Eroticizing Discipline: Dominance, Submission and Exquisite Pleasure. H. Hargrove
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matters worse. Thinking back, it’s difficult to separate my thoughts then from what I know and feel now. There was certainly some fear…and a good dose of anxiety…and again a hint of something else.
The ritual never varied from that first time. I walked in at the appointed time and found Mr. Johnstone sitting at his desk. He described the problem, then told me he was going to discipline me. He stood to his full, erect height and regal bearing, opened his desk drawer and took out a brown leather belt without a buckle, then told me to bend across his desk and raise my skirt. I had been issued three uniforms when I arrived for work that first day. Short, light blue skirts and blue and white blouses. A fairly standard, but classy, housekeeper outfit.
I remember thinking I should protest…refuse…but I stayed silent and obeyed. I was uncomfortable…but not only scared. Something else. Confused feelings.
My mother spanked me. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t dread it. Mainly a nuisance. She loved me too much for it to really hurt. I’d have to go across her knee, or for serious misbehavior I was sent to fetch a switch from the backyard willow tree.
Mom remarried when I was twelve. The last time she spanked me I was fourteen, and a bolt of panic shot through me when she announced my punishment in front of Frankie. Was he going to watch? When I was ordered to my room he didn’t follow, but after she finished and I glanced at my red bottom in the mirror, I thought of him again and felt a tiny shudder. There would be thousands of those shudders throughout the rest of my life. Many not so tiny. My body and thoughts had been changing rapidly. Frankie was Italian, dark, handsome, really built, with a full head of wavy black hair, and five years younger than Mom. He was hot. The thought that he could have watched… seen my bare bottom arched and squirming over her lap… or even spanked me himself. An early…confusing image… and feelings.
Mr. Johnstone was very formal and reserved, with slow, measured movements as he walked around the desk and stood in back of me as I was bent forward over the massive, hand carved, antique desk. I raised my skirt and held it above my waist…then waited. For a few moments nothing happened, then I felt his fingers slip under the waistband of my panties and lower them to just above my knees. Now, suddenly, I felt panic…and something else. I was bent forward, my bare bottom and likely my pubic hair and lips of my pussy in clear view of a very handsome, distinguished gentleman…and he was going to spank me. I still remember that moment I realized the something else feeling was sexual arousal. And the almost instantaneous thought of confusion that flashed through my mind.
The spanking hurt. But not that much. After the first couple of blows and the initial sting - I was fairly certain I was safe. Then I felt the first hint of warmth. Before he was finished I pressed my legs tightly together so he couldn’t see the wetness I felt between my thighs. Later, in my room, lying in bed, my mind raced with contradictory thoughts and feelings as I relived my punishment. My hand slipped under the waistband of my pajamas and I again felt the wetness I had sensed while being punished. Within seconds of finding the tiny knob of my clitoris with my finger I exploded with a rush of ecstasy.
After lying very still…with my eyes closed…I realized I wasn’t ready to sleep. Again my fingers slipped inside my waistband. My other hand found the nipple of my breast. I was quickly wet again. It took a bit longer the second time. I pulled my knees toward my chest and spread my legs. The convulsions were almost as strong… and they lasted longer. I went to sleep confused…but content.
BJ was the house chef, and the only other full time house employee. He was an Indian boy from New Delhi, a couple of years older than me, and very handsome with his dark skin and eyes, narrow, angular face, and slender, muscular build. He was a very accomplished cricket player, and spent his off hours in Cambridge competing with Harvard and MIT students with a similar love and passion for the game. The Johnstones had spent a good deal of time in India, loved the food, and hired BJ from a local restaurant.
I was hesitant to discuss the discipline I was receiving on what seemed like a fairly regular basis, but I was also curious about what BJ knew or experienced. There was, I perceived, an attraction or connection of some sort between us from the first day I was at the house, but we initially kept our distance and were formal in our interaction. Then one day I blurted it out. “When you mess up do you get disciplined?”
“What do you mean, Irene?” His English was impeccable.
I gave him a quick version of what happened in Mr. Johnstone’s study and although he listened quietly, I could sense more than a polite interest in what I was telling him. He was about to speak when the phone rang and he began a long conversation. I thought it was best that I leave.
I had been at the Johnstone house a couple of months when I was told to report to the study after dinner for failing to promptly pick up an order of dry cleaning. An important jacket that Mr. Johnstone wanted for an event wasn’t available to him. As I entered the study Mrs. Johnstone, standing just inside the door, offered me a slight, tight smile.
After Mr. Johnstone disciplined me the first time, and my hours of bedtime pleasure, I realized that the discomfort was more than compensated for by the pleasure. Or was the discomfort a necessary ingredient for that heightened level of pleasure? I hadn’t sorted it all out…and to this day…lying in this bed years later…still haven’t. But I now know enough to realize that for me there was always that delicious mix of anxiety, apprehension, having something done to me that I don’t really want…or maybe really do… being forced…ordered…being exposed…vulnerable…and punished.
Now, with the presence of Mrs. Johnstone, there was an interruption of the apprehension and warmth I had come to expect. Serious confusion of thoughts and feelings. My mind raced…between the moment and what was coming.
Mr. Johnstone’s lecture was familiar, though being without his favorite jacket at an important function seemed to raise his level of irritation beyond what he normally displayed. When he stood and took the belt from the drawer I was very aware that Mrs. Johnstone had not moved an inch. “Bend forward over the desk and pull up your skirt, Irene.”
I was nervous. Beyond warm apprehension. I hesitated for a moment, then moved to the edge of the desk. I sensed Mrs. Johnstone taking a step forward. I pulled up my dress, and, as I remember it now, Mr. Johnstone was even more deliberate…even slower with his movements…as he pulled my panties down, this time to my ankles. I knew goose bumps covered my flesh as soon as the cool air touched every crevice and opening…and I shuddered slightly. There was a long pause…longer than before I believe…before I felt the belt sting my bottom.
I don’t know if it took longer with Mrs. Johnstone there…but my pussy still got wet. I had stopped holding my legs together during my punishments, as I hoped Mr. Johnstone’s hand might end up between them after he finished spanking me. It never had. On this occasion I did press my thighs together because I surely didn’t want her to notice.
“Darling, I’m not sure your spanking is having the proper affect. We surely wouldn’t want it to give Irene any comfort. Spread you legs, Irene.” I hesitated. “Now.” Her tone was very firm. “You don’t want me to have to punish you.”
I quickly spread my legs apart. I knew. And I knew she knew. Mrs. Johnstone moved closer…until she was directly in back of me…only a few feet away. The spanking resumed and lasted longer than the others I had received. As soon as Mr. Johnstone laid the belt on the desk, she said, “I want you to check her, Darling.”
I felt fingers slide up the inside of my thigh and along the lips of my now-dripping pussy. “She’s very wet, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Mr. Johnstone answered his wife, “she’s very wet.”
His fingers slid into me, lingered, gently probed, found my clit, then moved slowly up between my cheeks until they brushed across my anus. I was fighting not to orgasm. His caresses continued. I couldn’t help myself, spread my legs further apart, and arched my bottom higher. His fingers went back deep inside me while his other hand slid slowly between my cheeks. Suddenly he stepped back. There was a long silence. I stayed very still, bent forward, my legs spread, my glistening pussy and bottom on full display.
“We’ll