The Ultimate Spanko Painting?

A trip to London today to see a friend ended up in the National Portrait Gallery, in an attempt to escape from the rain (and boy, was it raining today: I'm still slightly damp two hours later).
Now, I have been to some of the big art galleries in the world – the Prado, the Louvre, the Musée D'Orsay, the Met in New York... but I have never made it to several of the major London galleries, despite only living 40 miles down the road. I know, I know, someone should be spanked.
Anyway, this was my first visit to the National Portrait Gallery. Some of it was great. The Tudors and Stewarts galleries were best taken with a hefty dose of irreverence, the photographic exhibition was fantastic, but it was wandering into the early 20th Century gallery that I came across the ultimate Spanko painting.

Amazing, isn't it? Now I know I'm a pervert and all that but seriously – she's standing in the corner hands on head, bottom suspiciously red. That's what the painter intended that we see, right?

The Spanko Map

Well, I was bored, and, inspired by a conversation with a friend, I created this:



View The Spanko Map in a larger map

It's a Spanko Map of the UK - complete with potential places of interest for spankos... though, let's be honest, any old cookshop with wooden spoons can be interesting for spankos!

If you can think of anywhere, in or out of the UK, let me know and I'll add it. Or I might add some more, next time I'm bored.

Obsession

My "research" over the past 18 months into the wonderful world of kink has occasionally focussed on one particular area of study - the relationship between how one is feeling and how, well, "horny" one is! A sensible assumption would be that the better one feels, the more in need of spanking one is, and for the most part this is the case. I find, however, that there is one particular exception to this rule, which has surprised me several times.
The time that I feel at my most obsessed with spanking, the most in need of being dealt with is when I'm a little bit ill. Not ill enough to be asleep all day, but not ill enough to really be doing a huge amount either. This has happened two or three times, and I'm invariably utterly desperate for a spanking. So desperate I could explode. I obsess, I spend time on line, I crave. But of course the real irony is that if someone turned up and offered me this spanking I so desperately crave, I wouldn't actually, in the reality of the "here and now", want said spanking. Because I don't really feel well enough.
Is it just me that gets like this? Stupid mind. Stupid body.

November 2009 - (Oh What A Night)!

Well, the whole weekend, actually... apologies to the Four Seasons for the title inspiration, by the way.

If you'd like to read Lady Francesca's diary of the event, look below. As for my thoughts - well, it's hard to express really. A whole 48 hours of role play? Some of the best food I've ever tasted? Regency finery? Dancing? Spanking? Saying indeed and efficacious far too much? Going from being a little scared of the servants to ringing the bell and demanding drinks with the best of them? Spending a weekend in the company of dear, dear friends, (though there were some absent who we wish could have joined us)? The fun we had in the "chaperonee" bedroom dressing and doing our hair? Having champions to protect our honour? Settling once and for all that we women are indeed the fairer and superior sex? Knowing that with some people I will forever more be able to say certain "trigger" phrases and have a bunch of ladies swoon in unison?

Can any of these recollections, which probably mean little out of context, sum up even for me the fabulousness of this past weekend? No, I don't think they can.

Suffice to say, that I would like to extend my utmost gratitude to my fellow guests for their company; to the servants for putting up with our constant demands for water (and stronger things), and for their tireless labours in the kitchen; to Chef for those amazing feasts; and last, but oh so definitely not least, to my host and hostess, Lord Fawcett and Mrs Derby, for being two of the most amazing people I know. You rock my Regency world, guys!

From The Diary Of Lady Francesca Aubrey

My carriage has finally brought me safely back home to Papa's country house. I am a little weary, but I must commit my thoughts about the weekend I have passed to my diary whilst they are still fresh.

Lord Fawcett's House Party was indeed an exhilarating experience. Mrs Derby, our chaperone, met us all after dressing on Friday night to ensure that we would do credit to her. I believe I met with her approval, and she commented very kindly on my good posture. With my dear cousin, Lady Grace, and my new friend, the Honourable Miss Dorothea Latimer, I entered the drawing room. I was delighted to be reacquainted with certain guest who I had previously met at Lord Fawcett's house in Town. I was also introduced to some new friends. My escort for dinner was Viscount Fitzwarren, a gentleman new to my acquaintance. Over a delicious meal of soused herring, hare soup and stuffed quail, the table enjoyed scintillating and witty conversation, which continued long into the evening.

