The pain was beyond intense, concentrated as it was on that tiny and most sensitive part of his body.

“Would you like to reconsider your question?” asked the skinny redhead.

When his answer was not forthcoming, her fingertips drew tighter.

“Yes! I’m sorry I asked.”

“You should be.”

Sherrie let go of Bertie’s earlobe and returned to her place behind the register. The only other two customers in her store quickly found something to occupy themselves on the shelves.

“My side business is none of yours,” she continued, lowering her voice, “Before you start shopping around for spankings, talk to your girlfriend. And don’t tell me you have, because if you did, you wouldn’t be here all sneaky-like while she’s at work.”

Rubbing his sore ear, Bertie bit down the urge to protest that he’d been asking no such thing – he’d only wanted to know if the sex shop owner and sometime dominatrix would entertain the thought of taking him on as a client. Somehow he suspected that Sherrie would see that as a distinction without a difference.

Back in October, Rachel had taken what she said was a promotion at her job. Since starting, she’d started giving him the silent treatment whenever he’d brought up sex or spanking – and shortly after, she told him outright that she wasn’t interested in pursuing either until she completed her term at work.

The last time she’d made an announcement like that, it took five years and a course of couples therapy to get back what they’d once had. He’d reminded Sherrie of this precedent, but she hadn’t taken his concerns seriously.

“You didn’t have a problem spanking Rachel,” Bertie bit back, more sullenly than he would have liked.

Sherrie glared at him. “Your girlfriend’s a treat to have over my knee, but I’m not expected to ignore that she’s your girlfriend while she’s there. Dry spells are a fact of relationships, and in your first twenty-five years the only one to smack that bottom of yours was the doctor who delivered you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Be patient. Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. And if you’re not buying anything, please let me finish counting dead stock.”

She sighed and turned her attention to a serious of cardboard boxes beside the counter. Bertie didn’t envy the job in front of her – as a café manager, he’d done his own share of inventories; they were thankless, time-consuming and a reminder of the money he’d lost in over-ordering since the last one.

He was about to leave when he saw the contents of the closest box.

“Are those books?”

“No, sonny, they’re Gideon bibles,” chuckled Sherrie, “They’re donations, as if anyone wants to buy second-hand erotica. I guess the used bookstore down the street wouldn’t take ‘em.”

Bertie pushed the flaps of the box open experimentally. The box’s previous owner had clearly been a collector of midcentury pulp fiction, with exploitative titles like The Black Widow’s Lover and Refugees from Lesbos and covers depicting wild-eyed men and women, their clothes artistically shredded to show off their sweaty, heaving chests.

One was markedly different, however. The cover was a sober image, depicting a promenading couple in Victorian dress. Their backs to the reader, the two were merely taking an innocent stroll.

Innocent – save for the cane clasped behind the woman’s back.

Bertie recognized the title immediately: Miss Alice’s Paramour. He was familiar with the book, in fact he owned a digital copy of the entire Miss Alice’s School for Boys series, but it had never crossed his mind that they’d been released as paperbacks once upon a time. 

“How much for this?” he asked, holding up Paramour.

Sherrie didn’t seem surprised by his choice. “Ten bucks, hon. But you’ve got to take the box.”

***

“Eamon Cooper leaned in against the strong oak of the Headmistress’ door. The voices of his father and the mysterious Miss Alice could be heard, if faintly, from within.

‘I’m not certain what you expect of me, Mr. Cooper,’ Miss Alice said, ‘I fear you’ve misunderstood my purpose. My classes teach young men of the privileged classes how to conduct themselves in business and mixed society – something Eamon should know well about, given his background.’

‘Miss Alice, if it is an issue of money, the shipyards have been good to me. I can settle Eamon’s tuition upfront, if need be. Just because I lack the rank of your—“

“My issue, sir, is that I do not believe you to be forthcoming.”

Eamon placed a hand over his mouth. He had never heard anyone, much less a woman, speak to his father in such a way. And she had the cheek to interrupt him as well!

‘See here, Miss!’

‘You have a good ear, Mr. Cooper, but formal elocution has eluded you. Liverpool, is it? Please show me the respect of using your true voice.’

His father was silent. Eamon had seen it before, when a darkness or drink had overcome him and he sat alone in his study, his staff giving him a wide berth. Yet Miss Alice sat directly before him, his fury concentrated on her, and there was not a hitch in her breath. Eamon had not even yet seen the Headmistress, and already she had the highest of his esteem.

