Emma: The Education of a Submissive

Chapter One-3

She was fairly sure of one thing, that in the next few days she would find out. She shivered again at the thought. Would she be able to bear it? Titillating thoughts of a leather strap on her bare bottom might be one thing; the reality of pain and embarrassment might be quite another. Well, she was in too deep to back out now.

With these thoughts she fell asleep. When she awoke they were only an hour out of Heathrow. The assistant with the trim bottom served her breakfast and Emma amused herself by conferring a few more of her smiles on him. Gerry watched this performance with obvious disapproval. Emma had an uncomfortable feeling that he was biding his time.

At the airport Gerry took charge and Emma passively allowed herself to be processed through immigration and customs. When they had their bags, Gerry ordered her to retrieve her corset and knickers and put them on in the women’s toilet. Emma had now decided on a sulky silence as the best way of responding to Gerry’s commands, and so she obeyed, but in a surly manner.

When she was dressed Gerry escorted her into a taxi. As they drove away from the airport Gerry whispered in her ear that she was to sit with her thighs parted, not with her legs crossed as they were now. Emma glared at him and reluctantly did as she was told. Then Gerry told her she must lift up her skirt at the back so that she was sitting directly on the leather seat, as she had previously. She stared ahead, trying to decide if the driver was observing her in his mirror as she pulled her skirt from under her, feeling the cold leather against the back of her thighs above her stocking tops.

Fifty minutes later they drew up outside a large white house which, Gerry informed her, was in Mayfair. Emma had never visited London before and had only a vague idea of its geography, but it was evident that they were in or near the centre and that this was an expensive part of town. Gerry paid the taxi, ascended the steps to the door and rang the bell.

The door was answered by a stern-looking middle-aged woman with her hair tightly bound at the back of her head. She wore a black woollen dress and black stockings.

“Come in,” the woman said. There was no welcoming smile.

“Thank you, Mrs Bradshaw,” Gerry said.

Emma was surprised that Gerry should know this person. Had he performed his escort duties before, with other women? It was an unsettling thought. But before Emma could ponder it further Mrs Bradshaw took her arm and led her down a corridor. Gerry busied himself with the luggage behind them.

Mrs Bradshaw opened a door and ushered Emma through. It was a spacious, well-lit room, furnished a little like a doctor’s surgery, with rows of wooden cabinets along the wall, a large desk at one end, a wash basin, and at the other end a gynaecologist’s couch of gleaming chrome, with stirrups at the side. Emma swallowed hard. Her mind raced ahead considering what uses that might be put to.

“You are now in the Master’s house,” said Mrs Bradshaw.

“Where is the Master?” Emma asked.

Mrs Bradshaw said nothing. Then Gerry appeared at the door.

“I’m afraid to say that this one has been disobedient and impertinent, Mrs Bradshaw,” he said.

“Then you must chastise her, Gerry,” Mrs Bradshaw replied.

Before Emma could speak, Gerry came up to her and without warning grabbed her hair in his right hand. He twisted it roughly and began forcing her over towards the desk. Emma yelled, outraged at this behaviour, but Gerry continued to drag her to the desk and pushed her down over it, face first. Emma struggled but Gerry only tightened his grip.

“I’m sorry for this unseemly display, Mrs Bradshaw,” he said. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a crop.”

Mrs Bradshaw crossed to one of the cabinets. Out of the corner of her eye Emma saw her open it. Inside on a rack was a range of implements, leather straps, short whips, wooden paddles. Mrs Bradshaw selected a riding crop and brought it across to Gerry.

“No,” said Emma, still struggling, “you wouldn’t dare!”

Gerry gripped her hair with his left hand instead of his right, and took the crop from Mrs Bradshaw. He twisted Emma’s hair even harder and she squealed in pain, but stopped struggling. Resistance was clearly useless.

“Now,” said Gerry calmly, “I am going to show you what happens to uppity young woman who answer back. Mrs Bradshaw, would you be good enough to raise the skirt?”

Without more ado Mrs Bradshaw lifted Emma’s skirt up over her behind. Then she pulled down her thong.

“Punishments are always delivered to a bare bottom in this house,” she said.

Though her underwear would scarcely have afforded any protection, Emma felt doubly humiliated with her skirt up to her waist and her knickers about her knees. The whole thing was shaming in the extreme. She had always assumed that her first experience of corporal punishment would be at the hands of her beloved Master, from whom she would willingly have endured any pain or humiliation. But to be beaten by a man she hardly knew, who was a mere servant, and in the presence of an older woman who was also evidently the Master’s employee, was all too much.

These reflections concerning her outraged pride were cut short by the whistle of the crop through the air and the sharp crack as it landed full-square across the centre of Emma’s buttocks. She gave a yelp of mingled pain, surprise and protest. There was a brief pause, while the pain sank it. It was much worse than she had feared. Instinctively, as she sensed Gerry was raising his arm again, she tried to wriggle away, but his grip on her hair tightened yet further. Then came a second blow, delivered with unerring accuracy to the same spot. She did not know if Gerry was beating her as hard as he could, but there was no doubt the blows were intended to have a salutary effect. A third one followed, then a fourth. Emma had stopped yelling, but could not prevent a whimper escaping her lips at each new stroke. Oh, how she wished she had not been so sassy with Gerry, had respected him more. After all, had not Master told her to obey him? She began to feel that despite the severity of her beating, that she deserved it, or at least something painful. But need it hurt quite so much? Gerry showed no sign of stopping, and she had lost count of the number of blows. She feared she would have to beg for mercy before too much longer, since the pain of injured pride that this would impose was outweighed by the searing agony of the crop as it lashed across her naked bottom.

