The Strop


Kelly gripped the edge of the chair and swallowed back a wave of nausea. Listening to them comment on her knickers, she was mortified. The whole situation was beyond shameful. What the hell was she doing?

She’d lied on so many levels, starting with her age, which wasn’t nineteen but twenty-three—how to explain that she wasn’t married or without occupation in an age when it was one or the other? She’d opened the drawer and seen the contents, then lied that she hadn’t, then blurted out about punishments, hoping to distract him. Henry wasn’t stupid, though, he must be very suspicious.

She had to think on her feet, then on her knees. She’d knelt because her legs were shaking so badly, she’d lost any strength to stay upright. It turned out, going by the sparkle in his eyes, Henry was much taken by her kneeling.

As for Meredeth, she was a blessing. Her absence was Kelly’s salvation. If Meredeth had turned up for work, taken up residence in the attic, she doubted Henry would have considered her for the post at all. Why pay out for two maids when one was sufficient? He lived alone, without family, and even with the number of rooms, it wasn’t as if he needed a troupe of servants to look after him.

The humiliation came as a consequence of her desperate situation. With no means to travel back to her own time, she had to take whatever opportunities came her way. Bear the punishment, the spanking, and see it as a means to resolving her predicament. It couldn’t be that bad, she’d thought with optimism beginning to build. That was until he’d fetched the strop.

God, how stupid she’d been to assume he’d simply toss her over his lap and give her a few smacks of his hand, just like those videos she’d watched. She’d missed the point by miles. Henry was a real disciplinarian, not a romantic husband with a taste for spanking or some kinky guy who liked a bit of fun in the bedroom. This spanking was to punish her, not make her feel sexy. What she was seeking was to be needed, desired, almost worthy of his attention, so that it justified the humiliation. And safe; she didn’t want to feel afraid.

Bent over a chair, her bottom poking up, Kelly felt only foolish.

She’d not bothered with contemporary underwear. Why would she need to wear drawers and a corset for an hour’s visit? The bikini-style undies and matching bra were a gift from her sister, who’d ordered them online for Kelly’s birthday from her home in New Zealand. How to explain their style to a man more used to big panties and drawstring waistbands?

“Forgive my shameful underwear, sir,” Kelly said, cringing into the seat of the chair. “My father refused to give me money and I had to make my own with scraps.”

She hoped they wouldn’t inspect too much because then they might see the machine-sewn seams.

“I’ll ensure she’s properly attired from now on, Sir Henry,” Mrs. Collins said. “A black gown and lacy apron for formal occasions, too. She dresses like a flower girl.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Collins. Please lower… those.”

Mrs. Collins snapped the elastic waist over Kelly’s hips and thighs with a brisk flick of her wrist, as if she was handling something abhorrent. She clucked her tongue as she reached Kelly’s ankles. “Step out of them, Kelly. I’ll burn them on the fire. Atrocious garment.”

Knickerless and bare bottomed, Kelly looked up and glared at the mirror, silently cursing it. So much for an adventure.

It was then she realised the position of the chair was directly in front of the mirror. It meant she could see Henry’s reflection. He stood behind her, the strop bent double in his hand and he was staring fixedly at her exposed arse as if to measure the distance. He’d removed his overcoat, revealing the tapering of his jacket about his waistline, the white of his shirt collar behind the cravat, and the watch chain hanging from the pocket of his waistcoat. Kelly had to admit, Victorian men were dapper in their dress sense compared to the modern grunge look. It was something of a relief to see him appear the handsome gentleman—if clothing made a man, his attire was helping build her trust in him.

Mrs. Collins had stepped back and to one side, dutifully standing to attention.

Henry Yarlswood stood astride at a right angle to Kelly’s back and in full view of the mirror raised his arm and the strop. Kelly, unable to watch, scrunched her eyes up and braced, tightening every muscle in her body.

Another foolish act. The swoosh of the strop heralded an almighty crack of leather against taut skin. The sear of pain was immediate and unforgiving. Kelly screamed and drummed her boots on the floor.

“Ow, ow!” She nearly exclaimed ‘fuck,’ but managed to trap the curse in her mouth.

The skirts billowed out as she jostled against the hard chair.

“Do you require the restraints?” Mrs. Collins asked.

“The ones around her ankles are necessary,” he replied.

Kelly opened her eyes. In the mirror, he was examining the result of his first strike with tightly pressed lips. Mrs. Collins shot forward and knelt next to the chair. She snatched Kelly’s right ankle and dragged it toward the nearest chair leg. In doing so, she spread Kelly’s legs wider apart.

Oh, hell! He’d see between her thighs.

The cuff was tied around her ankle just above the boot. Mrs. Collins diligently bound the other ankle. Kelly was spread before Henry. She risked a peek at him.

He was bent over slightly. No, no! He was viewing her slit. She’d had a Brazilian wax there two weeks ago—she was naked, really naked.