‘Now… why is it so important to you that your son attend my school? At eight-and-twenty, he would be the eldest student I’ve yet to enrol. From what you’ve told of me, he is practical-minded and courteous. I do not see what I have to offer.’

His father said nothing at first, and Eamon feared that he would strike the impudent woman. Instead, he heard a sigh, like the releasing of wind from a sail.

‘I am a wealthy man,’ the elder Mr. Cooper began, his native Scouse coming though, ‘though I have not always been thus. Eamon is my only child, and it was incumbent upon me that he should never know the hardscrabble life from which he was raised. But I have… erred. The luxury we live in, that I worked so greatly for, he takes for granted. I have spoilt him, and it has taken me too long to acknowledge this truth.’

The rest of the conversation was lost as Eamon’s ears burned. His father thought him spoilt! As if he had not spent his boyhood waiting in queue with designers and woodworkers for the attention of that grizzled dictator, a man more invested in his ships than his family!

Lost in his thoughts, he was caught off-guard as the oaken door swung open. The woman behind was tall, nearly as tall as Eamon himself, with flaxen hair tied sharply behind her head and a handsome visage – handsome perhaps except for her eyes, of the coolest blue, that fixed him with a chilling glare.

‘It seems you have raised a keyhole peeper, Mr. Cooper,” said Miss Alice. “My work begins immediately.’”

***

Bertie had spent more time than he’d expected sorting through the box. Thankfully, Miss Alice’s Paramour had turned out to be intact, if worn, but many of the other titles were not so lucky. Cracked spines and missing pages abounded, to say nothing of the books whose pages were stuck together. He’d had taken those volumes to the dumpster and washed his hands afterwards. Twice.

As a result, it was already late evening when Bertie was able to tuck into his new purchase, and he’d only made it to the third chapter by the time Rachel got home.

“Evening, honey! How was work?”

“Nothing special,” Rachel responded. She opened the fridge, removed some leftovers, and vanished behind the wall that separated the living room and the kitchen. Often, that was all that Bertie was seeing of her lately.

He wondered if he should be more subtle in his reading, or if Rachel had even noticed what had occupied his attention.

***

“'You mean to ask Miss Alice to the ball? Surely you’re not serious.’

‘It’s a spring dance, not a ball,’ Eamon corrected, ‘and why shouldn’t I?’

Kenilworth sputtered, finally settling on, ‘Well, she’s old, for starters.’

Eamon considered, not for the first time. Miss Alice appeared ageless, but to have run the school for as long as she had, she must have had at least forty summers behind her, perhaps more. Not that it mattered, of course, this was a new world and a beautiful woman was a beautiful woman, regardless of her years.

He finished the knot on his ascot and turned to Kenilworth for approval.

The young man made a face. 'Dashing as ever, of course. Do you imagine this flattery will spare you stripes on your britches? I fear you underestimate Miss Alice.'

His barb was fired in jest, but hit closer than Eamon would have liked. While he’d been warned that Miss Alice was quick to temper, he’d missed the implicit meaning until she’d caught him woolgathering in her Economics course the day prior.

He could still feel the bruises where she’d chastised him with the yardstick. He’d prodded his backside several times in the night to ensure they were still there.

God’s truth, the moment he’d bent over the desk, presenting himself for punishment, had been the most exhilarating moment of his life. What had transpired was painful, of course, as the rumours had promised, but seemed adequate as price of admission.

‘Underestimate? Dear Kenilworth, I relish the challenge.’

No sooner had the words left his mouth than there came a knock upon their door. Kenilworth excused himself to the corner of the room as Eamon answered.

Miss Alice stood waiting, her focus intense. In her hand she grasped a thick bamboo cane, a fearsome tool that she appeared eager to put to use.

‘Good evening, Miss,” said Eamon, his throat suddenly thick, ‘What brings you to the dormitories at this hour?’

‘I go where I like in my own house, Mister Cooper. At the moment, I am seeking Mister Kenilworth, who was due to report to my study ten minutes ago and remains missing. I don’t suppose he is here?”

He could see Kenilworth attempting to shrink in the closet from the corner of his eye.

‘I haven’t seen him, Miss. But it’s serendipitous you’re here, I had in fact been about to seek you out myself.’

‘Were you, now?’

