Chapter Three

If I thought this one impulsive spanking session would assuage the desire in me, I was a fool. If I thought KC Gable would vanish from my thoughts, I was an even greater fool. If I thought that Rossi had disappeared from my life, then I was truly kidding myself. My mind now swarmed with fantasies of spanking, of KC and Rossi. The essence of their effect on me endlessly colored my mood, creating submissive pictures of me in poses of surrender. The desire for exacting even ruthless discipline at the hands of such commanding personalities threw my body into a frenzy of physical excitement. Every minute of my day was influenced by this lust, the dreamy abandon having lifted my life above the mundane. My obsession became a friend. So much an obsession that daily, I repelled the desire to storm KC’s theatre demanding he spank me again.

Rossi was less conspicuous in my thoughts, often appearing to me in the middle of the night when I’d awaken and a slip of his memory would return from some forgotten niche in the back of my mind.

She was seated on her drafting stool, wearing the plaid skirt he’d just purchased for her. It was more colorful than the greys and beiges he normally had her wear. She should have been pleased, though now the scratchy fabric on her recently caned behind was so annoying that she wanted to rip it off. That would be an egregious error, however, and knowing that, she endured this torment in silence, waiting for Rossi to lift his edict.

She heard his voice behind her, “Gail, your attention, please.” His cold, clear words felt like shards of ice inside her brain.

“Yes, sir.”

“I have friends who would like to see your ass.”

She blushed as she turned around, seeing three pairs of eyes looking at her, admiringly, with interest and an undercurrent of lurid anticipation.

“Here? Now? I was in the middle of this drawing you wanted to have me…”

“Now!” he interrupted her abruptly. “Now.”

How his eyes did gleam!

“Yes, sir,” she answered meekly. She was filled with anticipation and her emotions raw. Though terribly embarrassed, she stood and turned to face the men.

“Now bend over the arm of the chair,” Rossi continued.

She silently followed the command.

“Raise your skirt,” he went on.

She did as ordered, drawing the smooth, straight skirt up her legs and tugging it over her ass, revealing her naked behind. It was a pearly shade of white, which had been etched with no less than a dozen lines of red—imprints of the cane that Rossi applied that morning to correct her misbehavior.

“Once Miss Henry has been disciplined, I strip her of her panties so that she’s forced to feel the effect for as long as possible. Good woolen fabric has the tendency to augment the experience. This miscreant needs that sort of reminder.”

Three pairs of eyes stared at her bottom, seeming to heat the surface without laying a single hand on the wounded skin. She clenched inside, trying to suck her sexual juices back inside her cunt. To have these ghouls see them trickle down her thighs would just increase her shame.

“I would imagine she would feel some tautness to her flesh in the next few days?” one of the gentleman speculated.

“I’m sure,” Rossi reported. “These will stay for some time.”

“Would it be too bold to request a paddling now?”

Rossi seemed pleased, and moved immediately to a cabinet where he stored several punishment devices. Withdrawing the standard paddle from inside, he offered it to the man. A balding, pudgy fellow with a pallid complexion and a filthy smile stepped forward. Having removed his suit coat, he began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. With a manner of authority settling on his face, he then grabbed the paddle from Rossi’s hand, addressed the submissive’s ass standing a proper distance away, and smacked her quivering behind with the flat of the implement. He was not unaccustomed to such rituals, having developed a decided flourish to his stroke. His pace was brisk, the smacks resounding, and the crisp sound that followed snapped like jolts of electric energy through the animated air.

The poised Miss Henry drew in her breath, grunting softly as the paddle hit. Though, with the rabid intensity of the pain increasing rapidly, this kind of holding back became more difficult with each blow that landed.

“Yeeeeaawwwwww,” she finally cried, while her red rear end jerked frantically.

“Some poise, Miss Henry,” Rossi shot out over the sound of the strikes and her distress.

She tried to calm, but the pain on her behind was too rich to allow her any measure of control. Her cries were filled with “ouches,” “ows,” and mournful groans.

Then, as abruptly as the paddling started, it ended.

“Yes, she has a fine ass to punish,” the bald man said. “I’m sorry I don’t have a young lady to discipline who is as choice a female specimen as this one.”

Should she feel complimented by this backhanded comment? Reduced to a specimen? Had her submissive tendencies come to this degrading conclusion? As long as she’d known Rossi, she had never been quite so dehumanized.

With the session over, she stood in the corner of the room for the remainder of the afternoon with her skirt raised, while her ass became inspiration for a long discussion between Rossi and his guests on the various merits and effective practices of corporal discipline.

