This is a part of my story, I have just got to the part where I begin putting adverts in the ‘Sheffield Star’, and going to the local office to look in my box for replies.
I think it would be good at this point to add to Suzette’s journey, it will make the coming together ‘fit’.
If you click on ‘Photo Stories’ above, and scroll to the bottom (where else?) you will find Suzette entangled with me, with Stuarts blessing (Her partner). It runs in to part one of ‘The Journey’, with a link to part two, and so on…
NOTE…
I KNOW ALL THAT IS A BIT TEDIOUS, BUT I GET HUNDREDS OF NEW VISITORS EVERY DAY, THEY KNOW NOTHING OF ME, IT HELPS THEM UNDERSTAND, or confuses them that much they leave!
oooOOOooo
SUZETTE’S EARLY YEARS, AND HER JOURNEY FROM THOSE YEARS TO ME…
A FIRST ENCOUNTER AT SCHOOL
I was brought up in a tough mining district in the North of England, a village with the pit head at the end of the cobbled street. The village was basically four rows of red brick, weather warn and smoke stained terraced houses, the sort that today you would call bijou cottages. Back then they were cramped two up, two down terraces with a very draughty with an outside privy, with more often or not a worn wooden seat. Ours was extremely posh though as it had the luxury of a plastic seat and cover!
I
went to school in another local village which was a mile and a half
away. It was there that the teacher, a grey suited rather upright lady
from a bye-gone age attended to my lessons for the first two years.
Looking back she never really smiled and all too often brought her
knarled old ruler down on our hands if she thought we were not paying
attention. The pain on my small hands was horrid. It was certainly not
this type of punishment that started my interest.
In
the last year I attended my village school before going off to senior
school there was a male teacher who although mild mannered would
occasionally erupt into a fury if really provoked. A tall girl, at least
by comparison to my diminutive status, with a blond pony tail, was
always disruptive and a bit of a bully. I made sure I steered clear of
her whenever she was around.
One
day however, for no particular reason I could remember, she lunged at
me in the classroom as we were re entering from break. She pulled and
grabbed my hair and in order to get free I swung round only to collide
with a pile of books on the desk and send them hurtling into the teacher
as he arrived in the room. He was absolutely furious and ordered both
of us to stand at the front in full view of the twenty or so other girls
and boys. To my absolute horror he announced that he was going to
slipper us both.
Slippering
was rare. I had never seen what happened nor heard much about it. A boy
had apparently received it the year before but no one really talked
about it.
He
ordered the trouble making girl to fetch the means of punishment from
the headmasters study. Meanwhile I was told to stand with my hands on my
head. I must have looked a sorry state stood in my white blouse, blue
pinafore dress and white socks (a look I now love! How times change.).
After what seemed like an eternity she returned with what looked like an
instrument of torture, a long fat leather soled gym shoe.
The
girl it appeared was no stranger to punishment as she was instructed to
‘assume the position’ it transpired that she had been similarly
punished the week before when I had been off with a cold.
She
almost theatrically bent over the large oak desk at the front of class
with a definite smile to the gallery, our assembled class. Then to my
absolute surprise the teacher told her to raise her pinafore dress and
expose her knickers. She complied without question. I had a Birdseye
view of the proceedings. I remember quite well that the view of her
tight blue knickers being exposed created a curious tingle in my nether
regions. To be honest I was quite excited.
The
teacher laid six bold strokes on her behind. The whacking noise added
to the moment and although worried about the pain I too would endure, I
was more than curious. Looking back it was the compliance of the girl
and the control of the teacher that provided the basis of my interest.,
although even at that early age I was fascinated by the tight knickers
and what may lie beneath.
The
slipper reined down and gradually her petite bottom became blotched.
Then all of a sudden it was over. She was told to stand at the back in
the corner, hands on head. I remember her standing up as if nothing had
happened. She darted a glance at the teacher and swore. Incensed he
grabbed her arm and marched her off to the headmaster.