Eamon swallowed. “Yes, Miss. There is a spring dance taking place in the village this week-end, and I would humbly request that you give us leave to attend.’

‘Mister Cooper, I have already permitted my students to attend village functions, provided that unlike Mister Kenilworth they have no outstanding demerits. I will warn you, however, that being outside my roof does not leave you outside my jurisdiction. As many a sore young man has learned.’

‘I would not be so bold. Especially not given my company.’

‘Oh, and who might the young lady be?’

‘Why, only the most striking woman in West Yorkshire.' He extended his hand toward her, and then added, 'If she’ll have me.'

A shift in her eyebrow was the only indication that he’d caught the stern Miss Alice by surprise, but he’d caught her nonetheless.

‘I am your instructor, Mister Cooper.’

‘Then instruct me. See this as a practical exercise. If not, know that I cannot abide the thought that so beautiful a creature should be locked away in this old house while there is merriment to be had.’

Miss Alice pursed her lips and played with the end of her cane. A quiet thought intruded on Eamon’s mind, asking if he’d perhaps he’d overplayed his hand.

‘I accept your offer, Mister Cooper. Understand though that if this is an exercise, you can expect to find yourself graded most harshly if are any less than a gentleman.’

She bent her cane in a gesture he could only call menacing.

‘Miss Alice, I would not dare.’"

***

At which point, Bertie decided that the room was getting quite hot, and decided to take a break. Maybe a nice cold shower as well.

It had been… he couldn’t remember how many years since he’d sat down and read the Miss Alice books. In fairness, he’d been enjoying them as audiobooks since the author had re-released the series on her website, but earlier entries like Paramour hadn’t been among those.

Now that he was reading it again, Bertie was being brought back to those early days of quietly reading erotica in his own dorm, forcing himself to keep a neutral expression so that his roommates couldn’t read what was on his mind… or what was on his screen.

He’d felt a particular kinship with Paramour’s hero, Eamon Cooper. It was a common conceit of the Miss Alice series that each years’ protagonist would start out resenting her, only to fall in love with her brand of strict authority by novel’s end. In Paramour, the author had decided to answer what might happen if her pupil decided to act on that love.

Bertie could remember the next part of the story in detail – how he’d shared Eamon’s embarrassment and sadness upon taking to the dance floor with Miss Alice, only to be forced to admit he’d never learned the steps.

He remembered the elation he felt when Miss Alice refused to let him admit defeat and instead took the lead herself. His blood had rushed when Eamon accidentally pressed his hand on Miss Alice’s breast and felt her beating heart, and his own heart had jumped when she’d looked him in the eye and told him that his presumptuousness could not go unpunished.

Despite the chill of the water splashing down his back, Bertie managed to coax some life into his flaccid dick as he recalled how Miss Alice took him – took Eamon, he meant – to the stables behind the village in. How she’d stripped him of his breeches and forced him over her lap as she sat on a hay bale. How her hard palm fell again and again on his unprotected backside.

How despite his mortification, Eamon did not for an instant think of stopping her or crying out for mercy. How he longed for the kind of love and security he’d only ever felt when he was being punished this way.

Close to the brink, Bertie shut off the water. He’d lost track of time, and he’d have some awkward explaining to do if Rachel decided she also wanted to use the shower.

Besides, he reasoned, he hadn’t even finished the book yet.

***

“Eamon scoffed. ‘Twenty-seven. The answer is twenty-seven, a child should know this.’

His outburst earned him a withering glance from Miss Alice.

‘The test is still in session, Mister Cooper. Restrain yourself.’

‘Or what, Miss Alice? Will you restrain me?’

He’d been on the receiving end of his father’s cold stare, and Eamon had endured. If Miss Alice thought she could be harder than that man, best she think again. Eamon had seen the woman behind those eyes now, flesh and blood. She no longer frightened him.

But Miss Alice was not without resources of her own.

'Anderson, Lowell. Take Mister Cooper by the arms and hold him over my desk, please.'

Eamon had not time to react before his fellows were upon him. Miss Cooper had chosen her villains well, as both Anderson and Lowell were sturdy young men with strong, quick hands. Desks parted before them as they dragged Eamon to the front of the class and across the lecturer’s desk.

‘Unhand me!’ Eamon shouted in vain. “Unhand me, you half-wits!’

‘It seems Mister Cooper’s insolence will need a stronger hand,' announced Miss Alice, 'Kenilworth, please deprive Mister Cooper of his trousers.’

