Over Her Knee

Speed Dating?

"Well dear - when I said we were going to a speed dating event, I didn't quite give you the full picture. It's actually more what you might call speed spanking! Now remember ladies - just five minutes to get to know each naughty bottom and then change when you hear the bell! You can choose who you would like to take home at the end of the evening."

Some delicious artwork I found in my files drawn by Lady Carole. I think "speed spanking" might just catch on - what do you think ladies? 

Carpet Beater

"It's all very well crying and howling now dear. You should have thought of that when we told you to finish tidying the house! Carpet beaters are not only for getting dust out of rugs you know - they can be used for husbands who sit around all day on their lazy, fat bottoms! Keep going Maria - I don't think he is truly sorry yet. He always cries like a baby anyway. Another twenty strokes should do the trick!".

Another illustration kindly provided by Lumasoc. I understand that carpet or rug beaters are popular instruments of discipline in Italy!

More New Art

Lumasoc, another excellent spanking artist, has been kind enough to send me some of his sketches to share with everyone. I have several fine examples of his work and will post these up over the coming weeks. Lumasoc is retired, living in Italy, and he tells me that he would welcome paid commissions for websites or personal use. Several of his drawings feature the dreaded carpet beater - which, I am told, is a popular instrument of domestic discipline in Italy. More of Lumasoc's art very soon!

Late Home!

Another contribution from our good friend Underling arrived in my mailbox whilst I was away last week. I am posting it immediately for fear of ending up in the same humiliating position as the latecomer depicted above! Hopefully Underling will continue to share the fruits of his vivid imagination!

Working at OSIRIS

Some of you have asked about how to get a job at OSIRIS and our friend Underling has kindly sent me the above recruitment notices. He claims they are form his local newspaper but you will have to be the judge of that! LOL! By the way - he informs me that he has some new work on the drawing board so keep encouraging him! It will also encourage me to post more often too!

Discipline Fridays!

The vast majority of OSIRIS employees loved Discipline Fridays. But then the vast majority of employees were female, and thus exempt.

For the unfortunate men of the company, never promoted beyond the junior grades, these monthly occurences were a time of dread. While underperforming women were invited to better themselves via training courses, their male counterparts were motivated through public humiliation and corporal punishment. On each third Friday of the month, they queued naked in the busy corridor outside the interview room and awaited their turn with the paddle. The CEO insisted on conducting these sessions herself: while all her girls were familiar to her through the many corporate events organised for female staff, this was almost the only contact she had with their male colleagues. Unfortunately her busy schedule often forced her to keep the men waiting and on display, sometimes for hours at a time. Never mind - they had only themselves to blame, and would have to come in over the weekend to catch up with their work.

No matter the delay, the interviews themselves were never hurried, and the agenda was always the same. The trembling employee stood hands-on-head in front of the desk while the report on his failings was read out by Janine, the CEO's dedicated PA. He was then subjected to a lengthy verbal dressing-down that could be heard several offices away, and that the smirking Janine enthusiastically minuted for his file. Finally, he bent over the desk and presented his bare bottom for the long, hard application of the paddle. Although now into her sixties, the CEO was a keen squash player and had a powerful arm. A satisifed smile played across her lips as she provided the necessary incentive to these backsliding underlings.

As the sounds of wood on skin and muffled cries echoed up and down the corridor, the same women who had enjoyed the spectacle on their arrival that morning now found excuses to run new errands. It was a fresh delight to see those who had already been dealt with facing the wall to display the livid hues of their well beaten behinds, and those still awaiting their fate squirming at the sounds within.

No doubt about it - OSIRIS was a great place for a woman to work.

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Checking my e-mail this morning I was delighted to find this fantastic artwork and accompanying storyline from a new contributor to this Blog - "Underling". I am sure you will agree with me in complimenting him for the wonderful imagery. I know that I have been very much amiss in not keeping up with regular postings in recent months but contributions like this inspire me to do better in the future! Hopefully, readers will also encourage our new friend Underling to submit more of his outstanding work. I also have a backlog of other contributions which I will try to post up over the coming days. Keep 'em coming!

The Farrington Diaries - Chapter 2

         Here, at long last, is the second chapter of the Farrington Diaries which Rob has been kind enough to send - together with the accompanying illustration:-

CHAPTER TWO

Bridle Path Encounter

   It was exactly a week to the day since my fortunes were enhanced by a classified ad that I answered.  As a newly-hired ghost writer, I'd been preoccupied with thoughts of Alexandra, the young English horsewoman who had given Brett Farrington his introduction to discipline.

            Countless times my mind was taken over by the strikingly tall equestrian he'd met in his youth and I could hardly wait until our next appointment, when he would continue detailing his life story.

            Farrington was due to arrive shortly for our first work session, and I was tense.

            My daydreams were interrupted when I looked out the window and saw a taxi pull to the curb in front of the Manhattan high-rise apartment building.  It was 10 a.m.  He was right on time.  Moments later, the intercom rang and I promptly buzzed him in.

            "It's good to see you, my boy," he said as I took his hat and coat.  "I trust that the accommodations are satisfactory."

            "They're great," I replied.  He seemed pleased.  Farrington looked dapper in a dark, three-piece suit, though it wasn't the same one he wore when he interviewed me.

            "By the way," he said, "although I saw to it that your refrigerator and pantry were well-stocked, I also opened a charge account for you at the grocer's on the corner.  He'll deliver whatever you want and send the bills to me."

            I began to thank him, but he motioned me to take a seat.             

            "Shall we commence our work?" he asked. 

            We parked ourselves in the pair of brown leather wing chairs framing the tiny, but working, fireplace.  Farrington settled himself and laid his attache case on the table beside him.  He opened it and pulled out some papers and an old wirebound notebook. 

            I put my feet up on the large hassock and readied my legal pad and new rolling ball pen, bought especially for the occasion.

            "Let's see," he said, "I believe we left off where I had mentioned my plans for traveling the country in search of women who possessed those attributes I admired in Alexandra."

            "Yes, that's right," I confirmed.

            "Well, just to keep things in order, I should explain I didn't start my travels immediately," Farrington said.  "I first decided to do some research, misguided as it turned out to be."

            I waited.  From my experience during our earlier meeting, I knew that Farrington was a natural-born story teller and required only a good listener to proceed.

            "It was by happenstance one afternoon, while crossing Times Square, that I chanced to glance in the window of an adult book store," he recalled.  "Through the glass shop windows, I noticed several books and magazines whose titles and covers featured female domination and female-administered discipline.  I stepped inside, feeling a bit uneasy, and began browsing.  After a half-hour, I departed with an armload of reading material.  I couldn't wait to return to my apartment and pore over my new found treasures in privacy."

            Farrington drew out a pipe and tobacco pouch.

            "Unfortunately, they turned out to be a disappointment," he said.  "Most of them were sleazy at best, and I quickly realized that while the target market for these publications were men with interests like mine, they fell miserably short of fulfilling my requirements.  Especially frustrating were the classified ads.  The women who advertised in those columns were, without exception, professional models and the like.  They were seeking to do business, if you catch my meaning."

            I nodded and continued taking notes.

            "You see, engaging a woman to merely play a role wasn't what I had in mind," Farrington said.

            "Of course not," I replied.

            "But, then, just as I was about to dispose of that pile of rubbish, my eye fell upon a brief announcement printed on the back page of one of the tabloids.  There was this one-paragraph notice of a meeting of The Society of Diana.  It was scheduled the following week at one of those alternative lifestyle churches on Long Island.

            "You know, of course, that Diana is the Goddess of the Hunt," said Farrington.  "And judging from the few extra words of description in the article, I concluded that this was a group I would find interesting.  I was proven right."

            "Great," I said.

            "Well, yes and no," Farrington replied.  "The problem was that the audience consisted of nearly all males except for two middle-aged female coordinators.  One of them was a counselor and the other a therapist.  It's likely they were there to expand their clientele.

            "Anyway, it was a bona fide discipline interest group.  Problems were discussed, information exchanged and warnings issued about all the various traps of which to beware.

            "The highlight of the evening's program was a demonstration in which a husband and wife team assumed the roles of pupil and headmistress.  The setting was a Victorian classroom, complete with costumes and props.  Old-fashioned implements of punishment were displayed and each appropriately used.

            "The wife was quite proficient in her disciplinary skills and did not hesitate to apply them in a convincing fashion.  Though, the demonstration was intended for the benefit of the audience, it also provided meaningful punishment for the husband.  I recall that he was not left unmarked by the experience.                

            "The bonus of the evening was the social hour which followed.  Most of the men departed after the demonstration, having noticed the lack of women.  However, I decided to stay.  I struck up a conversation with an older gentleman.  I say 'older' because I was then in my late thirties.  Arthur was middle-aged.  We ended up talking for quite a time. 

            "I subsequently discovered that Arthur and I had a great many experiences to share. 

            "When the social hour ended, Arthur invited me for a drink.  We walked to a quiet tavern nearby, where he began to unfold his life story.  A spinster aunt had disciplined him as a teenager and he carried his passions concealed for years, even during two unsuccessful marriages.  It wasn't until he was forty, when he overheard two women on a commuter train discussing spanking and discipline that he found himself, so to speak.

            "When the train reached the station, he approached the women.  He learned that one was unmarried and he arranged a date.  The relationship lasted for many happy years.

            "Arthur enjoyed talking, and due to the intriguing nature of the subject matter, I hung on his every word.  There didn't come a time for me to talk about myself, though that was just as well.  However, I did tell him of my plans to travel the land.  He encouraged me, saying it was the only way to reach my objective.  It was his strong belief that meetings -- such as the one we had just attended -- were an unlikely place to meet the type of woman for which I longed."

            Farrington paused briefly, then reached for the wirebound notebook with faded green cardboard covers, which I suspected served as his diary. 

            "My boy, could I ask you for something to drink?" he asked.

            I offered coffee. 

            "A mineral water with a twist of lemon would be much preferred," he said.

            My hand needed a rest from note-taking.  After a few minutes, we were back at work again and Farrington, now relaxed in the easy chair with his feet stretched out on a hassock, continued.

            "Arthur and I talked until the bartender called 'last round,'" he said.  "I learned more about myself that evening than I could have ever imagined.  A veritable shroud of shame fell off my shoulders.  It was a relief to know finally that I wasn't alone in my yearnings for a strong, yet loving woman.

            "We've remained in close contact over the years.  He's often provided me with invaluable advice and he enjoys sharing stories and experiences,” he said.

            "Several months later, my first real life experience as an adult came about rather unexpectedly.

            "I had heard a great deal about the attractions of the San Francisco Bay Area and decided to see for myself.  One Saturday morning, I was hiking solo on a wooded trail in the Santa Cruz Mountains on the San Francisco Peninsula.  As I walked, I side-stepped occasional piles of horse manure, a sign that the trail was also used as a bridle path.

            "Suddenly, my ears caught what seemed like a familiar sound—one I heard many years ago, but had never forgotten.  It rang out like a shot and was repeated at short intervals.  I hurried along in the direction from which the sounds came.  As I rounded a curve in the trail, I sighted the source.

            "There, seated astride a jittery bay gelding, a female rider resolutely applied her whip to the animal's backside.

            "She was holding him in check with her left hand on the reins while punishing him with the whip in her right hand."  

            "Could you describe the rider?" I asked.

            "Unsmiling.  Perhaps, thirties or early forties.  Doubtless, an experienced rider.  Brown hair, sleek and smooth, touching her shoulders.  Strong hands and legs.  Medium height and frame.  Athletic-looking, though certainly not lacking in feminine appeal.

            "Her English riding habit appeared correct to the last detail, including well-fitted, rust-colored breeches, braided brown leather belt, starched pin-striped shirt, crochet-back leather gloves and black velvet hunt cap.  She wore polished, tall, black riding boots to which a pair of gleaming stainless-steel spurs were fastened.  In her right hand, she firmly grasped a thick leather riding crop.