A
few minutes later he returned solo, clearly leaving the girl to her
fate, which incidentally turned out to be more of the slipper. He took
one look at me and in a rather more conciliatory tone announced ‘return
to your desk, she has confessed to starting the fight, it’s not your
fault, but watch your step. No more retaliation’.
It
was with a mixture of relief but also strange emotions that I received
this news. I really had thought I wonder what it would be like to bend
and have my knickers exposed to a teacher. What would the slipper feel
like in a formal punishment setting? Even at that young age just as I
was experiencing puberty, I even dared to ponder what it feel like to be
commanded even more provocatively to lower my knickers for punishment? I
started my fantasies there and then.
HOME LIFE
I
have to confess that from a young age my father used to deploy a
slipper regularly. I was the eldest of three. I was regularly hauled
over my fathers lap and spanked over my skirt or on occasion, knickers.
Such punishments were very common in most households in our small
village. Unlike school there was no ceremony, no being positioned over a
desk and waiting. It was just brutal strength and a walloping. It had
no real effect on my psyche at all. In fact it just made me angry. One
day when older I simply hit back and it never happened again.
A
friend though had similar punishments and told me of her uncles cane,
her real dad had left some years back and ‘uncle’ was in those days a
convenient way of describing a new live in partner in a small gossip
ridden village like ours. I can still vividly recall how after Sunday
lunch she told me she would have to wait in her bedroom in just her
underwear and if, as often as not, her uncle felt she deserved it, would
receive six of his cane. Apparently he moved in with it. The cane hung
on a hook in the kitchen when not in use as say a birch might hang in a
Welsh cottage (as described in Parry Jones, A Welsh Country Upbringing, a
really good read and not just for the brief mention of a birch (By the
way it’s only in the second edition!)), as a reminder of the
consequences of transgression. I saw the yellow tinged rattan on more
than a few occasions when I visited and on one memorable guilty moment
when I was about seventeen years of age and I was waiting alone for my
friend, i couldn’t resist my curiosity and actually took it off the hook
for a few moments swished it through the air and then let my hands
caress it. I never told anyone, but I loved the noise it made as l ran
it through the air and it’s glossy feel conjured many thoughts of
recalcitrant beneficiaries clutching their bare striped bottoms
afterwards. She never really told me much about her experiences and I
was too timid to ask. We lost touch when the family moved away.
Social workers would be around both the school and marital home if anything of the sort were likely to take place today, but at
that formative age I did start to think about what it would be like to
be properly and formally spanked and caned. I had started to acquire an
itch that needed scratching!
There was one other early influence that confirmed my interest in spanking. I remember about the same time, being mildly aroused when I had to drop some harvest festival goodies off at the vicarage. The Reverend bid me to come through into his study, a large well proportioned book laden room situated in a house reminiscent of an M.R. James ghost story.
As I entered the Reverend, quite a handsome middle aged man, hurriedly removed a brown tailed object from the desk top, fumbled with a drawer and tried to hide what I now know to be a tawse. His face coloured the shade of the glorious carmine red roses the vicarage was famous for (I know this as a few months back I had illicitly snipped a few for my friends birthday and she recognised their source and fame immediately which at a blow reduced my gifts to contraband!). After several attempts to hide the troublesome object he kicked it under his desk muttering something about spare shoe leather. Perhaps I should have asked him about it and maybe to demonstrate it on me as the rose thief, but I was still a shy late teenager. Years afterwards I discovered that he and his rather attractive wife had had a quite torrid sex life and that she was discovered tied naked to an apple tree in the garden by some parishioners. I remember thinking at the time that I would love to be punished by someone in authority and thought wistfully about what may have been a lost opportunity.
THE QUEST
How
things move on. From reading this so far you probably thought I will
try to find a partner who will love me, nurture my desires (including
spanking) and take me away in his arms to a romantic country house
somewhere in the hills with a study, a secluded garden and at least one
tree (!).
