Clare stared hard into her bathroom mirror. Mark had punished her and the matter was closed, their remarkable relationship the positive benefit of her foolish mistake. But her outrageous attempt at career suicide ten days ago required special recognition. She'd pushed herself to reach her powerful position. Self-respect required she address her major lapse.
Early in her career, she'd punished herself. Frustrated with weakness or failure, she'd strip to her panties, snapping her short black leather-covered riding crop into her vulnerable bottom. The foreboding drama and sharp sting delivered discipline, but doing it herself wasn't the tough challenge she needed.
Miss Roberts' discreet ad in an abandoned free newspaper had screamed her name. Folding the fascinating page, she'd secured it in her purse, hoping to afford it once her daily train journey delivered a decent income. When her serious salary revolutionized her finances, she'd withdrawn the faded newspaper hidden under the decorative paper liner in her underwear drawer, and read it afresh.
Relieve Your Guilt. A punishment service for girls who need it. See Miss Roberts.
Her original visit to Miss Roberts had followed a brief phone call. The kind disciplinarian appeared to be in her thirties, although her firm authority made her seem older. She'd described her business, disciplining girls, and explained her bottom would be in absolute agony if she stayed. She'd departed, painful heat packed in her tight jeans, imagining a steady stream of humble girls visiting the smart house.
Grabbing her leather jacket, she left her apartment thirty minutes before her train. Girls with a date for discipline arrived on schedule or paid the price. Sometimes she stored up minor failures to get her money's worth. Today, she wouldn't dilute her total lapse in judgement.
For a weekend visit, jeans suited the white cotton bikini panties Miss Roberts required her to wear. Today she'd chosen her black jersey body-con dress to boost her shame. The short hemline risked exposing her cane marks with the wrong move.
The rough train seat comforted her unblemished bottom. To remain a client, she must accept whatever discipline Miss Roberts prescribed. Required to choose her punishment from a painful menu, she could propose a mild punishment, but Miss Roberts may sentence her to greater severity. Suggesting a tough punishment guaranteed she'd receive it.
She'd suggest a 'Serious'. She'd only proposed it once before. Risking her career for private pleasure deserved it. A 'Serious' comprised two extra cane strokes on her tender thighs. Excruciating on her sensitive soft flesh, the conspicuous marks might embarrass her in her short dress. Proud of her grueling ordeal, she surveyed her high hemline and slim, bare legs.
Punishment hurt. Scoring severe lines of unmistakable discipline on her vulnerable bottom or thighs took commitment. She was imperfect, but dealing with her imperfections raised her game. Accepting structured humility demanded obedience. Acute pain carried intense meaning. Its lasting effect boosted her pride. Wrong needed right to balance it. Her balance brought honor, self-respect, and love. She hoped Mark would understand.
Six minutes brisk walk from its suburban train station, the traditional three-level white house set twelve feet from the street provided no clue it welcomed imperfect girls and dispatched perfect ones home.
“Hello, Clare,” Miss Roberts said.
In a modest knee-length, black, pinstripe skirt suit, her strict disciplinarian's warm welcome raised her spirits as she stepped up the familiar worn stone steps, reaching the raised ground floor.
Miss Roberts said, “I love your dress, it's gorgeous.” Raising a questioning eyebrow, she added, “You always wear jeans. You have incredible legs.”
Clare smiled. It was a lovely compliment. “Thank you.”
Taking her leather jacket, Miss Roberts showed her into the front lounge. She cherished this space. She could confess her worst behavior, accept its awful consequences, and dispel her guilt. Sitting on the couch, she crossed her legs as her disciplinarian sat opposite in her usual armchair.
“How are you today?” Miss Roberts asked.
She described her regretful reading at her desk, Mark's severe caning, and their nascent relationship.
Miss Roberts smiled. “He sounds like an exceptional man. I may see less of you.”
“He won't always understand.”
“So true,” Miss Roberts said. It was her business to understand young women's needs. “You took ridiculous, selfish risks for sexual gratification.”
“I'm so sorry,” Clare groaned
“Have you considered your punishment?”
“I think a 'Serious'.”
She could recall Miss Roberts' menu, she'd read it so often. It provided a solid framework for any crisis.
“Your choice reflects well on you. Sore legs will keep you on your toes,” Miss Roberts said.
The level-headed career girl had chosen stiff discipline. Her sensitive, caned legs would feel vulnerable under her gorgeous short dress. “Shall we begin?”
Rising, Miss Roberts led her to the familiar, adjacent study. The huge pine desk welcomed her to her ordeal. Standing before the desk in her tight dress, she faced her disciplinarian.
“You need caning, hard,” Miss Roberts said, extracting a slender rattan cane from her tall cupboard and facing Clare. “Lift your dress.”
Clare kicked off her heels and wriggled the soft jersey to her waist, revealing her obligatory white cotton bikini panties. Miss Roberts insisted on innocent panties. Having her panties chosen for her delivered healthy doses of shameful obedience leading up to her appointment. Sometimes forced to wear them beneath a smart professional suit, they heaped shameful, innocent submission on her.
“Bend over,” Miss Roberts commanded.
Placing her bare forearms on the desktop, she lowered her weight. Reaching forward, her fingertips gripped the far side. Offering her panty-clad bottom to Miss Robert's cane, she contemplated the adult chapters she'd read.
The slender rattan tapped her panties. She must not move. Miss Roberts requires she accept her beating without fuss.
“Six strokes on your bottom and two serious strokes across your thighs.”
She needed it and deserved it without question.
Fire erupted across her white cotton bottom. The intense line of fierce pain forced her hips forward. Heat singed her skin and rocketed to acute pain as deep ache penetrated her butt.