Part 6: the final redemption, by Mark Danelaw
Part 1: an error in judgement can found here.
Mary had left with a look of awe and gratitude in her eyes. Lorraine hadn’t missed it even if Dacre had. She would be back for more time and time again. No doubt as a regular fixture in their professional lives.
Lorraine was not quite sure where that left her. For all her mockery, she was envious, but that was not quite it either. Mary was her, only an underhand version. Mary had come right out and demanded what she wanted. Lorraine had to wheedle and connive, pretend that she had other choices and that she was somehow better than everyone else.
Richard Dacre didn’t look up from the ledger, but his voice had that dry, sandpaper quality that usually meant he’d spotted her before she’d even reached the door. Lorraine leaned against the doorframe, her gaze lingering on the way the afternoon sun caught the dust motes dancing over his desk. She felt a strange, humming tension in her gut, a residue of the afternoon she’d spent watching him break Mary Baxter.
“I was just wondering if you’d finally run out of ink,” Lorraine said, her voice regaining its usual brassy edge, though she didn’t move from the door. She watched him for a moment, her mind drifting back to the box car three weeks ago. He’d promised her a reckoning then, a rain check for a particular kind of discipline, she had hoped he would bring up so she didn’t have to.
She pushed off the doorframe, walking slowly toward the desk. The memory of Mary’s rhythmic wailing still echoed in the room, mixing with the scent of Dacre’s stale tobacco.
“You know, seeing that little Vassar brat get her world rocked… it reminded me of a few things.” She paused, her gaze softening as she looked at the man who had plucked her out of the gutter years ago.
Before Dacre, she’d been a low-level moll, a street-walker with a rap sheet and a habit of trusting the wrong men. He’d saved her, given her a job, and tolerated her sharp tongue. “I might mock the routine, Richard, but it’s a defensive mechanism, I’m too proud to admit it most days; too much of a coward maybe.”
Dacre froze, his pen hovering just above a column of figures. He wasn’t a man for sentiment, and Lorraine’s sudden lapse into sincerity felt more dangerous to him than a loaded .38. He cleared his throat, the sound rough and abrupt, and finally shifted his gaze to her. His eyes were hard, but there was a flicker of something softer, a recognition of the girl she had been before he’d scrubbed the street off her.
Dacre shook his head and his face took on a sour look. “Ancient history, you and me have been through more than that…” Dacre said, though the edge in his voice had softened. He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning under his weight. “And as for that rain check… I don’t forget debts, Lorraine. Neither do I let them expire.”
“Yeah, I figured, sorry we had a deal; I should have brought it up before now I guess,” Lorraine hated welching on a deal, especially when she already owed the man so much.
Dacre hadn’t forgotten, but figured she had come through when it mattered and had let it slide. Now he could see that such weakness did not work for the likes of Lorraine Carter. To be kind he had to be cruel.
“You know the seamstress shop downstairs,” Dacre said, his voice regaining that flat, clinical authority. “Mrs Patterson. You remember her?”
“Oh how could I forget?” Lorraine said bitterly, she had last been sent there with her bare butt hanging out so that no one missed her shame.
Dacre checked her attitude with a glance.
Lorraine felt a thrill of anticipation shoot through her, a sharp contrast to the heavy guilt that had been simmering since she’d watched Mary break. “Yes, sir,” she murmured, her voice losing its habitual snark.
“You’re going to go down there,” Dacre continued, his eyes tracking the slight tremble in her fingers, “and you’re going to ask to borrow her hairbrush. You remember. The big wooden one she keeps by the register. Ask her if you can borrow it for your spanking. Make sure you say that.”
Lorraine felt the words hit her like a physical weight, pulling her back into a headspace she hadn’t occupied in weeks. “Oh, can’t we keep her out of this?” she groaned.
“No Carter, we can’t, I see know you need an attitude adjustment,” he said very pointedly.
The walk to the seamstress shop felt like a mile of gauntlet, the air in the hallway suddenly thick and oppressive. Mrs Patterson didn’t ask questions; she simply looked at Lorraine’s flushed face, then at the heavy, oak-handled brush on the counter, and handed it over with a knowing, pitying smile. Lorraine was about to walk away when she stopped and turned back. Then with a dejected sigh and a blood red face she muttered, “It is so he can spank me.” The admission was mortifying and unnecessary, but she just had to do it. The confession gave her a thrill deep down where it counted.