As part of the weekend's entertainment, Lord Fawcett had decided to furnish each lady with a champion to protect her honour and settle any gambling debts she accrued. The champions for the ladies were decided by luck of the draw, and between you and I, my dear diary, I was a little distressed that the name drawn for my champion was a gentleman by the name of Sir Abel Cadogan, a guest about whom I heard heard not a little from my dear cousin Grace. Sir Abel is the newly appointed Chief Punishment Officer to His Majesty, a post which seems to involve overseeing the flogging of young women offenders as an alternative to gaol, a practice of which I do not approve. In addition to these duties, he has very recently been engaged by my uncle as some sort of disciplinarian to my dear cousin, who is much distressed by this development. I was to appreciate why as the weekend progressed.

The Saturday dawned bright but cold. After Kitty, the housemaid brought the morning drinks, we dressed and breakfasted. After we had breakfasted we practised some new dances for Sunday's ball, though as I was feeling a little unwell, I reposed on the sofa during some of the rehearsal. After the practice had finished, the ladies sat in the drawing room and took part in our usual feminine pursuits of embroidering and letter writing, though some took up the challenge of a game of croquet, while the remaining gentlemen gambled.

Until lunch, the day had proved most delightful, but after lunch, I was much disquieted to be taken aside by Sir Abel, who had a matter to discuss with me it seemed. He had been unimpressed with my comportment at dinner and during lunch, and, as he believed he had already wrought some changes in cousin Grace's behaviour with his techniques, he proposed to use those self-same techniques on me. I was not at all taken with this notion. I do not approve of the corporal punishment of young ladies of breeding. It is all very well and good to discipline the servants, but young ladies should be treated with all the respect and affection due to them. However, it appeared Sir Abel was not of the same opinion. He led me to his chamber, where he proceeded to subject me to the most trying ordeal. He had with him a variety of implements sent to him from abroad for testing before use in his punishment centres. He ordered me bend over the day bed and raise my dress, a most shameful position for a young lady of my station. He proceeded to beat me with all manner of things - a flogger, a martinet, a spoon made of coconut wood, a strap, a crop, a cane. I was determined, though, not to give him the satisfaction of having his theory (that discipline is most efficacious at correcting behaviour) proved right. I steeled myself to take his unkind ministrations with as much stoicism as possible, and I believe I was successful in this endeavour, though when he whipped my hands I was a little distressed. I believe my determination angered him, for he then made me remove my dress altogether, such a terrible notion for a lady such as myself, and whipped my back as he would some offender in his centre. It was most mortifying, though I did not express that sentiment to my tormentor.

Eventually, my ordeal was over and I was allowed to retire to dress for dinner. Unfortunately, the trials of the afternoon had upset my equilibrium a little, and I may have imbibed rather more champagne than was wise at the reception before dinner. To add to my unfortunate predicament, the ladies were being partnered for dinner by their champions, my champion, of course, being the architect of my disgrace and distress earlier in day. The champagne had made me silly, it must be said, and on reflection my behaviour at dinner, which involved the throwing of bread at my cousin, was inappropriate. This was not reason enough, though, for Sir Abel to drag me up from the table and spank me in front of the whole room. I was indeed embarrassed. Most upsetting however, was that I barely partook of Chef's most wonderfully prepared dinner. I believe I may be more circumspect in my drinking of pre-prandial champagne in future.

Sunday was a quieter day, though we had the delights of the ball to enjoy. I danced with Lord Dorchester, which was delightful, but unfortunately I did not manage to renew my acquaintance with Lord Plymouth, with whom I had practiced the dancing the day before. It was such a joy to see the beautiful sight of the guests gliding across the ballroom in their finery, participating in the latest dances, including, most racily, two waltzes, a new dance from the Continent!

I was most sad this morning when my carriage arrived to bring me home. The company at Lord Fawcett's country seat had indeed been of the highest calibre, and I hope I may be invited to the next House Party he holds, in order to experience such delights again.

Off to 1809

Lady Francesca is nearly ready to depart for Lord Fawcett's house party. She has packed everything. That is, she hopes she's packed everything. In an unfortunate turn of events, her lady's maid ran off with the boot boy two days ago (they were last seen absconding over the kitchen garden wall), so Lady Francesca has had to pack for herself. She nearly forgot shoes, which would have proved a little embarrassing. She has 15 pairs of underthings packed and hopes this will be sufficient. Her carriage is prepared, the horses fed and watered, she is ready for departure once she has breakfasted.

