The Girl From Soho Square

She wouldn't know, of course. No comprehension whatsoever of what was to come. Just a straightforward text message on her small red Nokia, as with all of her other instructions. 'Bloomsbury Crescent Hotel, Room 438. Full co-operation required. Overnight.'

Had she shivered when she'd heard the phone's bleep? Looked up from the park bench, around the green London square in which Alexander made her wait for her orders, wondering if anyone realised? Or was she used to it, by now?

Of course, the receipt of a message might even have come as a relief. I knew some of Alexander's methods by now. How girls whose services weren't requested by clients on any particular evening were used. Taught a lesson, one might say, in the benefits of ensuring repeat business, regular income. Taught a lesson in Alexander's office, in Alexander's inimitable manner. Some might level accusations of perversion at me, but the requests – or rather demands – which he made seemed to me far more humiliating for the girls, and far more perverse.

It must be two years now since Alexander and I had first met. Well, not 'met', as such. Spoken. Transacted. He and I had never actually had the pleasure of a face-to-face appointment. But we'd had enough conversations – and I'd heard enough of his practices (or should that be 'mis-practices') from sobbing girls – to realise that they lived in near-perpetual fear of his methods and his wrath.

And I was part of that fear.

Not that the young lasses knew when they were going to meet me, of course. Until the moment I introduced myself to them, after he'd sent them to my room.

And then they would know, Without doubt.

It was all part of Alexander's game plan. His manipulation. His mind-games.

This girl would be arriving at my hurriedly-rented hotel room any moment now. Dressed the part, no doubt. Smart enough to breeze past any questioning concierge whose head might be turned, sensual enough to make an immediate impression on her 'new friend'. I'd started to use the Bloomsbury Court when Alexander and I first made our arrangement; the size of the rooms, discretion of the staff, central location - and thickness of the walls - all suited our mutual purposes.

Today had been no different – his message reached me at lunchtime, in response to the complaint that he had evidently received as a result of the previous night's business. I'd been relaxing in my club in St. James, when the porter passed me the message. I called back at once: "Would you mind impressing the error of her ways on Katerina, in your usual style?" "But of course." "You'll like her." "I usually do." "This one's very special."

I straightened my tie. Funny how my preparations must in some ways mirror the girl's: her last-minute make-up adjustments in the back of the cab, wanting to present herself attractively; my shoe-polishing and tie-adjustments making me look smarter, more formal, more imposing?

And then the knock at the door. Gentle, so quiet I almost missed it.

I paused. Always good to make them wait; make them wonder for a second or two whether they were at the right door. Whether they were early, late, expected at all. Create that momentary confusion, that creeping sense of panic. Put the girl ever so slightly off-guard.

I opened the door. "Do come in." She smiled brightly back at me. Yes, I thought, Alexander was right. She was special.

"Put your bag on the desk, and stand in the centre of the room with your arms by your side."

She looked puzzled for a moment, then complied. 'Full co-operation', as she'd been instructed. Who knows how the other men opened proceedings? Offering a comfortable chair, an introductory kiss? Doubtless not a barked order as to where to stand. But then this evening would not turn out like those with other men.

She was truly stunning. I circled her like an art historian inspecting some famous ancient statue, taking in her beauty. Shorter than me; slim, but curving gently, smoothly, firmly in the right places. Long, black leather boots, not overly polished; more subtle, more expensive. Her black dress almost to her knees, cut at the side to reveal… almost too much, but not quite enough. Her beauty framed with natural fair hair, cropped short, and a face so innocent that I could only wonder at the disparity between her appearance and her recent experiences.

"What would you like…" she started, but I placed a finger under her chin and quietened her. "All in good time, Katerina."

I circled her again, slower this time, my inspection more thorough, collecting blonde hairs from the back of her dress, noticing a small thread loose at the side, observing the scuff mark on the heel of her ever-so-up-market boots. Commenting, as I went. Letting her know that I was observing, that I set high standards.

"I'm sorry if I disappoint you, sir," murmured the oh-so-perfect girl, the never-disappointed-anyone-in-her-life beauty.

Sir? I did notice. How nice. Without my even having to ask.

"Oh I wouldn't worry about disappointing me." Emphasis on me. "Disappointing other clients, maybe. Disappointing Alexander, most certainly."

She cocked her head, puzzled. Scared? "I try my best always, sir."

I struggled to place her accent. Eastern European, undoubtedly. Where did he find them?! Perhaps I didn't want to know.

"Do you know why you're here this evening, Katerina?"

