The Guest Room

From Blushes 36.

I’m very fond of this model — with her big hair, eyeliner, and choice of clothes she’s the epitome of the eighties girl-next-door type that I used to hang out with (and occasionally date). I can just imagine her listening to Bananarama, Duran Duran and Adam and the Ants wearing leg-warmers and a snap-crotch leotard.

For the second time in a week, Sarah was sent scampering upstairs. Her mother gave her the usual curt instructions. ‘Into the Guest Room, young lady. And just you get yourself ready.’ The girl ran upstairs immediately, knowing that to argue would almost guarantee another extra punishment. It was bad enough already. Swearing at her mother was quite inexcusable. At the top of the stairs she turned to the door on her left and opened it, stepping hesitantly into the bright but bare room. She could already feel the clammy cold sweat on her forehead and her hands. Just thinking about her punishment was bad enough. Knowing that he would be really strict with her this time. The second time in one week, and by no means the first time she had been warned about her language.

The Guest Room was neatly decorated but sparsely furnished. But the essential items were there. Particularly the table in the centre of the room. And the small set of drawers. She was always reluctant to open those drawers, knowing so intimately their contents. Time was ticking by. Sometimes he returned to the house quite early in the afternoon. And if Sarah wasn’t absolutely ready, he would get really cross. In any case, her mother would be up in a minute or so and there were preparations to be made.

Already experiencing the first twinges of fear, the girl reached down to slide open the first of the set of bedside drawers. She drew out the single thin stick of red lipstick, and placed it carefully at one end of the table. Quickly, she lifted the single bedroom chair into the centre of the room, close to the end of the table. Suddenly she heard her mother’s footsteps in the hall. With fumbling fingers the girl reached for the waistband of her jeans, undid the belt and unzipped them, hurriedly tugging the tight garment down over her hips. Little white knickers followed, to nestle around the very top of her thighs. And then, obediently, she raised her hands to place them on her head, as she stood, smartly upright, her feet together, facing the table and the lipstick. Her mother’s footsteps were now climbing the staircase. She would know her fate very soon now.

Her bottom, the bare flesh reacting to the cool air, felt suddenly chilled. That would soon be corrected. Sarah clenched and unclenched her bottom cheeks in dreaded anticipation.

Her mother entered the room, her eyes immediately searching for the lipstick on the table. And then she looked up and down her daughter, checking that she was ready. ‘Good.’ The woman moved the upright chair slightly and sat down, patting her lap. Quietly, not wishing to provoke her mother in any further way, young Sarah draped herself across her mother’s knee. ‘The second time in a week, isn’t it?’ Sarah felt her mother’s warm palm resting over the summit of one of her bottom-cheeks, riding its firm resilience. ‘Yes, Mother.’ ‘And after a firm warning about your language, young lady?’ Again, the girl agreed quietly with her mother. She could feel her bottom wobbling slightly as her mother patted it almost silently. ‘Well this time, you’re going to get a thrashing you’ll never forget.’

Sarah, her face close to the bedroom carpet, bottom riding high over her mother’s lap, her long legs dangling in an ungainly way, felt the movement as her mother leaned over to take the lipstick from the table. Sometimes, Sarah could guess the result. She would close her eyes and imagine her mother, and the lipstick pressed lightly against Sarah’s bottom. There was always a little pause while the woman unscrewed the lipstick, and then its cold touch, in contrast to the warmth of her mother’s hands; holding her, steadying her wobbling bottom-cheeks. The room was silent. It took only a second, and then Sarah was told to stand up. Without another word, her mother left the room and returned to her downstairs work.

As soon as her mother had reached the foot of the staircase, Sarah ran across to the mirror. Anxiously she twisted her neck and stared at the image of her bared bottom. ‘Oh bloody hell!’ Immediately she bit back her tongue, realising how easily she could resort to swear-words. There in the mirror, two figures clearly written in red-lipstick, one across the summit of each bottom cheek. On one, the figure 1; on the other, the figure 2. Sarah’s long legs threatened to buckle as she mouthed the numbers. ‘Twelve strokes? Twelve strokes?’ Last time, her mother had ordered nine strokes and that was bad enough! She had danced around the room in a wild obscene dance attempting to exorcise the sting of the cane. Not twelve strokes. She just wouldn’t cope with that. Tears were already welling in her eyes as she returned the lipstick to the top drawer and the chair to the side of the room.

