For Want of a Horse

Photo-story by Julie Holmes from Februs 40 with Molly Pankhurst

James Bowers, dapper in his suit, straight of back and determined in demeanour, strides in measured paces up the path of the suburban house. He has trodden his even steps for two miles, contemplating his mission, mentally rehearsing the admonishments to be delivered, envisaging the scene.

Molly Pankhurst seems equally composed, although her eyes often flit to her watch to check the progress of time. Molly’s appearance is more casual: barefoot in captioned vest top and jeans, she curls on the sofa trying to work her way rapidly through the manual she should have memorised three months ago, chain-smoking her way through the pages of instructions and charts.

The two images sum up their disparate personalities perfectly. Mr Bowers with his no-nonsense spectacles, staid clothes and established male pattern balding has a strong sense of duty, tradition and justice. Ms Pankhurst, on the other hand, wears her hair long and loose and sports the uniform of the free spirit, the grab-the-moment-by-its-vitals brigade and pursuer of the unknown. Although only a decade separates them in age, they are at least a generation apart in attitude.

He knocks on the door; she opens it. He shows her the card bearing both their signatures, stating that he will call at this time and place, and she acknowledges it by stepping back and inviting him to enter. He declines her offers of refreshment or a seat and addresses the matter to hand immediately.

‘Miss Pankhurst,’ (he knows that, if her first name is not to be used, she prefers to be called ‘Ms’, but no such word exists in his natural lexicon) ‘I have come here, as agreed, in order for you to make reparation for your very costly mistake. You are reluctant to resign your current post, are unable to offer any financial compensation and have therefore agreed to accept corporal punishment and to undertake the full induction programme once more. I see you have been reading the staff manual and am glad you are taking our agreement seriously. I assume that you are therefore also ready for your physical chastisement.’

There is no audible question mark at the end of this sentence, but Molly nods her agreement anyway, to show that she has been listening. She can see the riding crop he has brought with him: until this moment she had not really believed this would happen.

‘I’m so sorry for what happened, Mr Bowers,’ she says, hoping to earn some degree of clemency. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t pay more attention to the work: I really am grateful to have been given the post because it fits in with my studies really well and the pay and conditions are far better than any of my friends’ part-time jobs. I know I’ve screwed up’ — oops, he won’t like that turn of phrase — ‘but if you cover for me this time, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

Mr Bowers’ expression has not changed. Ostensibly, Molly Pankhurst is being punished for a serious clerical error which resulted in a horse and its rider arriving at different racecourses. It was the first time this had ever happened in the provincial racecourse’s century-long history and, as jockey and horse were tipped as favourite in the three o’clock, there had been a substantial settlement to find. Although it was the most serious, James Bowers knew this was far from being Molly’s only mistake. He had presented her with a series of options and she had chosen to take an appropriate form of punishment rather than lose her job or become several thousand pounds in debt.

‘Very well. I have some important business to see to in town this afternoon, so I think we should begin. I do not want to seem unnaturally harsh, so I will help you to prepare for your main chastisement with a hand-spanking — a kind of warm-up exercise I suppose you could call it.’ He sits on the sofa, adjusts his position and indicates that Molly should lie across his lap.

In her mid-twenties and technically a ‘mature’ student, Molly finds this faintly absurd, but does as she is told. She has already started her dissertation on administrative practices in modern horse racing and stands to lose far too much if she does not go along with whatever James Bowers has planned for her.

To her surprise, the slaps that land on her denim-wrapped rump are crisp and businesslike, imparting hot, sharp stings that permeate the fabric of her jeans, pass through her panties to be absorbed by the flesh of her buttocks and finally dissipated into a cold tingling throughout her lower torso. Never having been spanked before, Molly had no idea what to expect, but is nevertheless surprised by the experience. She has had no indication as to how long the spanking will last and, after the first ten impacts, with their aftershocks running into one another, she gives up trying to count.

Her bottom is becoming so hot that she fancies it is starting to swell and that it will soon burst the seams of her trousers. So when Mr Bowers tells her to help him pull them down, she wonders whether she voiced the thought aloud, or whether this is a standard part of the proceedings (her employer seems to have too good an idea of accepted procedure for this to be a one off, she realises). With her jeans now inelegantly rumpled around her calves, the spanking resumes. Her knickers offer little protection and soon become an irritating detail for her chastiser, so they too are dragged down her thighs.

The sound of bare flesh being struck by equally bare flesh literally rings around the room, the sounds bouncing off the ceiling and walls, mingling with the gasps and cries Molly can no longer contain. Oblivious to the spectacle she provides, she writhes and wriggles in a vain attempt to evade James Bowers’ relentless palm or at least direct it to hitherto unstruck flesh — of which there is now very little visible.

James Bowers is not a man to be hurried. He ignores Molly’s moans and her gyrations across his lap, concentrating instead on the deepening red hue of her buttock-flesh, the dry, crinkly texture it is adopting and the strange sensations in his palm that seem impossibly to combine elements of numbness and pain. He wonders whether these are similar to the sensations Molly is experiencing, but hers seem to be altogether different, he reflects. After all, the tingling in his hand does not cause him to cry out or flail his limbs in protest.

He tells her to stand and, with her clothes still in disarray, she poses motionless while he inspects the fruits of his endeavours. That he is pleased with his handiwork cannot be doubted, but he is not so vulgar as to give voice to the fact.

He picks up the crop, encouraging her to look at it in detail, to note its length, its pliability, the leather tab at its tip. He even demonstrates the sound it makes following a long trajectory through the air. Molly is scared. She considers breaking their deal; frantically, part of her brain tries to find ways of raising the money in question while another part calculates the time and effort needed to find another business she can study at close quarters to produce her mandatory dissertation. Paying off James Bowers is a non-starter, she knows immediately. As to getting another job — well, she’ll need references for a start and then she’d need time to do preliminary research — no, it’s just not on.

