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Then

Sarah sat at George's kitchen table with her laptop, watching a tiny red-necked bird land on the empty patio table outside. The document on her screen comprised only two lines, nowhere near sufficient.

Kirsten had come. She'd protected her, dealt with the authorities, and held her in her bed all day and all night. George's funeral hadn't destroyed her. Alongside his two surviving mates, she'd stood tall with Kirsten. They'd both worn black dresses, short ones. She thought he'd have appreciated the prettiness.

Kirsten had remained with her when the lawyer had visited after the funeral. George had left her the house, car and his investments. Handing over a cream envelope addressed to her, the practical man had departed with the promise to return and help her with everything. A promise he'd made good on over the subsequent months, helping her establish a bank account in her own name and take over ownership of the house. She'd needed almost nothing with George's gentle presence in her life, and now she needed so much just to exist.

His letter lived inside the cover of 'A History of Western Philosophy' by Bertrand Russell, the book which had brought them together. She didn't need to read it. Every word had settled in her heart.

She would never sell the house, not until she'd exhausted every single way to survive. It was her home, her sanctuary, the one place she could rely on and feel close to him. It was her anchor, and she was not selling it. She'd loved him with every inch of her being. She'd never told him, but it was clear now he knew.

Thankful to him for providing for her, she would honor his kindness and make her life the best it could be. She didn't want a world of friends, just the few she'd gained through Kirsten. But she wanted a job. She didn't need tons of money, just a steady income to cover things and leave the investments untouched to grow.

Studying the two feeble lines of her resume, she knew she couldn't do it. Her past would catch up with her and look weird if she skipped it. She didn't have any job history or any skills. Two years on the streets wasn't a resume winner. This was her third attempt to present herself, but it was pointless. In an employer's eyes, she was nobody.

Opening a fresh document she titled it, 'Skills'

The last entry made her smile. She didn't delete it because it was true. She researched teaching, but it took too long to get qualified and her philosophy understanding wasn't enough. Not yet a chess champion, she disregarded her chances of making a career out of it.

Her cooking skills were decent. She could hold down a basic cooking role, but quick research offered little with passion, and they still wanted experience she didn't have. She could clean, but she only loved cleaning because it was her home. Cleaning someone else's wasn't the same. Anyway, it paid very little.

She printed her list of skills and taped it to the wall by the window to keep it in her eye line and mind.

Two days later, desperate for a wee, she let Kirsten in and fled to the bathroom. Returning to the kitchen in much better shape, she found her friend poring over her skills list on the wall.

"What's this one?" her friend asked.

She didn't need to see where Kirsten's finger was pointing. It had been silly to stick her list in plain sight and even sillier to add the last point. It wasn't a skill which would lead to a job.

She compressed her lips. She would never dishonor their friendship. Its bedrock was honesty. George's opinion of Kirsten in mind, she said, "George used to punish me. It did me good. When I was unreasonable, or had done something which deserved discipline, he gave me a good hiding."

Flushed, Kirsten turned to her. "Like a spanking?"

"Worse," she said. "He strapped, paddled, or caned me."

Kirsten's eyes widened, and she stared back. "No wonder you did what he said."

"It wasn't like that. I already did what he said. When I disobeyed him or misbehaved, I wanted him to be hard on me. Being taken to the study and given a proper punishment brought me straight into line. It stung and was shameful, but I always deserved it. I wanted him to remove the overpowering guilt which crippled me. I had to bend over, take severe strokes, and thank him before I could get forgiven by him, or myself."

The concept of crippling guilt latched onto Kirsten's mind. She knew it well. Weeks passed with the burden of something she'd done, or not done, spent money on, or said, weighing heavy on her shoulders. More often than not, she'd argued with her husband, adding layers of attitude where none should exist.

"Does it work that fast?" Kirsten asked.

"Yes. It takes no time at all. You struggle to take your spanking and have to be strong willed to obey. It's significant suffering. But if you surrender and embrace your punishment, it leaves you clear-minded, well-beaten and guilt free. Would you like to see the cane he used on me?" Sarah asked.

Kirsten nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The specific words her friend had used had struck a chord. Suffering had to be significant. Hers was long but never significant. Clear minded and guilt free sounded like heaven, and well-beaten sounded like the right price. Forgiveness should come at a price.

Sarah led her into the study and opened the cupboard wide. The astonished expression on Kirsten's face made her fear her decision, but then her friend stepped forward and picked out the more slender of the two canes.

Running it through her fingers, Kirsten gave it a flick and shivered.

"Punishment needs to punish," Sarah said. "It's no good if you don't fear it a little. As soon as he ordered me in here, I wanted my punishment to hurt enough to merit true forgiveness. Six strokes of that cane never failed to make me a good girl again."

"You've experienced these things?" Kirsten asked, sweeping her hand across the multitude of implements in the cupboard.

"Yes."

"Did he make you?"

Sarah shook her head. "I could have declined and he would have accepted it. He made that very clear, but I expect I would have disappointed him. The first time, he gave me the night to consider it. The more I examined the idea, the more dutiful it felt. Being forced to face up to the attitude I'd shown him and accept its consequences seemed responsible. He made it easy by being strict and giving me a severe scolding first."

Kirsten replaced the cane in the cupboard. "Did you get it often?"

"Every week for the first year."

"A year?!"

"Yes. My past wasn't something I was proud of. I wrote notes on every crime I committed, including what I did to you, and he ruled my actions warranted the cane every Monday for a year."