No, not at all. I fell in love with an idiot two doors down who had no idea whatsoever about my needs. Indeed a ham fisted trial spanking, after much insistence from me (and after dropping hints for months) felt like I was back with my dad again. It was a curmudgeonly attempt that he really wasn’t in the least bit interested in. I was also not in the least bit turned on either. That was it I thought. No more fantasies they are in books only (with the exception of the Reverend that is). Talking of books I had read a collected work by the Marquis de Sade but I found the violence scary and I was yet to discover Janus magazine.
Years
later and one marriage and one divorce behind me I was experiencing my
new found freedom in London when curiosity got the better of me and I
wandered into Soho. I summoned up my courage to go into the so called
sex shops. I found the whips and ties interesting, couldn’t see any
useful canes like the one my friends derrière ‘benefitted’ from but my
eyes wandered to find a martinet of De Sade fame. I bought it there and
then. I still don’t really know why I did it but I maybe subconsciously
wanted a connection to discipline. Now all I needed to do was find
someone who would use it on me.
My
new martinet became the symbol of my quest. I was clear that I wanted
to find a man that would not just care for me but share my latent
passion for discipline. I wanted someone to formally require me to stand
in front of them, make me take my skirt off and lower my panties for
punishment. Not lower my panties for just a fun session with no
spanking, being a worldly wise gal I had been there, done that, but for a
proper disciplinary intervention, most likely in his study (yes the
Reverends study from all those years ago still lurked in my
consciousness.).
OPPORTUNITY BECKONS
A
few years later with my martinet still in my undies drawer, I kept I
there as I loved to touch it and run it through my fingers (and over my
naked bottom if the truth is known, but we are getting off track.) I
bumped into, actually literally collided with a handsome looking guy at a
conference I was attending. He apologised as if it was his fault. It
was mine as I was too intent on getting a glass of bubbles to my table.
It was after a few seconds that he realised he was actually wearing some
of my spilled champagne. I then apologised profusely, he said it wasn’t
a problem but if I had made him spill his he would have had to have
spanked me!
Trying
to be coy but nevertheless wondering if he really meant it I came
straight out with ‘ perhaps I could nudge you again as I could do with a
spanking!’ Not exactly the most romantic of chat up lines but I had the
devil in me, as well as several glasses of bubbly affecting my complete
uninhibited response. With that he patted my derrière through my dress
and suggested we had a seat together. I was sold. We sat and talked
endlessly. We even got round to fantasies. I was honest about my needs
and remarkably, and I am sure against the odds, with a revelation I had
given up hope hearing, he told me he loved disciplining ladies. In fact
he even disclosed how he collected canes and had a set of library steps
that he loved to order the recipient over. He admitted that he had
disciplined many ladies and in a few cases their friends too! I then
started to worry that he was happily settled as he looked as if he
ticked all my boxes. Much to my relief he soon volunteered that there
was a vacancy and his steps needed someone like myself to bare and bend
over.
This
was almost too much! Never in my wildest dreams had I thought I would
find someone like him. We decided to meet in a week. We both lived miles
apart so settled on his choice of venue in London for dinner and maybe,
just maybe the chance to dust the cobwebs off my martinet! He
gently patted by bottom before he left, whispering ‘nice spankable
bottom’ into my ear. I decided right then to create an immediate vacancy
in my life and jettison a perfectly nice but jolly boring chap I had
occasionally been seeing, this was too good to miss.
LONDON CALLING
I
decided to prepare for the London ‘meeting’ in style. I managed to book
hair and a very painful wax of my lady garden by bribing all the
beauticians and stylists I had met since living solo to deliver for me
urgently with no lead time. I legged it into my favourite boutique and
found a
dark navy jacket and matching skirt, yes a suit but I didn’t want to
present myself in a revealing dress just yet, actually they didn’t have
one anyway! I then went out to find a blouse and new heels.
