Monday morning I got up ... and I threw up! My head throbbed, my legs ached, and one look in the mirror convinced me that I was much too sick to go to work. Collapsing back into bed, I muttered, "Phone the school, will you, pet? Tell them I’m dying."

You examined me critically. "Mmm ... you don’t look well," you conceded. "Ok, I’ll call them."

I spent all morning in bed, alternately sleeping and groaning. By lunch time I felt a little better, and I tottered weakly down the stairs to make a cup of tea. I drank it down ... but it didn’t stay down ...so I went back to bed.

"How you feeling, sweetheart?" you asked when you came home from work.

"Blaaaargh!" I replied.

Tuesday morning I got up ... and I threw up! Good grief! Was I pregnant? No ... couldn’t be that. An experimental bowl of custard staved off the malnutrition, and I began to feel slightly more human. Too sick to work, but not to play, I spent some time on the computer and wrote a couple of chapters of my new story. Another bowl of custard went (and stayed) down a treat.

"Are you going back to work tomorrow?" you inquired when you came in to find me sitting at the keyboard.

"Er ... well, I think I’ll take one more day, just to make sure I’m really better," I said.

You looked skeptical, but didn’t pursue the matter.

Wednesday morning I got up ... and I felt better. Weak ... but better. A lightly boiled egg stayed nicely in place, as did the pasta you made for dinner, and I knew I’d have to go back to school next day.

At about half past eleven, you went to bed, reminding me of my midnight curfew on school nights. "Mmm ... yes, I’ll remember," I said absently, as I logged on to chat. And I did remember. Dutifully, I bade my friends goodnight as the witching hour approached, then prepared to do the same to the girl I’d been talking to on IM. But ... well, you know how it is when two females get nattering ... and before I knew it, it was half past one!

"Oooooh! You’re gonna get it!" she giggled.

Goodnight! I typed hastily, and logged off with horrible feeling that she was absolutely right. As quietly as possible, I crept into bed, even resisting the temptation to warm my frozen feet against you as I usually do. You snored on, oblivious, and I heaved a sigh of relief. Surely you wouldn’t bother to ask what time I’d come to bed, right?

Wrong! You asked ... I stalled. You demanded ... I told you the truth. Glancing at your watch, you said, "No time to deal with this now, but I think you know what to expect tonight, don’t you?" With a positively evil grin, you kissed me and trotted off to work. For a panicky moment I wondered if you’d stick to the rule you’d made a while back ... one stroke of the paddle for every minute I was late to bed. That would make ninety! Oh my God! I wouldn’t ever sit down again!

But by morning interval, all thoughts of the spanking I was to receive were pushed out of my head. Heading along the corridor towards my classroom, I was arrested by the sight of two senior girls engaged in a bloody battle. Kicks and punches flew: clumps of hair were ripped out by the roots: blood spattered the walls. I moved quickly behind Laura, who was clearly the aggressor. With some difficulty, I managed to loosen her grip on Ann’s hair, thus allowing Ann to be taken off and tended by her friends. And Laura turned into a spitting, fighting hell-cat! At least three inches taller and a stone or two heavier than I, she was not easy to restrain. She raked her booted feet down my shins, struggled and cursed at the top of her voice. Each time I relaxed my hold on her, she headed straight for Ann again, determined to finish what she had started. At last I got her in an arm lock ... did this constitute the "reasonable force" we as teachers are allowed to use, I wondered. But there was no choice. My primary concern was Ann’s safety, and to let Laura go was to jeopardize that safety. I held on like grim death, and could almost have wept with relief at the sight of Steve, the physics teacher, sprinting up the corridor to my aid. He took Laura in what can only be described as a bear-hug, and drew her, still screaming and swearing, along to the far end of the corridor.

It was all over but the form-filling. Rather shakily, I resumed my normal duties. The rest of the day passed smoothly, but by the time the last bell rang, my arms and shoulders were beginning to ache from the strain of holding Laura, and the bruises on my legs were making themselves felt.

You were already home by the time I got in. "Want to get this over with before or after dinner?" you asked, dangling the paddle in front of my face.

I burst into tears.

At once you dropped the paddle and came towards me to hug me close to your chest. "Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong? Surely you’re not scared?"

I sobbed out the whole story, and your mood changed abruptly. Love and concern for me, anger at the person who had hurt me, fury at the system and the society, which allowed such things to happen. You ran a bath for me, massaged my shoulders, and gently kissed the bruises. While I soaked, you made a meal, and though I couldn’t eat much, I was grateful for your attention.

It was an hour or two before I plucked up the courage to remind you of the punishment I was due. A frown of annoyance crossed your face. "Do you really think I’m going to spank you now ... after what you’ve been through?"

I swallowed hard. "Please ..." I said. "I need this ... just to help release the tensions of the day. Please, honey?"

You hesitated, but recognized my need, as you always do. "All right, then," you said. "Let’s go to bed."

As we moved between bedroom and bathroom, you placed something in my hand. "Wear these," you whispered, and I looked down at the black silk panties you liked so much. I knew then that I had nothing to fear. Having slipped on the panties and your favourite nightie, I entered the bedroom and saw that you had placed on the bed, not the paddle I hated so much, but the delightful soft-thonged leather whip we had bought in Amsterdam. Without prompting I laid myself across your lap. Gently you slid the nightie up to my waist, and caressed me through the thin fabric. You smacked me over it, lightly at first, increasing the force gradually until I began to squirm. Your fingers found my waistband, and I arched up to allow you to ease my panties down. I felt you reach over, and knew that you were lifting the whip. It stung ... the heat spreading out to consume my whole body. Harder now, and I cried out a little. Again ... and I felt the hot tears behind my eyelids. But it wasn’t enough ... not yet ... and you knew it.

Rhythmically, the leather rose and fell, smarting, burning ... bringing pain to my body and peace to my mind. I wept. And you stopped.

Gathering me in your arms, you soothed me with kisses, then drew me beneath the covers. We made tender, beautiful love, and I understood that no matter how bad the days might be, the nights with you would always make life worth living.

Give Lyndsay feedback on her stories:
 lynne_rowan@hotmail.com

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