Later, she served the men their dinner—her attire properly restored—though when she ate her own meal, on Rossi’s orders, her skirt was raised so that her naked behind was forced to feel the prickly upholstered chair beneath her ass.

That night after the professor’s friends had left, Rossi informed her that she’d have more opportunity to expose her submissive inclinations for his associates and friends who shared his sentiments about the nature of women and their subjugation to men. Later still, he made love to her, planting his sturdy erection into a cunt that seemed to melt around it with the rich honeyed warmth of her desire. Powerful orgasms moved through them both, spending both their energies until they lay limply afterwards in silence. There were no words to speak at such times: Rossi would be content to know that he’d shared his message of sovereignty with her; she would be content to send her mind adrift and away from any significant revelations about her character that this submission implied.

***

When I left KC Gable’s theatre, I wasn’t sure if I would go back. I was too confused to know exactly what I wanted, but once the obsession took over, I knew that eventually I’d give in. It was just a matter of time. Perhaps it would have been better for me to have returned right away. But I never did anything without dwelling on a matter until my obsessive imaginings could not be overtaken with reason. The day I finally decided to see KC again, I was a nervous wreck. I couldn’t go until I’d finished a major project, and the day just seemed to drag on, while my sexual juices burgeoned wildly. I might have been less apprehensive sinking myself into that blackness again, since I’d already taken those first uneasy steps. But I was clearly more frightened knowing what lay ahead. Of course, my excitement was at a peak. It had been peaking all day, after a night filled with crazy dreams. A full week since KC spanked me, I was a mess, but there was no question of waiting anymore.

Friday evening, six o’clock, I thought it was the perfect time. I walked into the ACT Workshop thinking that like regular people, KC’s day and week had come to an end. I even dressed the part this time, wearing the most unconventional thing I owned, a pair of black leggings I wear for exercising, and a baggy cinnamon-colored sweater that seemed to move with me like a child’s favorite toy. This was as offbeat as I could manage. Would he even bother to notice?

Obviously, I wasn’t very smart about my timing, not shrewd enough to know that theatre people lived for weekends, and especially for the night when their world of lights and sound and the drama of the human condition came to life on stage. I heard the voices in the hallway booming into the dark, and instantly realized everything that had eluded me. I almost stopped and walked away; but sensing the nature of their play and becoming intensely curious, I tiptoed down to the black box entrance, relieved to see that I’d only interrupted a rehearsal.

KC sat in audience, a half-dozen other people surrounding him, his eyes fixed to the action on the stage before him. I froze, remaining as motionless as the other observers. On stage, an argument between a man and woman proceeded flawlessly as though this was real life.

“You’re kidding yourself, Drummond, if you think I’ll love you with that attitude.”

She wore yellow silk, sexily falling off her shoulder as she stormed away from an actor with slicked back hair and an arrogant snarl of lust on his lips.

“You love this attitude, slut.”

“And you’re losing your mind,” she shot back.

“Just like you lose control.”

“But I won’t again,” she assured him, standing firm.

“Don’t kid yourself, your cunt speaks.” He laughed and turned to an imaginary door that stood right where I was standing.

“No, wait, you can’t go, I know what you need from me, I do.” Her expression changed. But I didn’t get it—I wasn’t sure what made sense about the scene, maybe I hadn’t seen enough.

The scene cut, KC moving forward to his actors. The black-haired fellow facing me turned around and listened as KC shot off a dozen quick critiques, and ordered it acted again. His manner was curt. He obviously wasn’t pleased.

“Gail, come here,” he suddenly moved my way a foot or two and motioned me to his side with the same curt command.

“It’s a bad time?”

“Not at all. You should see this. We’ll be done in a half hour.” He pulled me with him into the audience, where I recognized one of the women who’d been in the theatre a week ago. I nodded to her pleasantly. Other than that brief moment of recognition, I remained ignored—a condition I welcomed. I could ease myself back into the atmosphere of KC’s world, saving my desire for later.

I watched the scene develop from the start. It was a play about desire, about a slut and a hoodlum who find each other by accident, and discover more than the elements of love. Their lust is crazily driven to extremes. She liked their sex intense, entangled and semi-public, in front of windows, in apartment hallways and back alleys. He liked giving her what she asked for. The parallels to KC and me did not go unnoticed; though, I’m not sure how much KC understood that. I wasn’t planning to tell him, but I had the strangest feeling that the forces of nature had set me up to see this snippet of theatre, sitting kitty-corner from the man who might become my serious lover, observing how my proximity to him in this enlivened environment was speaking to us both.

