Boarding

(As always, my thanks go to Lisa Jones for advice and encouragement with this story.)

Abi stood on the corner and thanked her lucky stars that it was mid-afternoon rather than night. A couple walked past, intent on their own business, but even so she found herself checking her watch and looking impatient. See that, look at me being huffy; because I'm wondering whether my taxi is going to arrive at last – appearances to the contrary I am not a prostitute! Got that?

Her 'date' was ten minutes late, and she was seriously considering calling a taxi for real. Another look around: just the pretty little thing sitting over a cigarette at one of the tables outside the unremarkable Victorian pub; her standing on the corner looking conspicuous; a couple of builders passing on the other side of the street and giving her knowing looks. She checked her phone for any message that might explain ...

"Buy you a drink?"

She looked around. The pretty little thing had finished her smoke and was standing a few feet away. What a strikingly deep voice for such a small woman.

"No. Thank you, no ... Sorry, I'm waiting for somebody."

"I know you are, Abi. Would you like a drink?"

Blue-green eyes smiling at her: not quite mocking but not entirely friendly either.

"But ..."

"You were expecting six-two and Doc Martens. Too much disappointment?"

Abi took in the small slight figure, the pretty dress and navy blue jacket, and almost thought it was. Until the woman raised one questioning eyebrow, and Abi thought back to the tone of the voice. Obviously in no mood to ask a third time, she turned and walked inside:

"Come on with you."

And so Abi followed her to a table in a secluded corner and they sat down. The woman opened her purse and gave Abi a fiver.

"Go over to that ludicrously attractive barmaid and tell her 'V would like a half please'. Thank her nicely and bring drink and change back to me."

Abi did exactly as she was told. She put glass and money on the table in front of her new companion. She wasn't sure if she should sit or not. Another note from the purse.

"Thank you, very prettily done. Have something for yourself, get change and load up whatever music you like as long as it's fairly loud. We need to have a chat that neither of us particularly want overheard."

Once again she did exactly as she was told. This was not quite what she'd been expecting. If truth be told, she had half-expected to be in cuffs or something by now, instead she was simply fetching drinks in what was obviously an entirely mundane pub. The woman sipped hers and ran her eyes calmly over Abi. Abi in turn looked at her.

Small hands; very short but flawless ruby nails; no rings or watch to spoil the natural contours. In fact she was not wearing any jewellery that Abi could see. Not even earrings, even though her chestnut hair was pulled back and exposing pierced lobes. Nothing at all that might distract your attention from eyes that were as beautiful and as harsh as cut gemstones. Her face was like a doll's; pretty and brittle-perfect, slightly inhuman. Somehow Abi felt as if she really was wearing those cuffs.

"Just to be clear, I don't ever drink and domme; so you're not getting any this afternoon ..."

'Getting any'? How inappropriate the casual small crudity seemed from that face. Abi was becoming decidedly uncomfortable.

"... Find it unsettling here?"

"Yes. I ..."

"Good. I don't do kink clubs, sweetie, I'm not exactly one of the 'community' ..."

She actually did sarcastic little air-quotes at the word. No, thought Abi, this was not at all what she had expected. The email correspondence had been long and detailed, she really had thought she had some idea.

" ... OK, listening carefully?"

"Err; yes."

"Miss."

"Sorry?"

"Think it through, sweet; don't disappoint me this early."

Ah, yes. Of course!

"Yes, Miss. I'm listening carefully, Miss."

"Once is good, no need to overdo it. First point, if you're one of those subs with unresolved maternal issues, would you please just drink up and go home. I will not suckle you; I will not fuck you while you call me 'mummy'. Sorry, I'm not a prude and I'm not a moralist; I won't despise it but I simply can't handle it. Is that clear?"

Abi felt about six inches tall. Every rational feeling told her no one could overhear their conversation, but still ...

"Clear, Miss."

"Excellent, two birds with one stone then: if you ever say 'mother' I will stop like I've run into a brick wall. Would you get me another drink please?"

She had barely touched the first. Abi fiddled awkwardly with her purse.

"Can I ..."

"No. Never, doesn't work that way."

She took the money she was given, bought another half and returned to the table.

"Thank you. Second point: if there are any incidents in your childhood ... To be honest, I would strongly advise you to reconsider; otherwise just tell me. No details, we can do that somewhere more comfortable if you want to, just yes/no."