So, how will Lady Francesca fare at the house party? How will she take to those guests she has not yet met? Including Lady Cecily, about whom there are some disturbing rumours. Will she keep out of trouble? Will she please Mrs Derby, her chaperone? And, most pressing of all, will her cousin Lady Grace manage to behave, and not drag Lady Francesca into trouble?

Stay tuned to find out!

100,000?

Emma Jane blogged yesterday about receiving 100,000 hits to her blog. This post caused a couple of us to wonder what her reward should be? Maybe 100,000 spanks? But how many tops would you need to inflict 100,000 spanks?
Let's see if we can do some maths....

First of all, an assumption. Let's assume we are talking about hand spanks. I don't know for sure, but I imagine 200 hand spanks in one go is plenty for a top to dish out. It could get a little wearing on their hands otherwise.

So 100,000 / 200 = 500 tops. Wow. That's a LOT of tops.

Um, OK, change in tactic. Maybe we allow the tops implements, and then they can deliver, say, 500 strokes before tiredness sets in. This would mean 200 tops. Slightly better.

That's still an awful lot of tops, though. And, to be fair to EmmaJane, 100,000 strokes of anything, hand or implement, is an awful lot to take. Maybe we should all join in to help her out.

Oh the dilemmas... so what should be the ideal scenario:

EJ and 500 tops giving hand spankings?
EJ and 200 tops giving implement spankings?
EJ and friends sharing the spanks an d the tops between them?
Eliane shutting up and stopping stirring?

I imagine I know what EJ would prefer!

My Name Is Eliane

And I'm a Knicker Addict.

You may have already come to that conclusion. Chatting to Rebecca on line last night, and numbering the pairs I'd bought over the past few days, arriving at sixteen, I realised that I do have a problem.

I also have an excuse though, or at least an explanation. I would like to tell you HOW I became a knicker addict. The start of this explanation will actually be about shoes. My attitude to shoes explains a lot about me.

I have big feet. I've always had big feet. I have, as my mother points out, the bones of my father's side of the family. Um, not the *actual* bones, you understand, but the tendency to have a large frame, big hands, big feet. One cousin takes a UK size 14 shoe. That's a 15 in US and a 49 in EU... so yeah, my size 8/9s are really fairly sensible in comparison. (That's a 10.5/11 US and 43 EU). They are wide as well though. The upshot of all this, is that growing up, I was never able to have "pretty" shoes. When all the other girls had pretty party shoes, they never did any that were long enough/wide enough to fit me.
When I hit my early twenties, and shops cottoned on to the fact that women's feet were not all size 5, I got a bit carried away. You have to remember, I'd never had pretty shoes before. Ever. So suddenly having all this choice meant that I was free to buy all sorts of pretty shoes I wanted. Well, it would be more precise to take out the "sorts of". I just bought ALL the pretty shoes!
Eventually, as the years passed, I realised that I didn't actually have to buy every nice pair of shoes I saw that fitted me. That chances are, next time I needed a pair, there would still be lots of pretty ones for sale. But this famine to feast situation explains a lot about me.

Knickers, of course, were not quite the same situation. I didn't have some major lack of pretty knickers as a child. I just learnt about knickers the way that us girls learn about lots of things. From my mother. And the only knickers that ever used to hang on our washing line were white, beige or black cotton. With the (very) occasional more racy black silky or cream silky pair. So I grew up thinking that nice girls have black or white cotton knickers for use most of the time. I mean, I had a few slightly more racy pairs, but nice girls don't have racy knickers.

And then 18 months ago, I basically fell in love with my bottom. Which sounds a little narcissistic, so it would be more accurate to say that I fell in love with what my bottom stands for. Loved objects need to be respected, and dressed in appropriate wear. So I started buying cute knickers. Lacy ones. Silky ones. Frilly ones. Slogan ones. All the pretty knickers in existence, to make up for lost time. I just kept ON buying. And buying. And buying. Until I reached the point that even I realised that purchasing 16 pairs of knickers in one weekend is excessive.

So yes, My name is Eliane, and I'm a knicker addict. I'm not quite sure where I go from here, but I'm sure I once read that admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery.