            "Her actions and her assertive bearing made it unmistakably clear that she was a

no-nonsense type.

            "Though, my vantage point afforded me an unobstructed view of the proceedings, the rider, however, didn't notice my presence, perhaps due to the angle of vision.

            "The scene was compelling.  My eyes followed her every move as she continued with her mount's punishment.

            "I remember her words of chastisement to the animal, which by then had broken into a lathered sweat. 

            "'You know what a branch looks like,' she scolded him.  Then, with her left hand, she took a tight hold on his reins, raised her whip and brought it cracking down sharply on his weal-covered rump.  Each dosage was administered four or five times. 

            "'Don't you ever shy again from a branch on the trail,' she further warned him.

            "She then repeated the previous punishment, after which she spoke to the animal emphatically using these words, 'Not ever!'

            "Taking her reins back into both hands, she turned the horse around.  She trotted him a short distance, then turned him again and headed back toward the spot in the trail where the misdeed had occurred.  I could plainly see that a small branch, apparently broken off a tree, lay in the middle of the trail.  This was obviously a test as to whether the animal had learned his lesson.

            "As they approached the branch, the rider verbally encouraged the horse while prodding him with her spurs to move him forward.  Unfortunately, the poor beast shied again.  He reared up and tossed his head about.  He was having nothing to do with that branch.  Perhaps, it appeared to him as a snake or some other threatening object.

            "She chastised her mount once more, followed by another whipping.  Each time, she brought the crop down with such force that I heard it slice the air before smacking the animal's posterior.

            "She was absolutely relentless," said Farrington, shaking his head. 

            "When she had finished, she settled the horse and took him down the trail, then brought him back to the spot where the branch lay to test him once more.

            "This time, digging her spurs into the horse's flanks, she moved him into a canter.  I remember praying that the animal would have sense to obey her this time.  But, it wasn't to be.  He balked at the branch, refusing to proceed beyond it.

            "Furious, the rider gathered him up sharply.  I heard her address her errant mount in measured tones, 'We're going to get this problem corrected.  Now!'

            "She momentarily tucked her riding crop under her saddle flap, unbuttoned her cuffs, then fastidiously rolled up each sleeve, affording her arms increased freedom of movement.  She then retrieved her whip and took up the reins with her left hand.  After insuring that she held a tight grip on the reins, she commenced flogging the poor gelding's rump, showing no sign of either letup or mercy."

            I was writing as fast as I could to keep up with Farrington while swallowing hard. 

I had no idea what was coming next, but you can bet I was eager to find out.  Farrington, meanwhile, was poring over a page of the notebook.  Apparently, satisfied that his memory was refreshed, he looked up.

            "It was then," he continued, "I realized that I must take action.  You can, of course, imagine the conflicting feelings that were running through me at the time.

            "During the War, I learned in battle that decisiveness is often the factor that separates the victors from the vanquished.

            "In a flash, I knew I had to confront her," he said.  "I surrendered my cover and approached. 

            "The moment she saw me, she halted her unmerciful whipping.  She scowled at me angrily."

            Farrington leaned forward as if sharing a confidence.  "I'll always remember how her eyes narrowed," he said.  "Try to envision a stern headmistress glaring at a disobedient pupil.  Well, I must tell you that look nearly stopped me in my tracks.

            "She didn't speak," Farrington continued, "but drew herself up tall in the saddle and stared down at me.  Her jaw was set and I could see the muscles in her face tighten and flex.

            "'Is it necessary that you punish this animal so severely?' I questioned her.  She was absolutely seething at my intrusion.

            "'Sir, this matter doesn't concern you,' she began.  'Such rudeness offends me.  Given the opportunity, I would teach you a lesson in manners that you wouldn't soon forget.  After which, by comparison, I believe you would agree that I was lenient in disciplining my mount.'             

            "For a moment, I stood speechless," Farrington said.  "My legs became weak and my emotions found themselves overdrawn."

            "What happened?" I asked.

            "I took a deep breath and smiled up at her," replied Farrington.  "Then, I said as casually as I could muster, 'I frankly don't believe that you either would or could deliver on such a challenge if given the opportunity.'

            "I withdrew one of my calling cards, handed it up to her.

            "'My name is Brett Farrington,' I said.  'You can reach me at this phone number.  I'm at your disposal.'  Then, I promptly turned on my heel and walked off. 

            "My curt move, which left my back turned to her, was, of course, quite intentional.  It was done to irritate her, if I hadn't accomplished that already.

            "As I walked away, I knew I dared not look back.  Apparently, she and her mount turned and headed in the opposite direction.  I didn't encounter them again during the remainder of my walk.

            "When I returned to my apartment," Farrington said, "I replayed the incident in my mind not less than a dozen times before relenting to my inner urges.  I wish I could tell you that self-gratification fulfilled my needs.  It didn't.  Throughout the day, each time I relived the experience, I found it necessary to seek relief.  What's more, I couldn't decide what further to do, if anything.  Would she telephone me?  I didn't know her name or anything about her."

            I was now shaking inside.  If this had happened to me, I thought, what would I have done? 

            Farrington went on.  "The following Monday, the phone rang as I was about to shave.  It was 8 a.m.            

            "'This is Claudine Perry,' the voice on the other end announced.  'I have your card in my hand, Mr. Farrington.  I'll expect you to present yourself to me on Saturday morning at 10 o'clock at my home.  There is something you have coming and I intend to see that you receive it.  My address is 2840 N. Country View Road.  Please see that you arrive on time.'

            "That was all.  I heard a click.  She had hung up.              

            "My heart was in my throat.  I spoke her name aloud -- Claudine Perry.  I let the syllables rest in my mouth before releasing each one. 

            "Who was this woman?  Was she married?  I doubted so.  But, what if I were wrong?  What might I be getting myself into?

            "I consulted the telephone directory and found listed a "C. Perry" on North Country View Road.  I concluded that she was likely not married. 

            "Later that day, wearing a hat and dark glasses, I drove past the address.  The area might be described as rural suburban, with gently rolling hills and some expanses of level ground.  Most of the homes were situated on two- or three-acre parcels, each with its own small horse barn or corral.

            "Claudine Perry's house was set back from the road.  It was a modest ranch style, brick with white trim and everything neat as a pin.  In the rear, I could see a barn and a fenced riding arena.  However, I didn't slow down to take a closer look, as I feared being observed.

            "Waiting for Saturday to arrive was an ordeal.  I had no appetite.  Then, I lost sleep as a result of the tension.  I was a nervous wreck. 

            "Finally, when Saturday came, I awakened at 4 a.m.  I showered, pulled on a pair of corduroys, a shirt and a warm Shetland wool sweater.  I then paced the floor until it was time to depart.

             "I got in my car and drove to within a mile of her house, where I parked.  Keeping a close eye on my watch, I waited until exactly five minutes before ten, then headed toward her house.  I knew I'd best be punctual.  I could imagine the consequences if I weren't.

            "As I drove up the asphalt drive, I saw a woman longeing a horse in the fenced arena toward the rear of the property.  I parked midway in the circular drive and exited my car.  I could see from a distance that it was Claudine Perry.  She was standing in the center of the ring, working a young horse. 

            "It was a blustery day.  The wind carried the animal's whinny in my direction.  Claudine Perry stood tall, looking comfortable and warm in a forest green, down vest over a yellow turtleneck.  She wore tight fawn riding breeches and tall brown field boots.  A black velvet safety helmet protected her head.

            "She was both beautiful and businesslike at the same time.  As the horse cantered on the longe line, she moved him along by flicking a long-handled, black longe whip.

            "At precisely ten o'clock, I pressed the doorbell, though I knew she couldn't yet have returned to the house.  I waited.  The November air made me wish I'd worn something warmer than the old tweed jacket I had on."

            Farrington took another sip of his drink, glanced at his diary, then continued.

            "It was only a moment until the door opened, and she was facing me.  I was taken a bit by surprise.  Apparently, she had seen me arrive, halted the training session and entered the house through a back door. 

            "She offered no greeting or smile as she beckoned me to enter.  I removed my wool cap and jacket.  Silently, she took them from me and deposited them in a cloak closet in the foyer where we were standing.

             "'Down that hall,' she pointed.  'The first door on the left.  Remove all your clothing except your undershorts and wait for me.'  Her voice was clear and commanding.

            "Immediately, I fell under her control.  Had she ordered me to jump into the nearest river, I believe I might have been powerless to do otherwise.  I obediently turned and walked down the hall as I had been directed.

            "The room I entered was a guest bedroom.  I quickly stripped to my shorts, sat on the edge of the bed and waited.  Shortly, I heard the clip-clop of her boots on the hallway's planked wood floors warning of her approach.  I began to tense.             

            "The door opened.  She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, still wearing her black hunt cap.  A thick leather riding crop dangled from its loop around her wrist.  It was the same instrument I'd seen her use to punish her mount that morning on the trail.  She entered and closed the door behind her.

            "'Stand up,' she commanded.  I did so, feeling quite vulnerable.  Her eyes inspected me up and down.  Everywhere her gaze touched me, my body was warmed.  I began to tremble, but she seemed to take no notice of my discomfort.

            "Her eyes turned away for a moment as if she were pausing to deliberate.  She took a deep breath, then pushed the sleeves of her turtleneck toward her elbows and looked at me directly.

            "'You do regret your actions of last Saturday, don't you?' she asked. 

            "I realized that contrition was in my interest, so I responded that I was terribly sorry for interfering and begged her pardon. 

            "'It's a bit late for an apology,' she replied, 'but not for a lesson in good manners.  Let's get this over with.'

            "She spoke no further, but pointed her crop toward the bed.  I submissively placed myself in the position she directed -- on my stomach, my head resting on the pillow.

            "She appeared very cool and detached.  Meanwhile, my emotions were ricocheting off the walls.

            "I felt her pull my shorts down over my hips and legs, leaving them around my ankles. 

            "Quickly, her thick leather crop found my buttocks.  First the left, then the right.  It seemed that each subsequent stroke was reserved for a specific location on my backside.

            "As she bathed my bottom with castigating whacks, it occurred to me that she took care to insure that none of my flesh received punishment more than once.

            "Her whipping was measured and deliberate.  My buttocks and thighs screamed from what seemed like the sting of a hundred wasps.  I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth, determined not to cry out or plead for mercy.  Each time she brought her whip down, she sought virgin territory.

            "The flogging was expertly administered and her wrist movement insured that the business end of her crop met its target.  Not once did she miss her mark. 

            "Occasionally, there came a brief pause between strokes.  I supposed it was to allow me time to focus on the error of my ways and to fully grasp the severity of her discipline.

            "Finally, it was ended.  Her only words to me were, 'I believe that will be sufficient.  You may put your clothes on now.  I'll be waiting in the foyer.'

            "I was in terrible pain and wobbly on my feet.  But, somehow I managed to get myself dressed and retrace my steps down the hall toward the front door. 

            "She stood holding my cap and jacket, which she handed me stiffly and without comment.  She held open the front door for my exit, and I departed silently.

            "I almost couldn't bear to sit in the driver's seat long enough for the ride home.  I was hurting, exhausted and yet, strangely, at the same time feeling exhilarated.

            "When I arrived home, I collapsed on the living room sofa.  Face down, you can be sure.  Despite the racking pain, I slept for six or seven hours before I awakened.  My backside tormented me beyond words.  I went into the bathroom to assess the damage.

            "Looking into the full-length mirror on the back of the door, I saw that Claudine Perry had masterfully performed her task.  Every square inch of my buttocks was striped with unsightly purple welts.  She had spared me nothing. 