She paused. What to say? Why did most men call Alexander's number, asking for her or for her friends? For company, maybe, as a respite from loneliness in whatever form it manifested itself? For the pleasure of kissing a beautiful girl? For sex, no doubt, perhaps with greater intensity and variety than they usually experienced.

Well-trained, she answered. "I'd like to make you happy, sir."

Still 'sir'. Fascinating.

I moved over to the bed, sitting down. She gave a half-step forward towards me. "Did I tell you to move?"

She shrank back. "No, sir."

I looked up at her. "Tell me, Katerina. When did you start working for Alexander?"

She hesitated. "I can't remember." It was always like this when I quizzed them; questions meeting suspicions. Who was this man, they must have wondered? Immigration? Police? Hadn't Alexander told them to keep quiet?

"Good girl. That was the right answer." Alexander would be pleased that she'd respected his confidences. I still remembered the tone of his voice once before, when I'd related the response of the young woman who'd answered me fully.

I continued. "I'm hazarding a guess that it's been at least a few weeks." A few weeks since I'd not seen her before. A few weeks since none of the other girls had mentioned her. No more than a few months, since he usually sent them to me anyway before too long, even if they were behaving impeccably – which young Katerina had clearly not been doing.

She nodded.

"Good. And do you talk to the other girls, ever?"

Again a nervous nod. Of course she did; Alexander kept them in the same apartment. Six or eight of them, however many he had on his books at the time. The girls I'd met in the past had told me as much; by the end of the evening, they often confided whatever I asked.

"Fascinating. In which case, I suspect you may know of me already."

She looked blank, confused. Know of me? How? Could she deny it without appearing rude, insolent? "We don't usually talk about the gentlemen we meet, sir."

Her English was good, I noticed, as I continued. "Tell me about last night, Katerina."

Her evident confusion deepened. Who was this man, with his strange questions? This man who thought she should know him? This man who wanted to know about last night.

Last night.

Please don't talk about last night.

"Sir, we don't… Alexander tells us not to…"

I smiled brightly. "I know he does, my sweet. You've done well. Come and sit by me." I patted the bed, and she moved over, snuggling alongside me. "You see, though, I have to ask. It's part of my little arrangement. With Alexander. When he sends the girls who've been disobedient to meet Dr. Jenkins."

I felt her move away, sharply, and heard her breathing deepen. She turned, looking up at me. "Dr. Jenkins, sir?" It was obvious from her panicked face that she knew of Dr. Jenkins. Dr. Jenkins, whose initial enquiry two years ago about the availability of girls able to offer (or subject themselves) to certain experiences had led Alexander to realise that there may be ways he could help in future.

I should have introduced myself to you before, dear reader. Dr. Jenkins, pleased to meet you.

"That's right." I extended my hand to shake hers. "I'm sure some of the other girls will have mentioned their little – discussions – with me when they got back to the apartment."

She was blinking away tears already. She knew all about Dr. Jenkins, that was certain. Dr. Jenkins, the ever-so-real bogeyman of young girls' worst nightmares. She answered after a moment. "Yes, sir, they have… told me about you. But I haven't done..."

"So what have they told you?"

"That..." wiping away a tear that rolled down her cheek, "that you've... been strict with them. Punished them, sir."

"Indeed. That's how it works – between Alexander and me. Sometimes he finds a girl who needs a little extra discipline – a little correction, shall we say – and he sends her to me." I paused. "And so here you are."

Paused again, observing as she bit her lower lip. "Tell me about last night, Katerina."

She leant forward, head in hands, sobbing loudly. "Please..."

"Stand up, girl, with your hands by your sides. Face me." She staggered to her feet, and resumed her earlier position in front of me. I smiled at her: "It will be easier if you tell me now, rather than me having to f***e you to tell me later."

She blurted out: "But he was horrible, sir. He'd been going at it for hours, asking me to do all sorts of things, and I was just tired and I wanted to go to sl**p and..."

"And what happened, Katerina?"

"I just ran and locked myself in the bathroom, and sat on the edge of the bath and cried."

Poor girl, I thought to myself. Such a long way from home. Her British visa, the nice apartment, her daytime language classes funded by Alexander, her not ungenerous pocket money - so little compared to the loneliness and humiliation she must have felt, hiding in the bathroom behind that locked door.

"And then what happened?"

Swallowing, clearing her throat: "He waited. Shouted at me through the door. For ages. And then it went quiet. So after a while I came back out..."

Her account stopped, as she stared at the floor, tears dripping down.

I prompted. "And then?"

"I can't say, sir."

I waited – just as her previous evening's client must have done outside that door – until her silence gave way. Eyes scrunched up, she uttered the shameful recollection: "He bent me over the end of the bed, and took me in... in my other place, sir."