Trapped In The Primark Knicker Department

I've always avoided Primark up till now. For those of you in the US, Primark is a clothing retailer in Europe with a reputation for selling clothing at stupidly cheap prices. I tend to avoid going there because the shop floor generally looks as though someone has vomited the stock all over it.
However, today, in the quest for some last few bits and pieces for Lord Fawcett's House Party next weekend, I ended up in my local branch today. And somehow worked my way back to the knicker department. Which did indeed look as though someone had vomited knickers all over the place. But my, what knickers...! I'm a fan of specific types of knickers in particular. Ruffled ones I love, and slogan ones, with slogans on the bum.
In an unfortunate turn of events, I somehow got trapped in the knicker section, and the staff would not let me leave until I'd made some purchases.* Which is how, in a quest for hair clips, I actually walked out of the store with: black ruffle knickers with pink spots. Pink ruffle knickers, dark pink ruffle knickers with a tartan front, blue and white stripey ruffle knickers, knickers with two cartoon cows on the bum, and, best of all, three pairs of knickers with slogans on the bum: Show Off, Cheeky and Bad Girl. All for the grand total of £10.80. Or £1.35 a pair...
Oh my. I'm in knicker heaven. So I'm going to go off and sit and look at my new purchases now. And wonder quite where I'm going to put them.

*This particular piece of the story may be an exaggeration/excuse on my part, rather than, well, the truth!

What's So Important About The Truth, Anyway?

During my role play with my fellow Winterbrook writers last weekend, Sir George told Lucy that she seemed to have a “somewhat fluid relationship with the truth.” Now in all fairness, I think this probably is true of our Miss Middleton. Untruths fly rather easily out of her mouth, albeit unsuccessfully. (“What did you just write?” “Nothing” “Then what's that word on the piece of paper?!” “Um...”)
Untruths also seem to out of Jemima's mouth, in a fairly similar way. She will quite happily barefacedly (is that a word?) deny her actions, even when the evidence of said actions is there for everyone to see.
This is all fine. After all, both Lucy and Jemima are role play characters, they are not real people, they are not me. I don't have a “somewhat fluid relationship with the truth”.

Or so I thought. On Sunday, I was at the delightful Jessica's house. I happened to be sitting in front of their “implement drawer”, which should probably actually be christened “drawer of pain”. Some lovely young lady or other, I forget who, was getting dealt with, when Jessica's HWMBO asked one of us to pass some evil tool of doom from the drawer. At which point I put my foot in front of the drawer and blocked anybody's access to it. All well and good, but when questioned, I immediately denied any ill intent, and claimed that I was merely resting my foot on the table. Which leads me to believe that maybe this ability to lie without a second thought is not just confined to my characters... eek!

At this point I'd like to point out that I'm generally a very truthful person. For anything “real life”, I always tell the truth. It's just in these spanking type situations, my bottom seems to take control of my mouth. There seems to be a direct link from said bottom to said mouth that bypasses my brain when there is any possibility of a spanking. Being kind to myself, I will call it a self preservation instinct. My bottom does everything in its power to avoid a spanking without realising that it might (is always?) be making the situation worse. Needless to say, I did receive a spanking for blocking the drawer and then lying about it. Stupid bottom. So yes, if anyone witness me telling a lie to avoid a spanking, please feel free to beat the tendency out of me! Because at the end of the day, the truth is quite important.

Weekend Vignettes

It was, as predicted, a rather out of hand weekend. Bigger posts will be coming but for now, here are some vignettes, to give you a flavour.

Quote of the weekend, from EmmaJane, sitting in my car waiting at the station for a friend, after our Winterbrook play date:
“You know, my bum is still radiating heat from that caning.”
“Um, EJ, you do know that you've got the heated seat on, don't you?!”

The party I hosted on Saturday is somewhat of a blur, to be honest. This may be to do with the fact that someone spiked my glass with Champagne. I do remember that my beautiful Italian wooden spoon died a horrible death on EmmaJane's bum. I did get to experience it though, earlier in the evening, when said guilty rear's owner used it on me, as a fitting punishment for spending too much money on holiday. She gave me 14 strokes as it cost 14 euro. (Well, sort of cost 14 euro), so yes, I got to feel it. She very naughtily broke it later on though. She would claim that Jessica was the one who did the breaking, as she was the spanker. I, of course, know better.

I know I got spanked. I think I remember being pulled over someone's lap. No idea why, and only a vague idea who... I also do remember somebody spanking me as I was on the bed, and rolling away quite a lot because it hurt. Again, no real recollection who it was that was doing the spanking! If anyone wants to enlighten me, I'd be awfully grateful.