            "I noted, however, that she had carefully avoided breaking the skin.  I applied some healing ointment to the affected areas -- very gingerly.  I was intact and would not require any medical attention.  Imagine the embarrassment, had I been required to see a physician.

            "That night, I took some pain-killing medicine and once more slept on my stomach.  I did very little sitting those next several days, I can tell you."

            Farrington then turned to me and asked, "But, do you know what I did the very next day?" 

            I shook my head.

            "I went directly to a stationery store and searched until I found a card with just the right message.  It said, 'I'm sorry.'  I signed it and mailed it to her in the next post.

            "A week went by.  Then, another.  I wanted this woman desperately.  All my thoughts focused on her.  Each time I sat in a chair, the tenderness of my bottom reminded me of how she had disciplined me like a schoolboy.  Yet, paradoxically, at that point in my life, Claudine Perry seemed the sole reason that I lived and breathed.

            "I began to realize that if I wanted to see her again, it would require an initiative on my part.  My happiness depended on being in her presence again.  I had to see her.  So, I came up with a plan.

            "I nervously dialed her number.  I almost lost my courage when she answered. 

            "'This is Brett Farrington,' I said.  'I'm calling to invite you to dinner and the symphony on Saturday evening.  It would make me very happy if you would accept my invitation.'  My heart was beating like a hummingbird's as I waited for her response.

            "To my astonishment, she accepted.  She simply replied, 'Yes, thank you.  I'd like that.'

            "We arranged for me to call for her at five o'clock.  Beyond that, there was no further conversation.  You can imagine my anticipation during those next few days.   

            "On Saturday evening, I rang her doorbell.  She opened the door and there she stood.  She had chosen to wear a conservative, brown jersey dress with a cowl neckline.  A handsome belt encircled her waist and showed her figure to great advantage.  Brown suede pumps and handbag to match completed her ensemble.

            "'I would offer you a cocktail, but traffic into the city will be heavy,' she said. 

            "She was right, of course.  I escorted her to my car, opened the passenger door for her and we departed.

            "The conversation en route to San Francisco was mostly easy talk about such topics as the program for the evening's symphony performance or the types of cuisine we enjoyed.

            "It was quite different, however, when we were seated opposite each other at a cozy corner table in the restaurant.  There, eye contact couldn't be avoided, and I became uneasy when I realized that the small talk couldn't continue indefinitely.

            "She read her menu by the light from the candle, ordering duck a l'orange.  I chose the rack of lamb.  The sommelier came to take our wine order and she deferred to my judgment.  I knew something about wine, so I selected a highly-rated Pinot Noir from a small vineyard in the Sonoma Valley.  It then became obvious she was knowledgeable about wine herself because she arched an eyebrow and smiled.

            "The candlelight played across her face and the intensity of her eyes excited me. 

I was captivated by the nearness of her.

            "At the same time, I couldn't help but try to guess what she might be thinking about.  Could she possibly read what was on my mind?

            "On the surface, we talked about the mundane," Farrington said.  "But, beneath there were electric pulses circulating between us.

            "I knew that she was sensing it, too.  Yet, it was never mentioned.  Had anyone overheard, our conversation would have been considered proper and correct.

            "Of course, what wasn't talked about -- and it was certainly in the forefront of my thoughts -- was why she would invite a strange man, like myself, into her home?  And given the most unusual circumstances of our meeting, subsequently accept my dinner invitation?

            "But then, I assume she must have questioned why any man in his right mind would have found it seemly to respond to her challenge and subject himself to a flogging.

            "Shortly, the wine was poured, the entrees served and an exchange of comments about the meal followed.  However, the conversation took a personal turn when the dessert arrived.             

            "'You should know that I received your card,' she said.  'It meant a great deal to me.'

            "'I'm glad,' I responded.  'I did a good amount of soul-searching and realized that I behaved badly.  It was wrong of me to interfere.  I beg your forgiveness.'

            "'Of course, you have it,' she replied.  'Indeed, you've already paid the price for it.  There's no need to dwell on it further.  Tell me about yourself, Brett.'

            "Not wanting to reveal my circumstances, I colored the truth, answering, 'I'm an engineer specializing in mining exploration.

            "'I teach in the medical school at the university,' she said.  'My field is genetics. 

I also do research.'

            "'I take it you are a Ph.D. rather than a medical doctor,' I responded.

            "'Yes,' she said smiling and perhaps somewhat impressed.  'Not everyone is familiar with such things.'

            "'I travel a good bit in my business,' I answered modestly.  'One can't help but collect a lot of information, some of it not always that useful.'

            "Before I knew it, the time had come to depart for the concert, and I felt frustrated that there hadn't been an opportunity to explore more of the unanswered questions.

            "We enjoyed good seats and heard the symphony orchestra play at its best.  Beethoven's Emperor Concerto never sounded so wondrous to me.  The soloist was magnificent and the crescendos seemed to coincide with my inner emotions as I occupied my seat in the darkened concert hall, my arm touching Claudine's.

            "However, overshadowing the performance, was my recollection of the whipping I had taken at her hands.

            "During the drive home, we talked about the concert, including some discussion of Beethoven's lesser-known works.  I mentioned how his early compositions, especially some contradances and divertimenti, resembled the style of W. A. Mozart, who influenced him in no small measure.  I suppose I was motivated to show off. 

            "Claudine confided that as a child her parents had sought to foster her interest in classical music, but without any notable success.

            "Upon our return, I escorted her to her front door, and she thanked me for an enjoyable evening.  Then, to my surprise, she gracefully extended her right arm toward me.

            "'I would like it if you kissed my hand,' she said. 

            "I took her hand into my own and gently raised it toward my lips.  As I did so, I looked into her brown eyes and let my kiss say what I could not.

            Farrington continued, "Even now, reflecting back on it, I can honestly say that the experience of kissing her hand at that moment stirred me to my depths.

            "I drove home in an intoxicated state, though I hadn't had anything to drink since the wine with dinner more than six hours earlier.  In short, I was lovestruck. 

            "In the weeks that followed, I invited her to join me on various outings.  There were dinners and evenings at the theater.  In turn, she asked me to go on a trail ride with her and introduced me to some of her friends on the faculty.

            "Once, she invited me to observe her train an unbroken two-year-old in the ring.  It was her third or fourth schooling session astride the greenish colt and it appeared that the animal already held a substantial amount of respect for her -- if not outright trepidation. 

            "I watched her work the inexperienced animal until he was visibly tired.  She forced him to perform the same movements repeatedly, until he delivered perfection.

            "Upon dismounting, she outlined her training approach. 

            "'I work him hard until I reach a point where I have total control over him and he understands that complete obedience is required,' she said.  'Not sometimes.  Always.  No exceptions. 

            "'Once he is soft and I've bent him to my will,' she explained, 'he's no longer a challenge.  Then, I'll probably offer him for sale as a "push-button," and he'll be safe for some teenage girl to show on weekends.'

            "During those times Claudine and I were together, I wisely never tried to hurry her.  Though I hungered to be closer to her, I knew that it would be she and not I who would decide if and when.  So, patience remained my byword, though inside I was terribly frustrated.

            "There came an evening when she invited me to escort her to a party.  She looked especially attractive on that occasion, wearing a burgundy turtleneck, long skirt and boots.  Anyway, I suppose I displaced my frustration when one of the guests with whom I spoke briefly -- it seemed that all were connected with the medical school -- appeared to be condescending.  This, though I had endeavored to be polite when I asked him his specialty. 

            "His disdainful reply was something like 'I suppose you non-medical folks really have little experience, so it perhaps might be difficult....' 

            "I interrupted him, saying, 'Unfortunately, my only experience in this area comes when my company endows chairs in medical schools in various parts of the world.'

            "Claudine overheard it all and good-naturedly chided me about it on the drive home.  She asked about my company, to which I replied -- doing a quick flip-flop -- that I had referred to the company where I was employed in Australia.  She seemed to accept my explanation, but suddenly changed the subject.

            "I felt her hand on my shoulder as she spoke.

            "'Brett, I think it's time that I let you know exactly how I feel about you,' she said. 

            "Fighting to remain calm, I replied, 'I hope that what I'm hearing is what I've been wishing for.'

            "She removed her hand from my shoulder, looked straight ahead at the road and said, 'Very soon, I'll make it all clear to you.'

            "It was that night -- after weeks of kissing her hand at the front door -- that she handed me her house key.  Almost in shock, I was forced to concentrate so that my hand would be steady enough to slip the key into the lock. 

            "One lamp softly illuminated the living room as I sat on the sofa.  I watched her every movement as she switched on the stereo and poured two glasses of cognac. 

            "She walked toward me, placed a glass in my hand and sat down close beside me.  I was all raw nerves and tension.  She appeared relaxed.  Her body had a supple, strong quality.  I looked down at her legs beside mine and admired the shapely, muscular calves.  I longed to know them better.

            "Looking directly into my eyes, she tenderly touched the fingers of her right hand to my cheek, stroking it gently. 

            "She whispered to me, 'Brett, I know you inside out.'  She paused for a moment.  'There are things about yourself that you've never told anyone.  I am not only aware of them, but I understand completely.'

            "What I heard took my breath away.  It was at that moment that she took possession of me.  Her words reached into me and scooped away all my ego defenses. 

            "'I've grown very fond of you these past weeks,' she said.  'But, you already know that.  And I know you have feelings for me,' she said as a smile crossed her face.

            "'Claudine,' I said, barely able to reply.  'I think I am in love with you.'

            "She put her fingers to my lips in a quieting gesture. 

            "'We mustn't seek to place a name on what we feel,' she whispered.  'Rather, I want you to allow the feelings to express themselves.'

            "Then, she took my face in her hands and drew me to her.  She placed her lips onto mine and began what was to be a delicious, slow and deliberate kiss.

            "I took her into my arms and held her tightly, burying my face into her neck and hair, smelling her perfume.  As I did so, I could feel warm liquid flowing through my body from head to toe.

            "There was another kiss.  This time, it was I who found her lips.  She had a generous mouth and her kisses were passionate, as was everything she undertook.

            "My desire was intense and my hand was moving toward her breast.

            "'No, Brett, that's enough for now,' she admonished sharply.

            "I drew back, confused.

            "'You must control yourself,' she said.  'If you can't, I'll have to punish you.'

            "'Oh, I've done it now!' I thought.

            "Although I was aroused to the bursting point, I quickly decided it was wisest to obey her.

 

            "In a moment, she placed her hand on my arm and, again looking into my eyes, said, 'I want you to come here for breakfast tomorrow morning.  I'd like you here at seven.'

            "She walked me to the front door and gently kissed me. 

            "'I can't wait until tomorrow morning,' I said as I stepped outside into the cold.

            "That whole night, Claudine Perry was in more ways than one the woman of my dreams.  I was filled with a raging desire for her.

            "When I returned the next morning, I found a note pinned to the front door.  It read, 'It's unlocked.  Come in.  See you in ten minutes.' 

            "I let myself in and proceeded to follow the robust aroma of coffee.  It led me to a small country kitchen with a flagstone floor and an open hearth.  I poured myself a cup of the fresh brew and looked out through one of the small-paned windows, affording a view of the garden as well as the horse barn, corrals and riding arena.  I saw Claudine approaching the house.

            "She looked fetching in rust-colored breeches, beige turtleneck and tall black boots.  She was indeed every inch a horsewoman.

            "'Good morning,' she said as she strode into the kitchen through the back door.  'I see you found my note.  Sorry I wasn't here to greet you, personally, but one of my mares is due to foal soon and I had to check on her.'

            "Before I could reply, she asked me, 'Hungry?'  I nodded. 

            "'How about bacon and eggs?' she asked. 

            "'Sounds great,' I responded.