“Oh I figured that honey, isn’t always,” Mrs Patterson said with a shrug, “that’ll get the job done.”
When Lorraine returned to the office, the heavy wood felt like a sceptre of her own undoing.
The office door clicked shut, sealing them in a silence that felt heavy with the scent of old paper and lingering anticipation. Lorraine didn’t say a word; she simply walked to the centre of the room and set the heavy oak brush on the desk with a dull, authoritative thud.
Dacre didn’t look up from his ledger for a long moment,. “You took your time,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the floorboards. “Five minutes of wasted time is five minutes of added penance.” He finally met her gaze, his eyes hard and calculating.
“Lose the skirt and the panties,” Dacre told her, you can get across my knee for the first act.
Lorraine nodded glumly. She had asked for this, she even needed it, but she didn’t have to like it. With a trembling hand, she reached back and unbuttoned her pencil skirt, letting it pool around her ankles in a heap of dark wool. She stepped out of the garment and then, with a sharp, decisive tug, slid her and panties down.
The air hit her bare backside with a shocking chill, leaving her exposed and trembling in the centre of the room. She felt the shift in the air as Dacre stood with a slow deliberate movement of a man who knew exactly how much power he held and then he took her across his knee as he moved chairs.
Dacre didn’t act immediately He pawed her bare bottom with fatherly menace. “You’ve spent years hiding behind that desk, Lorraine,” he murmured, his voice devoid of its usual edge, replaced by a predatory calmness, “Mocking the rules, playing the cynic. But we both know you’ve been counting the days since that rain check.”
He reached out, his palm flat and heavy as it landed squarely across the swell of her right cheek. The sound was a sharp slap that echoed through the office, a wake-up call to her nervous system. Lorraine gasped. The sting was instantaneous, a bright flare of heat that seemed to wake up every nerve ending from her hips to her toes.
Dacre didn’t give her a moment to recover. The hairbrush descended with a suddenly, the heavy oak head connecting with a sound like a wet towel hitting a stone floor. Lorraine’s breath left her in a sharp gasp, her body arching instinctively as the heat bloomed across her left cheek. It wasn’t the methodical, teaching rhythm he’d used with Mary; this was a reckoning. This was for every snide comment, every eye-roll, and every moment she had spent pretending she was above the reach of his hand.
“You think you’re the only one who remembers the rain check, Lorraine?” Dacre asked; his voice low and vibrating against her shivering skin. The brush landed again, then again, a rapid-fire succession of strikes that turned her pale curvaceous bottom into a canvas of throbbing crimson.
Lorraine’s fingers dug into the wool of his trousers, her knuckles white. She had faced prison guards and underworld enforcers, but the calculated precision of Dacre’s hand was a different kind of reckoning, one that resonated in the marrow of her bones. The hairbrush didn’t just sting; it hammered, each blow layering a new wave of heat over the last until her vision blurred. She felt her usual professional veneer dissolving, replaced by a raw, desperate need to be broken open.
“I don’t spank you nearly enough, maybe this will do you some good in the place you need it most,” Dacre murmured, his voice a low rumble against the backdrop of her frantic breathing. “A hairbrush is a mercy for a novice, Carter. For you, it’s just a preamble.”
The hard heavy wooden stung across flesh with a bite that made her yell now; each impact leaving a red stain in its wake that grew and flowered as she tried to keep still.
“You want to beg?” Dacre continued.
“No,” Lorraine breathed with a shake of head, “I have it coming, but I will… ahh,” she could not say the rest.
“I can do this all day,” Dacre grinned, his arm an unrelenting piston.
Lorraine wailed as her rear end scolded now cursing the world that she needed this, so much that her backside began bucking to meet the spanks. “Please,” she begged, all day and all night, whatever you want, she thought, “Make me…” she gasped, not knowing she had said it.
“I guess you’re feeling that,” he said and brought the spanking to a close, “Back to the corner.”
Lorraine didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Her backside was a sheet of living fire, the skin stretched tight and throbbing in rhythmic pulses that matched the hammering of her heart. She shuffled toward the corner, her bare feet slapping softly against the floorboards, and pressed her forehead against the wallpaper. She felt the cold air hit the raw, crimson expanse of her rear, a sharp contrast that made her whimper. She clasped her hands behind her back, locking her fingers together as ordered, and waited.
