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Then

Sarah knew the city, but neither the stores nor the park two streets over from George's house held any appeal. The basement apartment was her sanctuary. The world had rejected her too many times to try again, so she'd occupied herself reading.

She'd researched on Amazon and loaded her kindle app with two books on Chess strategy and three more on philosophy, including another by the author who'd introduced her to the subject, Bertrand Russell.

His 'Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy' had stolen her attention. The concepts of infinity and continuity had belonged to the arena of philosophy until mathematics had created ways to explain them. This extension to her thinking thrilled her. And she'd ravaged the book, forcing George to re-read it so he could keep up with her.

Deep in chess strategy in one of the lilac armchairs, she spotted the delivery man coming down the basement steps before he knocked on the door.

Unbolting and opening the door, she accepted the plastic bags of food. She couldn't get used to how it just came. George had pointed her towards the shopping app and given her a credit card number to pay for it. She'd spent hours poring over the choices, choosing fresh food she'd never had and switching apps to discover how to cook it.

The man handed her the receipt. Seeing her name printed above an address added to her belief in her new life. She had an address. The ticket to life. 'Unit B' on the top line had brought food right to her door. It could bring other things. She'd looked at clothes on Amazon, but her jeans, blouses and jumper were perfect.

Last week, she'd throw out her old clothes, but kept her coat. With three pairs of clean panties and now washing liquid for the machine, she'd kept her clothes perfect. Ironing her blouses had taken an hour with a video on her phone giving directions. The end-result had forced her back to bed with only a crisp ironed blouse teasing her hard nipples, and her hand rammed into her panties at her smart sexiness.

"Check," she whispered.

The quiet triumph of gaining the upper hand thrilled her. His earnest look as he pored over the board reminded her she hadn't yet won.

They played on a chess table designed for the purpose in the front room. He often made her fries to nibble while they played. The pleasure they brought her had amazed him. Few chess games went by without a fresh bowl of french fries.

Thinking two moves ahead, she'd been in better control than usual. But about three moves ahead, he executed his strategy with calm confidence.

"Check Mate."

She'd been so certain she had him this time.

"Damn," she said, banging the table, knocking over half her chess pieces and landing her queen in the bowl of fries.

He watched her with a heavy frown.

She plucked the wooden queen from the fries and took it to the kitchen. Wiping it with a damp cloth, she dried it. Returning to the chess table, she stood the queen on her spot and repositioned each piece while he watched.

"Sorry," she said.

She wasn't used to her emotions being judged by anyone, or getting the better of her.

He gave her a hard look and said, "Do you recall when you asked me what I wanted from you?"

"Yes," she said. "Good manners. Discussions about life and its meaning. And Chess."

Uncomfortable with his generosity, she'd needed him to supply a list of demands she could meet. She'd planted the list in her brain, but failed to honor it.

"I married Betty when we were both very young," he said, sitting back. "She wasn't wild or undisciplined, but she needed firm leadership. We argued, and it was sometimes quite ugly. It took me several years to figure out what she needed and why she became exasperated with me."

Chastened by his stern tone, she nodded.

"Betty needed me to step up and provide direction. Female nature tends towards obedience, and male nature towards authority. I don't mean neither can do the other. It's just the natural way the roles fall. When she misbehaved, like you just did, she wanted me to take command and punish her without question."

"P-punish her?" she stammered.

"Yes. A hard stick or a leather strap on her bottom. A proper punishment."

"She wanted it?"

"I'm not sure you'd say she wanted it as much as she appreciated it. The certainty it gave us both, got us through almost fifty years of marriage. I set the standards and when she failed to meet them, I punished her."

Sarah thought this over. His wife had stayed with him for the best part of fifty years. She wondered if the shame she felt right now in letting him down bore any resemblance to Betty's feelings.

"Are you going to punish me?"

"No, not unless you want it."

As he watched the emotions crossing her face, he realized he'd created a concern that must never exist. "This is not about you living here. I want you to continue to live here. You don't have to accept punishment. I'm so sorry I didn't make that clear. You must never fear for your future. I'm trying to make it comfortable and secure."

"Thank you for saying that. I was worrying about it."

"Sorry," he said. "You don't have to accept punishment from me. Not today, not tomorrow, or ever. I think it might do you some good, and you deserve it. But you're not obligated to agree with me about anything."

"I understand," she said. She did. He'd always done what he'd said he'd do. He'd been as reliable as she'd hoped, and far more than she'd believed.

"Why don't I show you the strap I think you deserve and then give you some time to think about it?"

