I can't tell you the reason I find it most natural to begin this blog with the most intense day of work. Still, the thoughts are flowing, lines are floating in my mind, just waiting to be typed out, and so this is where I will begin, but I'll ad just a little bit of background:
By 'day' and vanilla life, I am a professional. One who was desperately seeking work at the time.
This disciplinarian of mine was a casual friend, and knew of my financial struggles, so offered me an interesting proposition: that I work for him as his French maid. He provided the full kit, and trained me. I was very well compensated for my services, but they were indeed cleaning, cooking and laundry services. A far cry from the power I was accustomed to wielding in a federal court room. However, I needed to put food on the table, the time was there, and so I accepted this offer.
The pattern was simple: I would arrive at his home and meet him there during his lunch hour. He would let me in, dictate a list of things to do (I was not given the benefit of pen and pad, so focus was extremely important, as any forgotten tasks were not only completed upon reminder, but then I was duly punished for the forgetfulness, regardless of my performance on the task). I would change into my uniform, and he would inspect it as well as provide all instructions, and then he would leave for the afternoon.
When he arrived home, I was to stop whatever I was doing, and wait kneeling at the top of the stairs, eyes averted if I didn't want a good smacking upon his arrival home.
I would lay out his bed clothes, and serve him his evening beer and a snack before I prepared and served his dinner. He and I never ate together while I was working. After all, I was 'staff'.
One day, my drive to his home was horrendous. I was caught in 3 traffic jams, each cost me in excess of 15 minutes. I was very upset. I called each time to provide updates upon my arrival time, as he had little time to leave his office to return home at lunch time. After I endured the second accident delay, and thought I was home free, I was mortified to see signs of 'road work ahead. Left lane closed in 2 miles'. Within a mile, the traffic was once again at a crawl, and I literally cried.
It was winter, and he had always warned me that a late arrival would result in me being locked in my own car until his arrival back at the end of the day, and at that time he would decide whether I would be punished and allowed to work, or whether I would be sent home.
I called, fearing he would tell me to turn back, but he told me he would wait, and I thanked him profusely. He was clearly displeased, and my hands started to shake as I maneuvered the nightmarish but unavoidable traffic merge. I finally arrived. I was grateful to be there, and terrified of the wrath that awaited me. As quickly as I could, I grabbed my tools and bag, and ran to his door. I rang the bell and waited. He opened the door, his eyes flashing sparks of anger, and as I started to spew apologies and thanks, he took me by my shoulder, pulled me in and slammed the door shut.
'Upstairs right now!' was my greeting. I practically ran so he would not smack my thighs on the way up, and amazingly, he did not. Before I could run into the bedroom to change, he told me to go upstairs to his study. I knew that meant trouble, and unintentionally froze in place, like a deer in the headlights. 'Get going girl, I'm already 20 minutes late because of you...'
I dropped my bags, and ran to the stairs and started my way up. I don't know how he kept up but he did, and he peppered my bottom and thighs with hard smacks as I headed to the room I dreaded most. I wanted to slow down, half to catch my breath, and half to delay the inevitable, but he noticed my slight hesitation, and with one snap of the belt across my bottom convinced me that swiftness was best to maintain despite what would transpire once I arrived in his study.
Once he and I were both in the study, the normal rituals were abandoned. 'We have no time for you to contemplate your abhorrent tardiness, so (as he pulled his chair from his desk), get those jeans and knickers off and bend over that chair right now. I don't think I ever stripped from the waist as quickly as I did that day. I bent over the chair, head touching the seat, up on tip-toes so I could hold that position, and I held on to the front of the seat for dear life.
'We are going to start with 12 strokes of the belt, and then 18 with the cane.' You know what I expect of you.
I could feel my posture and heart just collapse as I tried so hard to arrive on time, but knew better than to winge at that point, or indulge in any self pity. So I clenched my teeth, and straightened my back, then lifted again up on tip-toes, and arched my back to present my bottom properly for the belt. 12 agonizing strokes bit into my tender flesh, each more merciless than the one before. At the 9th stroke I couldn't stand the fiery sting of that wicked imported and well-used tawse, and I made the mistake of letting go of that chair seat. I jumped up, grabbed my throbbing bottom and howled in pain. Before I could regain my own composure, he pressed against the small of my back with his hand, and said 'that obviously does not count, and just cost you two extra strokes of the belt'. What had been scattered tears turned into free flowing sobs when I heard both the sentence as well as the resolve in his voice. This was going to me one merciless day, and that it was. I managed to endure the rest of the strokes of the belt, and was allowed 2 minutes in the corner to compose myself while he sorted through his collection of canes to choose the weapon he felt most appropriate for the circumstances.
I was still crying feely, unable to lift my eyes to meet his when he told me to get back over that chair for the cane. I obeyed. Slowly, steadily, and ever-so-harshly one of his many wicked senior canes imparted its unmistakable signature across my already sore aching bottom.
He is a marksman with the cane, so whenever he wanted to, two and sometimes three strokes would be right on top of the previous one, making the waves of pain unbearable. I made it through earning only 3 extra strokes for not holding position and presenting my bottom properly for the cane, and finally, his 'welcome' was over.
'Now, get downstairs and I want you in uniform in 5 minutes and not a second more, understand?'
