“Did you have a good day at school?”
“Not really.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I understand that you gave away your virginity to Lee last night. You know how I feel about premarital intercourse. Go to your room and get ready then I will meet you at the discipline room.”
“But Mom…”
“Not a sound out of you. I do not want to hear any of your excuses or your lies.”
As far back as Wren can remember, her Mom has always used this one room for her discipline. She hates this room, it is the one piece of pure hatred she has in her. Whenever she does anything wrong this is where she is sent. Even if she is grounded, this is where she is sent to serve her sentence.
It is outside of this door that Wren now stands naked, waiting for her mother, sick to her stomach and sweating with fear. Her punishments have always been done in this way, and Wren didn’t expect it would ever change. After all, she is sixteen, and it is still being done this way. She dreaded the punishment, and what made it worse yet was that she didn’t do anything to deserve it. But, her mother wouldn’t hear the truth, and arguing would only double the punishment.
After an extensive wait, her Mom finally comes down the hall, her face set and stern. The rustle of her heavy cotton, floor length, black skirt and the hard clunk of her flat shoes, along with the strong scent of her perfume, announces her presence approaching behind Wren. When she reaches the door, she inserts a heavy looking, very old fashioned, black iron, skeleton key into the lock that is fitted into the heavy wooden door and turns it. To Wren it is always an ear splitting pop that follows the scratching sound of the key being inserted, but she knows that it is just in her head, that the sound can not possibly be that loud. The noise she hears is just another part of the terror of the room itself and what lies within. Her Mom pushes open the door with excruciating slowness as she always does, allowing the hinges to creak with the awful weight of the heavy door. As usual, the darkness of the room is unearthly, bordering on absolute, with the scent of tanned leather and new carpet permeating the air that comes forth from the freshly opened vault. Into this void Wren now slowly and painstakingly steps across the threshold.
It is a small room on the back of the house; it has a very short, blood red, carpet, all the walls and the ceiling are painted flat black. There is almost nothing glossy or shiny anywhere in the room. Everything is flat and somber. The window had been covered over years ago so that all the walls are completely smooth on the inside. There had been subtle changes to it over the years, but overall it is still basically the same.
Over in the far corner from the door is a large wooden shelf about two feet wide and about six feet long with a three inch thick eight inch wide board attached near one end. It was set at just the right height so if you knelt beside it you could use it as a desk. Like all the wooden things in this room it was stained the reddish color of cherry wood with a flat clear finish. To the left as you went in the door, bolted to the wall, is a small wooden cabinet that like the room itself was always locked. On the left wall is a large heavy chrome chain that comes down from an eye bolt set in the wall at almost ceiling height. Another chain comes from a different bolt attached at floor level. Under the chain and anchored to the floor about three feet out from the wall is a stool about a foot high and four feet long. Wren remembered when the chain and stool had been added at just about her tenth birthday, because she squirmed as she was being disciplined. The stool had a series of holes drilled in it two inches apart and nine inches from the wall edge. She knew all the dimensions exactly, as it had been her job to make the stool under her mother’s constant supervision and her constant reminding of why it was being made and what it was for. Into two of these holes were fitted two heavy eye bolts.
The room had no decorations, no pictures, just bare black walls. The only light in the room comes from a fixture right in the middle of the ceiling, which is a two foot round board painted flat black and suspended six inches from the ceiling by thin black chains. Above it are six red light bulbs. What light it gives off is eerie and gives everything in the room that isn’t black a blood red appearance.
Wren always entered the room first, walking through the darkness until her Mom turned on the light. She, like always, walks over to the stool and stands with it between her and the wall. There she stands ankles together, arms at her side, the way she learned years ago. She hears the door close and her Mom open the lock on the cabinet, the spine tingling screech of the door being opened, the slight clunk of the keys being set down upon its top.