            "I watched as she prepared breakfast for the two of us, noting how confidently she stood and carried herself.  For several minutes, I enjoyed a full back view of her, enabling me to more thoroughly appreciate her lustrous brown hair, her well-constructed shoulders, her waist hugged by a braided leather belt and her hips which went wide where a woman's hips should go wide.

            "Later, as I was polishing off the hearty breakfast with a second cup of coffee, she asked, 'How good are you with horses?  Besides coming to their rescue, I mean.'

            "Her smile told me I was being chided.  She was teasing me and I liked it.

            "'I can't boast a lot of experience,' I answered.  'But, I've been around a few horses here and there.'

            "'Come along,' she directed, setting down her coffee cup.  'We'll see how good you are with my bunch.  I could always use a dependable groom.'

            "It wasn't long afterward -- having brushed down her mount for her, picked his hooves and helped with the saddling -- that I stood at the edge of the ring.  Claudine grasped the reins in her left hand and with her right hand on the cantle, deftly pulled herself up and astride the chestnut gelding.

            "'Watch!' she shouted to me, immediately setting the horse into a trot.

            "She energetically worked the three-year-old, named Rondo, for nearly an hour.  She put him through his paces and set him on all the gaits. 

            "When the animal once appeared to make a sluggish transition from a trot to a canter, I watched as she raised her right arm and smartly brought down her crop onto Rondo's backside.

            "I heard the leather crack against his large rump and saw him toss his head a bit, disliking the reprimand.

            "Upon dismounting, she instructed me to again brush and curry the animal, return him to his stall, then clean and stow all the tack.  She was specific in detailing what she wanted.  Meanwhile, she went to tend to other horses in the barn.

            "When she returned, I was completing my duties.  She stood in front of me looking beautiful in her tight-fitting riding breeches and turtleneck.  The breeze had sent a few strands of her hair in directions she hadn't planned.

            "'Good job!' she said.  It dawned on her that she had forgotten something.  She walked a few steps to a large tack trunk where she had temporarily laid her crop. 

            "She removed the whip from its resting place and eased her right hand through the loop of the instrument.  As it dangled from her wrist, she reached up to embrace me.

            "Still perspiring and breathing hard from her work, she kissed me intensely and passionately.  It was as wet a kiss as one could envision.  There came another and yet another.

            "As I drew her close to me, she awakened my senses with the intriguing combination of the scent of leather and the earthy fragrance of her body.

            "Gasping for breath between her spirited assaults on my lips, I heard her say, 'Now, I'm going to take you back to the house.'

            "I smiled.

            "'Do you know what I want to do with you then?' she asked.

            "I could only guess, but I answered 'no.'

            "'I want to ride you, and ride you hard,' she whispered.

            "Although, I was speechless, I was so excited I felt like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

            "She took me by the hand and led me back to the house and into her bedroom.  It required only moments for her to remove all my clothes and position me where she wanted -- flat atop the bed with my head resting on a pillow.

            "I watched with fascination as she stepped on a bootjack and began to remove her tall boots.

            "'Let me help,' I offered.

            "'You haven't earned that privilege yet, Brett,' she replied.

            "Disappointed, I lay back down and continued watching her undress.

            "After coaxing off her boots, she unzipped her riding breeches, slid them down over her hips and pushed each leg down to the ankle.  She then pulled them off, leaving them where they lay.  In another second, her socks flew off, and there she stood, measuring me with her eyes, while wearing only a pair of white panties and the fitted turtleneck.

            "Then, without a word, she momentarily turned her back to me and walked to where her leather riding crop lay on the floor. 

            "She picked it up and turned back toward me, striking a spellbinding pose.  Holding the whip in her right hand, she casually rested its length on her shoulder.  Her stance, though relaxed, increased my anxiety.

            "Still appearing every inch the perfect horsewoman, Claudine stepped to the edge of the bed.  She looked down at me for a moment and inspected me.

            "At first, I was humiliated.  However, she appeared not to take notice of my obviously embarrassing circumstance.  After pausing to take a deep breath, she said, 'I've wanted to do this for a long time.'

            "Without a moment's lapse, she lay her crop on the bed and slowly slipped out of her panties, revealing the perfect contour of her buttocks.

            "Now, completely naked from the waist down, she took her crop in hand and in one swift motion, easily mounted me.

            "Then, with only the most subtle of maneuvering, she employed her equestrian skills to settle herself onto me.  Using her powerful rider's legs, she gripped my torso and, by adjusting her weight and rhythm, evoked from me whatever movements she desired as she pretended to trot and canter me.

            "Whenever I failed to respond in the appropriate fashion, she would urge me on by sparingly applying her whip to my flanks.

            "Looking up at her and watching her every facial expression as she moved, I was enraptured by the woman I saw.

            "She was passionate beyond my dreams while expressing fulfillment and ecstasy to a degree that I had never seen.  

            "Her beige turtleneck was soaking wet under the arms as she worked both herself and me into a fever pitch.  Whenever I began to slow down or linger, I could feel the slap of her crop reminding me to keep to my task.

            "We ended in a frenzy of a gallop, after which I found myself spent to a level I had not until then experienced.  As we lay in each other's arms exhausted, my thoughts kept turning to that morning I encountered her on the trail.

            "Soon, we had recovered and I was holding her tenderly. 

            "'You aren't unhappy with me, are you, Brett?' she asked.

            "'No, of course not,' I replied.

            "'Oh, Brett.  There is so much I'd like to share with you,' she said.  'But, I can't.  Not yet.'  

            "I assured her that there would be a time and place for everything and that she shouldn't feel pressured.  She seemed relieved."

            At that point, Farrington excused himself momentarily, leaving the room.  I fell back in my chair, exhausted.

              In a few minutes, Farrington, now refreshed, returned.  He re-lit his pipe.  I gathered myself together, propped my legal pad on my knee and was ready to proceed.

            "Do you have a photograph of Claudine?" I asked.

            "Interesting that you should mention it," he said as he reached into his briefcase.  He removed a photo, glanced at it, then handed it to me.

            "We asked a passerby to snap it for us," he said.  "It was the day we walked across the Golden Gate Bridge."

            Farrington's description of Claudine had been accurate.  There was the shiny, shoulder-length, dark brown hair and the dazzling smile.  Her pose exuded self-confidence.  She was, in a word, stunning.  The two looked very happy together that day.

            I found myself almost as fascinated looking at Farrington's image as I had been with Claudine's.  He had, of course, aged in the 35 years since the photo was taken.  But, as I focused on the snapshot, I saw a man with a rugged, outdoor appearance -- the look that women always find appealing.  His face communicated strong character as well as charm.  He struck me as the type who would gather thirty survivors into a lifeboat, then dive overboard to save a couple more.

            Resuming his account, Farrington said, "That night, I don't believe I ever slept so well.  I dispensed with my usual nightcap and drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.

            "It would be a few days until I saw Claudine again.  In the meantime, I found myself missing her terribly. 

            "I was to see her next at her home.  She had invited me for a gourmet dinner.  It would be just the two of us, she told me.  I brought along a bottle of fine wine.  It was a Chateau Cheval Blanc, vintage 1945.  I located it in a spirits shop in San Francisco and I looked forward to the pleasure of introducing her to this bottle-aged, ready-to-drink St. Emilion.  Also, I was certain that the distinctive name on the label would draw her attention.

            "We dined on sublime Cornish hen, exotically-seasoned wild rice, green beans almondine, a French baguette and superb chocolate mousse.  Also, Claudine seemed delighted with the wine, which complemented the meal.

            "Meanwhile, as the fire roared and soft music played in the background, we talked of many subjects -- horses, the approaching holiday season, etc.  I focused on her, elbows on the table, leaning forward toward me.  The dancing light presented all of her to advantage -- her hair pulled back and held by a silver barrette, the dark green turtleneck, the butterscotch corduroys.

            "We moved to the sofa and toasted each other with tiny glasses of amaretto.  We kissed.  I held her and we gazed at the fire.  I was luxuriating in the closeness, the perfection of the evening, when I noticed she was crying softly.

            "I sensed there was something that she wanted to tell me and I asked if that might not be so.  Like a sad little girl biting her lip, she nodded 'yes.' 

            "'I have a secret,' she confided.

            "'Well, secrets are sometimes difficult to share,' I said.  I gently asked her if the secret might have some connection with our relationship, and she again nodded 'yes.' 

            "'Perhaps, you would feel better if I shared a secret with you first,' I said.  Again, she nodded 'yes.' 

            "I proceeded to detail the story of my experience with Alexa, which until then I had not divulged to a living soul.  She seemed awestruck.

            "'I knew that our meeting was no accident,' she declared after I had finished.  'I just knew it.' 

            Then, feeling safe to tell her own story, she recounted how as a child she recognized early on that she wasn't like her little playmates.

            "'I was different,'" she said.  'I had a mind of my own.  I was a tomboy.  I rode horses.  I played tennis.  I swam.  In those days, little girls were supposed to play with dolls and give tea parties.  Later, in my teens, when I went to parties, I was always the last girl to be asked to dance. 

            "'I was interested in subjects to which boys were usually drawn -- science, math, biology,' she said.  'The more I competed with the boys in my classes, the more they resented me. 

            "'As I became more occupied with horses, I found satisfaction in correcting stallions and geldings.  Some of the other girls who boarded their horses at the riding stable criticized me for being "crop happy."  I was once grounded for a week by the stable owner for excessively punishing a young stallion who almost unseated me.'

            "She told me how as a teenager her fantasies shifted from daydreams of mastering an animal to those in which she aspired to bring a young man to his knees and then punish him.

            "However, she said that the closest she ever came was during an incident that occurred a year after taking her faculty position at the medical school. 

            "'My nephew was visiting for the summer after completing his freshman year in college,' she said.  'One afternoon, after I had been out in the ring working one of the horses, I went back into the house and caught him in the liquor cabinet.  Although he was already a young man of 18 years, I took him to his room, removed his blue jeans and gave him a sound horsewhipping. 

            "'Afterward, I discovered that I was -- wet,' she confessed.  'But, until I met you, Brett, there was never anything like we've had together.'"

            "'Right now,' she continued, 'there are at least two Claudines, and perhaps, a third.  There's the career woman, the geneticist.  Then, there's the horsewoman, the disciplinarian.  And, finally, there is a very vulnerable lady who wants to love and be loved.  It's the third me that might not be ready yet, but wants to...very much wants to....'

            "She buried her face against me, sobbing, and I comforted her, assuring her that all she needed was time," Farrington said.  "I felt her body shudder.

            "'I'm cold,'" she said. 

            "'Let's sit closer to the fire,' I suggested.

            "We sat on plump floor cushions, directly in front of the burning logs.  We each drank another amaretto, and gradually the romantic mood was rekindled.

            "We stretched out on the floor and began kissing again.  I took her in my arms.  Her body lay on top of me and I ran my hands over her, feeling the softness of the corduroy and the firmness of her buttocks. 

            "We looked in each other's eyes and she spoke to me very softly.   

            "'I think you know I want something, don't you?' she asked.

            "I nodded affirmatively.

            "'What I want is you,' she said, with a gleam in her eye that electrified me.

            "Moments later, we were in her bedroom.  It was dark and she motioned me to stand still.  She lit an oil lamp, adjusted the wick, and replaced the chimney.  It yielded a beautiful soft light.  Our shadows on the wall would be the only witnesses to what happened next.

            "This time, Claudine instructed me to remove her clothes and then mine. 

            "Once we were both nude, she reclined on the king-sized bed.  Her silky hair was spread out on the white pillow like a mermaid's tresses floating in the sea.  She beckoned me to come to her.  As I began to take my position, she briefly held me off as she turned to a nightstand and opened a drawer.  I saw her remove what appeared to be a dark tan leather paddle which she carefully laid on the edge of the bed near her right hand.

