If you’ve read Taught to Serve and enjoyed it, then you might like this little bonus story. Written before the book, it is a parody of a scene from another well-known book.
As he opened the door, a little bell rang out announcing their arrival. The first thing she noted was the smell. An aroma of dusty varnished wood and orange zest. It wasn’t unpleasant, but she wrinkled up her nose. Her companion remained impassive in expression. He was familiar with the establishment.
She followed behind and closed the door. There was no shop front, meaning there was nothing on display or to show what was on sale. The small emporium was a square room with a long wooden bare counter at one end. The walls lined with numerous shelves, rising up from the wooden boarding to the dark ceiling. On the shelves lay countless long thin boxes made from cardboard. Rather like shoeboxes but the shape would not fit a shoe. She swallowed nervously.
The wizened old man appeared from nowhere, perhaps from underneath the counter. Almost dwarfish in size, he clapped his hands in delight at their arrival. Long white hair trailed down the back of his neck and the crown of his head was quite bald. He wore a woollen waistcoat over his blue shirt, knitted fingerless gloves and black pin-striped trousers, which had seen better days. His large grey eyes beamed and he held out a hand of welcome to Mr Tolchard.
“Mr Tolchard, what a privilege to have you here again,” he said waving them over to the counter. “It has been a little while, I do believe.”
“Mr Thistlethwaite, a pleasure to come here as always.”
While she stood to one side, the shopkeeper and Mr Tolchard exchanged pleasantries – they went over her head, mentioning names she did not recognise. Mr Thistlethwaite peered at her. She’d tied her long dark hair tied back and kept fidgeting with the ponytail until Mr Tolchard gave her the look – he narrowed his eyes into slits. She wore a short grey skirt, which rested just about her knees, a thin skimpy white blouse and white hold-up stockings. On her feet, the red high heel shoes finished off her appearance. Her eyes darted about the room, absorbing the rows of boxes. She knew what they contained, she just didn’t want to think about it too much.
“I see you have a new acquisition,” said Mr Thistlethwaite with pursed lips.
“Relatively,” acknowledged Mr Tolchard with a light nod.
“What brings you here, sir?” asked the other man.
“She’s been having a little difficulty adapting to my rules,” said Mr Tolchard. “So, I had in mind a thorough caning for her when she next broke a rule and unfortunately, such a rule has been broken.”
She swallowed hard and her legs quaked. She went back to twirling her ponytail.
“I see,” nodded the little man. “You have a fine collection already, do you not?”
“Yes, but…” hesitated Mr Tolchard, “it seems appropriate to have something which suits us both. As you know I’m particular about my canes.”
“Indeed, indeed,” said Mr Thistlethwaite. He cleared his throat. “Would it be possible to inspect….
“Naturally,” said Mr Tolchard. “Casey come here.”
The girl tottered over and stood nearer the counter. “Sir?”
“The gentleman wishes to see the target area, lift up your skirt and bend over.”
She gaped a little, glancing back and forth between the two men. Behind her, the shop door remained unlocked to the outside world. She had never shown her bottom to a complete stranger.
She perched on tiptoes, trying to whisper in Mr Tolchard’s ear. “I’ve only a thong on, sir.”
“So? Hurry up we haven’t all day.” He drummed his fingers on the counter.
Casey shifted up her skirt until it reached her waist and then turned. As she bend down, she could feel the cool air fan her posterior. The skirt rested on her back and she gazed down at the floor while holding her ankles.
“I see,” said Mr Thistlethwaite matter-of-factly. “Very fine specimen. Nicely plump without excess. This is to be her first caning?”
“As a punishment,” clarified Mr Tolchard.
“I think I have just the thing.”
“Stand up, Casey.” Mr Tolchard flicked her bottom with his finger. She jumped up at the smarting sting.
The proprietor darted off, dragged over a small wooden ladder and scurried up to reach the top shelf. A film of dust came floating down about him as he pulled out a long thin box.
Casey stood behind her companion. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. She watched as the little man laid the box on the counter and slowly lifted the lid. Inside, lying in a swathe of tissue paper, was a long thin cane. Its mellow colour and length were the first characteristics she noticed. She watched as Mr Tolchard took it out of the box, held it tightly at one end and waved the cane before Mr Thistlethwaite’s nose.
“The Whipper Snapper,” said Mr Thistlethwaite proudly.
Mr Tolchard swished it through the air with a fast swipe. Casey could feel the breeze it created even from a few feet away. She bit her lip and saw how it moved quickly in his hand.
“A good sting to it, I should imagine,” said Mr Tolchard laying it back in the box. “Perhaps, too much.”
