Chapter 2: Carole Takes a Chance
Carole's car pulled into the driveway of a small ranch house, set back behind a few tall trees on a quiet street. James pulled in behind her. She got out of her car and approached his. He lowered the driver's side window.
"You're blocking me," she said.
"Yes, I am. You aren't going anywhere until we're done," he replied.
She looked at him, seeming a bit surprised.
"Look, we have an agreement, but if you're not up for this, I'll head back home," he told her. "You can straighten your writer's block out on your own. Or not, whatever. Your choice."
She looked like she was considering this, then she replied. "No, I need to do this. Come in."
He got out of the car and popped the trunk, beckoning her over. He grasped one end of the whipping bench. "Give me a hand with this, would you? It's a bit heavy," he instructed.
Carole stared at the wooden contraption. "What the fuck is that?" she asked.
"It's a bench to strap you down on for punishment. You'll be making a close acquaintance with it soon enough."
"I see," she said. "Is that absolutely necessary?"
"Yes, of course. We're not playing around here. Serious punishment that hurts like hell is the only way to break through the writer's block. I wish it were otherwise, but that's how it is. You won't be able to hold still unless you're restrained, and, if you move, I might hit you somewhere that will do some real damage. You don't want that, do you?"
"No, of course not," she replied, taking hold of the other end of the bench. She glanced around. "I wonder what the neighbors will think if they see us."
"Maybe I'll sell tickets and let them watch," James told her.
"You're a real riot," she replied as she hoisted her end of the bench. Together, they brought it to her front porch and set it down while she unlocked the door. He seemed to be enjoying the idea that she was assisting in setting up her own suffering.
Carole's living room was more or less as he would have expected, simply furnished with a mix of items from Ikea and pieces likely acquired from garage and estate sales. There was a comfortable-looking sofa, an armchair, a large, wall-mounted TV and a desk facing the front window with a computer monitor on it and a CPU underneath.
They set the bench down in the middle of the room. "Turn it so it faces the TV," he told her. "I might want to watch a game while I'm beating your ass." She glared at him, but picked up her end and did as asked.
He strolled over to the desk and looked at the computer. "Is this where you write, Carole?" he asked.
"Not lately," she replied.
"We'll fix that," he said turning and smiling at her. He closed the slat blinds and turned on the desk lamp to compensate for the loss of light.
Carole looked like she was going to say something, but caught herself. Instead, she asked him, "Would you like something to drink? I have beer, wine, soda, sparkling water, some hard liquor as well."
"What are you having?" he asked.
"Some white wine, I guess."
"OK, I'll have that, too, thanks," he replied. "I'm going to get the rest of my stuff out of the car."
"I can only imagine what that is," she said.
"I doubt that," he replied.
She returned with two glasses, slightly damp with condensation and handed him one. He was sitting at one end of the sofa. She slipped her sandals off and sat at the opposite end, her bare feet under her. He leaned over to clink glasses. "To writing!"
"Yes," she replied. "To writing!"
They each took a long sip and then they chatted for a few minutes about nothing much. Carole couldn't help looking nervously at the bench. James could tell that she was imagining how it would feel to be strapped to it, helpless. He was imagining more or less the same thing.
Finally, he announced, "I think it's best we get started now, Carole."
She looked resigned. "Yes, OK," she replied.
"Stand up," he ordered.
She stood, a bit unsteadily at first, before finding her balance. He didn't think it was the wine, as she'd only had a few sips. It was fear, and also excitement. He felt it, too-not the fear, but definitely the excitement
"Get undressed. Do it slowly, one item at a time."
Carole looked down at her feet.
"Carole," he said, in his most commanding voice. "We have an agreement. You are to follow instructions immediately and without question. This is your final warning-any further disobedience will result in additional punishment above and beyond that for your literary transgressions. Is that clear?"
"Yes," she replied, her voice heavy with stress.
"And, another thing. You are to call me sir from now on, until I tell you differently."
"Yes, sir," she said.
"Good. Now that we're clear on things, take your shirt off."
Carole unbuttoned her shirt, starting from the top and moving downwards, James observing carefully as the two sides separated, exposing first her shoulders, then her breasts, which were encased in a white cotton bra with some lacework around the cups. He was finding this immensely arousing. She reached the bottom, exposing her flat, nicely toned belly, then shucked the shirt off and held it in one hand, looking a bit uncertain about what to do next.
"Fold it neatly and place it on the armchair," he instructed. Her hand was shaking a bit as she bent to the task, but she accomplished it.
He wondered how she must be feeling, being made to slowly undress for a man she had just met in person, in the presence of the whipping bench upon which she would suffer a chastisement of unknown length and severity. All he knew was that her eyes kept darting like those of a cornered animal between the bench in the center of her living room and him.
Having shed her shirt she began to unbutton her skirt.
He shook his head. "I'd like the bra next."
She took a deep breath and reached behind her back to unfasten the hooks and then removed the undergarment. He caught a momentary glimpse of her breasts. They looked perfect-neither too big nor too small, capped by nipples that stood erect from both fear and the sudden exposure. But then she rushed to hold the bra over them.