"And what had Alexander's text message told you to do, Katerina?"

Hesitantly: "To give him my full co-operation, sir."

I stood up, and looked down at her. "Alexander doesn't like disobedience from his girls."

Softly: "No, sir."

"So when they disobey him, and disappoint his customers, he sends them to me. For correction. As you may well know from the other girls."

She closed her eyes and nodded. What had she been told, exactly, I wondered? Had she been at the girls' apartment when my last young visitor had retuned home, soundly punished? Did they talk about their experiences? Were they warned of what might happen if they stepped out of line – kind words of warning from their friends? Were they threatened with a visit to me, by Alexander?

I opened the large, wooden wardrobe and took out the crook-handled cane. I walked back around, cradling it across my open palms. "Ever seen one of these?"

"No, sir." No, she hadn't. But I had no doubt that she knew what it was for.

I continued. "How were you punished at home, when you were growing up?"

She shook her head: "I wasn't. I mean... I was well-behaved." She looked at me, waiting expectantly. "My dad sometimes... twice, I think... punished my elder s****r with his belt, but never me..." She stopped, and looked at me pleadingly. "Please, sir. Please..."

"Well, young lady, this is a traditional English school cane. A senior cane, to be precise. It's an implement that has traditionally proved to be most successful in correcting miscreants in our country."

"I'll do anything, sir. Anything you want..."

I put the cane on the bed, and lifted her chin in my palms. "Of course you will, my sweet. You're to give me your 'full co-operation', remember?"

"But, sir... please..."

I stepped back. "Undress."

"Sir?"

I stood in silence, watching her, waiting. She looked around, as if tempted to run. Looked at me, then looked down at the pattern on the carpet. Paused. Summoned up the courage. And then she reached down and unzipped her left boot, keeping her balance precariously as she slipped it off, then repeated the manoeuvre for the other.

Her dress came off in one easy movement, revealing her pale, naked body. I suppressed a little smile as I noted her compliance with one of Alexander's little preferences: his girls were forbidden to wear underclothes when they visited clients. Made for easier access, as he phrased it.

Her hands covered her front, protecting herself, until she noticed my frown and returned them to her sides. Shaking.

I looked her up and down, studying her. Had my motives been different, I pondered – had I been one of her usual clients – then I would have been far from disappointed. This girl was beautiful – really beautiful; slender, fair, with firm yet womanly breasts. A girl to hold, to cherish, to love. Or, in the case of her usual clients, a girl to take them to the place of their dreams. For an hour or two, while the clock ticked.

But I had work to do. For Alexander. As his appointed disciplinarian, my task awaited me – a task that I would have to complete most diligently if I wanted to ensure that he continued to use my services. I pulled a chair from under the desk, and touched her softly on the shoulder, turning her around, her back now to me. "Let's get this over and done with, Katerina, shall we?"

She nodded, all fight and protest now gone. Resigned to her fate, fear replacing fight. Tears falling gently.

I placed my palm on her back, and propelled her gently towards the chair, pushing her softly over its back. She'd need to be taught the rules, of course: "Hold onto the front legs of the chair, keep your legs apart, and don't flinch." The usual rules – easy for me to say, simple for her to acknowledge, yet rules that almost invariably were destined to be broken within just a few short moments.

"Please, sir..." A plea for what, I wondered? For leniency? Generosity? Forgiveness? Kindness? Escape?

I walked behind her, picking the rod up from the bed, and flexing it in my hands. No time for leniency, this, no time for anything other than my anointed task. I positioned myself behind her, to her side. Measuring the rod across her buttocks, I pressed it gently, the rattan cold now at this first touch, yet soon to create such searingly hot impressions.

Waited. Waited for her gentle sobs to calm, for silence. Let her wait, let her imagine, let her fear.

And then I caned her, hard.

She gasped, with surprise at the strength of the blow at first, and then again in pain. The white line that the rod had imprinted turned rapidly red, striping her perfectly as the weal started to rise. I noticed her hands clenching, re-clenching, holding onto the chair as if for dear life.

Punishing her was going to be a pleasure.

I like the second stroke to be slightly softer, when a girl hasn't been caned before. It lulls the girl into a false sense of security: makes them optimistic that the agony of the first stroke was purely surprise... and that the rest of the flogging will be easier to bear.

But of course, it won't be. The second whack, with its lesser response, was followed quickly by two more strokes of the utmost severity. Young Katerina held on, bravely, as she absorbed the impact, as her pale skin striped perfectly with each blow.

I placed my hand on her back. "Good girl," I re-assured her, as I lowered my fingers, and ran them gently over her lines. She winced, but held on.

