Ten girls line up precisely with the tips of their ballet flats just brushing against a thick wool rug. The slight flare of their simple black dresses bumped against each other connecting them like paper dolls I once folded and cut as a child. I’m smiling because I’m pleased that they appear so poised and deferential. They stare ahead and I gift them with a little nod they’ll only catch as I walk the line. I should have brought a notebook to write my observations. But, it always seems so much more effective to let them think that you remember absolutely everything. Mostly, I do. Age hasn’t caught me completely yet.
I can see the girl midway, Camille, if I remember right and she’s struggling to hold herself together. The curve of her full lower lip is trembling with a threat to break into sob. I’m hoping she will stop and I focus on each girl around her, I don’t want this to be harder on them than it needs to be, not today. It’s been a difficult trial for them all, as a first whipping generally tends to be. The room is quiet, not just silent. It is hushed like a breath cut short. It’s as if all the sound has been siphoned out and replaced with reverence. As I round the corner of the last girl, I feel a silent sigh of relief wash through them. It ripples soft like a breeze through connected aspens. They are undoubtedly connected to one another today.
Behind them, each skirt is tucked up neatly under the belt at their waists. The whipping warden has done her duty seriously, I can see that right away. Afternoon sun shines through the floor to ceiling windows and presses hard against these virgin backsides. They are dotted with welts from ass to mid thigh. As I reach Camille, I can see the reasons for her trembling and it’s a wonder that she hasn’t broken down completely, but perhaps that happened earlier. I motion to the warden and she is next to me as I gesture to this display of angry handiwork.
“She was resistant.”
The clipped reply is not apologetic and I nod. She knows damn well that this is a benchmark whipping. Something is not right here and I’m not sure if it’s to do with Camille or my devoted acolyte, Greta. I take a deep breath and try to tamp down my anger. The most difficult part about what I do is maintaining appearances. I’d like to slap the warden across her face, but we’ll have to have that discussion privately. When I leave the room I hear Greta bark at the girls and command them to cover themselves before shuffling them into the dining hall.
They aren’t really girls, they’re women. Somehow when they consent to be called ‘girl’ upon entry, it shucks a kind of hardness from them. As I sit in my study now to make notes on each girl, I press their names into my mind, even though they are numbered for now. Some will leave here with new names, if they choose. It’s funny how a change in name can redirect the whole carriage of a person. I should know, I was once named Flora Potter, a ridiculous sounding name to me now.
Even so, I’ll never forget the first time Michel called me ‘girl’.
He took me by surprise, but he’d done that the minute he walked into the room. It was a shabby room with painted second hand furniture and sagging mattress on the bed. I had a small sink in the corner and shared the bathroom down the hall with a dozen other women. We got along well enough and it wasn’t as if I lived there full time like some of them. I was going to university then, paying my way through college with what my mother would have called dirty money. But, to me it felt empowering. I was a sex worker because I chose it and I chose it for a lot of reasons. I could make a lot of money quickly. My money went to education and then to savings.
When Michel followed me up to the room I could feel the jealous stares heating up my back. No one had ever seen him there before. It was his first and last time in the whorehouse, he told me later. He never would tell me why he ended up there in the first place. Most of the men that came up to my room were not men I would have wanted to see outside of work. There was usually a reason that they chose to pay for sex. Some of them were awkward. Some of them were ugly. Some of them were impatient.
Michel was none of these.
He stood so tidy in my room. I almost didn’t want my surroundings to touch him, as if they might tarnish him in some way. His navy blue pants were pressed with a knife crease, his wool vest buttoned up neatly with a flash of purple silk in the pocket. He looked at me seriously behind his wire rimmed glasses.
“So, what would you like?” I began in the typical way.
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small leather book not much bigger than the palm of his hand. He fished in again and placed a fat roll of cash on the bedside table. I remember trying not to open my mouth like an idiot. He could have almost whatever he wanted for that, I thought. I stared at the cash and he flipped open his book.
“Stand there.” He said.
He was writing and I thought, ok, this must be some arty thing.
“Would you like me to pose?”
“No, girl.” He snapped.