“Indeed, indeed, maybe,” said the little man. He scrambled about his shelves for a second time and returned with a smaller box. From inside, Mr Tolchard retrieved a thicker, shorter cane.
“Bamboo. The Gardener’s Friend. Very popular with the outdoor type.”
Casey’s jaw dropped – it looked terribly thick and inflexible.
“Mmmm. Firm and stiff. I’m more of a study man, as you know, not the shed.” Mr Tolchard smiled.
For the third time, the diminutive man disappeared in the depths of his small shop. There was much banging, dragging out of boxes, tossing of lids and examining contents. Then, he returned with another long box.
“Something different for you, I think, Mr Tolchard,” said shopkeeper. He lay the box on the table with gravitas and removed the cane with an elegant flicker of his wrist before handing it to his customer.
“Lovely grip to it. Silicone handle?” Mr Tolchard whooshed it through the air and landed it on the counter with a loud whack. Casey’s heart thumped hard against her chest and she eyed the cane with concern.
“What’s it made from?” asked Mr Tolchard.
“Oh, trade secret.” The shopkeeper tapped his nose with a finger. “Something special. It’s fresh in. Called the Crimson Fire 2000.”
Mr Tolchard rubbed a finger along his lip. “This is going to be a difficult decision.”
“Indeed, indeed. May I make a suggestion? Why not try them all out?” Mr Thistlethwaite leant forward on to the counter and whispered. “Out back, you know?”
“Excellent suggestion as ever.” Mr Tolchard grinned.
Casey’s eyes seemed to pop out of her head. She crept backwards. Her companion didn’t look at her – she faced his back. She watched, with increasing sense of trepidation, as the two men collected up the three canes. Here? Now? Her eyes darted about the room and she yanked her ponytail down.
“Is she looking a little pensive?” asked Mr Tolchard of Mr Thistlethwaite. “Fidgety?”
“A little. Oh, she just rolled her eyes, sir. Most unbecoming for a young lady to do, don’t you think?”
Casey cursed her wandering eyes and fixed them straight ahead.
“It is an issue, I must say.”
The little man led them to the back of the shop, but Casey did not want to move. She stood rooted to her spot on the floor.
“Casey, come.” Mr Tolchard held out his free hand. “Nothing to fear, Mr Thistlethwaite is very discreet and professional.”
Casey didn’t think discretion was the issue. The testing the canes out on her bottom caused her to pause. His hand gripped her elbow, vice like, and he escorted her into a narrow doorway behind the counter. He marched her down a dimly corridor until they came to another door.
Mr Thistlethwaite opened it, revealing a virtually bare room. There were two items of furniture: a small table in the corner, upon which he laid out the canes, and a tall four-legged stool, which was situated in the middle of room. It possessed thick sturdy legs and a flat top. Casey knew exactly what its purpose was.
“Now, Casey, be a good girl and bend over the stool,” instructed Mr Tolchard.
“Sir, please… I,” she saw his face – the rigid expression and lips pressed together – and realised it was futile. Approaching the stool, she leant over its smooth seat and found it the perfect height for her stature. She reached down and grasped the lowest part of the stool while keeping her feet flat on the floor.
“Legs a little more apart, please,” Mr Tolchard eased up the hem of her skirt. The familiar rush of cool air signified the exposure of her cheeks for a second time. He tucked the hem into the waistband.
“The Whipper Snapper?” asked Mr Thistlethwaite holding out the thin cane.
Casey lifted her head up and watched Mr Tolchard remove his jacket, lay it neatly on the table and take up the offered implement. Swooshing it through the air a few times, it blurred and disappeared before her eyes, as if it had no substance to it. She doubted her eyes. He stroked her buttocks with the edge of it. Her knees trembled, knocking against the stool’s legs and her breaths quickened.
“A few deep breaths, Casey,” he reminded her and she inhaled sharply.
He tapped her bottom lightly at first, then a little firmer and it seemed similar to how he normally caned her. A string of bee stings smarting her skin. Without warning, he whipped the cane and struck a line across both cheeks. She jumped up with an, “Ouch!”
“Casey, what did I tell you about holding position?” He shook his head, frowning.
“Sorry, sir. I will try harder.” She leant back down.
Another swish and a sharp bite across her poor cheeks. She shuffled her feet, but she managed to stay bent over.
“It’s certainly flexible,” commented Mr Tolchard. “But…. it leaves only a light impression.”
Light! Casey gasped. Nothing she felt gave the impression of lightness. She opened her mouth to disagree, then swiftly shut it. Her opinion didn’t matter.
“Indeed, indeed.” Mr Thistlethwaite handed Mr Tolchard the next one. “The Gardener’s Friend then, sir?”
Casey eyed the thick cane out of the corner of her eye as Mr Tolchard twirled it in his hand.