I had another little spanking mishap myself, at my party. Someone was bent over on the sofa (don't ask who, this is not me being discreet, I can't remember for the life of me), and I decided that I was going to have have another attempt at becoming a spanker. So, I pulled back my hand, ready to let rip. And smacked it RIGHT into someone's foot. It hurt. A lot. This time I really am giving up trying.

An Out Of Hand Weekend

I have a rather insane weekend, this weekend. Four different events, only one of them vanilla, various people staying over, catering for large numbers (large for me, 'kay? I'm no Nigella Lawson!) Where I have to be and when I have to be there is planned somewhat like a military operation. As I write this, I'm making it all sound like it's some sort of hassle, which it's not at all. Apart from a certain amount of logistical stress, I've been excited about it for weeks. The desserts are prepared (and people even vaguely contemplating weight loss will be warned off the tray bake which probably has any sane person's daily calorie intake in one slice), the house is clean, the fizz to get the advance part drunk before the other guests arrive is chilling. As is the rest of the alcohol. The house is clean, the beds are made, the maximum amount of space possible has been created in my lounge. But one question remains:

What state will my bottom be in by the end of the weekend?

It sounds like an obvious question: three kinky events = one sore bottom. But, this could go one of two ways. I will definitely get a sore bum at one event, a play date with my fellow Winterbrook authors, but what about the other two parties? Well, who knows at my own - after all I will be trying to be the perfect (drunk!) hostess, and people may not want to spank the hostess. Spanking the hostess surely brings a risk that she will deny you access to food and drink?! Or possibly NOT spanking the hostess brings that risk.
As for the other event, well, I tend to be on my best behaviour in big groups, partly through my innate shyness (don't all laugh at once, I AM shy, I just hide it well!), and partly through my innate goodness (I *said* stop laughing!) This means the likelihood of whacking is low.

So, as I said, an out of hand weekend. I will certainly have a sore head by Monday. I imagine exhaustion is on the cards as well. But will I have a sore bum? Well, you'll just have to stay tuned to find out!

Sorry, Couldn't Resist...

Headline in the Telegraph Education section today:

No paddling on school trips, children told

It is, very prosaically, about paddling (in the water!) on school trips being banned because of health and safety legislation. But of course my mind leapt to somewhat different scenarios as I read the title...

And yes, I was reading the Telegraph. So spank me.

His Brat

I'd been teasing him over text all day, calling him senile when he said he'd had to go back home to get his wallet, mocking him when his text came through badly spelt, generally being a cheeky sod. So it was no surprise when I got a text during the afternoon saying "Heather, you are in trouble young lady. You've been asking for it all day and you're going to get it when I get my hands on you this evening."
It still sent a thrill through me though. I'm something of a brat by nature, and I love just pushing and pushing until I cross that line. Until I get that response that reigns me in, makes my stomach plummet in a wonderful way, and my mind fills with thoughts of what's in store for me. Yum.

I heard his key in the door as I was cooking the pasta. My stomach did another little flip. Would I even be allowed to finish making dinner, I wondered, a little smile playing on my lips. His arms snaking round my waist a minute later gave me the answer.
"Turn it off", he growled in my ear. I protested that the pasta would be ruined if I did, but his response was to give me a hearty smack and then reach over and turn off the gas himself.
"You're going to find out why you shouldn't spend all day teasing me quite so much, you little brat". The words sounded harsh, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
He spun me round to face him, and looked me in the eyes. "Are you going to be a good girl while I spank you?" I blew a raspberry at him. All he needed to know really.
He ordered me into the corner in the living room, with my hands on my head. I behaved for a couple of minutes, but I soon got bored. As I stood there, I extended the middle finger of my right hand, and gave him the finger. I wasn't sure whether he was watching me or not, but soon found out, when he grabbed that arm, and pulled me over to the sofa. He sat down and stood me in front of him, looking up at me while he unbuttoned my jeans.
“So, brat, you think being cheeky to me all day is a good use of your time at work? Or at all respectful?”
I giggled, as he took my arm and pulled me over his lap. There was no pause before he started spanking away with his hand. Some of my friends think that hand spankings are wimpy. They've obviously never experienced Tom's hand, which should probably be a registered weapon. And he wasn't holding back either. Again and again his hand rained into my bum cheeks, building up the burn. I struggled and kicked. After a few minutes, it could have been five, it could have been twenty, he made me stand up, jeans pooled round my ankles, as he took off his belt. He nodded at the sofa. I knew what to do, but ignored him.
“Heather...” The warning was quiet, but a warning even so. Not being entirely stupid, I bent over and put my had on the seat of the sofa. There was a whistle through the air and my breath was snatched away as the belt hit home. There's something about the weight of Tom's belt as it falls into me that I find sublime. It hurts, sure, but for some reason it's the one implement that will have me really offering up my bottom for more and more and more. It's irresistible.
He stopped eventually, and pushed my knickers down and pushed both them and my jeans off my feet. Then he took my arm and pulled me back over his lap. He slapped his hand right across my cheeks.
“Spread your legs.”
I demurred. A girl has to put a show of resistance, doesn't she? He slapped my thighs, higher and higher, sharper and sharper till I gave in. Like I really was going to resist for long... I relaxed as his hand started to caress, dropping lower and dipping into my cleft, which had been soaking wet for quite a while. I lay happily with my head resting on the sofa, giving in to his touch... delicious. If this was what the outcome of being his brat was, I wasn't about to stop any time soon.