I was quiet then and more than a little bit confused. He wrote a few more sentences and snapped the book shut, tossing it onto the table.
“I’d like to spank you.”
“I’m not one of those women. There are others to choose from.”
“But, I think you are.”
I shook my head as he drew closer to me. His fingertips found my chin and as I lifted my eyes to his I knew I would not say no again. His mouth quirked up in a smile beneath his short, dark mustache.
“Let’s have a try, shall we? If you don’t like it then I’ll leave you with the money and you’ll never see me again.”
He brushed his lips onto mine and an electric wave of static shot into my mouth. I opened beneath him without a thought. He drew my lower lip into his mouth and suckled it between his teeth.
“Good girl.” He whispered.
I trembled into him. I’d always steered clear of SM clients. I heard through the thin walls sometimes, the things the other women went through. It definitely wasn’t for me. But this, this was a spanking. He didn’t even have any tools, no toy bag—which usually gave those clients away immediately. I hadn’t been spanked since I was a child.
Before the word was out of my mouth he had settled himself onto the groaning mattress and pulled me down over his knee. He shoved up my short skirt and opened my legs slightly. I wasn’t wearing any panties, as was often the case, it always felt impractical at work.
“Your skirt is too short.” He murmured.
This didn’t require an answer and I wasn’t entirely sure he was even talking to me. Then the spanking began. His hand smacked down on my flesh with a crack loud enough to make me yelp. It hadn’t hurt so much as shocked me. He found a rhythm that lulled me, that felt good. Sting mingled with gentle touch and just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he would stop. My body began to move, like a puppet on a string. His hand left, and I magnetized, pushed my ass in the air toward him. He was less gentle as we went along and I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. I could have stopped him at any time but the pain was traveling through every extremity and lighting me on fire. I was a pulsing and throbbing nerve compelled to beat against him.
When his fingers parted my lips and drifted up and down my wet slit I pressed my face to his leg in utter embarrassment. Women I knew tolerated this from clients. They did it for the extra money it paid. But this was pure pleasure. I could feel the glow of my skin and imagined it flashing neon where he had rained his hard blows, beating me like a tribal drum. His breath came harder but he did not speak. I felt his cock swell against me and he shifted. He slid a finger deep inside me easily, I was not up to the task of pretending I didn’t want this. The pad of his thumb found my clit. He barely touched me, and I pushed back against him.
“Good girl.” He whispered again.
Lust. This was lust.
For a moment, I forgot myself completely and the self control I prided myself on slipped away like water over stones. I squeezed on his finger with my cunt and I rode the soft meaty muscle of his thumb until I gushed and flooded. I didn’t understand the sounds, and that they were coming from me until they stopped. I slid from his knee when he released me and pulled my knees up to my chest. I watched as he stood calmly and put the book back in his pocket. I didn’t understand. I hadn’t done anything for him. Didn’t he want to fuck me? Didn’t he want to at least cum? The questions stuck in my throat and I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
Michel smiled. He smiled so gentle and kind, like he had all the patience in the world. I could see the bulge still rock hard against his zipper. I expected for him to demand satisfaction at any moment. Instead, he bent down and kissed my forehead. His lips lingered there, leaving an impression I would feel for days. Before he left, he placed a thick white business card with raised lettering next to the cash. It had a phone number on it and one word: Michel. No last name. No other particulars.
I thumbed that card inside my pockets for weeks. I ran my fingers across the raised lettering and replayed that day in one long unending loop. I knew I needed to call him.
And I did.
Which is how I left Flora Potter behind, and how I embarked upon my journey to become….
By: Juliette van der Molen
Writer of completely unladylike erotica and other sundry things. After discovering that
people actually do these crazy, kinky things, she began exploring the lifestyle in 1993 and
never looked back. She writes about her experience in authority based relationships,
BDSM fiction and even the occasional hot sonnet. She is currently the assistant direction
for MAsT Central New Jersey and the co-host of a submissive support group (SSASE) in
the same area. Her work has appeared in Lit Up, P.S. I Love You, My Erotica.com, and
The Junction. You can find her in these publications at:
https://firstname.lastname@example.org and connect with her on Twitter
@j_vandermolen and fetlife at: juliette_ .