I stepped back, before delivering the stroke that brought her howling to her feet. She was apologising and bending back down before I could say anything, knowing she'd broken the rules. I set the cane aside. "Silly girl," I murmured, running one hand over each buttock, tracing her welts once more and pressing gently. I let my fingers slide down her cheeks, tracing their curves inwards until they met, making her gasp with surprise - or was it shame?

I took up the cane again. Three more strokes followed, low down, quickly, overlaid on each other. That was eight, I counted to myself – and she was starting to look like a very well-flogged girl, her pure, fair backside now red and swollen.

I hadn't told her at the outset how many strokes she'd receive. Not because I didn't know, but because experience had told me that the lack of information heightened the girl's sense of confusion, and hence the impact of the experience. 'Has he finished, or had he only just started? I can cope if it's one more, but not if it's five. I've learnt my lesson; surely he realises by now'.

I walked round in front of the girl, and ruffled her short blonde hair. "You're being very brave, Katerina. Alexander will be pleased with you."

She lifted her tear-stained face. "Thank you, sir. I'm so sorry. Please... I won't do it again."

"That is my aim. I very rarely find that girls choose to come back. Now stand up."

She lifted herself gingerly, unable to stop her hands straying to cool her behind, and then to wipe her face.

I waited, letting her compose herself, calm herself. And then I spoke again: "Alexander always asks me to punish the girl for her misbehaviour, and teach her a lesson she won't forget. You've had your punishment." I paused. "And so now it's time for your lesson. Lie on the bed, face down, hands behind your head."

A look of panic crossed her face, and she drew backwards: "But I thought... I mean... I have learnt my lesson, sir. I don't need any more. Please..."

"And your refusal to do what I've just told you classes as 'full co-operation', does it?"

She bolted forward, face down, and I strode along the side of the bed. I extracted a pillow from beneath the covers, and lifted her hips, sliding it under her.

I made sure she heard my belt unbuckle, heard it slither out. A much-used belt; thick black harness leather, carefully stitched. She knew all about the belt, of course - she'd told me about her father strapping her s****r; now, at last, it would be her turn.

I folded it double.

"Thank me for each stroke, Katerina."

"Yes, sir."

The lash raised high, whipped down hard. The wounded cry: "Thank you, sir."

Flogged her again, her thanks lost as the third, fourth, fifth blows descended in rapid succession.

"Five more and we'll be done."

Five more, delivered as if controlled by a metronome. One... pause... two... pause... three... pause... four... pause... and the last, hardest, most biting... five. Each stroke bringing murmured, ungrateful, pleading thanks. Each stroke provoking anguished, pained writhing.

Each stroke brining her close to being told to "Stand up."

Amazing how a girl who has just been whipped by a stranger will still throw herself into his open arms, accepting his reassuring cuddle, as if someone else had been the source of her so-recent agony.

Remarkable how she could be so soothed, so comforted, by gentle hands caressing areas that those same hands had just flogged.

Strange how a girl dealt with in so many ways, by so many men, so lost her composure and self-assurance when dealt with in this way.

I sent her to wash her face, and she re-appeared after a moment, trying to f***e a smile. So brave, so sweet. I thought. She curled up face down on the bed, in safety this time, and I cradled her head in my lap.

She would have slept there, given the chance, I'm sure. But there was one other matter to be dealt with.

I made her dress, watching the expression on her face as the fabric of her dress clung to her whipped behind. And then told her it was time to leave.

"I'll stay if you want me to." Full co-operation, of course. Anything sir wanted. Anything to avoid further punishment. Anything to make me pleased with her.

"I'd love it, Katerina. But Alexander wants to see you straight away."

She looked at me, stunned. "Alexander?" Panic set on her face. "Why?"

I held her by the shoulders. "He often likes to see the girls after they've been dealt with. To check whether I have done my job properly."

She blushed deeply, at the though of his doubtless humiliating inspection. What I didn't tell her was what would certainly follow. That Alexander, realising that a so-clearly-thrashed girl would be unable to be sent to clients for a few days, would now make her his own. Use her, in the interim, for his pleasure and entertainment.

She'd find that out in due course. At the other end of her imminent taxi ride.

But for now, I held her to me, hugged her tight, whispered about her bravery, told her she was a sweet, pretty, good girl.

And then showed her to the door.

THE END


(c) Abel Jenkins 2010
For more of my writing, go to http://www.spankingwriters.com/blog and http://spankingwriters.com/abel.html
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Categories: BDSM
Posted by abel1234
4 years ago    Views: 513
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4 years ago
Lovely story, Jenny this could be you!
4 years ago
excellent
4 years ago
What can I say but Ooooooooooh yes what a lovely story.