The silence that followed was suffocating. She could hear the distant muffled sounds of the street, car horns and the faint chatter of pedestrians, but inside the office, the only sound was Dacre’s slow, deliberate breathing.
He kept her there a while, her bottom throbbing and still bare to his gaze. She dreaded a client walking in or anyone at all, and yet the idea of it thrilled her. An ultimate submission to his will she could at least share with someone.
Then, she heard him cross the floor to retrieve something from the stand. There was a scrape of wood and then a swish of cane cutting the air. He hadn’t caned her often, but it was always memorable.
“Carter, bend over the desk and take a firm hold of the far edge,” Dacre told her.
Lorraine looked in horror at the stick and then took a slow deliberate breath. “Hey look I am all cured, thanks doc for straightening me out,” she quipped.
Dacre almost laughed, but was poised enough to pint at the desk with the cane.
“Oh fooey,” she said with a pout, “this ain’t no fun,” the tightness around her eyes and her constant swallowing gave a lie to the bravado, but she obeyed and once in position arched her back and presented her bare bottom for correction.
Dacre braced the cane between two hands and considered Lorraine’s proffered behind as a connoisseur. Tentatively he reached out with the rod and tapped her bottom, she startled and gave a little sigh.
“Still running that mouth of yours,” he said.
She took a deep breath and admitted, “I guess.”
The first stroke of the cane wasn’t a blow so much as a sword slash. It sliced through the stagnant air with a predatory whistle before connecting with a sound like a wet towel hitting a marble floor. Lorraine’s entire body jolted, her spine arching violently as the pain tore through her previous burns, cutting deeper and sharper than the hairbrush ever could. It wasn’t a dull throb; it was a white-hot wire drawn across her skin.
The second stroke followed before the first had even finished echoing, landing a fraction of an inch lower. Lorraine’s scream was a jagged thing, tearing from her throat and bouncing off the walls. The cane didn’t just sting; it pierced, leaving a narrow, searing line of intensity that made her toes curl into the floorboards. She tried to shift, to instinctively pull her hips away from the danger, but Dacre’s voice sliced through her panic.
“Stay still, Lorraine. If you move again, we start the count over.”
Lorraine froze, her muscles locking in a state of desperate tension. The threat of a restart was a psychic weight heavier than the pain itself; she knew Dacre’s brand of meticulousness.
The third stroke arrived with a sudden, vicious velocity, slicing across the centre of her right cheek. It wasn’t the broad, bruising heat of the hairbrush; the cane was a precision instrument, a surgical strike that left a narrow, screaming welt. A strangled sob escaping her lips as she felt the skin stretch and snap, the sensation so intense it bypassed pain and became a kind of electric vibration that hummed through her entire nervous system.
“You’re thinking about the kid aren’t you?” Dacre’s voice was a low rumble, sounding almost too close.
“Yes,” she whispered, “The balls on that girl, with her looks and money…” but then nothing else Lorraine said or even thought made sense now, the pain was too much. Her world had shrunk to the size of a postage stamp, consisting entirely of the searing, linear heat radiating from the three stripes the cane had carved into her flesh. Each throb of her bottom felt like a heartbeat, a rhythmic reminder that she was no longer the cynical secretary playing a game of wits with her boss.
“The rain check was for a spanking, Carter,” Dacre murmured, the sound of the cane whistling through the air once more, “but you didn’t cash it in, now the debt has grown.”
The fourth stroke landed with a wet, snapping sound, crossing the third in a brutal X that made Lorraine’s knees buckle. She slammed her palms against the desk, her breath escaping in a ragged, uncontrolled wail.
“You’re fidgeting, Lorraine,” Dacre observed, his voice sharp.
“S-sorry,” she breathed, his words and some real slices of pain were competing for her attention. Lorraine’s breath came in jagged gasps. She could feel the heat radiating off her backside, a pulsing, angry throb that seemed to sync with the ticking of the office clock.
“Five,” Dacre announced. The word was a trigger, and the cane followed a microsecond later. A burning line across her bottom that made her scream.
“You know you’ve spent years thinking you were the smartest person in the room,” Dacre said, his voice coming from a distance, though his presence felt like a mountain looming behind her. “You used that tongue to build a wall between you and everyone else. Well, the wall is down.” He caned her again.
This time the cane descended with a whistling velocity, biting deep into the centre of her burning cheeks. Lorraine’s world dissolved into a singular, blinding point of white heat. She didn’t just cry out; she wailed, a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the frosted glass of the office door.