            "Later, I learned that it wasn't a paddle, but a Western bat, also called a dogging bat.  Though used primarily by Western riders as a training aid, the flat instrument is also often seen in the hands of English riders.  It measured about 12 to 14 inches in length and was about three inches wide toward the business end, tapering to two inches at the handle, and was perhaps a quarter-inch thick.  A wrist loop was affixed to the handle end.

            "'Kiss me,' she whispered.

            "I obliged without need of coaxing.  I sat on the edge of the bed and she reached out for me.  Our lips met and it was only moments until her tongue frantically united with mine.  She held me to her tightly.  When she relaxed her grip, I began kissing her face, cheeks, ears and neck.  Ultimately, I kissed every part of her body as she moaned with longing.

            "'I can't take any more.  Come to me,' I heard her gasp. 

            "I did so, spreading myself atop her smooth and well-toned frame.  I paused briefly to admire her classic beauty as I took my position.             

            "She again drew me toward her opened lips and aroused me almost beyond limits with a probing wet kiss that I remember to this day.             

            "'Brett,' she said.  'I want you to give me everything that you have inside you.  You mustn't hold back anything.  Do you understand?  I must have all of you.'

            "As our bodies merged and our passions soared, I found myself working extra hard to satisfy her.  We both perspired freely and were breathing heavily.  As I gave of myself, and thrust my manhood into her repeatedly, I felt a sudden sharp, loud smack on my backside.  Then another.  She had taken in hand the leather paddle and was urging me on with it.

            "'Brett, I want it all!  Give it all to me!' she commanded in between smacks -- her voice rising emotionally.

            "I made a supreme effort.  I extended myself to the maximum.  Despite everything, I again felt her Western bat slap against my bottom.  Though my buttocks began to heat and redden as a result of the stinging assaults -- which were delivered in near-perfect rhythm -- my fervor and excitement was suddenly pushed to newly-found heights.  As we both neared climax, I had the momentary feeling that I had been transported to another world.

            "Finally spent, I collapsed into her arms.  We lay there holding each other for more than an hour.  I sometimes dozed for a few minutes and dreamed -- of her.

            "After a time, we walked to the kitchen, where I peeled an orange which we shared.  Then, without the need of words, we walked back to the bedroom and again tenderly held each other.

            "During the weeks that followed, we spent much time together, sharing life, love and excitement.  One Sunday afternoon, as we dined in an outdoor cafe in Sausalito, she took my hand and said there was something important she had to tell me.

            "My heart skipped a beat.  I knew this affair wasn't meant to be a lifetime contract, but I wasn't prepared for it to end. 

            "She opened her purse, removed an envelope, pulled out a letter and handed it to me.  It informed her that she had been accepted as a research fellow in the medical school of a ranking university in France. 

            "'I've been praying for that fellowship to come through,' she said.  'It's the opportunity of a lifetime.  It's the stuff that makes for Nobels.  But, it means spending at least two years in France.  I don't know what to do.'

            "'You don't have a choice,' I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.  'You must go, of course.  You would never forgive yourself if you didn't.  I encourage you.' 

            "I realized that if I had asked her to stay, she'd never have forgiven me.

            "She was at first stunned, then relieved.  She smiled broadly.  Her hand reached out to take mine.  She squeezed it hard. 

            "'Thank you, Brett,' she said.

            "As her departure date approached and it came time to say our goodbyes, there were some tears and many reflections. 

            "Soon, I would drive her to the airport and she would arrive in New York to board a passenger liner bound for Le Havre.                         

            "When she boarded the ship and was escorted to her stateroom for the six-day voyage, she would find waiting a bouquet of two dozen long-stemmed, red roses.

            "The card read, 'Bon Voyage from someone who's very grateful that not all little girls play with dolls and give tea parties.'"

#

The Farrington Diaries

Something a little different for today's post. One of our readers, Rob, was kind enough to send me the first chapter of a rather well written story and I thought it would be nice to share it. The artwork is also by one of his friends. Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

 

Breaking Bad Habits

 

            The wackiest idea I ever had for a play that I never wrote came to me on a November day as I chomped into a pumpernickel bagel.  That winter my mother's friend, Hermione, while improving her skiing in Switzerland, had graciously invited me to housesit her apartment on West 73rd.

 

            On Sunday mornings, I would assemble the percolator and dash around the corner to World O' Bagels.  The owner's daughter always made it a point to take my order herself.  "How's the professor?" she would ask.  Her flirtation that particular day prompted her to slide a pumpernickel bagel into the white bakery bag with my standard order of two onion bagels to go.  Just possibly, it was the suede patches on my thrift-shop, tweed jacket which prompted the spontaneous love offering.

 

            I finished the crossword in the Times as well as the onion bagels slathered with cream cheese.  The slosh of the coffee pot indicated enough for one more mug.  To leave the gift bagel uneaten seemed more ungentlemanly than I cared to be.  Juggling the postscript to my breakfast, I set the dark brown wheel of a bagel on Hermione's book-laden coffee table.  My boots created a fleeting arc before they landed in the corner by the silk fica trees.

 

            Settling in on the long white sofa, I held the classified section of CityLife magazine propped against my knees.  Glancing at the personals -- boy wants girl, boy wants boy, boy wants girl and boy, etc. -- I simultaneously visualized a play in three acts with seven actors based on these terse ads.  I bit into the bagel, quickly realizing that the gooey, crunchy mixture in my mouth was some of my dentist's best amalgam filling.

 

            Then came the damning tirade wherein bagels and lovestruck teenage girls equally shared my stomping wrath.  Vented, but unable to keep my tongue from constantly reaffirming the new crater in my mouth, I returned to the magazine having momentarily forgotten my inspiration for instant success on Broadway.

 

            Under the heading "Professional Help Wanted," a single boxed ad in reverse type captured my attention. There was haunting poetry in the words "Ghost Writer" appearing in white typeface on a small blanket of black. The ad explained that aspirants for the position should apply in writing to a post office box number stating qualifications and providing a telephone number. 

 

            Thoughts of pain and plays died as hope was born.  That my cash flow situation might soon change direction and head toward positive motivated me to reply within the hour.  The third and final draft of my reply factually listed my recently-acquired master's degree in English, my just-published chapbook of poems and my immediate availability. 

 

            In the event that it might be important to this prospective employer, I emphasized in the last paragraph that I could be counted on in the area of discretion as well as syntax.

 

            After mailing my application, I expected every ring of the telephone to be from this individual, whom I imagined was either too inept or too busy to do his own word work. 

 

            On Thursday afternoon, while I was at the New York Public Library researching Union Army military insignia for my poem about the taking of Richmond, the individual who placed the ad phoned.  As I retell this, I am aware that I never for an instant believed the placer of the ad to be a woman.  In fact, I was right.  The voice on my answering machine was male, mature, certainly educated if not also refined -- and cautious.  The caller politely requested my presence in The Adirondack Hotel bar at six o'clock the following evening for drinks.  Ask for Brett Farrington.  The bartender would know.  A local telephone number was left for "regrets only."

 

            I chose my clothes for the interview carefully.  Jeans and tweeds would not inspire the confidentiality that I had promised, I thought to myself.  A business suit?  Nah.  I wanted him to know that I could write, not prepare his tax returns.  Then, it struck me.  The combination of grey flannels and blue blazer would be just the ticket. Mainstream enough to be accepted by the establishment and when worn with a natty, navy blue-striped shirt and subdued, red tie, sartorially au courant enough to be recognized as someone in the arts.  Yet, at the same time, professional.  It was perfect.

 

            Trying to dodge the raindrops, I bolted from the cab and pushed my way through The Adirondack's revolving doors.  When my hand gripped the wet brass push bar, I felt the cold climb up through my arm before it turned and traveled down to my toes.  The sensation suddenly froze my self-confidence and left me unaccountably nervous.  In retrospect, I recall my instincts warning me that I was about to commence a conversation unlike any other in my life.

 

            In the hallowed confines of The Adirondack's bar, I counted seven unaccompanied male patrons.  Among them, three held down tables by themselves.  The others sat at the bar.

 

            The bartender was busy pouring drinks, so I decided to test my skill at matching voices with faces. Scanning the tables, my eyes passed over a middle-aged, gray-suited man wearing a western bola tie, then on to a portly, younger man half-asleep over an imported beer.

 

            The third man, clearly the most venerable of the candidates for Brett Farrington, sat at one of the small round tables apart from the others.  He was engrossed in the distinctive peach-colored pages of The Financial Times, which he read through a pair of tortoise shell half-glasses under a small amber circle of light falling from the brass ship's lantern mounted on the wall above.  Momentarily, he looked up from his newspaper and a split second later motioned me to join him.

 

            The resonant, well-defined voice I had heard only as it sounded trapped in my answering machine belonged to this silver-haired man wearing a hand-tailored, three-piece suit.  When he stood to greet me, six-footer that I am, I had to look up to meet his eyes.  Despite the barroom gloom, I could see he was a man of the outdoors.  I'd have immediately cast him for the role of the squire in an English drawing room murder mystery.

 

            We shook hands.  Then, came self-introductions, followed by some brief, small talk about the downpour outside.  We both took seats, and I told him how I had come to respond to his advertisement.  I was about to make reference to some writing projects I had completed, when he interrupted me.

 

            "Unnecessary, my boy.  Totally.  I assure you," Farrington declared in clipped, upper-class British tones. He spoke flawless Queen's English. 

 

            "You're the man for the job," he continued.  "Absolutely no doubt about it.  None whatsoever."

 

            I was frankly puzzled.

 

            "Thank you very much," I said with some hesitancy.  "But, would you like to see some samples of my work or perhaps..."

 

            He interrupted me again.  "Nonsense.  You are the right man.  Your assignment will be to write my life's story or the parts of it I deem worth the telling."  He squinted a bit, adding, "You are just the person to do it."

 

            Again, I started to protest.  "But, we haven't discussed a time frame, fees..."

 

            "No need to, my boy.  None.  Whatever the going rate is in New York these days for this kind of work is what you'll be paid," he said.  "Plus something extra, of course, for the discretion you claim in your letter."

 

            His cocksure attitude was beginning to irritate me.  "But, I'm not sure that I'm free right now to..."

 

            "Please," he interrupted, drawing the word out.  "Don't make the mistake of rejecting my offer."  He tugged on his left sleeve, pulling the French cuff back into alignment.  "You have a master's degree with your name still wet on the parchment.  You're living gratis in a flat provided by a family friend, a Hermione something-or-other. You've been seeking office work under the auspices of a temporary agency, and you have less than three hundred dollars in your checking account.  No money, no prospects, and no girl friend at the moment, for that matter."

 

            As I sat speechless, he caught the server's eye and ordered a refill of his tomato and clam juice cocktail. Then, he looked at me questioningly.

 

            "Scotch and water?  Water on the side?" he asked me, as the server waited for the order.

 

            Nodding my assent, I was flabbergasted that Farrington  obviously had me investigated.

 

            He continued, "You see, my boy, I have a sixth sense about people and their character.  It's a skill one develops -- as opposed to a talent one brings into the world at birth."

 

            Once more, I tried to pose a question.  "But how do you..."

 

            "Doesn't matter.  Not in the least.  It only matters that the information is one hundred percent accurate," he said.  "Saves a lot of time, really."

 

            The server delivered our drinks.  Farrington briefly sipped from his glass.  He obviously engaged his sixth sense to discern the uncertainty that I was feeling. 

 

            He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner.  "Full of misgivings are you?  More than a tad incredulous? Feeling a bit railroaded, as we used to say?"  He smiled.  "Enjoy your drink, my boy.  Meanwhile, let me see if I can't put you at ease."

 

            At that point I wanted very much to be relaxed and at the same time not lose this chance for solvency that had been dumped in my lap.  Was this guy from the CIA or what?  The wood smoke aroma of the Scotch helped settle my nerves a bit.