“Definitely stiffer, will make a nice thud.” He raised it to his side. Casey squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the inevitable impact.
“Oh, sir!” she wheezed. There seemed to be a pause before the blow took shape. Not a sting this time, but a burning line of pain. She stamped a foot and watching him prepare for the next sampling.
It landed heavily like a rod of steel. “Oh no, not that one, sir,” she wailed. She hated it. Far too harsh for her novice behind.
“Maybe not,” reflected Mr Tolchard. “Perhaps a little too stiff.”
“Indeed, indeed. Try the Crimson Fire, sir. Such a different experience.”
The third cane, which he flexed like the Whipper Snapper, had the thickness of the bamboo Gardener’s Friend. “Good weight. Grip perfect for my hand.” Casey continued to observe him assess his equipment. He lined it up against her bottom, she felt the coolness press against her flesh before he lifted it ready to swipe.
“OW!” She sprang up and rubbed her bottom vigorously.
“Oh no, Casey, that was clearly an infringement. Rubbing your bottom, heh?” He tapped the seat with the tip of the Crimson Fire.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered, removing her hand and repositioned herself over the stool. Her bottom throbbed as the skin stretched.
“Six strokes for moving and touching yourself.”
“Please, sir, not here,” she whimpered.
In the corner of the room stood the little shopkeeper hands folded across his chest and head shaking slightly from side to side. Her predicament was mortifying, but she her attitude shamed her even more. Mr Tolchard had brought her here, to the tiny shop, as a special occasion. He’d been unusually excited in the car. She’d done nothing but whinge, pleading with him to turn around. Now, she forgot her place again.
“Sorry, sir. Please give me six strokes.” She grasped the stool legs tightly.
“Good girl. Count them.” He placed his cool hand on the lower part of her back, pressing her down.
“One, sir,” she screeched and kicked her leg back.
“Two, sir,” she gasped and her bottom jiggled slightly.
“Three, sir,” she grunted and leant into edge of the stool.
“Four, sir,” she muttered and screwed up her eyes.
“Five, sir,” she whispered, unmoving.
“Six, sir,” she moaned, lost in a haze of pain and something else – an intangible discovery.
Each stroke had created a blazing fire across her cheeks. She envisioned a neat batch of tram-lines welts across her buttocks. She flinched as he traced a finger along each one in turn.
“Magical isn’t it, Mr Tolchard?” said Mr Thistlethwaite.
“Indeed,” said Mr Tolchard. “Remarkable. A cane that actually feels warm and alive. There is a fire in her arse. Quite impressive.”
Casey remained flopped over the stool, a row of tiny furnaces, each one scorching, inflamed her bottom.
“I’ll take this one,” declared Mr Tolchard.
“Excellent choice. I shall wrapped it up for you.”
She said nothing as Mr Tolchard helped her to her feet and put on his jacket. Her skirt dropped back down and she suppressed tears, blinking the away under the bright lights.
“There,” he said, “Not so bad, heh. Now we can go home and administer your punishment with the appropriate implement.”
Her eyes widened. “Sir, you’ve just punished me, haven’t you?”
“Silly girl. That was a correction. Consider it a warm up.”
She scampered behind him as they returned to the shop proper. While he exchanged money and goods, she tried hard not to rub the blazing lines on her buttocks. Maybe her first real caning wasn’t too bad. It had been a strange experience, something she couldn’t quite articulate into words or cohesive thoughts.
“Let’s go,” He picked up the long box containing the Crimson Fire 2000. “After your punishment, we can move on to your next lesson. Can’t we?”
As he walked past her to open the shop door, an excited smile formed on her lips. She did enjoy his lessons.
“Good-bye Mr Thistlethwaite,” Mr Tolchard called back into the shop and the little man waved as he began to peel his orange.
This story went on to inspire a book….
A romantic story of spankings and erotic sex – set in the English countryside – and a young woman in need of a little discipline…..
Though she is both beautiful and intelligent, Casey has bounced from one job to another as a result of her failure to truly apply herself. As she sits on a park bench crying after yet another dismissal, things show no sign of changing anytime soon… until a passing stranger sees the tears in her eyes and comes to her rescue. The handsome, smartly dressed man by the name of Robert informs her that he is in need of a personal assistant and she might be a good fit.
Casey soon learns that her new boss will be a demanding one, and insufficient attention to detail will earn her a trip over his knee for a bare bottom spanking. To her surprise, Rob’s firm discipline only increases her attraction to him, and their relationship quickly grows into a passionate romance. She finds that Rob can be just as firm a boyfriend as he is a boss, but even as he teaches her to submit to him completely he also shows her pleasure—and love—beyond anything she has known before.