The half-hour rehearsal turned into nearly an hour. I watched KC work mesmerized by his almost exasperating attention to every tiny element of this play. Speech inflections, body language, positions, lights, facial expressions… he could pick the world apart with an eye that beheld every detail under his microscope and pass quick judgment. This was no egalitarian effort. KC ruled as an effortless Napoleon. My body quickened seeing such authority demonstrated, as my mind whirred, my heart beat hot, and my pussy clenched as though it was ready for sex.

I watched him argue with his actress in an exchange as intense as the one inside the play…

“You need to understand giving up, relenting… it’s a softness, Christine. You can’t remain a bitch; you have to expose the difference. That’s what this play is about.”

“Damn right I don’t understand it!” she snarled at him.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” He snapped back condescendingly. “Pretend you’re drunk, totally dependent on someone to take care of you.”

“Ooo, why did you cast me in this!”

“Because you wanted the role and you’re the best to handle it. Makes you pull the feeling from your core. It’s there.”

“Yeah, you should know,” she kept sassing, tossing off her barbs as though the two had an intimate knowledge of each other that transcended this play. Had they been lovers?

Listening to my fears, I was jealous and my body gnawing with need.

KC backed off into the audience, “From Lyle’s entrance,” he announced as he returned to his seat.

The scene repeated. She got it right this time; I knew without seeing KC’s face. I could feel her yielding because it troubled me, having hit the places Rossi colonized and KC now rediscovered.

The rest of the rehearsal passed me by while my tangled mind lost its focus drifting from one scene and feeling in my life to the next.

“Gail.” KC was calling me from my reveries.

“Yes,” I looked up seeing that the company had adjourned for the night.

“How are you?” He had that same questioning expression he’d had the first time I entered the theatre, though he maintained the stern air of authority he’d displayed all evening.

“I’m fine, very fine.” I stood up, having trouble staring up at him. I preferred him eye to eye.

“You look lost.”

“That play was…” what word, it didn’t want to appear, “… intense,” I finally decided.

“For you, I’m sure.”

No, he obviously didn’t miss the parallels.

“You want to speak in private,” he said as fact, not question or suggestion.

I wanted more than that, and he knew exactly what I meant.

“Yes,” I answered flatly. He could feel my fires.

“What’s the reason today?”

“Overwhelming desire,” I answered.

“All right. In the scene shop. Wait for me there.”

There were three people on him asking questions, so I ignored mine and moved through the emptying theatre. A few stray eyes noted me, wonderingly. But I ignored them, and proceeded to the room behind the far back wall where a mass of sets were stored in some complicated order known only to the person who put them there. I peered from one corner to the other, seeing dozens of things that excited my imagination—saw horses, stray slats, leather strapping, rope…

I heard a rustling sound behind me, the door open, and then a click as it closed.

“Stuns the mind, doesn’t it?” KC suggested.

I shivered as though a spider was crawling up my spine, then turned around. “I think so. But it’s pretty incomprehensible unless you know what you want.”

“Do you know what you want?” he asked.

“Has everyone left?” I deflected his question with my own.

“On the way out. But that shouldn’t concern you.”

Perhaps not. This moment felt as awkward as the time before.

“Is it about discipline, Gail, or only the sexual sensation?” he went straight to the point.

“Both, I think.”

“What about discipline?” he asked. His face was grim, which made me wonder which man was the real KC—the reproving director inside the theatre, or the compassionate young lover. Whatever guise he was wearing, it was intensely sexual. We stood six feet apart, with KC staying put until he had the scene sized up and in his head exactly as he would play it out.

I answered understanding this, afraid of my own words, but not afraid to speak them. “Sometimes I need to feel constrained, controlled, taken down.”

“You already seem that way to me,” he replied.

“But that’s not the way I am. You haven’t seen even half of me.”

“You’re telling me you’re a wildly, reckless, free-as-a-bird crazy who needs to be spanked for being rebellious and bratty?” He strolled to a platform nearby and pushed up, his ass resting on the top while his feet dangled down.

“I’m more reckless than you think,” I said moving toward him, I took a seat on the platform, too, and I crossed my legs Indian style.

“In what way?” he asked.

“I’m going to lose my job.” I fingered the hem of my sweater like a fidgety kid.

“Oh? Why?”

“Focus. I’m losing focus.”

“Maybe it’s the wrong job?”