Agent
Provocateur were next, and a sales assistant clad in gorgeous underwear
ensured I had a black lacy suspender belt matching bra and panties, not
a thong, if it got that far I wanted to lower something not fight
string! I already had several new pairs of barely black stockings to
complete the look. I was anxious to show myself off at my very best for
what, if I was lucky, could be my first proper discipline session.
We
decided to meet on a Friday evening. In a somewhat assertive text I was
directed by my date to be at a smart Central London hotel by 1900 for
drinks and not to be late or face the consequences! I
was also instructed to bring my martinet. I had told him about this and
he asked to see it when we met, a bit of a giveaway that things might
get hot, not least my bottom I hoped. I rose to the challenge by
immediately planning to be a fashionable fifteen minutes late…
There
he was in an immaculate blue suit seated in the foyer, waiting for me
and hopefully ready to take me on to my much dreamed about spanking. We
briefly embraced, a concierge whisked away my overnight luggage (yes,I
was ready to trust this man, the electricity between us was immense, and
at worst I could leave.) he commented on my look and said:’you look
beautiful, just right for a spanking!’ and with that whisked me off to
the bar where there was already a table set aside with two stems and a
bottle of Tattinger chilled and waiting.
I
loved the pampering and we fell into easy conversation. Dinner in the
hotel restaurant followed with more tales of our fantasies and me eating
only a small amount as I was so excited about what might happen
especially as when asked I confirmed I needed discipline and I was ready
to be the contrite submissive for the evening.
I
made to excuse myself at the end of dinner and was slightly taken aback
when he announced ‘our room is the suite on the top floor. I will see
you there in fifteen minutes. Knock and enter.’ Without any further
exchange he gently tapped my bottom and left in the direction of the
lifts.
‘Our
room, our suite’ I pondered. This was the point of no return. I fixed
my make up and made my way to the top floor. With more than a little
trepidation I found the door, one of a very few and the only one
identifiable with the word ‘suite’ emblazoned on it.
I
duly knocked the door and before I got any further was told to come in.
The door, thoughtfully left on the latch, easily opened and within
moments I was in an inner lobby with a simple table wardrobe and baggage area with my luggage carefully placed within.
On
the table was an envelope that was inscribed with the words ‘read me’. I
opened it to find some instructions written in almost copperplate
handwriting on hotel embossed paper:
- Remove your jacket and hang in wardrobe;
- Remove your skirt and similarly hang in wardrobe;
- Open your case and retrieve the martinet;
- Place the martinet on the table;
- Wait facing the wardrobe with your hands on your head;
- If you do not wish to proceed keep clothes on and speak to me, there is no disgrace in not proceeding.
The
above was all rather theatrical but so deliciously needed. I kept and
still have the note. It set exactly the right tone for me: Firm
unequivocal instruction, formality but also a get out which I had more
than decided not to use!
So
there I was, stood in just my blouse, black panties, suspender belt,
barely black stockings and heels, hands on head, waiting. Waiting for
the next instruction, excited and daring to anticipate my first real
discipline session. I was also nervous, would he like what he saw? Would
he be caring too? Would he respect my wishes, particularly around limits? Would he become my Master? I would soon find out.
I
was summoned into the adjoining room, a well appointed lounge with
sofas, a large winged chair and an entry off to what seemed like a
study. A study! So much a part of my early fantasies. There he was stood
with a cane in his hands. ‘I will use this on you later’ he said
looking directly at me with a smile in his eyes. He had removed his suit
jacket. I remember him asking me to turn around and after lifting my
blouse placed a hand on my bottom. ‘Lovely’ he said, ‘and now to
business’.
I
was directed to the winged chair and told to stand to the side. Out of
nowhere he magicked up a long clothes brush which I must say upon
reflection looked a little frightening then. Now I love its touch…
‘Lower
your panties’ was the firm instruction. ‘I am going to spank you and
then use the brush. I only spank on the bare’. I had been waiting for
this moment for years. I slowly lowered my knickers to my stocking tops
and after ‘sir’ as I now referred to him, was seated I lowered myself
across his lap. I remember the cool leather of the armchair on my thighs
and the soft material of my new disciplinarians trousers on my secret
folds. It was amazing. I felt so excited, and…very turned on.