“How many was that Carter?” he asked.
“S-seven,” she sniffed.
“Oh dear,” he said smoothly, “You’ll have to take the sixth again.”
The cane whistled again, a sharp, singing note that ended in a visceral thwack against the swollen meat of her behind.
“S-six, six,” Lorraine was bawling, “Please it is six.”
The pain was no longer a series of strikes; it was a solid, radiating wall of fire that consumed everything. He let her cry as he stood back to consider her bottom; a sphere of red shininess scored by cane welts.
“You’ll have to type standing up for the rest of the week,” he said.
Lorraine tried to pull it together. She had had worse than this, even from him. Maybe this time she knew she had it coming?
The cane didn’t just strike; it detonated. Lorraine felt the impact vibrate through her ass, a jagged bolt of lightning that scorched the remaining fragments of her composure. She wasn’t a secretary anymore, wasn’t a former moll or a street-smart survivor; she was merely a collection of raw nerves and throbbing skin, pinned across a desk by Dacre’s relentless rhythm. She sobbed, a messy, unrestrained sound that filled the office, her forehead pressed hard against the wallpaper as she surrendered to the absolute authority of the rattan.
“S-seven,” she yelled and began blowing as if to cool her bottom off by proxy.
“You’ll make it kid,” Dacre told her affectionately.
She nodded in agreement, she would agree with anything he said at this point.
He caned her again and she screamed and before she could say anything coherent he added another.
She was sobbing again and he let it ride.
The final stroke of the cane didn’t just land; it anchored her. The impact was a deep, thrumming vibration that seemed to echo all the way down to her toes, leaving her bottom a map of overlapping heat and screaming nerves. Lorraine collapsed onto the desk and got ready to beg. She was done, maybe another rain check, she laughed insanely.
Dacre smiled, she was unspressable.
Dacre didn’t offer a hand to help her up. He let her linger in the wreckage of her own defiance, a sobbing mess, clean and renewed.
“You’re a mess, Lorraine,” Dacre said affectionately, his voice laced with a strange, grounding warmth. He reached down and pulled her up into a hug so that they embraced vigorously.
“Thank you boss,” she sniffed, her bottom now sizzling lines and hot enough to ignite. She had absolutely no hope of sitting down for a year.
“Still think you can negotiate, Lorraine?” Dacre asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space between them.
“No, sir,” Lorraine whispered, the words scraping through a throat raw from sobbing. She didn’t look away from him, her gaze searching his for a sign of the man who had pulled her out of the gutter years ago. The professional distance they had maintained for a decade had vanished for a moment, replaced by a visceral, aching intimacy.
Dacre’s expression remained impassive, but his grip on her arms tightened, pulling her flush against his chest. The heat emanating from him was a stark contrast to the cooling air on her ruined backside. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his eyes scanning the wreckage of her pride. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he shifted his weight, the friction of his trousers against her thigh sending a jolt of electricity through her remaining nerves.
“You’ve spent years pretending you’re the one holding the leash, Lorraine,” Dacre murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He didn’t release her; instead, he shifted her slightly, forcing her to feel the hard, insistent evidence of his own arousal pressing against her hip. “The sarcasm, the lip, the way you look at the clients, it was all just a fence to keep anyone from seeing how much you crave the fence being locked.”
Lorraine let out a shuddering breath, her head lolling against his shoulder. The fire on her bottom had settled into a deep, pulsing throb, a rhythmic reminder that she was no longer the one in control. The liberation she felt was terrifying; without her shield of cynicism, she was just a woman who owed everything to the man holding her. She felt a sudden, desperate need to be closer, to dissolve into him until there was nothing left but the sensation of his authority.
“Sometimes I do,” she confessed, the admission barely a whisper. She felt the vibration of his chest against her cheek, a low thrum that seemed to synchronize with the pulsing heat of her skin. “I’ve always wanted the lock, Richard and you can have the key.”
Dacre didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted his grip, his hands sliding from her arms to her waist, lifting her with a sudden, effortless strength. He turned around again to bend back across the desk so that her heart raced. Another spanking…? She wondered, she hoped, she was his, anything he chose.
Dacre’s fingers linger on her blistered bottom and she hissed. His eyes were fixed on the wreckage of her tail end, the deep, angry purple of the caning now mingling with the softer pink of the spanking. He reached for the desk drawer and produced a small, unmarked bottle of oil.