The housekeeper, if that what she really was, produced another one of her over the top gasps. “Heavens, Sir Henry. Is that possible?”

Henry straightened his back, his features unperturbed by the discovery that Kelly was hairless. “She’s removed her bush, Mrs. Collins. I believe it to be a sign of a coquette. We’ll not deal with such matters now.”

Kelly was losing track of who she was. An independent woman, a curator, time traveller, would-be maid, and now a whore. It was too much. Through gritted teeth, she almost said, “Get on with it.” But didn’t.

“I’ll resume. Kelly. I would suggest you breathe deeply, young lady, and not tense like this. I would like this spanking to be memorable, but not unduly unbearable. It must be suffered with fortitude.”

Easy for him to say! However, he was right. If she was to cope, she had to relax her clenched arse cheeks and let him see her furrow.

She lowered her head and attempted to go floppy over the chair.

The swoosh, then crack of the strop caused her to jump back up. It didn’t make a difference to the resulting discomfort—the strap roasted her backside regardless of her posture.

Blinking back tears, she refocused on Henry. He wasn’t in a hurry and appeared to be waiting for her to catch her breath. It provided her with a moment to collect her thoughts.

She’d asked for this. Okay, it was hardly the ideal outcome but the alternative was living on the streets in an unfamiliar world. Regardless, it had been her idea, and one he’d reluctantly adopted.

Or had he? He seemed immersed in the spanking, giving her his full attention by weighing up the strop and preparing to swoop down on her bottom. He actually looked energised and in the reflection, illuminated, as if under an invisible spotlight.

With the strop descending she didn’t take her eyes off Henry.

It made a huge difference to her libido. Her pussy clenched and her hidden clitoris buzzed with an invigorating excitement. Henry was looking especially masterful with his stern face and solid figure.

“Rules will be obeyed, will they not, Kelly?” he said, stepping back again.

Her backside blazed with the impact of the last stripe. “Yes, sir,” she said pitifully.

He aimed lower, sweeping the strop across the crease of her thighs, right where her bottom would unfold when seated. She muted another expletive.

“Lying will not be tolerated,” he lectured sternly.

“Sir,” she shrilled in duet with the thwack.

He was landing them quicker, harder.

Kelly bucked against the edge of the chair with her hips and clung onto the seat with white-knuckled fingers.

“You will apply yourself with dedication to your duties.”

I will, I will, but I’m going to fuck up because I’ve not a clue what they are! She kept her lips tightly pressed together and let the tears flow. She wasn’t crying from pain. For some inexplicable reason she wasn’t in agony. What drove the tears down her cheeks was the realisation she was alone, helpless, and in need of comfort. The stress of the last couple of hours had mounted to intolerable levels.

She sobbed. “I’ll try, sir. I’ll try my hardest. Please, don’t throw me out onto the streets.”

She’d lost count. He hadn’t and what she thought was the last, wasn’t it. Another two whacks landed in quick succession.

“It is done. Mrs. Collins, kindly release Kelly.”

Through wet eyelashes, Kelly gazed at the mirror. The halo of light around Henry had dimmed. He was nodding, pleased with his efforts.

So was Kelly. With Mrs. Collins undoing the straps, Kelly was relieved by her performance—she’d survived her first spanking and maintained the role of maid. Perhaps that was how she was going to survive the next month—by playing the role of maid as if in a game of fantasy. Instead of a brief scene in a bedroom or club, she would live it in one long fantasy, and it would be something to enjoy, and also endure at times.

Could she do it? Play the part of a demure maid for a month? Probably less demure and more sassy, if she was to be true to herself. What the hell. Let him dish out his punishments and make his notes in his journal while she lived out a wild fantasy. Somewhere, in the future, was her dull life waiting for her return. With her mind set on maintaining her role, it was time to get serious and practise the art of domestic servitude.

With her legs free, she rose gingerly, supporting herself using the back of her chair. She wiped her nose with the loose sleeve of her gown. Her hair was a mess and she’d lost her knickers. What a sight she must be.

But Henry wasn’t going to end her ordeal there. “Keep those skirts tucked up around your waist, young lady, and attend to yourself. Do not touch your bottom. Let it throb as a reminder. You will present yourself against the wall, over there. Nose to it and hold position.”

She’d read his accounts, she should have guessed the humiliation wasn’t over yet. She hobbled over to the far wall where he’d pointed and between two bookcases, she rested her forehead on the wall and hitched up her skirts. The cool air helped dampen down the fire in her arse.

Something electric continued to buzz in her lower belly. She’d not asked for an erotic experience, maybe she’d secretly wanted one, but in the circumstances and the stress she was under, she’d not expected it. There was no doubting the sensation. Even in the midst of pain and embarrassment, she was hot and bothered, and it was obvious what was pulsating between her thighs. Her little bud was capable, more than capable of a rude awakening.

Kelly snorted softly to herself. How debauched. How sexy!

What next?

~A Strict Gentleman