 

            "What I suggest is that we schedule two or three meetings a week, each for a few hours.  I'll start at the beginning -- you asking whatever questions come to your mind and taking notes.  Perhaps, it might require about three months," Farrington said.  "After that, you'll have six months to create a first draft.  We'll edit it together, more or less, and in a year or so the book will be completed."

 

            He took another sip of his drink, then continued, "You'll make your decision before you leave the table and whatever you decide will be considered final by both of us.  I hope I make myself clear."

 

            He was telling me that I wouldn't get a second chance and doing it in a style I rather admired.  However, I still had one embarrassing question that begged asking. 

 

            "With all due respect," I began.  "If you'll forgive my saying so, as interesting as

we all feel our lives are...well, not everyone has a life story that warrants a major investment of time and money."

 

            Surprisingly, Farrington appeared to agree.  "Quite so, quite so," he said.  Then, he looked at me for a few moments before breaking the silence.

 

            "My boy," he responded in a paternalistic tone, "if you will kindly sit here with me and your Glenlivet for a bit longer, I'm sure you'll agree that my story might indeed hold a reader's interest."

 

            Farrington leaned slightly forward, cautiously glancing around the room to observe whether anyone might be eavesdropping.      

  

           He then continued, "There was an incident that occurred when I was a lad of eighteen that transformed the course and direction of my life.  The story I am about to relate will utterly convince you of how unique my experiences have been and at the same time how important a role they played in my life."

 

            "Seems fair enough," I replied.

 

            Farrington then began to recount one of the strangest stories I have ever heard.

 

            "It was the summer of 1937.  We were living in Hampstead -- one of the London suburbs -- and my father had accepted a summer teaching post in Nigeria.  Arrangements had been made for me to stay with my mother's sister, Lydia, and her husband in Gloucestershire.

 

            "Aunt Lydia and Uncle Malcolm lived on a country estate complete with stables, tennis court and even a running brook.  I had visited there before and was most fond of my aunt and uncle.  And though I didn't know it at the time, this visit was to be quite different.

 

            "First, I might note that Aunt Lydia married Uncle Malcolm when both had reached middle age.  They had no children of their own.  However, Uncle Malcolm's brother had a son and a daughter, both of whom were doted upon by Uncle Malcolm.

 

            "Upon my arrival, I learned that my visit was to coincide with that of my uncle's aforementioned nephew and niece, Nigel and Alexa. 

 

            "Nigel and I instantly became fast friends.  He was a year younger than I, and as lads often do, he saw me as a role model. Alexa, who was nineteen, was scarcely by a year my senior.  However, her bearing and poise were those of a well-bred young lady.  There was nothing in the least skittish about her, if you know what I mean."

 

            Farrington paused momentarily to pick up his drink from the table, took a few sips, then continued.

 

            "The first few weeks of the summer vacation were idyllic.  Nigel and I wandered the acreage, exploring, discovering small animals, fishing and swimming in an inviting pond on the estate.

 

            "Then, one night at dinner, quite unexpectedly, Uncle Malcolm announced to us that he and Aunt Lydiawere leaving early the next morning for Devon, where his dear friend, a Mr. Wilcox, lay seriously ill.  They would be away for an indefinite period.  We were to obey the housekeeper, Mrs. Collings, he admonished us.  However, he was designating his niece, Alexa, as the senior family member, to act as official head of household during his absence."

 

            Another sip of scotch traveled down my throat.  It knew it's way by now. 

 

            "My uncle's announcement left no particular impression on me, and following their departure the next morning, Nigel and I resumed our explorations.

 

            "I should add here that during my eighteenth year, I was in that stage of development which many youths find rather awkward," he said.  At the same time, he briefly peered at me over his half-glasses, perhaps to gauge my reaction.

 

            I nodded to let him know I understood. 

 

          Farrington wore a wafer-slim Movado watch on his left wrist, but yet referred to puberty in such a circumspect way.  Nice anomaly here, I thought.            

 

          He continued, "One morning, Nigel and I were on our way to the woods, taking a path that brought us near the stables.  As we approached, I could see that Alexa was leading a freshly-saddled horse toward the large oval riding ring.  I turned my head in curiosity as I had always liked horses.  Nigel tugged at my arm, impatient as youngsters often are, but I resisted him and walked nearer to the ring.  Nigel followed me reluctantly, and we both took up spectator positions along the fence railings.

 

            "Alexa and her horse, a well-proportioned, dappled gray stallion with a distinctive black mane and tail, had already reached the inside of the ring.  In case you might be curious as to whether I was attracted by the horse or the rider, let me make it clear that it was not the horse.

 

            "I'll tell you what my eyes saw:  Alexa was strikingly tall.  She stood about five feet nine inches.  She was full-bodied and most attractive," he added, peering over his glasses once more to see if I was following.

 

            "I saw not a 'pretty girl,' but a very handsome young woman who was preparing to mount a splendid-looking and spirited animal," he said.

 

            "It was a magnificent summer day -- quite rare in England, you know -- and the sunlight played on her chestnut brown hair, which was rich with color.  That morning, she wore her hair in neat braids, pinned up and wrapped closely around her head."

 

            Farrington had me hooked, and I now listened intently.  The way his eyes lighted up, undoubtedly from a passion that still burned inside him, told me that this young woman would play no small part in his biography.

 

            "Her face wore her intelligence," he continued.  "Young as she was, one knew just by looking at her that she would be the responsible sort.  She appeared strong of character, yet not at the cost of her femininity.

 

            "For some reason, when I focused my attention on her that morning, it was as if I were seeing her for the first time, and as such, the occasion is recalled with extreme vividness.  Every detail is as clear in my mind's eye today as it was that summer day, many years ago.

 

            "Alexa rode in a pair of fawn breeches.  They fitted her perfectly, I might add.  Her well-defined, long legs were anchored to the earth by the tall, brown boots she wore.  The boots were equipped with spurs. 

 

            "Her abundant bosom swelled within a long-sleeved, white shirt contrasted by a wide burgundy tie, which was the style among equestrians at that time.

 

            "I watched her pull on a pair of tight-fitting leather riding gloves, then cover the luxurious crown of her braided hair with a black velvet-covered protective helmet.  Firmly positioned in her right hand was a thick brown leather riding crop.

 

            "She mounted, took up the double reins and, using her heels, signaled the animal to walk.  After a few minutes, she called on him to trot.  When he failed to immediately obey her, using her whip -- while seated tall in the saddle -- she resolutely applied a couple of well-placed smacks to his rump.  Simultaneously, she applied her gleaming, chrome-plated spurs -- each with their tiny sharp rowels -- to her mount's flanks with exacting precision.    "Her facial expression, however, betrayed no indication of displeasure.  Nor did I notice any sign of satisfaction when he, receiving her message, promptly fell into a trot.  As a matter of fact, she appeared without emotion during the entire transaction.  It was as though she were driving an automobile and had merely shifted gears.     

 

            "For the next half hour, I stood at the rail mesmerized.  New feelings came alive inside my lanky body. And I tell you, quite honestly, that had my life depended upon it, I could not have given a name to what I was experiencing.  There was warm pleasure and chilly confusion in equal parts, and, more significantly, somewhere deep within my psyche, a sense of...not danger, but risk.  At that moment, an explanation of what was happening to me would have been impossible.  But, I tell you the sense that I had just crossed over into a universe I'd not previously known was as immense and as real as this table." 

 

            He thumped the table with the side of his fist causing me to start and the drinks to slosh in unison.

 

            As Farrington unwound his tale, I began to feel a rumble inside and sent my facial muscles stern orders to display a poker face until further notice. 

 

            How was it that he chose me to write his biography?  No doubt, an unemployment line filled with starving writers replied to his ad.  Why not one of them?  Was it simply chance or did he really possess a sixth sense?

 

            Farrington continued, "My eyes had no choice but to follow her every motion.  She sat erect and regal in the saddle.  Her attitude was serious and businesslike, and she tolerated no nonsense from her mount.  Whatever exercises she and the horse embarked upon -- be it changing leads, moving him from a trot into a canter or taking jumps -- the maneuvers were executed with precision and full self-confidence on her part.  It was quite clear that she maintained complete control over him at all times.     

 

          "Whenever he failed to respond at once to her command or in the particular manner she wished, she wasted not a moment in correcting him.  After pulling him up and taking a tight hold on the reins with one hand, she masterfully applied her whip to his  ample flanks, administering truly meaningful punishment. 

 

            "What impressed me was both her remarkable strength and her determination.  Throughout, she never wavered nor lost her patience.  Quite the contrary, she delivered each smack to the animal's backside without discernible change in her composure."

 

            Farrington paused to take another sip from his glass, while again glancing over at me.  Poker face, don't fail me now!

 

            He resumed, "It became abundantly clear to me that she demanded absolute obedience from her mount, willing or unwilling, and she exacted it.

 

            "Interestingly, however, she never seemed to take any notice of my presence.  Nigel wandered off, only to reappear a half-hour later to learn what had become of me.  He again tugged at my arm.  He coaxed me to accompany him, but I brushed him aside.  Finally, I yielded, realizing that remaining there might cause him to ask questions I didn't want to answer or that his high-pitched voice -- it hadn't changed yet -- might draw attention.

 

            "We turned toward the woods and walked together about a quarter mile before I begged off, saying that I must return to the house in order to write a letter to my parents, which needed to go into the morning post.

 

            "On the return walk to the manor, my imagination carried me away and my arousal was so great that I dared not be seen in such a condition.  When I entered the foyer, the housekeeper, Mrs. Collings, was engrossed in straightening a large oil portrait of someone's dusty relative.  Her back was toward me, so I greeted her and just as quickly ascended the wide staircase to the second floor, where I immediately went to my room.  I was relieved that the housekeeper's eyes had not rested upon me as my trousers were outstretched in a most embarrassing fashion.

 

            "Once inside my room, I fell onto the bed and for a short time daydreamed of Alexa astride her mount.  I recalled every morsel of the vivid episode I had just witnessed in the riding ring.  Feeding my youthful exhuberance, I lay absorbed with the image of this poised equestrian while completely lost in fantasy.  I was at the center of my own illusion with Alexa circling me round and round until I felt a pulsating vortex had been created wherein I swirled in rapturous delight.  Alexa, on the stallion, rode through my whole being, and as I let go of the last vestiges of rationality, I saw her dismount the horse and come astride me.  Instantly, as it is in dreams, she was free of her riding breeches, shirt and tall boots, and her long chestnut brown hair was loose and flowing over her proud and generous breasts.  Now, I was miraculously naked also and we were locked in a passionate and frenzied embrace.

 

            "When I realized that I could no longer endure the exquisite torment of this sexual fantasy, I hastened to the private bath adjoining my room, where I quickly disrobed.  My intention was to seek relief under the shower, invoking pubescent youth's dependable standby -- copious amounts of soap and running hot water.

 

            "However, completely unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Collings, a rather prudish woman, had come to my room to see if I might have taken ill.  I had locked the bedroom door before stepping into the shower, and had no idea -- none whatever -- that my privacy would be invaded.

 

            "Later, I learned that Mrs. Collings had knocked and waited for a reply which wasn't forthcoming.  She then used her housekeeper's key to unlock the door and entered the bedroom to make certain that all was well.  When she found the bedroom unoccupied, she proceeded toward the bathroom.  Evidently, her eyesight was not failing, and she got quite a start, or so she claimed, when she opened the door, which wasn't fitted with a lock, and saw my rather active endeavors silhouetted against the almost transparent shower curtain."

 

            The server came and again exchanged empty glasses for full ones.