“Oh, please,” she said at last, “Please, no more, I’m so sorry, really I am.”

Gerry lowered his arm and released her hair. “That’s good,” he said. “If you remember your lesson it will be the better for you. Now stand up, rearrange your clothing and stop snivelling.”

Emma stood by the desk, rubbing her bottom. Now that the beating had stopped, she felt more keenly than ever that though perhaps she had to some extent provoked it, yet to be punished in this way was not consistent with dignity. To be beaten in a beautiful ritual of submission by her Master would be a most exciting moment. But to be unceremoniously dragged over a desk and have her behind assaulted by a person of no class or breeding, in full view of a middle-aged female stranger, well that was not the big adventure she had looked forward to.

Emma was left standing by the desk while Mrs Bradshaw took Gerry to the far end of the room. They conversed in hushed tones, occasionally glancing back at Emma. She strained to hear what they were saying about her, but she could make out nothing. Finally, Gerry left. Emma wondered if he was flying back immediately.

“Sit down,” said Mrs Bradshaw.

Emma sat down, somewhat gingerly, on a wooden chair opposite Mrs Bradshaw’s desk. The older woman sat behind it. She put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and scrutinised Emma. She was a handsome woman, if past her prime, Emma thought, with a wide, full mouth, a long straight nose and grey eyes.

“Where is my Master?” Emma demanded.

Mrs Bradshaw looked at her fiercely. “Have you learned nothing from your recent chastisement?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Here you only speak if asked a direct question. Do you understand that?”

Emma sighed. “I suppose so.”

“You will address me as Mrs Bradshaw and your tone will be respectful.”

“Yes, Mrs Bradshaw,” Emma said, but she could not entirely keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“I will answer your question, since I was about to inform you anyway,” Mrs Bradshaw continued. She reached into a drawer in her desk and handed Emma an envelope. Emma opened it and saw Master’s familiar handwriting.

My dearest Emma,

To my great regret I cannot be here when you arrive. Be patient. I leave you in Mrs Bradshaw’s capable hands. Make sure you do as she tells you. The delay will only increase the sharpness of my desire for you.

Master

Emma looked up at Mrs Bradshaw.

“The Master informs me that this delay will provide an opportunity for the continuation of your training,” Mrs Bradshaw said.

“My training?” Emma said. “What does that mean?”

Mrs Bradshaw said nothing. Instead she opened the drawer of her desk and took out a long wooden ruler. She got up and came round the desk, standing over Emma.

“Put out your hands,” she said.

Emma put her hand to her mouth, her face colouring. “Oh, I’m sorry, I spoke.”

“Apologies are not enough,” Mrs Bradshaw said curtly. “Now put out your hands.”

Nervously, Emma stretched out her hands, palm upwards. Mrs Bradshaw brought the ruler smartly down across Emma’s right hand. It stung like mad. She raised the ruler again. Emma instinctively took her hands away.

“Put out your hands, I said!” Mrs Bradshaw snapped. There was menace in her voice. Shaking, Emma put out her hands once more. The ruler cracked across her left palm. The pain was sudden, intense. Mrs Bradshaw cracked the ruler down across Emma’s outstretched palms twice more.

“Now,” she said, “do you think you can remember your instructions and keep quiet?”

“Yes, Mrs Bradshaw,” Emma said in a whisper. She didn’t want any more whacking just yet.

“Very well,” said Mrs Bradshaw, returning the ruler to the drawer. “Now let us get on. I need to complete your file. The Master has inputted a certain amount of information, but there are some gaps, and we need to have some things confirmed in any case. So attend carefully.”

Mrs Bradshaw typed some instructions to the computer on her desk. Emma saw a picture of herself come up on the screen.

“Colour of eyes?” Mrs Bradshaw demanded.

“Green,” said Emma.

“Hair?”

Surely that was obvious? “Black,” she said.

“Age?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Tell me how old you were at the time of your first intercourse.”

Emma was surprised by the question. Master had never asked her that. Why did he want to know now?

“Well?” said Mrs Bradshaw sharply.

“Er, sixteen.”

Mrs Bradshaw entered this on her keyboard.

“Age of your partner on that occasion?”

“Thirty-nine,” said Emma. She blushed slightly, remembering her father’s friend, whom she had always called Uncle Charles. He had been efficient and charming. She wondered, not for the first time, if her father had ever found out.

“Number of partners since?”

Emma thought.

“Approximately.”

“About a dozen, I suppose.” She wondered if that was too many. Or not enough? Was Mrs Bradshaw judging her a slut or a prude?

“Have you had s*x with another woman?”

Well, there was that time in high school on a camping trip, Emma and Carla in a sleeping bag together. But they had done nothing but kiss.

“No, not really.” Maybe some time, though, she thought.

“Have you had group s*x?”

She remembered the time she’d got so drunk she didn’t know what she was doing. Only afterwards did she have dim memories of two guys….

“Just once,” she said.

“Two men, two women or a couple?”

“Two men, Mrs Bradshaw,” said Emma.

“Preferred position for intercourse?”

That was easy. “Kneeling, on all fours.” Going in so deep.

“Anal s*x?”

She and Master had talked a lot about that. Her one experience had been a disaster. Master was coaxing her towards an acceptance.