Sarah unpacked every packet of panties on the floor in her lounge, laying each pair on top of her growing pile in the morning sunlight. Some packets contained three or five pairs, others just one. The array of bright colors boosted her spirits. The string bikini panties came in black, white and red, the skimpy cotton turning her on hard.
Easing the white cotton bikinis from their packet, she set them to one side. The pure white pleasure delighted her. It was these she'd wear for Monday punishments. On Mondays she got caned. There was no choice or escape, and she wanted none. She wanted to serve her full sentence. Believing a better life existed, she'd always thought reading and learning ought to lead to it. Her interest in the world around her had brought her to George, and he'd restored her faith in humanity.
She'd presented him with her order and asked permission to purchase her panties. They'd agreed she could spend up to three hundred in any month without reference to him. His kindness was never ending. He'd recognized her embarrassment and removed it in a stroke.
Taking a pair of brand new white bikini panties from the pile, she tried them on and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. The white-tiled room was a den of pleasure. She showered twice every day. The pure white panties in the middle of her perfect white room pulsed pleasure through her core.
On Monday she'd wear these. Cotton up to her waist didn't make the cane hurt less, it only made her feel more secure. Her new panties would make her more vulnerable, more exposed and deepen her humiliation. All of which was a dutiful and honest contribution to her powerful punishment. Embarrassment blended with pain was the essence of effective punishment. The outcome of pleasure didn't make it hurt any less. It only boosted her satisfaction when she'd taken her punishment with dignity and respect.
Returning to the lounge, she scooped up the piles of panties from the floor and carried them to her drawers. Laying them out in styles, she put the white ones in a separate pile. Studying her choice, she slipped off her new white panties, put them on the top of the pile and took the red string bikini ones.
The ultra thin elastic on her hips thrust daring delight through her curves and hot dampness into her sex. She turned back and forth before the mirror, enjoying her risky bareness. Imagining them under her jeans, her secret sexiness forced fiery liquid into her fresh panties. She took to her bed and lay on her front, feeling the shape of the tight elastic on her bottom with one hand while fingering her firm clit with the other.
Rubbing herself hard, she imagined another girl seeing her skimpy red string bikinis. Rolling over, she skimmed her glistening nipples and pleasure soared in her panties. Glancing down at the tiny triangle of red orgasms erupted in her core, gushing and spewing pleasure forth, confirming with every blissful surge that she was a sexy girl.
At 8am on Monday, she waited in George's study. He was about to give her a sound beating with a rattan cane, but she waited with pride and satisfaction.
Entering, he smiled and closed the door. The house was empty, but she still appreciated being punished in private.
"Drop your jeans," George said.
She lowered her jeans to her knees. Exposed in tiny white cotton bikini panties, she stood tall and placed her hands behind her back, proud of her appearance.
"Bend over," he directed.
No scolding for her stealing this time, just her sentence to be executed. She bent over the desk and gripped the far side, her bottom very bare in skimpy bikini panties. Today she would not fail. Her confident panties had given her courage. She'd caught the flicker of recognition in his gaze, the only sign he'd spotted her more appropriate underwear.
The cane cut into her thin cotton, forcing her to re-asses her strength. Picturing the pain she'd caused her victims, she pierced the wall with her gaze as lines of fire blazed her behind. As each stroke stole her concentration, her spirits soared with the pain. She was a decent girl, a decent girl who took her punishment. She'd done dreadful things, but she'd faced up to them and was suffering her painful strokes.
He tapped the cane where her bottom met her thighs. She tensed.
"When I cane you for other matters, your last two strokes will be here. They'll make it very painful to sit down and may also embarrass you. But for your Monday canings, we'll keep all the strokes in the middle of your bottom."
She calmed. They were still going to hurt, but not where she'd feared.
She braced herself to take these two strokes without a sound.
"I know it's difficult," he said, "but the more you relax, the less it hurts. A tense bottom is a taut bottom. The cane bounces multiplying the pain."
She let the pressure in her body go and embraced the impending pain as part of her, a fundamental part. Fire roared across her cheeks, and she let it overwhelm them. Suffering was her duty. The heat dissipated faster, and she appreciated his advice. It wasn't less of a punishment. The pain was a little easier to bear, but the price was utter submission. Bowing to her new learning, she let her fresh wisdom control her body as the rattan sliced pain across the peak of her panty-clad bottom. Heat flared as the harsh stick scorched her skin, but her mind welcomed the pain and made it part of her integrity.
"Stand up," he said.
She obeyed, finding it easier than before. Turning to face him, she said, "Thank you for caning me. I deserved it. And I'll still deserve it every Monday. I respect your decision to cane me for a year and I love your kindness."
He beamed. "You're worth the effort."
As she pulled up her jeans, his warm words wrapped around her. She hadn't been worth anyone's effort until he'd come along. She could live a hundred years on just those words.
"I'll meet you at the car at 2pm," he said.