 

            "It turned out," Farrington continued, "at the moment the housekeeper was descending the stairs while ranting about my misbehavior, Alexa was returning from the stable.  One can only guess exactly what Mrs. Collings reported to her; but whatever it was, it was enough to put me in serious trouble.

 

            "Alexa, upon receiving the housekeeper's report, took it upon her shoulders, as acting head of household, to deal with the matter promptly.  She informed Mrs. Collings that she would take responsibility for administering discipline and dispatched her to return to her duties."

 

            I felt warm.  Maybe it was the Scotch.  Meanwhile, Farrington took a sip of his drink in a most dignified manner. 

 

            He then continued, "Unaware of what was occuring outside the shower stall, I was in a state of high excitement and nearing a peak, when over the roar of the shower I heard a noise.  It was an unmistakable sound -- the clip-clop of hard-heeled English riding boots on the bathroom tile floor.  My boyish heart nearly stopped beating when the shower curtain was unceremoniously drawn back and I was exposed."

 

            Farrington leaned back in his chair and adjusted his cuffs.

 

            "Well, there I stood.  Lathered all over, flagpole and all.  Quite a predicament, don't you see?"          

 

            I did understand. 

 

            "Appearing before me, however, was not the awakening embodiment of my morning's dream -- a lover with whom I was about to share an intimate encounter -- but instead, the real Alexa.  Quite real, I must tell you.  Her commanding presence filled the steamy bathroom as she stood majestically, hands on hips, glaring at me.  In her left hand, she clutched her gloves. In her right, she firmly grasped her riding crop. 

 

            "At that moment, I was suffering so from the shock of discovery that I briefly saw two images standing before me.  One, the infuriated acting head of household, poised only a few feet from my naked body; the other, Alexa the goddess of passion, fresh out of my fantasy.  The images blurred into one another, and I likely had a most confused look upon my face.  Though, it wasn't my face that got me into this bit of a fix."

 

            Farrington halted momentarily to allow the effect to settle on me.  It settled, God knows, and I swallowed extra hard before he continued.

 

            "'Rinse yourself and come out of that shower immediately, young man,' Alexa ordered.  'And get rid of that disgusting thing,' she said, motioning toward the uprisen source of my embarrassment.

 

            "I managed to get the soap off my body and wrap a Turkish towel around my waist.  Quivering with fear, I walked back into the bedroom.  Alexa was slowly pacing the floor.  Her every stride exuded determination.  'Lie down,' she commanded, pointing to the bed.  'And you shan't need that towel,' she said, snapping it away from my loins, again exposing my embarrassment.

 

            "She subsequently proceeded to deliver a lecture on the loathsomeness of my misbehavior, emphasizing that such  wrongdoing was abhorrent and couldn't be tolerated among the well-bred.

 

            "Then, while carefully measuring each word, she informed me that as acting head of household it was her duty to administer required discipline when necessary.        

 

            "As she spoke, I noticed her cheeks take on added color and her breathing become more rapid.  Otherwise, her composure betrayed absolutely no sign of emotion.

 

            "Here was I, meanwhile, a post-pubescent 18-year-old, awaiting chastisement from a contemporary.  I must confess, however, that Alexa's poise and bearing far outdistanced her actual years.

 

            "I lay face down on the bed, sinking into the valleys of the duvet, with my head turned sideways and my eyes riveted to her.  Although, I knew the fate that was to be mine, I felt totally powerless to either flee or resist. My will seemed to be momentarily lost.  Meanwhile, all of me remained fixed upon the statuesque young horsewoman. 

 

            "Long-legged, she stood tall and imposing in her tight-fitting breeches and polished leather riding boots. 

 

            "At the same moment, I was moved by how fastidious she still appeared in her starched, long-sleeved white shirt and burgundy tie.  A brown woven leather belt accentuated her trim waist.

 

            "Every strand of her lovely braided hair lay in its proper place on her head, no doubt each one fearful, lest any move incur its owner's wrath.  Her long eyelashes shielded her limpid green eyes. 

 

            "After a moment's pause, she looked down her elegant    aquiline nose at me.  I tried to speak, but couldn't. 

 

            "Wearing an expression of detachment on her pale face, she coolly informed me that as a young man of my position, I was obliged to accept her punishment. 

 

            "Then, in a businesslike manner, she pulled on her tight-fitting doeskin gloves while tucking her crop under her arm.  Once prepared, she raised her heavy riding whip.           

 

            "After flexing it several times, she thwacked its looped keeper against the flat of her gloved hand, as if to measure the instrument's effectiveness.  As she did so, I could see that the braided leather crop was quite thick, though pliable in the hands of its user.        

 

            "Apparently satisfied, Alexa proceeded with my humiliation, laying on strokes which delivered scorching hellfire to my backside.  I was in agony, and yet in my consciousness I was aware that each stroke was masterfully applied.  At no time during the punishment did I cry out, whimper or plead for leniency. 

 

            "Later, when I examined myself in the mirror, I saw the near-perfect lattice work of red and blue weals on my chastisted bottom, which Alexa had left as her signature.

 

            "The flogging lasted perhaps five minutes.  Afterward, the only words she spoke were, 'You may get dressed now.' 

 

            "Then, with her whip permitted to dangle casually from a wrist loop around her right hand, she strolled out of the room, perfectly relaxed, as though nothing out of the ordinary had arisen."

 

            The awe in Farrington's voice was unmistakable.

 

            "At first, I was totally devastated by the humiliation of the punishment," he recalled.  "Then, there was the throbbing pain all across my loins and buttocks -- added to that my churning inner emotions. 

 

            "Astoundingly, at that moment, I again found myself in a heightened state of arousal -- one even more passionate and intense than existed earlier.  I had been caught...interrupted in the act and summarily disciplined. Now, I could only envision Alexa and recall the events of the last few hours -- over and over again.  And in every delicious and lustful detail."

 

            "When did you next see her?" I asked, unable to hold my curiosity.

 

            Farrington smiled.  "Patience is a virtue you must learn to cultivate, my boy."

 

            He continued, "I next set eyes upon her a few hours later at dinner.  I felt I had no choice but to appear in the dining room at my place at the table.  The mere act of sitting down in a chair was a challenge, much less having to face Alexa. 

 

            "She presided, as usual, at the head of the table in Uncle Malcolm's place.  We all said our 'good evenings,' and I prayed, as only the young can, that my inner thoughts could not be discerned by anyone at table.

 

            "During the dinner, we made polite conversation, though I participated with great reluctance.  I knew that my bottom was red and suspected that my face perhaps was even more so.  I dared not look directly into Alexa's eyes.  I only stole glances at her when she addressed Nigel who sat directly opposite me. 

 

            "It was difficult to believe that this well-bred young lady, observing all the social niceties and spreading mint jelly on a dainty bite of lamb, was the same individual who hours earlier had invaded my privacy, stripped me down to a naked state, observed my shame, then administered as severe a whipping as I had ever received.

 

            "When the meal was ended, I made a feeble excuse to avoid joining the others for an evening of backgammon and returned to my room.  I again lay on the bed, my state of agitation heightened.  Although my buttocks still smarted from the painful horsewhipping, my loins ached with desire for Alexa, who had punished me so unforgivingly.

 

            "I felt I couldn't risk attempting self-relief in my room, since I might be discovered.  So, I returned downstairs, casually mentioning to Mrs. Collings that I was going out for some fresh air.  I then proceeded to wander the grounds in the darkness.

 

            "During my walk, the entire focus of my concentration was upon my uncle's singular niece.  The thought of her drove me almost mad. 

 

            "At the same time, I frantically sought relief from the pent up thrust of passion within me.  I soon came upon the greenhouse, let myself in and felt my lungs fill with the air made fragrant by orchids and frangipanis. The moonlight passing through the slanted glass windows permitted me to find my way through the cultivated jungle.  I moved along the aisles, my body rustling the thick foliage into murmurs of welcome as I searched for privacy.  The atmosphere was heavy with moisture and the lushness surrounding me fostered my animal instincts all the more.

 

            "Soon, I arrived in the banana grove and took shelter within it, hidden by giant scheffleras planted nearby. It was there that I could finally obtain relief by my own hand.  So urgent was my passion, it ended almost as soon as it began. 

 

            "However, only moments after I felt my drive ebb, it suddenly surged again, as my brain and body were electrified by memories of the handsome horsewoman astride her stallion.  Once again, my hand was my lover, enabling me to escape the torture of unfulfilled desire.  At least three more times I indulged myself.  When I was exhausted, I wiped myself on one of the large leaves of a plant close at hand.

 

            "I returned to the house, perhaps aware for the first time that the strange and wonderful events of the day had been indelibly imprinted upon my mind.  As it turned out, they would become a lifelong legacy.

 

            "That night, I had great difficulty falling asleep.  My bottom and my loins still throbbed from the severe punishment.  Blisters had begun to show themselves.  Even worse, my libido now seemed in overdrive.  I could only fantasize about Alexa and hunger for both her love and her punishment."

 

            "Was that craving ever satisfied?" I asked.

 

            Farrington shot me a look of disapproval.  My first mistake.  Ask no direct questions, I thought.  Just let him tell his story.

 

            "Young man, I repeat, you must learn the virtue of patience," Farrington admonished.  "One mustn't hurry the telling of a story.

 

            "The days and weeks passed quickly.  Each moment, I longed to be in Alexa's presence.  At first, the evening dinner was my only opportunity.  However, being seated in such proximity to her only deepened my heart's starvation.  I was determined to find another way to be near her.

 

            "I soon contrived a plan which called for me to venture past the stables during mid-morning, when I knew she would be working her stallion in the ring.  I did so, intending to use the pretext of my growing interest in horses.  As I waited for her, I watched her ride. 

 

            "When she had finished her training and dismounted, I put forward my offer to help her around the stable in whatever way I might be useful and placed myself at her disposal.  She readily accepted my offer.  Thereafter, she would oblige me by assigning such duties as cleaning her saddle and stirrup leathers or mucking stalls. Eventually, she taught me brushing and grooming."

 

            "Did that lead to anything?" I asked.

 

            "Yes, but not exactly what I had hoped for," replied Farrington. 

 

            He continued, "The embarrassing incident in the shower was never mentioned.  Meanwhile, Alexa approached her relationship with me very much like that of a teacher toward her pupil.  Though she seemed engaging and outwardly friendly, she remained aloof.  To my great disappointment, there was not as much as a hint on her part of any romantic interest.

 

            "It was terribly frustrating.  There were times when I hungered so for her touch in an intimate way that I recklessly considered repeating my misbehavior to provoke her into disciplining me again.  But, I decided against it.

 

            "One day, after watching her take her stallion through his daily routine in the ring, I was busy cleaning her saddle, when I heard Alexa call to me.  Watching her ride earlier that morning had been a very emotional experience for me, and at that particular moment I remained greatly aroused.  During the morning workout, she had held extraordinarily high expectations of her mount, and when he failed to perform to her rigid standards, she smartly took him up, then punished him severely until her arm tired.  After witnessing this event, I tried desperately to control my passions, though my memory of it seemed to overpower the rational being inside me. You see, I wanted Alexa's attention -- in any form -- all for myself.

 

            "However, when I heard Alexa call, I immediately dropped the task at hand and hurried to her.  She stood in the stable tack room, resplendent in her riding clothes while looking at herself in an old mirror which hung on the wall.  She held a comb and brush in her hand.  Her long hair had been released from the confinement of its braided and tightly pinned-up style and now cascaded naturally, in splendor, over her shoulders.  I had not seen her this way before, except within my active imagination, and I envied those broad shoulders the weight of every strand of her hair.

 

            "I stood there, almost in reverence, prepared to pledge her my fealty forevermore, should she only ask.  But instead, she handed her brush to me.  It had natural bristles set into a silver backing whereon her initials were sensuously mingled, much as she and I were entwined in my dreams.  She directed me to brush out her hair.  She explained that a couple of hairpins had slipped out while she was cantering her mount and her braids had fallen loose.

