I’ve been given a notebook and a pen, and I’ve been told to write down everything. Everything? If I am going to do that, I guess I need to give you a little background, after all, who knows who might be reading this?
My name is Abigail. I’m twenty-two, boring and not very pretty. I don’t have fancy dresses or lots of makeup, but somehow I am in a lavish mansion sitting in a room full of interesting people watching a beautiful woman about to get-well, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I’m a secretary at a very powerful company. I work for a man named Jacob McIntyre with whom. I suppose it is safe to say, I am a bit smitten with. Obsessed with. Intoxicated by. Whatever you want to call it.
Mr. McIntyre is very tall and has a wide chest and broad shoulders and a sort of square chin. He is always impeccably dressed, and I’ve never seen him anything but clean shaven. He always smells so good that it makes me cross my legs and bite my lip. His voice is deep and strong and when he tells you to do something your body just takes over and you do it.
That’s really neither here nor there because Mr. McIntyre has a complicated life and a lot of fascinating friends, so I’m not really even on his radar (or so I thought.)
You see, I’ve been pining over him and getting his coffee and swooning at his slightest approval and lying to his wife and his clients when he went off to do who-knows-what with women ten years younger than him, and all the time I thought he didn’t notice. It turns out he knew and maybe liked it.
One day because of various happenings Mr. McIntyre saw me writing in my diary at my desk and he told me to give it to him, and I did, because I do what Mr. McIntyre says. I didn’t think he would, but he read it, and apparently, he showed it to some other people including one Miss Marcy Peterson, the wealthy daughter of one of our clients and regular subject of Mr. McIntyre’s lunchtime attentions at a nearby hotel.
My whole body goes cold at the thought of anyone reading my diary, but those two!
They must have read in my diary the various descriptions of explicit dreams and fantasies I have had about Mr. McIntyre and other men and spankings and sex and all manner of things that no young lady should ever think about, let alone write about.
So he read all of my dirty thoughts and decided to introduce me to his little club. Marcy was sent to my apartment take me in hand, so to speak. She brought me a fancy dress and did my makeup and other things I can’t even write about.
We went out on the island and saw Marcy perform in a horse riding competition. I met Mr. McIntyre’s other friends, a young man named Chase as well as a girl my age named Gertrude.
After the competition, we all went back to this mansion, and we were ushered into a large room where all of us were able to relax in large comfortable chairs. Marcy stood against a wall, and Mr. McIntyre took her riding crop, and David said some filthy things were about to happen and gave me a notebook and some paper and told me to write all about it.
Anyhow, enough about me, let’s get to this evening’s main event: The Punishment of Miss Marcy Peterson
Part of me wants to write that Mr. McIntyre paced in front of Marcy like a jungle cat poised to strike, but in truth he was much more frightening than that because he just stood there, studying her.
Ms. Peterson was still in her riding outfit, though her jacket and boots were off. Her pants were flared at the hips, and her shirt was white and button up. Her hair was pulled back somewhat severely, exposing the curve of her milk-white neck. She stood with her back to the wall her arms at her sides, biting her bottom lip as Mr. McIntyre toyed with the riding crop.
I suppose I thought there would be some sort of theatricality to whatever was going to happen. I’m not sure what I thought they were going to do, but it seemed to me that he was going to pretend to be mad at her or tell her that she did something wrong, but it wasn’t like that at all. He was going to punish her, but because he liked it and because she needed it. That idea made me crazy for some reason.
I thought maybe someday I would do something wrong, in the office, and one day perhaps he would do something to me. Someday he would punish me. Up until recently, I didn’t know what that punishment might entail, and perhaps that was the most frightening part of it. I just knew that if I spilled something or came in late or didn’t rush to get his coffee or polish his desk or keep his secrets, something dreadful and at the same time wonderful was going to happen.
I realized that if I failed at those things the punishment would be common, a reprimand, a harsh word. To get what Marcy was getting I had to do the unthinkable-admit I wanted it.
Mr. McIntyre stood behind her, and she turned to the side so that I could just see her profile. Her ruby lips and the clear line of her made-up eyes. He took her face in his hand and looked into her eyes. He said something, but we couldn’t hear. She looked scared, so different than the Marcy that only a few hours before had sat high and proud on her horse and indeed a world away from the Marcy that had taken me right in my own bedroom.