She rests her hands upon the mantelpiece and awaits the first blow from the vicious little whip. James Bowers is warming to his task in every sense and is now a little more vocal. As the first two strokes land cleanly across the centre of her bottom, he explains that although the area has been prepared by the prolonged hand-spanking, to be more authentic and appropriate, he is going to direct the remaining strokes to her flanks — the sides of the hips and thighs. There are to be six strokes, he tells her, three on each side. But if she raises her voice above normal speaking level, she will receive an additional pair and if she breaks her position or tries to stop the punishment in progress, she will receive up to an additional six. Just the thought of this makes her knees momentarily give way, and she grasps the fire surround ever more tightly and grunts her assent.

Nothing, not even the two stripes delivered directly to her nates, could have prepared her for the first strike against her left hip. Her skin, goosebumped with fear, is taut and receives the end of the crop and the leather tab grudgingly. The feeling is not so much of having been struck as having been cut or burned — scalded perhaps. It takes all her willpower to hold on to the fireplace and grit her teeth against the scream that is trying to escape her mouth. She hauls herself forward, thrusts back and rocks up and down on the balls of her feet trying to absorb the pain. When she finally regains control and starts to relax her muscles, the right side receives its just deserts, setting off the grimacing callisthenics once more.

‘I regret the punishment has to be so painful, but it has to match the severity of your mistake,’ a calm male voice informs her (Through her discomfort, Molly finds herself doubting his sincerity.)

There is a moment’s respite when James decides that for the remaining four (or possibly more, he hopes) strokes, he should have a larger, clearer target. Buying herself a few moments of peace, Molly dawdles over the removal of her panties and jeans then gradually eases herself back into position, surprised at how tired and stiff all her muscles feel.

For the final four strokes, James takes careful aim and positions himself so that the crop lands on the back and sides of each thigh. He delivers them rapidly, perhaps believing that with little or no recovery time, Ms Pankhurst will be unable to curb her instinct to relinquish the mantelpiece and reach for the afflicted areas. This, though, has become a conflict of wills for Molly and she stoically retains her position and breathes deeply throughout her ordeal.

Hiding his disappointment at having no just cause to extend her whipping, James Bowers reaches into his coat lining and produces the short cane he has stowed out of sight.

A final, traditional, six of the best I believe would be in order,’ he announces. ‘Resume the position.’

The cane whistles down fast, striking rapidly at the same spot where her shapely thighs meet her ample buttocks. Each stroke raises her to her toes and — not having been told otherwise this time — she gives vent to her rage and shame and suffering with a series of guttural cries and ear-piercing wails.

The thorough preliminary hand-spanking is now relegated to ancient history, dimly remembered as a taxing but bearable interlude; the bruising swipes of the crop are likewise recalled as having happened a while back in the same way that a toothache may be remembered as having been severe but the actual sensations cannot be recalled. Now, in the present, only the cane exists, searing her flesh again and again to form a scorching band that will chafe and sting with every movement for at least a week.

Molly is aware of the thin coating of perspiration that covers her entire body. She can smell a warm, musky scent that is unfamiliar and yet recognised in some primitive section of her mind. She is exhausted. All she wants is to return to the comfort of her sofa and sleep away the pain and humiliation.

‘I believe now would be a good time for you to remove your top.’

For some reason, Molly is reluctant to obey this instruction. After the way he has handled and treated the rest of her body, having James Bowers see her breasts (which are barely concealed anyway by the skimpy top) should seem like a minor detail.

Somehow, though, she feels it to be the removal of the last shred of her battered dignity. He waits in silence for her to do as he has told her, never for a moment doubting that she eventually will. Slowly the garment is bunched in her hands and raised over her head, then discarded with a flinging action to join her other clothes on the floor.

‘I would have said that your punishment was complete, but given your tardiness in following my last instruction, I think that perhaps a further meeting with the cane might be in order. Horrified, she reaches behind to protect her beleaguered rear and is amazed when James chuckles.

‘No, not this time. Hold out your hands and keep them held out steady until I tell you otherwise.’ Memories of ancient comics once found in her mother’s attic come to mind: girls’ boarding schools; the ultimate punishment both in terms of severity and humiliation was for a senior girl to be called out in front of the whole school and have her hands caned. Maybe it is nothing in comparison to the harsh and intimate punishment she has received already, but this is somehow the final degradation for Molly. As she reached out her hands and prepares for the cane to land across her palms, a tear trickles down her cheek. Her hands close involuntarily after the second stroke and could not be induced to relax. Sensing that her limit has been reached, James Bowers draws the session to a swift end.

‘You are to stand here, naked for a full half-hour,’ he tells her. I will leave your front door on the latch and may — or may not — return during that period. You are to stand perfectly still. You may not make any attempt to relieve the discomfort you are no doubt feeling and you most definitely are not to leave the room. I will put on the radio so that you may keep track of time. After a full thirty minutes you may release the latch on the front door and do as you please. You may well feel tired tomorrow, but I expect you to keep to your normal routine and attend college and report for work as normal. Is that clear?’

Oh yes, it is clear. Above the sound of the radio, Molly listens to him set the latch and pull the front door to. She cannot hear him going down the path and wonders if he has actually left the house. She dare not go to look. Probably he has left completely and gone to attend to other matters; she is tempted to flex her fingers, to rub her scored buttocks, inspect the weals and bruises, but there is just a faint chance that her chastiser will come through the door at any moment and catch her and it could all start over again. She listens to the radio: just another twenty eight minutes to go before the punishment session is really over. Twenty eight minutes that is until she stops being punished, but how long before she will actually stop suffering?