Next it was the second drawer contents. Inside, her outfit, carefully folded. Crisp and clean. She lifted out the garments and placed them on the table. And then she undressed, first her sandals, and then her jeans. Then her blouse and her ankle socks. And then finally her bra and knickers. Naked, she stood by the table and carefully folded her items of her attire, building up a neat pile of clothes which she placed in the drawer.

Her punishment dress was simple and effective in that Sarah felt so dreadful, standing there before him, as he walked around her. Just a white tee shirt, and the brief white knickers through which he could see the shadow of her dark bush. And the wrap-around skirt which, more than anything else made her feel as though she was back at school. She dressed quickly, well aware that the time was passing by. Even now, he could be turning the corner of the street, approaching. She prayed fervently, as she always prayed, that he had had a good day. Twelve strokes of the cane would be dreadful. But applied by an angry man…

In the corner of the second drawer she found the hairbrush. She knew well its cold curved back. Smooth and hard. In times past, it had been smacked firmly and frequently across her bottom. In experienced hands it was a fearful instrument of punishment, but now it reverted to its other use. Now, at eighteen, Sarah had graduated to the cane. Quickly she brushed out her hair, knowing that he would inspect her, insistent that she looked well-groomed. Once he gave her an extra stroke because her toenails weren’t trimmed to his liking. And her teeth; clean and white. She checked quickly in the mirror. If her hair looked at all unkempt, then the hairbrush came out again, to be applied across however many cane strokes her bottom-cheeks had already received.

She never felt really ready for, him. But there was nothing else to do right now. Until he came. In silence she would have to wait for him, on her own, up in the bare empty room. She walked over to the window, where from behind the curtains she could watch for his arrival. He would be walking, as usual. A brisk smart walk, reminiscent of his military service. That’s why he liked her to stand as if to attention. Perhaps it reminded him of his service days.

Her heartbeat quickened when she finally caught sight of him, rounding the curve at the end of the quiet road. She raced away from the window, to stand in the appointed place, facing the doorway, next to the table, her hands on her head and her bare feet held neatly together. The rattle of the key in the front door. The slight squeak of the door hinges. A brief low-murmured discussion behind the closed lounge door. And then his feet in the hallway, approaching the staircase, climbing the stairs, pausing as they reached the landing…

‘Good evening, Sarah.’ He closed the door to the Guest Room behind him. ‘Good evening, sir.’ She used to try and smile at him. But it never helped. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly around her, looking carefully at her, studying her girlish shape, watching the unsteady rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin cotton covering. He paused behind her. ‘This is the second occasion in less than a week, isn’t it, Sarah?’ She nodded without trying to say anything. ‘Fetch the cane!’ After the few very quiet comments, the man raised his voice. He watched as she ran to the window and reached up high, right up on bare tiptoes, her little skirt rising up over her thighs as she stretched up to reach the cane where it was kept, resting along the top of the curtain rail. She brought it to him, handing it to him, knowing by its weight that it was so thin and flexible. Knowing from painful past experience that it could curve itself around the tightest contours of her bottom leaving long thin tramlines of red.

He tapped the table with the end of the long length of bamboo. She scrambled up, using her knees to reach its cold smooth surface. She turned away from him and lay face down along its length, her arms reaching forward, her legs a little apart. ‘Let us take note of your sentence. He reached for the hem of the girl’s skirt and lifted it up, pushing it clear of her knickers. And then, using just his free hand, the little white pants were tugged down. Right down, over her long limbs so that they nestled prettily around her bare ankles. There written across the white smoothness of her bared bottom was the punishment. ‘Twelve strokes, young lady. Prepare yourself.’

With a quiet whimper of anticipation, Sarah wriggled upon the table, taking her weight from her elbows and transferring it to her breasts, lying across the table with her hands high in the middle of her back. Behind her, her bared bottom jutted out. ‘Twelve strokes, Sarah. All over your bare bottom…’

She yelled almost before the first stroke landed, forcing her to jerk forward. The second and third strokes provoked louder and more urgent squeals and by the sixth stroke, the big grown-up teenager was sobbing loudly. The man paused. ‘You were warned, Sarah, on many occasions. And you were punished last, only two days ago. Perhaps after this, your behaviour will improve.’ He moved back a little and took aim, applying the cane with renewed vigour across the upturned rump of this naughty disobedient girl. She shouted, pleading with him to stop, but the punishment had been set. Twelve strokes, her mother had prescribed. Twelve strokes her bottom would receive.