The thought of that made me wince with shame. I looked to my right and then to my left, forgetting that I wasn’t the only one watching this spectacle. The idea of watching Mr. McIntyre do things to Marcy was startling enough, but to be part of this little audience made things even stranger. My clothes, the clothes that Marcy had brought for me and had put on me, felt confining. The bra tight on my breasts and the material of the dress rough against my skin. I couldn’t even think about the sticky wet heat between my legs. I didn’t dare move, or I would feel it and then it would be real.
When I looked back at Mr. McIntyre and Ms. Peterson she had already slipped off her pants and blouse and was standing there in her frilly black underthings, her hands on the wall. Her legs were so remarkably smooth it looked as though she were wearing white silk stockings. Her calves were muscular from riding, and she stood on her toes, her feet arched, waiting.
Mr. McIntyre seemed to be very impressed by the riding crop. He tested its weight in his hand and moving his wrist around to feel its balance. The thing had a leather bound handle and rod that looked like it was about two feet long, then it ended in a thick folded square of worn leather. He experimentally whipped it in front of us, and it made a whooshing sound as it cut through the air. Then he slapped his hand with the thick leather tongue, and it made a satisfyingly sharp crack.
Marcy jumped at the sound. We all did actually. Chase was breathing deeply and watching with intense concentration. Gertrude was biting her lip, and she had her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap.
Mr. McIntyre didn’t acknowledge us at all. He had that same look he had before a big meeting, when he loaded his briefcase with a determined grimace and set his jaw and focused on one thing and one thing only.
The jealousy came on like poison, flooding my veins. It made me hot and cold all at once. Oh to be the focus of all his determined attention. To be the center of that man’s inescapable scrutiny. The thought made me stop breathing for a moment. I could feel my pulse right between my legs like a little traitor giving away my position.
When Mr. McIntyre held the crop in his left and then brought back his right hand all four of us watching tensed. I felt Chase’s knee brush mine, and my breath caught. Mr. McIntyre’s hand looked huge and strong. It hung there in the air and then it was gone, and the smack echoed.
It was six or seven in a row, and she took them all. I doubt I could, but every inch of me was willing to try. One side of her bottom was bright red, and she was leaning on the wall a little more than before.
I’d never been hit with anything. I wondered what it felt like. Marcy was tough, I’m sure, but I saw her wince once or twice. Would I buckle under his tools? Would I melt into a pool if his hand connected with my bottom? Would he smooth over the spot where he hit me? Would his hand moved down. Would his fingers figure out that I was dripping wet?
I came back to the room from my daydreams and found reality even more fantastic. Mr. McIntyre had unclasped Marcy’s bra and slipped it off. He went over to a bag and fetched a long length of black rope. Thick rope. My breath caught so audibly that Chase and Trudy looked at me. I turned purple with shame. My eyes locked with Trudy’s and she had this tiny little smile. Her eyes were huge and hungry, and it took a minute before I looked down to see her hand pressed down deep between her crossed legs. She was blushing too, but from exertion, not shame. She didn’t pull up her dress, but was rubbing herself through it and clamping her legs around her hand.
I’d done the very same thing once or twice. In an empty train, in Mr. McIntyre’s office. I felt dizzy watching her. She bit her lips and watched me watch her hand move. Her eyes were telling me things, but I wasn’t sure what. Was I supposed to do something? If she told me what, I would have done it. A loud slap brought my attention back to Marcy and her red bottom.
Mr. McIntyre was expertly tying Marcy’s hands together in front of her. He made thick cuffs around her wrists and forearms, then with an expert flick of his wrist, threw the end up the rope up into the air. I watched as it arced over a wooden beam on the ceiling. The rope fell, and he caught it, pulling it slowly so that Marcy’s arms rose into the air until she was on the tips of her toes.
He pulled down her panties and for the first time she struggled. She was making little sounds, little frightened sounds. He pulled the ribbon and the pins out of her hair and roughly messed it up. With her hair wild and her face flush and no fancy clothes, she looked young and scared and vulnerable. I knew she was still the Marcy who’d done all those things to me, that’s why what Mr. McIntyre was doing was so impressive.
She caught my eye for a second. Something flashed. I realized I was part of his plan. I was this mousy girl, this little inexperienced secretary that he had under his control and that she had played with and here I was watching her get broken down. I was an element of her humiliation. I liked that.
I always enjoyed being useful.