'Yes, sir' I spoke, and ran to change so as to avoid any further corporal punishment before I even began my work that day.
By 'day' and vanilla life, I am a professional. One who was desperately seeking work at the time.
This disciplinarian of mine was a casual friend, and knew of my financial struggles, so offered me an interesting proposition: that I work for him as his French maid. He provided the full kit, and trained me. I was very well compensated for my services, but they were indeed cleaning, cooking and laundry services. A far cry from the power I was accustomed to wielding in a federal court room. However, I needed to put food on the table, the time was there, and so I accepted this offer.
The pattern was simple: I would arrive at his home and meet him there during his lunch hour. He would let me in, dictate a list of things to do (I was not given the benefit of pen and pad, so focus was extremely important, as any forgotten tasks were not only completed upon reminder, but then I was duly punished for the forgetfulness, regardless of my performance on the task). I would change into my uniform, and he would inspect it as well as provide all instructions, and then he would leave for the afternoon.
When he arrived home, I was to stop whatever I was doing, and wait kneeling at the top of the stairs, eyes averted if I didn't want a good smacking upon his arrival home.
I would lay out his bed clothes, and serve him his evening beer and a snack before I prepared and served his dinner. He and I never ate together while I was working. After all, I was 'staff'.
One day, my drive to his home was horrendous. I was caught in 3 traffic jams, each cost me in excess of 15 minutes. I was very upset. I called each time to provide updates upon my arrival time, as he had little time to leave his office to return home at lunch time. After I endured the second accident delay, and thought I was home free, I was mortified to see signs of 'road work ahead. Left lane closed in 2 miles'. Within a mile, the traffic was once again at a crawl, and I literally cried.
It was winter, and he had always warned me that a late arrival would result in me being locked in my own car until his arrival back at the end of the day, and at that time he would decide whether I would be punished and allowed to work, or whether I would be sent home.
I called, fearing he would tell me to turn back, but he told me he would wait, and I thanked him profusely. He was clearly displeased, and my hands started to shake as I maneuvered the nightmarish but unavoidable traffic merge. I finally arrived. I was grateful to be there, and terrified of the wrath that awaited me. As quickly as I could, I grabbed my tools and bag, and ran to his door. I rang the bell and waited. He opened the door, his eyes flashing sparks of anger, and as I started to spew apologies and thanks, he took me by my shoulder, pulled me in and slammed the door shut.
'Upstairs right now!' was my greeting. I practically ran so he would not smack my thighs on the way up, and amazingly, he did not. Before I could run into the bedroom to change, he told me to go upstairs to his study. I knew that meant trouble, and unintentionally froze in place, like a deer in the headlights. 'Get going girl, I'm already 20 minutes late because of you...'
I dropped my bags, and ran to the stairs and started my way up. I don't know how he kept up but he did, and he peppered my bottom and thighs with hard smacks as I headed to the room I dreaded most. I wanted to slow down, half to catch my breath, and half to delay the inevitable, but he noticed my slight hesitation, and with one snap of the belt across my bottom convinced me that swiftness was best to maintain despite what would transpire once I arrived in his study.
Once he and I were both in the study, the normal rituals were abandoned. 'We have no time for you to contemplate your abhorrent tardiness, so (as he pulled his chair from his desk), get those jeans and knickers off and bend over that chair right now. I don't think I ever stripped from the waist as quickly as I did that day. I bent over the chair, head touching the seat, up on tip-toes so I could hold that position, and I held on to the front of the seat for dear life.
'We are going to start with 12 strokes of the belt, and then 18 with the cane.' You know what I expect of you.
I could feel my posture and heart just collapse as I tried so hard to arrive on time, but knew better than to winge at that point, or indulge in any self pity. So I clenched my teeth, and straightened my back, then lifted again up on tip-toes, and arched my back to present my bottom properly for the belt. 12 agonizing strokes bit into my tender flesh, each more merciless than the one before. At the 9th stroke I couldn't stand the fiery sting of that wicked imported and well-used tawse, and I made the mistake of letting go of that chair seat. I jumped up, grabbed my throbbing bottom and howled in pain. Before I could regain my own composure, he pressed against the small of my back with his hand, and said 'that obviously does not count, and just cost you two extra strokes of the belt'. What had been scattered tears turned into free flowing sobs when I heard both the sentence as well as the resolve in his voice. This was going to me one merciless day, and that it was. I managed to endure the rest of the strokes of the belt, and was allowed 2 minutes in the corner to compose myself while he sorted through his collection of canes to choose the weapon he felt most appropriate for the circumstances.
I was still crying feely, unable to lift my eyes to meet his when he told me to get back over that chair for the cane. I obeyed. Slowly, steadily, and ever-so-harshly one of his many wicked senior canes imparted its unmistakable signature across my already sore aching bottom.
He is a marksman with the cane, so whenever he wanted to, two and sometimes three strokes would be right on top of the previous one, making the waves of pain unbearable. I made it through earning only 3 extra strokes for not holding position and presenting my bottom properly for the cane, and finally, his 'welcome' was over.
'Now, get downstairs and I want you in uniform in 5 minutes and not a second more, understand?'
'Yes, sir' I spoke, and ran to change so as to avoid any further corporal punishment before I even began my work that day.
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