Looking up, I kept up the confession, “Sometimes I drink too much—at home alone.”

“That’s not a good sign.”

“I’m perpetually late for work.”

“Go on.”

“My attitude is not respectful. I feel myself taking chances like I hope someone will notice and get really pissed—so I’ll get really pissed and I’ll end up canned.”

“You play these scenarios often?”

“About as often as I think of getting disciplined. Like I don’t know which I really want.”

“I thought you’d been the first-class architect for years now.”

“I have, but it’s slipping. It feels as though I’m reverting to my old self—like I was before…”

“Before what?”

“When I was in college, when I was completely undisciplined, worse than I am now…” I didn’t want to talk about that time, so I switched back to the present, “I think I’ve lost my will to care. At least until last week.”

“And the spanking changed that?”

“It did. For a time.”

“So, Gail Henry, you need a man to lay down the law? To check up on you, to father you, punish you and take control?”

I sighed, “I think so.”

“And you want me for that?”

I shook my head, “I’m not sure.”

The quiet swallowed us inside the silence. Our hushed words seemed almost inappropriate in the middle of this tense moment. I think we could have communicated as well with our eyes, but KC didn’t agree. He wanted me to say it in plain English. He seemed to climb inside my body and walk around looking for clues to determine my need. And yet, he knew exactly what I wanted, and so did I.

“So what are you sure of, Gail?”

I took a deep breath. “That now would be a very good time for you to punish me.”

“And that will cure you of your troubles?”

“It might be a start.”

He shrugged as I remembered him doing before, and hopped off the platform. Moving through his tangle of scenery, hunting for something, he came back with a two-inch slat of wood. It was flat, polished and about two feet long. I had no idea what it had been used for, but I understood its function now.

“Take off your pants.”

I jumped from the platform, kicked off my flats, and quickly struggled my way out of the stretchy material. Meanwhile, KC pulled a sawhorse into the empty space. Once I was down to my red silk panties, he nodded to the device, “Over the end.”

I wanted to say something like, “You sure don’t waste any time,” or “Is the sawhorse really necessary?” But I kept quiet and complied, positioning myself over the bar, my feet on either side of the inverted “V”.

“Oh, no,” he said seeing my stance. “Your panties down.”

He moved to my ass, while I put my feet together, then he brusquely tugged the waistband of my underwear and jerked them down. I spasmed, my pussy jarring as the power in his hand moved through me as stunningly erotic as if he were teasing my clit.

Stepping back, KC brandished his slat. I felt the air stir and the wood strike. Then, I jumped as the impact stung my ass. I bit my lip to prevent my cry. The next cut was just as intense as were the ones that followed in rapid-fire succession until my ass was ablaze, my feet were dancing, and I began my breathless, throaty cries. “Ah, sheesh, awwwww, yeeeeouch.” I moved so much he had to stop.

“Settle down, Gail. Now!”

It was an order I followed, spoken with an intensity of command that tore through my body as intently as the slat that ripped my skin.

“You’re being punished, you deserve it, and I won’t stop until I’m ready to. That clear?”

“Yes,” I answered meekly, while I was trying to figure why I’d initiated this scene. My pondering didn’t last too long, though; he whacked all my brooding thoughts from me, delivering a second round of punishment more painful than the first. Of course, it would be more painful! Spreading out across my ass, the flames of fire darted deeply under tissue, veins and surfaces, hitting sensitive nerves, lighting a ruthless fire of need and anguish that had me almost crazy for him to stop. Whether KC had some sympathy for the pain I was suffering, or he simply stopped because he wanted to, I’m not sure. I was only glad that he was done when he finally tossed the slat aside.

He stood back. I waited. My submissive pose became more intrusive in the empty interim. I expected he would be on me sexually, but he didn’t make a move. He finally spoke, however, “Up, Gail.”

I was on my feet, turning around, and breathing a deep sigh, while the fire in my ass was raging through me at lightning speed. I needed some alleviation for my arousal, but I didn’t get what I wanted this time.

“We’re not going to have sex again until you get this figured out,” he informed me. I’m sure I looked disappointed. “But you are going to straighten out your life. Do you need me to stand over you?”

“Would you do that?” I wondered.

“I probably would. I have no problem making your ass burn. Feels damn good to me. If this is what you need daily, I can handle it. Why don’t you think on it…sit on that ass and dwell on your desires—and not just the sexual ones? I think you have hell of a lot more going on than being a lazy, irresponsible, irritable drunk—which you really aren’t. Get some answers figured out, Gail, then come back and see me.”