"No, Miss."

"So why, Abi?"

"I'm not really sure, Miss. I don't know. I'm ..."

This was wrong. It was certainly demeaning, but far from the way she wanted or expected. No, fuck that! She was not going to apologise.

"... It just is. Because I want to."

All at once the eyes twinkled back at her with genuine warmth. What a cute little nose she had when she wrinkled it like that.

"Splendid, what I wanted to hear. Last question, are you proud, Abi? You know: capital P-type pride."

"I'm not ashamed, if that's what you mean. Why?"

"You're not paying me to be polite, sweetie. That going to be off-limits?"

Abi finished her wine. As a matter of fact she didn't like the word too much, because pride implies choices made or things achieved. Abi simply, unapologetically,

was

. She met the steady gaze across the table and recognised something in it from her own mirror. Insults never truly hurt from inside the family, do they?

"Not really."

"Alright then, I'll send you an email this evening. You can call me Miss Kavanaugh, by the way. Run along now, Abigail, you'll miss your bus."

***

**

Abi was a true fetishist: no quick trip to the fancy dress shop or browsing the mildly-dodgy parts of the web for her. She had gone to one of the better private school outfitters and purchased the real deal, costing her a considerable amount of money and not a little exquisite embarrassment.

Miss Kavanaugh's instructions were quite clear: there were no changing facilities at school; she could wear a coat to walk from her car to the door if she preferred; she

would

take that coat off as soon as she got indoors. Abigail folded it awkwardly over her arm and walked slowly up several flights of bare concrete steps and hoped fervently that she didn't meet anyone coming down. The plain door in the plain corridor was slightly ajar. She knocked politely, stepped into a spartan anteroom and closed it behind her.

Music came through the slightly open door to her left: something classical with a harp. Abigail took her seat on the plain wooden chair by that door, folded her coat across her lap, and for some reason she could not entirely explain felt acutely uncomfortable that there were no hooks to hang it from.

The music ended. The same piece began again, obviously set on repeat. Abigail waited and felt increasingly nervous, one disengaged part of her brain began to reflect that Abi was paying quite enough not to be ignored like ...

"Come."

She stood, placed her coat neatly on the chair and stepped into the study. Miss Kavanaugh was sitting behind a large and old desk, head down over some paperwork: black gown over austere dress, chestnut hair in a tight bun. Her left hand came up to wave vaguely in front of the desk. Abigail stood there and wondered what to do with her hands as Miss Kavanaugh continued to ignore her. After perhaps two minutes:

"Well?"

"I was told to report to you, Miss."

"Is that so? Academic failing or personal behaviour?"

"Personal behaviour, Miss. The ... err ..."

"Come along now."

"State of my underwear, Miss."

Miss Kavanaugh did a small imperious click of her fingers as she reached for yet another document. The meaning was entirely clear to Abigail without any need for explanation. She took them off clumsily, trying not to expose anything in the unlikely event Miss Kavanaugh looked up.

Abi, as we have said, was a true fetishist. Dabblers and tourists would have been tempted to let Miss catch them wearing crotchless or skimpy; but to Abi those plain and thick white cottons she guiltily laid on Miss Kavanaugh's blotter were the sexiest knickers imaginable.

Finally the pen was laid down. Miss Kavanaugh stopped the music in the middle of the tune, looked at the undies, and then at long last glanced at her.

"Abigail, isn't it?"

"Yes Miss."

"Explanation?"

"Sorry, Miss, I don't quite understand."

"Spontaneous? Or have you been filthy with yourself?"

It made her legs weak. She felt like one of those tiny jointed toy dolls, where you press the button underneath to relax the string and they just collapse into themselves. At that moment, she felt decidedly filthy.

"I haven't ... Spontaneous, Miss."

"Have you been having unsuitable thoughts about boys, Abigail, or do you just go around in a disgusting state for no reason at all?"

"No, Miss, I wasn't ... I wasn't thinking about boys, Miss."

She had been leaning forward on her elbows, looking infinitely bored at the whole thing. Now she sat back in the chair, and for the first time truly looked at the penitent in front of her. Abigail felt the eyes moving across her, felt them linger just a little on the front of her blouse and the tie hanging between.

"That, young lady, is entirely unacceptable. Nasty desires towards your classmates or silly little girl pash for one of your teachers?"

"I'd rather not say, Miss."