He
rhythmically spanked me then deployed the hairbrush. I remember being
on the verge of orgasm throughout the hairbrush experience, it was
really stinging me but each stroke made me tingle as never before.
After around twelve strokes he checked to see if l was ready for more. I readily agreed.
I
was told to stand, remove my blouse and panties and fetch my martinet. I
complied and now freshly exposed with pink bottom went back to the
lobby to fetch my martinet for it finally to be used. On my return I had
to kneel up in the winged chair, but not before I stood in front of the
man who was to punish me, curtsy and present the instrument I so
desired to feel.
I
presented myself for punishment, legs open, bottom out, deliberately
displaying my hidden secrets, what a hussy I was then! As the martinet
swished through the air I braced. Twelve times it delivered its painful
bites to my bottom. Twelve times I welcomed each stroke as in enveloped
my derrière with its caress. I became exceptionally wet and couldn’t
hold on anymore and disgraced myself as I came with an almighty orgasm. I
grasped the chair and collapsed into it. Sir placed an arm round me and
held me tight. I wanted to make love there and then. We did, and we did
and we did (well you get the picture I am sure).
Later
on he caned me over the black desk in the next room which was a
beautiful study with shelves filled with coffee table sized travel books
and crystal figurines. This time I wore only my heels and nothing else.
He used what turned out to be one of many vintage canes from his
collection, a hook handled medium cane he acquired from a former
headmistress he had had a relationship with some years ago (and yes, he
confessed to me that he had punished her with her own cane but that’s
another story!).
That
is dear reader, my story of how I came to be introduced to a major
passion in my life, spanking and discipline and have my ‘itch
scratched’. Once I met Sir I knew it was all possible and I was
irreversibly hooked. That was all a good few years ago and I have
certainly acted out many fantasies since. I was so fortunate to find a
caring, good looking man who knew what I needed and initiate me into a
world that I thought at one stage was beyond reach.
Who
was he I hear you ask? Am I still with him? Well it is the man I have
been with since then, my Master, Stuart. Is Spanking and the adventure
discipline brings still fun? Amazing! And I still have more fantasies to
realise including finding a like minded couple to share spanking with,
being spanked by glamorous females and being caned in the study of a
stately home as a recalcitrant housekeeper (I wish Downton Abbey was
casting for this!) and much, much more! I am always ready for the next
adventure and so luckily for me is the one who made it all come together
for me, Stuart.
It would be inappropriate for me to end this potted history though without reference to Asa. With Stuart he facilitated one of my early and important fantasies, to be caned by a real Disciplinarian Headmaster. Not just that, he drew on so many other nuances of spanking scenarios that had lay latent in my head he enabled me to immerse myself in one of the most beautiful and erotically charged spanking events to date. As I recently stood in his studio study just in my bra, suspender belt, stockings and heels (my white school panties had been previously removed by Samantha who was watching intently), facing Mr Jones, waiting for the cane, I thought I was in heaven…
My dear Suzette, this piece of writing is immaculate, I applaud you.
The pit village I can see, all my family were pit men, both my Grandads got killed in the pit, one was crushed, the other was a rope man, who slipped on some grease and fell down the shaft., An Uncle got crushed too. My father missed a roof fall by only a couple of yards.
Pit Villages exactly as you described filled my childhood, visits to families were in such places.
The school you describe could have been mine, twelve inch rulers across the knuckles were an almost daily occurrence.
The details of your journey are so entertaining, tinged with disappointment, a touch of sadness and then romance. Stuart is indeed a lucky man, and you are a lucky lady. You fit like a cane in a palm.
Your comments on me are lovely, thank you.
In our club, you have slowly revealed your feelings of the day you came to me in my study, please, will you do me the honour of reading your accounts and then piecing them together for a later article in this true story of discipline and adventure.
Asa