It seemed an eternity before the final stroke bit right across the most plump expanse of her bottom-cheeks. She nearly jumped right off the table as the sting of the cane followed the noise of the impact. She heard the rattle of the cane as the man dropped it onto the table beside her, but she stayed in position. She knew the routine. And what would happen if she moved without being told to. He kept her there for five minutes or more. Sarah wasn’t at all sure of the time. Her bottom was still throbbing madly as she finally slid off the table to find her feet. She stood up, her legs very unsteady, and her bottom burning beneath the little skirt, waiting for his next order.

‘Undress, Sarah.’ It took only a few seconds. First her knickers, already tangled up around her feet. Then the little skirt, revealing for the first time to his gaze, her neat dark bush. And then, almost the worst thing of all. Pulling off that tee shirt, so that her breasts bobbed out. Each item of clothing was carefully folded and placed upon the table before the man’s steady gaze. ‘The bottom drawer…’ The man pointed. Sarah turned away from him and bent down, knowing that he was watching the tight round curves of her bottom, and probably quite a lot more besides. From inside the drawer, she unfolded a large sheet of white paper which she placed across one end of the table. ‘Back up on the table.’ Sarah wished the earth would open up and swallow her, or that awful man. Once again, in full view, she scrambled up onto the table, though this time her knickers and skirt were not available to offer her any modesty. It was difficult, climbing up onto such a high surface. Especially when you were naked and a man was watching your every move.

This time she lay on her back, staring up at him, her head raised up slightly so that she could see him. This was the most embarrassing moment of all. The record, her mother called it. The man lifted up her long bare legs, so that her bottom and her thighs were lifted up from the table’s surface. And then he slid the white paper under her, just like a mother presents her infant with a clean white nappy. He made sure it was exactly in position. And then he allowed her to lower her legs. She sat up, waiting for his direction, her punished bottom now pressed flat against the paper. Then again, she lay back, this time closing her eyes, as once again the man raised her legs and lifted her thighs and bottom clear of the paper. He slid the paper away from her. She climbed off the table and stood up, praying that he would leave soon and leave her to herself. To soothe her poor bottom as best she could. He handed the white sheet of paper to her. ‘Take it to your bedroom.’ She almost ran along the landing, and pressed it up onto the wall, the adhesive tabs still in position from the last occasion. He followed her. And together they stood and stared. In the centre of the paper, somewhat blurred, was the impression of her mother’s lipstick figures. A reminder, as if she needed it, that her bad behaviour had warranted twelve stinging strokes of the cane. And the twelve strokes could be counted, if you studied the paper for long enough. For the numbers had been criss-crossed by the strokes of the cane. Where the lipstick had been wiped away, Sarah knew the cane had landed. An exact impression of the round surface of her bottom. An exact record of her punishment. She could even make out that last wicked stroke, the sharpest diagonal impression across the numbers meaning that the cane had reached right down and around the lowest most sensitive regions of her bottom.

The sheet of paper would stay there on display, until her mother felt she had really learnt her lesson. And for the next hour, Sarah would be confined to her bedroom. While she rubbed cold cream into her burning bottom she would have ample time to study that record of her caning. The man left quietly, closing her bedroom door behind him. He would be going back to the Guest Room to replace the cane above the curtain rail. And later, before her evening meal, Sarah would also have to return to the scene of the caning. To get dressed again and make sure the room was perfectly tidy. Ready for his next visit. The girl laid the palms of her hands gently upon her ridged bottom. The cold cream would soothe it. And it would help remove the last vestiges of the lipstick. She could hear a brief muffled conversation in the room below her bedroom. And then the front door opened and closed. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. Still gently holding her bottom, she went to her bedroom window. The man was crossing the road. He was turning right, walking further on up the road. She craned her neck to see his destination. And then she knew that Jilly was the next recipient of his attentions.

Across the road at Number 23, Jilly James was standing in the centre of their spare room. A little blonde, she was dressed in just a silly brief tee shirt which hardly covered her very ample breasts, and a little wrap-around skirt beneath which white knickers fitted snugly around her bottom. Across the smoothness of her bottom cheeks, Jilly’s mother had written two numbers. That evening it was to be double figures all round. Jilly had been staring nervously out of the window. The man had been in Sarah’s house for such a long time. She knew she was in for a long session too, judging by her mother’s choice of numbers. She heard the rattle of the key in the door, and the girl knew it was time.