 

            "My hands trembled as I held the brush.  As best I could, I drew the brush through the magnificent chestnut tresses which I had longed, but yet not dared, to touch.  My passions soared out of control.  I feared that any moment my secret might be exposed by telltale signs on my trousers.  I prayed to be spared such embarrassment.

 

            "Patiently, she instructed me on precisely how she wished for me to tend her.  'Brett, you must first grasp my hair mid-length and brush from there down.  Then, move up and repeat the process.  That will separate the tangles and bring me no discomfort.'  Her back was toward me, but she could observe my image in the mirror which she faced.  Likewise, standing behind her, I could admire her superior facial features -- combining both beauty and strength -- in the same mirror. 

 

            "Dedicated to my task, I followed her instructions to the letter and brushed and brushed.  As I did so, I noticed how each silken strand gleamed and shimmered as radiantly as she out of whose head they grew.   

 

            "After a few minutes, Alexa turned from the mirror to face me.  She gently took the brush from my hand and informed me she would herself complete the final steps of braiding and pinning.  She thanked me and I was dismissed.

 

            "I returned to my room only long enough to pick up a knapsack, then hurried out to seek a place of refuge and relief.  I realized, of course, that I could not use the greenhouse in broad daylight.

 

            "While hiking through the adjacent woods, I came upon a glade quite overgrown with grape ivy, where I felt I would not be observed.  It was perfect for my needs. 

 

            "I relieved my pulsating urge, immediately exploding in homage to Alexa.  But, moments afterward, I found myself struggling in my mind to guess what motivation lay behind her pattern.  Was she really unaware of my worship for her?  Was she teasing me? 

 

            "Did you ever find out?" I asked.  This time, Farrington only grimaced slightly.  Perhaps, he was becoming accustomed to my style of interviewing.

 

            "No," he replied.  "It drove me wild.  I felt helpless to act.  Meanwhile, I could only dwell upon images of the tall disciplinarian in riding attire.  Thoughts of her consumed my every moment.

 

            "You see, I was a relatively naive lad," he explained.  "Had I known then what I knew a few years later, I would have been much more bold.  But, I didn't know anything about women.  I didn't yet possess a man's knowledge and experience. 

 

            "I kept asking myself, 'Did Alexa find some peculiar satisfaction or excitement in teasing me?  Or was she herself somehow inhibited from expressing any romantic interest?'  It was terrible.  I had no one from whom I could seek advice.

 

            "A difficult situation," I ventured, attempting to appear less direct.

 

            "Quite," Farrington agreed.  "There were only a few weeks of holiday remaining.  I felt surely she must have noticed from my eyes, my facial expression, the way I looked at her in the riding ring or at the dinner table that I was smitten beyond salvation.  But, she kept her aloofness and there never arrived an opportunity for me to express my feelings...my overwhelming admiration for her."

 

            "Were there goodbyes?" I asked.

 

            "Indeed," Farrington replied.  "My parents came to collect me on their return from Africa.  Aunt Lydia and Uncle Malcolm had not yet returned home. 

 

            "It all was rather formal.  I introduced Nigel and Alexa to my parents.  Then, I addressed Alexa, telling her how much I enjoyed her company.  I expressed my thanks for her instruction in the care and grooming of horses. Finally, I bowed humbly to her as I told her goodbye.  I noticed a trace of a smile form on her lips as I did so.  Was she perhaps smiling in satisfaction?  It remained a mystery.

 

            "Alexa, in turn, bade me goodbye in a manner which can best be described as correct and proper.  There was absolutely no sign of warmth or emotion in her voice.  I was deeply disappointed, but I didn't let my feelings show.  Nigel and I shook hands, and it was over.  My parents drove me home.  My summer holiday had ended. And, yet, it's never ended."  

 

            "Did you ever see her again?" I asked.

 

            "Many years later," Farrington replied.  "But, that would be taking us ahead of the story.

 

            "Meanwhile, I was sent off to school.  Then the war came.  I enlisted in the army when I was eighteen.  My parents objected, but I fancied myself a patriot and was in a uniform in a matter of weeks.  First came Dunkirk -- that was a fiasco.  Later, North Africa under Montgomery.  Finally, Normandy.  I received a field commission and departed with a captain's rank when the war ended.  The war years matured all of us young chaps rather quickly."

 

            "Did you think about Alexa often?" I asked.

 

            "Constantly," answered Farrington.  "Just the thought of her  was enough to deliver me into another world -- a sanctuary where I dwelled on passionate memories combined with my own fantasies.  It kept my mind occupied when I lay in a muddy foxhole for days.

 

            "When I returned home, one of the first things I did was contact Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Lydia.  I telephoned saying I was home from the war and was eager to visit them.  They were glad to see me and relieved that I had returned in one piece.  Many of the lads, you know, came back missing an arm, a leg...it was a terrible, terrible war.  But, that is war, isn't it?"

 

            Farrington summoned the server, requesting that his tab be transferred to the dining room since we would be going in to dine, shortly.  He glanced in my direction, seeking my approval, which he received in the form of a nod of my head.

 

            "You had gone to visit your aunt and uncle after the war," I prompted.

 

            "Ah, yes," Farrington said, returning to his narrative.  "They asked me about my combat experiences, and we talked about the war for quite a while.  Then, I discreetly inquired about Nigel and Alexa.  Almost apologetically, Uncle Malcolm explained that his nephew had been too young to enter the war and only recently had begun his studies at Cambridge.  He said Alexa had taken a degree in English literature and was hired to fill a teaching position in Leeds.  She had been introduced to an eligible gentleman, a chartered accountant, and they were married a few years ago.  There was no mention of any children.

 

            "I was dispirited, to say the least.  But, I was careful not to let my disappointment show. 

 

            "Following that visit, I resisted attempts by my parents to help me enroll in university.  I had no interest in a profession or anything else, for that matter.  I was restless.  I knew that I needed something new.  The farther away, the better.  Turn a new leaf and all that, you know. 

 

            "An army comrade had no trouble inducing me to join him in taking a job with an Australian mining venture.  The pay was excellent and filled with opportunity.  I learned the business in a snap.  Advancing in the corporate structure was no problem at all.  My positions required travel to other distant locations to open new explorations -- Africa, New Guinea, Malaysia, Chile, Bolivia.  It got me away, and that's what I needed. 

 

            "After a few years, I became a partner in the firm.  Both the company and I prospered.  In the early 1960s, we were acquired by an international conglomerate.  By that time, I held a substantial share in the company, so I ended up with a packet.  I wasn't yet forty years old and had most of my life in front of me.  I was too young to retire."

 

            "So what did you do?" I asked.

 

            "Well, I never could dislodge from my mind the memory of that summer's experience.  No matter how busy I was with my travels or responsibilities, my internal world still revolved around the handsome young horsewoman whose hair I brushed every night in my dreams. 

 

            "Of course, I now had economic freedom.  But, what would I do with it?  I invested heavily in blue chip income property, mostly office complexes and commercial buildings, in San Francisco, Boston and Dallas.  I've never had much confidence in securities.  You know, the stock market, bonds and other such. 

 

            "Then, one day I turned over responsibility for the properties to a management firm.  I wanted to escape the humdrum of daily routine and seek adventure. 

 

            "Since most of my investments were here and I liked America, I decided to explore the States. 

 

            "I was especially keen to learn once and for all whether there existed other women who possessed some of the traits and characteristics I witnessed in Alexa.

 

            "You see, I was so heavily occupied with work during those post-war years that I had been too busy for the opposite sex."

 

            "So, you thought that maybe you could repeat the experience somehow?" I asked.  "Or perhaps something along those lines?"

 

            "Yes, 'something along those lines' is a perfect way to phrase it," said Farrington.  "You are good with words.  As I knew you would be."

 

            He continued, "As it turned out, and quite to my surprise, I encountered more than just a few of these women who seek the upper hand. 

 

            "I also learned that I'm not alone in this world as concerns my sexual preferences.  During my travels, I determined from personal conversations as well as second-hand accounts that a sizeable percentage of American men share my penchant.  It's simply not often talked about.  You know, taboo.       

 

            "Anyway, my explorations took me through almost every state as well as an occasional trip abroad.  My Odyssey required several years to complete."

 

            "You must have some fascinating stories to tell." I said.

 

            "Precisely," Farrington answered.  "And I will be sharing these with you -- all in due course.  It will take a few months to complete the telling of these stories. 

 

            "Meanwhile, I've rented an apartment for you on Riverside Drive.  It's fully furnished, of course.  I've taken a year's lease on it. 

 

            "We can work there if that's convenient for you.  Mornings are best for me.  We can meet every other day or so, and on alternate days you can transcribe your notes or whatever it is that writers do."

 

            He looked at me pointblank.  "Will that be satisfactory?"

 

            "Uh, sure.  I mean yes," I answered.  Stunned, I hesitated whether I should ask for a package figure.  Before I could decide, however, Farrington dealt with the sticky issue as if it were Teflon-coated.

 

            "As far as compensation is concerned, I believe you can deduce that this manuscript is very important to me," Farrington said.  "How would $50,000 seem to you?  If it's satisfactory, I'll have a contract for you to sign at our next meeting along with an advance payment check.  After that, progress payments along the way."

 

            "That's fine," I gulped.  It was far more than I had expected for such a job.  And, he was throwing in an apartment, rent free.

 

            Farrington removed a business card from a small, silver-trimmed alligator case.  The card was engraved with his name only.  He took out a Mont Blanc fountain pen and wrote the address of the Riverside Driveapartment on the card, then handed it to me along with a key.

 

            "Would Thursday morning at ten be a suitable time to begin work?" Farrington asked.

 

            "No problem," I answered, eager to get started.  In truth, my enthusiasm was as much the product of what I anticipated hearing as it was the fee he was going to pay me.  The old gent had certainly been around, and judging from what I had already heard, this was to be something I wouldn't want to miss. 

 

            I knew the interview was over, but I couldn't stop myself from posing one more question.

 

            "Mr. Farrington, I hope you don't mind my asking," I persisted, "but when did you see Alexa again?"

 

            Farrington smiled.  I surmised that he probably knew that Alexa was now on my mind, too.  He rolled his chair back from the cocktail table.  We both stood up. 

 

            "You'll have to be satisfied when I tell you that all loose ends will be neatly tied up before we conclude our work," he assured me.

 

            "Come my boy," he said, patting me on the shoulder as he steered me into The Adirondack's dining room. "Let's see what Chef Jean Claude has to offer as his delectable specialty tonight.  Perhaps, a rack of lamb or something that calls for a good, robust Burgundy.  Or maybe, a Pomerol?  You do like wine, I trust?"

 

Stinging Hands

"I warned you that self-abuse is not permitted whilst you are a lodger in my house Mr. Johnson. Then I come home early and find you pleasuring yourself with a pair of my silky knickers! You really are a most disgusting little man! Well I am a firm believer in the punishment fitting the crime. We will start off with a good taste of my Scottish tawse on those nasty wandering hands. After that, you can go and fetch the little rubber strap from my desk and we shall apply that to the root of the problem! I can assure you that you are going to be much too sore to enjoy anymore of my lingerie tonight my boy!" 

FM Spanking Art

A long-time reader, Cody, has recently launched a new web site entitled Female/Male Spanking Art. It's a pay-site but contains some wonderful, original artwork. He was kind enough to send the above preview which gives a taste of the kind of work on offer. We often forget that excellent artwork, of the kind we all enjoy on this Blog, can take many hours of effort to produce. We are fortunate to be able to offer samples free of charge but, wherever possible, we should also support fellow art enthusiasts who would like to leverage their skills commercially. Good luck with the site!