"Mondays?"

Sarah nodded, "8am."

"So you were sore when we were playing tennis."

"Yes. It encouraged me to stay on my toes."

"I never noticed."

"You shouldn't. I mean it's possible, but on Mondays he always caned me in the middle of my bottom. My panties concealed the red lines."

"You're a girl to admire," Kirsten said.

"I'm not sure about that. I required punishment often."

"That's my point. You still took it."

"The shame and humiliation which precedes the pain activates the attitude you need to accept the hurt. He was always wonderful at scolding me and preparing me for it."

"Like how?" Kirsten asked. A dose of shame sounded marvelous. She always heaped loads on herself, but it achieved little good.

"I'll try to do it to you. I won't be as perfect as George, but you'll see. Tell me something you feel awful about."

Kirsten glanced out over the rear garden and thought about her grumpiness last week with her husband. "Do you mean something I did or something I thought?"

"It doesn't matter. Anything which makes you feel rotten about yourself."

"Last week, I was sullen and irritable with Joe because he'd been busy at work and not paid me enough attention."

"Was it fair for you to be mad at him?"

"No," Kirsten whispered, staring down at the floor.

"Stand here," Sarah instructed, pointing to the spot right in front of the desk. "Is he always that busy at work?"

"No. It was just a rough week for him."

"And you made it worse," Sarah said, adopting a stern tone. It wasn't difficult to recognize her friend's behavior as selfish.

"Yes, I suppose so," Kirsten said, looking anywhere but at her friend.

"You suppose so," Sarah mimicked. "Did you or didn't you make his week worse?"

"I did," Kirsten said, drenched in deserved shame. "I'm sorry."

"Drop your jeans," Sarah ordered.

The command stung Kirsten. Consumed by guilt, she moved to obey. Being stripped felt right. She shoved her skinny black jeans down, revealing pretty pink polka-dotty panties. Shame thundered through her core as she stood and met her friend's gaze, her private panties on parade.

"Your grumpiness made his life miserable," Sarah said, keeping her tone harsh, "because you didn't get attention. That's selfish and immature."

Defenseless in her panties, the severe scolding roared into Kirsten's soul and lit her in humble shame. "I'm sorry," she said.

"You should be. Bend over," Sarah commanded. She knew the range of emotions a girl needed to go through. Delivering it brought a distinct pleasure.

Kirsten turned and bent over the desk. She didn't think about it. She couldn't. Commanded to comply, her surrender across the desk had been inevitable. "You won't use one of those things on me, will you?"

"No," Sarah said. "But I bet it feels like I should. Get up."

Kirsten rose with reluctance. She hadn't wanted the pain, but Sarah was right. She'd felt the unmistakable need to receive it. Pulling up her jeans, she said, "I get why you obeyed George. Just getting a severe telling off has made me feel much better. Thank you. I'm going to make my husband a splendid dinner tonight and apologize to him."

Sarah smiled. "So you don't think I was crazy."

"Not at all," Kirsten replied.

Kirsten drove home hot in her seat. Her sex was rife with the memory of her obedience. She'd exposed her pink panties with black and white polka dots on command. The strict censure from her friend had felt wonderful. The shame she'd suffered had sliced into her guilt. If she hadn't spurned the punishment, would Sarah have used one of those wonderful weapons on her? She couldn't believe she was wishing for it. Sarah had bent over that desk herself and taken her punishment.

Picturing Sarah in her tennis whites. Realizing now that her friend's bottom had carried cane marks under her white panties, she imagined it was her and her sex rose to scorching intensity. She had to focus on the road to stop herself from exploding. But again her mind returned to her body, bent over the desk in surrender for her attitude. God, she wanted someone to whip, strap, paddle or cane her. Anything which hurt like hell and made her a decent girl again. Hitting the brake for the lights ahead, she brought her car to an abrupt halt, her leg straight and heavy on the pedal as a plethora of orgasms pulsed into her polka-dotty panties.

Sarah picked up her lilac pillow and pulled a white one from underneath. She'd brought her lilac bedding up to the front bedroom on the second level. Taking the pillow to the study, she balanced it on the desk edge and selected the slender cane. The look in Kirsten's eyes when she'd stood up had screamed gratitude. The avid promise to provide a splendid feast for her husband had proved how much better she'd felt. Watching the metamorphosis take place in front of her, she'd seen her friend go from guilty girl to good girl in one firm scolding. Imagine what a few hard strokes of the cane could achieve.

She lined up the cane across the pillow and gave it a lackluster whack. George had described the technique once, but he'd never shown her. In the study, the cane had belonged in his hand. She knew how it should land and tried various approaches, first raising the cane right back over her shoulder, and later small flicks with her wrist. Three hours of dedicated practice proved ever-harder flicks of her wrist made the sound and impact she recognized.

The paddle required the opposite technique. Powerful swings delivered maximum impact. It was hard work for her rather than pain for the pillow. The thick leather strap was supple, and she'd remembered George using his other hand to hold the end while he positioned himself. This worked, and starting with it right back over her shoulder, she smelted the disobedient pillow.

Certain she could handle the responsibility and powered by her successful scolding of Kirsten, her confidence was running high. But she couldn't decide if people would pay money for such a service.

Returning to her bedroom, weary from her practice in the study, she opened the window, let fresh air in, and stretched out on her pretty lilac bed. She'd made Kirsten happy with only a stern telling off. George had taught her so much. It was possible his last contribution to her comfortable life might be a business, if she could call it that.