"I don't doubt that for a moment. You do understand I'm going to have to beat you about this, don't you?"

Somewhere far away a tiny part of Abi was floating high in the corner and looking down on it as an observer; thinking how curious it was that she did feel genuinely and deliciously ashamed to say it. How amazing that she could fall so deeply into her own dream and have it become real around her. How amazing; how thoroughly perfect.

"I'm sorry, Miss; it's ... There are stories, Miss. That you expect things after you've beaten girls ..."

Miss Kavanaugh walked round the desk to stand close against Abigail, mouth by her ear and speaking very low.

"Things?"

"From their mouths, Miss."

"Are you telling me that this ... This display of yours is directed at me Abigail? At grubby little tales spread about

me

?"

"Sorry Miss."

"Have you ever kissed anyone, Abigail?"

"Yes Miss."

"On the mouth?"

"Miss."

"Elsewhere?"

There was a script in play, of course, albeit unwritten. She could not casually say that of course she had done that so many times with the women she loved, that would be absurd. And yet she found it impossible to lie to the other woman in the room, even when it was obviously required. She flustered and blushed, and said nothing. A very quiet voice sounded soft against her ear.

"What possible understanding could a foolish child have of the things grown women do for their mutual pleasure? Lips in a sweet little bow, please; as if you were kissing."

Miss Kavanaugh picked up Abigail's underwear and inspected it more closely, turning it in her hand to examine the fresh and obvious mark that had bought her here. She folded them very carefully and touched that damp against Abigail's lips.

"That is what a silly little girl tastes like, Abigail. Let me assure you, a woman feels entirely different against your tongue."

She couldn't speak; felt the tears pricking behind her eyes; felt the hungry cramping wetness answering for her further down.

"Bend forward, right hand on the desk. Left hand behind you and raise your skirt please."

Miss Kavanaugh's hand pushed the back of her head downward until her chin was on her neck. She couldn't see anything clearly, she felt entirely exposed and aware of her bared bottom. Miss Kavanaugh walked to the corner and back again. Abigail heard the cane swishing in the air as Miss Kavanaugh made a few little practice chops behind her.

The blow, when it came, was worse than she had imagined possible: cold cutting fire, precise and specific. It made her yelp. She struggled with her breathing.

"Six is traditional in these cases. Count please."

"One, Miss."

Strange as it may seem, Abi had never been caned in her life; there had been lovers' hands of course, even a slipper once upon a time. She was unused to the concentrated fiery stripes Miss Kavanaugh laid on her backside. Abigail counted to four and felt she couldn't possibly take any more. Six! That was too much; that was simply too much.

"No ... Please ..."

Stillness, a break in the rhythm.

"... Thank-"

Swishing swift and sudden behind her, and before she could tense herself again a line of pure agony blazed across the back of her thighs.

"Owwww fucking

hell

!"

"I beg your pardon Abigail?"

"Sorry Miss. Nothing Miss."

"That one doesn't count, it's simply for talking back ..."

She was sobbing. Jesus! She had thought the bum hurt! Oh dear heaven, that last one was bad. Miss Kavanaugh laid the cane on the desk next to Abigail's hand. It drew her attention, made her realise her much her arm was shaking with her own weight and the shock. Miss Kavanaugh's hand cupped one burning buttock, her thumb firmly traced along one of the stinging lines and Abigail found she was biting her lip to stifle a moan.

"... Both hands on the table please. I think you have something to say to me, don't you?"

The skirt slipped down as she took her hand away. It felt nastier with teacher's hand up there than it had with her bottom on show.

"Thank you Miss."

"Notepad and pen on my desk, Abigail. Kindly write down exactly what you were thinking earlier."

Miss Kavanaugh's hand slipped forward and between. Her index finger traced a single wide circle around Abigail's desperate clitoris that knotted her belly with frustration; as Abigail picked up the pen, Miss Kavanaugh's fingers entered her. They stayed quite motionless, spreading and teasing as she wrote.

I want Miss Kavanaugh to catch me playing with myself. I want her to punish me for being a dirty girl. When I imagine that, I want to ...

She couldn't help herself. She focussed all her self-control on retaining some shred of dignity, but it was hopeless. She pushed herself back onto the hand.