Holiday Kink

There was not much kink at all on holiday, but I did have the odd moment... like when I realised the building I was staying in was "La Scuola", the schoolhouse. I have to say, very little about it would make you think of its former purpose, but it was pretty cool nevertheless.

It was an old medieval building, with lots of wooden beams. Like this one, which ran over the top of my bed:

I'm sure one could find something creative to do with that and some rope...

I also indulged in some, well actually far too much, shopping. I mostly managed to avoid the leather goods, but did not fare so well when it came to wood, when yet again some sort of idiotic demon took over and forced me to purchase this:

It's hard to get a sense of scale, but the damn thing must be a good 12 inches long, and made from olive wood, so is fairly heavy. I suspect it will hurt. A lot. I think I may just put it in the cooking utensils jar, and pretend that it was never intending for anything other than cooking.

Um, though if someone could tell me exactly what it should be used for in the kitchen, that would be great...

All The Colours Of The Rainbow

Well, it finally happened. After a good couple of years reading The Spanking Writers, I've finally turned into Abel, and can now see the kinky potential in any situation. It happened thus. I was walking through a shopping mall today and they had a stall where the staff were spray painting peoples hair with various hideous colours. I don't know whether this was a permanent stall or just for Hallowe'en. At any rate, it was packed full of young customers and surrounded by parents in various states of boredom/annoyance. As I walked past, a little scenario popped into my head, very much as I imagine happens to our friend Mr Jenkins.

“No way, Nicola, you have to be kidding me. You are not going to a concert with your hair spray-painted all colours of the rainbow. Non-negotiable. Now we've got 90 minutes before the concert starts. You can go off and do some shopping while I go and get some new suits, and I'll see you outside St Mary's at 6:45. Don't be late.”

Her father turned and walked off in the direction of House of Fraser, leaving her standing against a pillar sulking. It was bad enough that she'd been dragged into town to watch the “improving” concert (good for her Music A-Level studies, apparently), but to have her father ban her from doing anything even vaguely fun... After all, she was supposed to be at the Sixth Form Hallowe'en party tonight, not stuck at a boring concert. She mooched through some of the shops in the mall, but half an hour later, with time still to kill, and nothing inspiring to buy, she found herself in front of the hair colouring stall once more. It was only ten pounds, that was nothing. Why shouldn't she do what she wanted with her hair? She was 17, old enough to leave home, for goodness sake. Certainly old enough to chose to colour her hair. Her inner devil took over and fifteen minutes later she was wandering towards St Mary's with her normally blonde hair a rainbow of turquoise, red, black and green colour. She was now rapidly regretting her actions. It had been at least a year since her father had been truly angry with her, but the memory of his belt across her buttocks was no less fresh than it had been.

She could see her father as she approached the church. He was looking straight at her, but obviously didn't recognise her at a distance. As she got closer, his eyes widened as her realised he was in fact looking at his daughter. By the time she reached his side, his face was like thunder.
“How dare you? You directly disobeyed me. We'll be talking about this when we get home.”
Nicola followed him meekly into the church, and sat through the whole concert barely listening to the music. She could feel the stares of people around her, and she couldn't concentrate on the Mozart being played in the church, as thoughts of what awaited her later ran through her head, her stomach turning over and over...

Later, much later, Nicola hugged her father tight and wept into his shoulder as he comforted his little girl, dues now paid, stripes of pain from his belt smarting on her cheeks. She'd learnt yet again that disobedience comes at a price.