She checked her appearance in the mirror four times before getting fed up with herself. Her white blouse and thin navy jumper looked sweet above her blue jeans and navy sneakers. Her brunette hair, now lustrous with enriched nutrients, and not a split end in sight, fell around her shoulders in a neat curve.
In a strip mall just beyond the end of the road, the hair salon had been her first major outing. She'd insisted George come with her for the first time, but after he'd read magazines for two hours to support her, she hadn't done it to him again. The lady had colored and cut her hair with the minimum of conversation, but their small interactions had empowered her to handle conversation. Until she'd talked to George, she'd been her own conversation partner, going mad in her head.
Grabbing her navy shoulder bag from the lilac armchair, she left the apartment and walked down the stone path to the sidewalk. The gray Honda sedan had extended her radius. George let her drive it anytime she wanted. She took herself on tours of the city, places she knew and suburbs she didn't, never getting out of the car, preferring to watch the world from her ringside seat, knowing she could if she wanted to.
"Ready?" he asked.
She wasn't. But she never would be. Today she must interact, go back down memory lane, and apologize for her theft. He'd promised she'd feel virtuous afterwards. The thought kept her going.
He drove, and she gave directions. The house was in a suburb close to the city center. She got the street wrong several times until the row of trees from which she'd spied the open window appeared. She asked him to stop, and she got out. Walking up the row of trees, she stared at the rear of the houses. It was the fourth house along. She recognized the green swings in the back yard.
Returning to the car, she directed him to the front of the house. Turning off the engine, he said, "This should be tough. It's penance. But it's possible they'll be nice about it."
"They might not even be home," she pointed out.
"True. Then we'll try again next week. Come on. Let's go."
She got out of the car and he joined her. Together they walked up to the green front door of the single family home.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed the door bell, and her sore bottom replaced fear with remorse.
A girl with short blonde hair opened the door and said, "Yes?"
"Good afternoon," Sarah said. "Please, may I speak to you for a minute?"
Maybe a few years older than her, the girl appeared uninterested.
"I don't want whatever you're selling," she said, moving to close the door.
"I'm here to apologize," Sarah said. Realizing she needed to get her point across fast, she blurted it all out. She'd estimated it was just over a year ago, but times were hazy in her memory.
She admitted climbing in the window, stealing the milk and cheese from the fridge and the huge corner of cake from next to the sink as the girl's expression shifted from anger to amazement.
Stepping back, the girl said, "Come in."
Sarah turned to check with George.
"You go on. I'll wait for you in the car. This is girl stuff."
She stepped through the front door and the blonde closed it behind her. "I'm Kirsten," she said, holding out her hand.
"Sarah," she said, shaking hands.
"Come through. My daughter is at school. I have to pick her up at four."
Grateful for the parameters of their time together, she took the proffered chair in the kitchen where she'd pilfered, while Kirsten made them both coffee.
"So you were homeless?"
"Yes," she said. It felt alright to say it now. "And I'm sorry for stealing from you."
"Apology accepted," Kirsten said. "That cake was the end of a birthday cake. My daughter was too young to appreciate it, but its loss upset us. Knowing someone had been in our home was terrible."
"I'm so sorry. I was desperate."
"It's good to know it went somewhere worthwhile. Meeting you, I feel none of the anger I did. Indeed, coming here today is the nicest thing you could ever have done."
"Oh. I'm so glad. It was very hard. George," she waved her hand towards the car outside, "made me."
"Is he a nice man? He sounds like it."
"He's the kindest person I've ever met." She explained how they'd met and how her philosophy book had drawn them into conversation.
"What a gentleman," Kirsten said, placing two mugs of coffee on the kitchen table. "Does he want anything from you?"
"Oh no," Sarah smiled. "Nothing like that. He's seventy something. He expects good manners, discussions about the depths of philosophy and chess. I've had to learn."
"Sounds perfect."
"It is. He's the only friend I've got."
Kirsten put down her mug. "No longer true."
"Thank you for being so kind. I was full of fear coming here."
"But you came. Thank you for bothering. I'll sleep better at night."
"So will I."
"I can't say I'd be a match for you in chess or a philosophy discussion, but I play tennis. Would you like to play together next week and have lunch afterwards?"
Smiling, Sarah said, "I'd love to. I've never played, but I'm a quick learner."
"Next Monday, then. Around 11am. We'll go to my club and I'll teach you the basics before lunch."
They swapped phone numbers, and then both stood.
Unsure what to do, Kirsten solved her dilemma, reaching for her and pulling her in for a hug. The tight embrace from a girl was the closest she'd come to serious human contact, and it almost shattered her grip on herself.
Seeing her out, Kirsten said, "I'll tell my husband. He'll sleep better. But let's never look back."
"Thank you," Sarah said. She walked to the car, got in, and burst into tears.
As George drove, she sobbed for everything and everyone she'd ever met or whose lives she'd touched.
"Was it bad?" George asked.
"No," she cried. "She was dead nice to me. We're playing tennis next Monday."
"Can you play?"
"No. She'll teach me."
He grinned. "Your caned bottom will keep you on your toes."