over and held her gently at arms’ length, giving her a genuine look of concern. ‘Verity, my dear, your innocence does you credit. But I think you need to ask your Karl a few questions, especially about what he does most Monday nights.’

  ‘Do you know where he goes?’

  ‘Why, yes. He comes here. With one or two other gentlemen who enjoy watching a young girl such as yourself receive punishment at my hands. It is all very civilised, I assure you. We have drinks in the boudoir afterwards. But, of course, they all pay me generously for making the arrangements.’

  ‘You do this as a business?’

  ‘On a branch librarian’s wages, my dear, I could never afford to keep this place up.’

  ‘But how could Karl possibly afford it?’

  ‘Believe me, Verity, he could afford to come every night if he wished. His family treat him generously. I understand you have not yet visited his luxurious flat just around the corner of the square.’

  ‘I thought he lived in the boarding house. So why couldn’t he pay the library fines for the overdue books?’

  ‘Because he dreamed up this way of putting you in my hands for an evening. With the best of intentions, he thought I could... bring you on a little. And that is exactly what has happened. I hope you enjoyed your first taste of classroom punishment and will go on to enjoy more.’ Miss Praeger sighed softly. ‘Now Karl is waiting for you in the hallway. Enjoy the rest of the night, my dear.’

  The evident sadness in Miss Praeger’s voice made Verity wonder about her love life. For the first time she felt she was seeing a vulnerable side of her superior. Impulsively she went up to her and held her fleetingly in a cheek to cheek embrace.

  Then, with a ‘See you tomorrow’ tossed over one shoulder, Verity made a beeline for the door. Tripping nimbly down the staircase, she looked down to see Karl’s squat figure dark against the white marble floor of the hallway.

  He owed her an explanation. And she knew she would get it, eventually, when he was ready. Hugging her nakedness beneath her coat, she was strangely excited at what awaited her.

  The Cruel Deception of Geraldine

  ‘Higher, please. Piu alto, signorina. Eccola!’ Eloquent hands indicated that I should pull the hem of my skirt higher. Much higher than I would normally have worn it.

  The scene was like something out of a B-movie, or a bad dream. A single mother needing a part-time job, I had walked into the restaurant off the street after seeing a hand-written notice in the window. The inside was rather more cheerful than the steamed-up windows had revealed, with red check tablecloths and colourful posters of beaches and historic cities on the walls. So far, so good. I was desperate for extra income and I was expecting something in the kitchen at best.

  I didn’t know anything very much about Italians, except that you took everything they said with a pinch of salt. That’s what my friend Nerys said. Especially with a holiday romance, she’d added. I wouldn’t have known because holiday romances were not on the agenda after I’d married at eighteen.

  However, this skirt-raising business was going a bit far. Apparently I was being considered for a job as a waitress. Costanzo - at least, I assumed that was his name as the place was called Costanzo’s - twirled with his downward pointing finger and I did a slow pirouette before letting go of my pleated cotton skirt. That was his lot as far as I was concerned.

  He looked crestfallen. Even his moustache drooped further than it already did. This was just what you should expect from these volatile Mediterranean men, apparently. I’d done some waitressing in pubs and hotel bars but never anything where an inspection of my legs had been part of the interview process. I was about to ask who else was on the staff. It was then I noticed, through the glass porthole in the swing doors, a pair of dark brown eyes inspecting me from the kitchen.

  A plump girl in a black waitress tunic inched her way out and smiled at me reassuringly. She nodded at Costanzo, who seemed unsure. ‘Okay, signorina,’ he decided reluctantly. ‘Your hours will be from six till midnight three nights a week, including Friday and Saturday. You understand? You will be paid five pounds an hour and be permitted to keep your tips. When can you start?’

  The money didn’t sound great, but the tips could make all the difference. I knew at the weekend I could get my mum to baby-sit. So I said I’d try it.

  Friday came round in no time and when I once again threaded my way through the narrow back streets towards the restaurant I began to suffer misgivings. This was not a very salubrious part of town, with half the shops boarded up and the others being used for storage. Still, Costanzo’s cast a cheery glow into the surrounding winter gloom when I pushed open the main door, which was festooned with raffia dolls.

  Fidellina was the name of the other waitress. She beckoned me over to a table where she had been talking with a distinguished, silver-haired man who wore some military ribbons in the lapel of his well-pressed suit. Excusing herself, Fidellina drew me towards the back of the restaurant, beyond the bar with its long-necked wine bottles and fake fruit, and opened a door under the stairs. It contained a dingy cupboard just about large enough for two at the high end.

  ‘We call this the staff changing room,’ she told me. ‘Luckily there are not very many staff here. So we manage okay. The cook, Riccardo, changes in the kitchen anyway.’ Whilst I was absorbing this information, and eyeing up the tunic I imagined was for me, she told me her name and asked me mine.

  Fidellina was second-generation Italian, so her English was good. With Costanzo and Riccardo it was difficult to know how much they really understood, as both preferred to give me long looks rather than actually open a conversation.

  ‘Now, Geraldine, you must get changed pronto,’ Fidellina said. ‘The customers will begin to arrive within half an hour and then we will become very busy.’

  I emerged five minutes later, tugging desperately at my black nylon tunic. The top half didn’t fit too badly but the skirt was much shorter than I would normally wear.

  To begin with I felt
very self-conscious about bending over to serve anyone, but Fidellina demonstrated that bending at the knees was the best way to retain a figment of modesty. The clients seemed to be entirely male. First of all they ordered flasks of wine. They then spent hours playing cards, or another game like dominoes in a noisy fashion. There was a whole lot of gesticulation and shouting across the room. Not really a place you’d go to if you were looking for a romantic night out. Mind you, the food was very tasty, and I could take leftovers home with me most nights.

  A number of the patrons had black armbands which, according to Fidellina, who was able to converse in Italian with them, indicated they had lost a close relative, possibly a wife. They generally had something to eat after eight. They finished the evening off with some clear spirit that burned the back of my throat fiercely when I tried a sip.

  The following night, a Saturday, there was more of a crowd. Fidellina seemed to be getting large tips from some of the regulars; in fact, there seemed to be some rivalry as to who could offer the biggest. Becoming flustered by all the attention, she eventually declared enough. After due consideration she pointed to one large chap with a red face. He stood up and made a mock bow, which was greeted by shouts and clapping. It all seemed quite friendly, but then, of course, I couldn’t understand a word.

  A few minutes later, taking a quick break in the changing room, where there were two wobbly chairs, I heard a heavy tread on the stairs above my head. Then Fidellina poked her head round the door.

  ‘Geraldine, can you take over?’

  ‘Of course, Fidellina. Are you getting off early tonight, then?’

  ‘No, I will see you again in half an hour or less. I’m just going upstairs. Don’t worry.’

  She retreated behind the door, whispering something under her breath. She seemed agitated, quite unlike her usual good-natured self. The next moment I heard her climbing the stairs. I was just in time to see her open the door at the top of a narrow flight of stairs leading to an upstairs room. When I returned to the restaurant, through a thick fog of pungent cigarette and pipe smoke, there was an expectant hush in the air. I asked Costanzo for an explanation.