"Okay," she said, buying time.

He led her next door into the study. She'd only looked in here before. He might use it, but she hadn't seen him. Unlatching the doors of a tall cupboard on the right, he pulled them open and spread them wide.

A brown leather strap about three feet long hung on the right. Beside it were two golden canes, one thin, one thicker and darker. On the shelf was a large canvas gym shoe and many other leather items. Hanging on the left was an enormous pale wood paddle.

"You used all this on her," she gasped.

"Only one thing at a time. She maybe earned some discipline once a month. She was only a year or two older than you when we discovered what she needed."

His calm tone made the implements arrayed before her seem less frightening. They had a purpose, and by the sound of it, they'd worked.

He lifted down the leather strap and handed it to her. It was heavier than she'd imagined and very supple.

"Did you always expect to punish me?" she asked.

"It wasn't my motivation. I wanted your company, and to help you. Your apartment was going to waste and chatting with you at the shelter, I couldn't do nothing. But standing in front of me is another girl in her twenties who could use some discipline and I care enough to suggest it."

"I don't have to agree?" she checked.

"No. You don't. Nothing will change between us. It might disappoint me for a couple of days, but everything will carry on as normal, and one day soon you will beat me at chess." He smiled.

"How would it work?" she asked, handing back the strap.

"It must hurt," he said. "It wouldn't do any good, if it didn't."

She nodded.

"I'd order you to stand in front of the desk and drop your jeans."

"Drop my jeans?" she exclaimed.

"Yes. Punishment is a humbling experience, and the first step is to show you accept it. Taking down your jeans is your acceptance of the decision to punish you. It also makes certain it will hurt."

"Okay," she said, not at all sure she could imagine showing him her panties ever.

"Then you'd bend over the desk, putting your arms on the top, bending right down and pushing your bottom well out."

With her panty-clad bottom on prominent display, the vision in her mind worsened.

"You must stay in position, attempting to take your strapping with as much dignity as you can muster. It shows you accept you deserve it, and it has the greatest effect when you don't fight it and allow it to hurt."

"How many times would you strap me?"

"Six," he said, his tone resolute.

Bent over and embarrassed in her mind, six seemed necessary to make the terrible ordeal worthwhile. Surprised at herself for even considering it, she kept her mind in check, determined to think this through.

"Why don't you sleep on it? If you agree, be in front of this desk at 11am waiting for me."

She lay on her bed, considering everything he'd said, and the man he was. Enough weeks had passed for her to have learned he was honest. He'd trusted her with his credit cards and provided her with food and a home. Guilt at her behavior drowned her brain. Brattish and pathetic, she'd shown him no respect. Even if he'd done nothing for her, such behavior would have been unacceptable, but with the huge list of kindnesses he'd shown her, she was a bratty, ungrateful bitch.

She wanted to strap her. And not stop at six strokes. A full dozen or more should burn agony into her ungrateful butt.

Thoughts of the deep submission he was demanding engulfed her. She'd have to strip down to her panties. She almost didn't care about the strapping, if only she could keep her jeans on. But he hadn't offered her choices. He'd laid out the only way it would work. With her jeans for protection, it would hurt a lot less. She didn't need her understanding of physics to figure that out. But she didn't deserve the protection. She was due a strapping which must hurt, not a token warming of her backside.

There was no escape from the stripping. She'd have to do it.

Getting off her bed, she went to the bathroom. In front of the mirror, she pushed down her jeans, imagining his heavy gaze on her underwear. Stripped to her large white panties, she shook with shame and leaned against the basin for support. Recovering, she stood and stepped back, exposed in the mirror. He expected her to feel that shame, but much worse, and she deserved it.

Facing the mirror, her jeans around her knees, she pulled up her blouse, exposing all of her panties. These were the panties of a girl who needed strapping. Flushed by the admission, damp heat plunged into her sex. She shoved her hand down her panties and met her clit's expectations. Exposed before the mirror and drenched in deserved shame, she turned and bent over. Looking back at the view of her vulnerability, her finger worked overtime as delicious fear ran through her.

She watched her panty-clad bottom, imagining how hard it deserved the strap. Feeling each flaming stroke burning her brattiness out of her, she rose onto her toes in ecstasy as her entire body tensed and flooded her with wave after wave of stunning pleasure.

Calmed by her satisfaction, she turned to face the mirror. She owed him this picture. A penitent girl accepting strict punishment for her appalling attitude. But it would require immense courage to go through with it.