‘Kenilworth! I beg of you…’

His dorm mate approached him with sympathy, but his fear of the Headmistress outweighed any amicable solidarity. He reached to Eamon’s waist and yanked his trousers down to ankle level, then resumed his seat with a lowered head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eamon could see Miss Alice drawing up on him. She had pulled her sleeve scandalously far up her dominant arm, and held in her hand the same terrifying instrument she’d had in hand when Eamon had asked her to the dance.

‘I expect you to count.’ She raised her arm.

A line of pure fire raced across his backside, and not even the combined strength of Anderson and Lowell could keep him from pushing the table forward.

‘One! Thank you, Miss!’

She seemed irritated by his addition, but no doubt it would serve as an object lesson to her other charges. She swung again.

‘Two! Thank you, Miss!’

‘Keep it up, Mister Cooper, or we’ll begin again.’

‘Three! Thank you, Miss!’

No doubt his cohorts were watching in the most extreme discomfort, some reminded of the welts they’d recently earned that had not yet healed. Damn their discomfort, Eamon decided, for to him there was now in this room only himself and Miss Alice, and her evil cane as it came whistling for him yet again.

‘Four! Thank you, Miss!’

‘Five! Thank you, Miss!’

‘Six! I love you, Miss!’

Perhaps she’d heard him and was unmoved. Perhaps she had not heard him at all. That awful cane swished through the air once more.

‘Seven! I love you, Miss!’

Silence cut through the room. Miss Alice froze, her arm readied for the eighth stroke. The entire room sat in suspense, all eyes on her. Anderson unclenched his hand, as then did Lowell.

‘Class dismissed,’ Miss Alice stammered.

Once the room had cleared, she returned the cane to a vase beside her desk and sat down her head in her hands. Still in a daze, Eamon donned his trousers. He winced as the fabric scratched at his newly marked haunches.

‘You must go, Mister Cooper,’ said Miss Alice, ‘I cannot teach you.’

‘Miss Alice, I have learned so much already…’

‘You have learned that it brings you pleasure for a woman to beat you. A service you will find in any brothel in London.’

‘And do you, too, not find pleasure in the act?’

Miss Alice took a breath and rose from her chair.

‘Mister Cooper, like the blacksmith, I beat these boys that I may forge them into men. I am cruel, yes, but it is cruelty to a purpose. That purpose cannot be merely to sate my base urges.’

Eamon leaned in toward her, their visages now only the length of a nose away.

‘But you do have those urges,’ said Eamon, his tone thick with wanting.

Their lips nearly touched, but he found he could not move further. Miss Alice’s hand lay upon his collarbone, her grip iron, and she would not be moved.

‘You speak of love, but you do not know it. You do not know me. You are a boy, not because of your years but because you do not aspire to manhood and that, Mister Cooper, is why I cannot teach you. Were I to cleave to you, you would have me be forever your Miss Alice and no more. Could you ask that of me?’

A most unmanly tear came to Eamon’s eyes. ‘What must I do?’

‘Travel the world,’ Miss Alice said, ‘Find a trade. Write poetry. Make something of yourself, Mister Cooper, I ask no more or less of you. Take the lessons from your many thrashings and learn from them.’

‘And if I find I still enjoy those thrashings, Miss?’

Her lips tightened for what may have been a smile.

‘Then, Mister Cooper, you will make for a very interesting man.’"

***

Bertie put down the book. The sky outside the window was pitch black, the night had gotten away from him. He had thirty pages or so to finish, but the urge to do so had left him.

He found Rachel in their bed, still shifting under the covers. He lay down on the comforter beside her and kissed the nape of her neck.

"I’m sorry."

"What did you do this time?" she grumbled, half-asleep.

He struggled to put it into words. He could say he’d taken her for granted, and it felt true, but he wasn’t sure how. Just as he could say that he’d been selfish and had thought only of own desires when she’d called for a break from their sex life, but he still didn’t understand why the call had been made in the first place.

"I’m sorry I haven’t told you that I love you," he decided.

She snorted. "You tell me that all the time, silly."

"I have to be sure you’re listening."

"You brat. I ought to…"

He waited anxiously to hear the end of her sentence, but in the end it came out as a snore. Rachel was finally asleep.

Bertie rolled over to his side of the bed and lifted the comforter. It might be a long few months, but it wouldn’t break him. There was more to life, after all.