***

**

Friday afternoon at five past four saw Abi changing into her school uniform in the ladies' at work, accompanied by a certain degree of physical awkwardness in the cramped cubicle and the most intense rush of humiliation she had ever experienced on her own. She pushed her weekday clothes into her bag, wrapped her coat tightly around herself and walked out into the corridor with that heady feeling of risk and reckless deviance soaking naughtily into her fresh pair of white cottons.

She only stood outside the office for a couple of minutes before Miss Kavanaugh's aged car turned up and she got in. She felt an odd mixture of mild regret and profound relief that she was not in character: no gown or play-acting, just that pretty little thing from the pub. Tight plait; dress and blue jacket; dark glasses against the spring sun and neat kid leather gloves resting on the steering wheel.

"Hey Abi."

It threw her completely. Miss Kavanaugh, or whatever her real name was, obviously enjoyed doing that. She stumbled for something to say.

"It's still 'Miss', if that's what you want to know."

"Thanks. Thank you Miss."

She waited, of course, until they were stuck waiting at the lights to say it:

"Have you been good for me? Give us a quick flash, sweetie."

Abi opened her coat enough to show tie and blazer and hoped no passing pedestrians noticed.

"Very nice, I do like ties on the right woman; needs just enough to hang between but not too much. Suits you very well, by the way."

"Thank you Miss."

"That's right, sweetie; Miss

is

telling you you've got nice tits. Not entirely appropriate is it? I know, I can be just a little bit of a minx when I want. People don't expect that, they want Ice Maiden from start to finish. There's one thing I should make entirely clear, sweet: ask me what it is like a good girl."

"What would you like to make clear, Miss?"

"My amusement comes a very long way before yours. If I want to mess with your mind just a tad and spoil your illusion, I will. Might as well get used to that. Unless you'd rather call it off, of course?"

That was obviously a dare, an opportunity to prove she wasn't worth the time. Abi couldn't think of any sensible reply beyond a confused shake of her head. They sat in strained silence until she pointed out her house. Miss Kavanaugh stopped at the foot of the drive, behind where Abi had left her own car when she took the taxi to work.

"Before we get out ..."

"Yes Miss?"

"No, Abi; don't wait to be told. Prove you're bright enough to be interesting to me please."

"I'd like you to stay for the weekend. I'd like to be answerable to you for my behaviour; if I disappoint I want to be punished, both verbally and physically please. If you want to use my body in any way, I'd like ..."

"

Any

way?"

"Yes, Miss. Any way you want; I'd like you to do that as well."

"And?"

Abi reached into her handbag and retrieved a thick envelope which she passed to Miss Kavanaugh. She received a slight 'tut' in return: words, in this case, apparently spoke louder than actions.

"I'm paying you to treat me that way, Miss."

Miss Kavanaugh took the envelope and flicked through the notes.

"Did you find any of that easy, Abi?"

"No Miss."

"Detail please."

"Makes me feel cheap, and dirty and ashamed of myself, Miss."

"Honestly, sweet, dirty and ashamed is just a darling reaction, but cheap you are most decidedly not. Here, have it back."

She not only tossed the envelope into Abi's lap but pulled the roll of notes she had charged for the previous meeting from her pocket to join them.

"I don't understand."

"I really think you do. Women are

way

too much fun to charge for. I do like to know they're prepared to pay though; gives it that extra little kick. Does for you, too, doesn't it?"

She would rather not answer that question. Miss Kavanaugh didn't push, she had a few more things of her own to say.

"It's not terribly teacherly but I'm afraid I simply cannot go a weekend without smoking. Can you cope with that indoors or do I need to go outside?"

How very thoughtful she could be. How surprising that seemed.

"No problem at all. So do I, just at ..."

"No you don't; you're far too young for any of that nonsense. If I catch you doing it, I'll spank you so hard you won't be able to sit ..."

From nowhere, without warning; washing down through Abi like a bucket of ice water poured over her head, and then as quickly gone and back to the other persona. She was taking off her black gloves.

"... Last thing, I have a hardcore glove kink, Abi. They make me feel seriously cruel and sexy. Don't really suit the teacher vibe at all, and I wouldn't want to spoil it for you. You're a very attractive woman – as a woman, if you see what I mean – if at any time you get bored with this gig; you just ask me to put my gloves back on and we can play some adult games together. I promise I will not be gentle with you. Alright then ..."

She rolled the gloves up and popped them in her jacket pocket, and then the sunglasses followed.