Her Mom comes up behind her as she always does and puts the ever familiar leather blindfold over her eyes. Next to come is a thing Wren felt was utterly diabolical, a ball gag, bright red and almost the size of a plumb with an elastic cord hooked to it and pulled so tight around the back of her head that it stretches her lips back and away from her teeth. She had known several of these over the years, each successively larger than the last, each causing their own painful sensations to her mouth and jaw. Their purpose in reality was to keep her screams of pain muffled so they weren’t heard by what her Mom called their “nosy neighbors.”
Once the gag is firmly set in Wren’s mouth, she steps up on the stool and slides each foot until it is against an ice cold eye bolt. She carefully moves each foot to the opposite side of each bolt causing her to have her legs stretched almost painfully wide. Her Mom fastens a leather cuff around each ankle, finishing with the click of a padlock at each bolt.
Now her wrists were bound in leather cuffs similar to the ones on her ankles, and they are brought together with the chain hanging on the wall, and again there is the click of a lock. For the chain to reach, Wren has to lean forward so her feet are held tight by the ankle cuffs, and her arms are angled over her head. A heavy leather collar is now fastened around her neck and the chain from the floor brought up and locked to it so if she could see all that could have been visible is the floor. Now this is where she hangs for sometime wondering when her Mom will finish. As she hangs there, she tries to figure out how many swats are coming. She knows it will be one for each year of her age, multiplied by the number of transgressions her Mom figures are involved, but how many would it be?
“Probably one set for letting a boy see my body, one for letting him touch me, and another for actually having sex. I probably should have had sex with him then at least I’d have done something to deserve this, and she may have never found out.”
Her Mom’s harsh croaky voice broke the defining silence.
“Five ought to teach you.”
Five! Wren thought with a panic. That would be the most she had ever gotten in her life! “So five is it? Times sixteen that’s eighty swats!”
It is at this exact moment the first hard swat of the paddle hits her bare buttocks. She feels the sting of the hit spread across and into her flesh and knows it will be anywhere from five to fifteen seconds before the next one. Her Mom had developed this technique over the years waiting between hits so the pain from the next hit didn’t dull into the one before it. True to her Mom’s form the blows come without warning until she has delivered sixteen blows, each impacting a slightly different part of her buttocks, so as to spread the pain of the punishment. Now there is a pause. Wren hated the pause, when her Mom changed from the paddle. Wren can feel the heat from the paddling swelling into her flesh as she waits for the next round.
Now comes the whistling tenor of the rider’s crop as her Mom swings it through the air. The sudden crack of the riding crop as it stops sharply across her already sore buttocks is an excruciating sting; she winces under the blindfold and bites down hard into the gag. She tells herself only sixty-three more to go, and again the crack. Again and again comes the cracking sound of the crop against her bare flesh. Soon she is beyond crying, and is now screaming into the gag, her muffled voice getting more and more hoarse as the screams continue one into the other without end. Wren feels as though she has been hanging there for days, and yet she knows it is far from over. She can feel the welts welling up across her buttocks, and she can feel either sweat or blood trickling down her legs, and yet the cracking goes on and on.
Finally, the beating stops, and Wren has lost all track of how many swats there have been in all. She is glad it is over, and yet she can not stop screaming into the gag from the pain. Her buttocks feel raw as if the very flesh had been stripped away and then had been stuck into a roaring fire. She hears the door to the room close, and she lets her body’s full weight fall into the chains. Wren feels the pain throughout her whole body. She feels cold as ice, and yet she knows she is sweating profusely by the feeling of it running down her arms, the back of her neck, and dripping off her chest. She can feel spit trickling out the corners of her mouth around the gag, the clammy feeling of the blindfold dripping wet with her tears. She can’t help her body shaking uncontrollably as her brain is overwhelmed and her nerves seemingly have to react on their own accord.
If you like what you are reading I do take tips through my donations page at MauraAlwyen.com and I am working toward an E-book release probably before this is posted in its entirety here if you get really impatient to finish it.
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