“You’ve spent years pretending you didn’t need the structure, Lorraine,” he murmured, pouring a slow, viscous stream of oil into his palm. “The sarcasm, the eye-rolling, the constant testing of the boundaries. It was a performance for an audience of one.”
The oil was cold, a sharp contrast to the radiating heat of her throbbing bottom. When Dacre’s palm made contact, Lorraine let out a sound that was half-sob, half-sigh, her back arching off the mahogany. He wasn’t massaging her; he was smoothing the oil over the welts with a clinical, possessive precision, ensuring every inch of the damaged skin was slick and sensitized. The sensation was overwhelming, a slow, sliding pressure that turned the jagged pain of the cane into a humming, electric throb.
“I want you hard,” he breathed.
“Yes,” she was panting now.
“But on my terms, my pleasure, no chance of any little Dacre’s you get me?”
“I do,” Lorraine whispered, the word barely escaping her lips. The mask had slipped, leaving her raw and honest. She felt the oil seeping into the creases of her skin, a cooling balm that only served to make the underlying fire feel more vivid. For a woman who had spent her youth navigating the treacherous currents of the city’s underworld, this kind of surrender was the only true luxury she had ever known.
Dacre didn’t offer a word of comfort. Instead, he shifted his weight, his body pressing firmly against her thighs. He reached down, his fingers finding the damp heat of her core, his touch authoritative and sure.
“Your cynical sidekick is ready to surrender,” she murmured, her voice sounding small and fragile in the quiet office. She shifted against him, her hips searching for a firmer pressure. “P-please… don’t…
He moved with a deliberate, unhurried economy, his fingers parting her with a firm authority that left no room for hesitation. Presenting his hardness to the small slippery bud he pressed her there. She hadn’t been a virgin at this gate when they met and they had certainly had enough practice since. Still she gasped as she felt the stretch, he was too big, like a telegraph pole. When he entered her, it wasn’t a tentative exploration but a claim. Lorraine let out a jagged gasp, her head snapping back against the mahogany of the desk, her fingers digging into the wood. The sensation was a violent contrast, the sharp, lingering throb of the cane meeting the deep, filling pressure of his body. It was a symphony of punishment and pleasure that blurred the lines between the two until they were one and the same.
The rhythm was relentless, a slow, crushing cadence that mirrored the methodical nature of the discipline that had preceded it. Dacre didn’t move with a frantic urgency; he moved with the precision of a man completing a ledger, each thrust a calculated entry in a long-overdue account. Lorraine felt the friction of the oil on her skin mixing with the heat of their collision, a slick, sliding sensation that made every nerve ending scream.
As the tension mounted, Dacre shifted his grip, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her down harder against the desk. The pressure forced her chest against the cool wood, the contrast of the cold surface and the searing heat of her backside creating a dizzying vertigo. She let out a low, guttural moan, her legs shaking as she clung to the edges of the desk. The silence of the office was shattered by the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, a sound that felt like an echo of the cane’s strikes.
The crescendo hit her with a jarring force that left her breathless and trembling, her vision blurring into a haze of gold and grey. As the last of the tension snapped, she felt Dacre’s weight shift, his breathing heavy against the crook of her neck. For a long moment, the only sound in the office was the ticking of the clock and the ragged, synchronous gasps of two people who had just collided at full speed.
Dacre didn’t pull away immediately. He lingered, his hand sliding from her back to the small of her spine, grounding her as the aftershocks of the release rippled through her limbs. He shifted, his voice returning to that low, measured cadence that always sounded like a verdict.
Dacre pulled back slowly, his gaze raking over her, from the tangled mess of her red hair to the bruised, crimson landscape of her backside. He reached for a handkerchief and began to methodically wipe the excess oil and from between them…
“No,” she breathed, “Let me,” and she sank to her knees and replaced the Kleenex with her mouth. Her tongue working this soiled manhood, cock and balls.
“You don’t know where that’s been,” Dacre smiled for once.
“Oh, but I do…” she licked lavishly.
“You missed a bit,” he groaned, humour to distract his suddenly vulnerability.
“Sorry boss,” she grinned and on her hands and knees began licking oil and detective seed from the floor.
“I haven’t forgotten,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “The way you brought me in here… the way you saw me before I even knew who I was. I know I act the part of the brat, the one who mocks the leash, but it’s just a shield, Richard, my way to make the submission feel like a choice.” She reached out, her fingertips grazing the wool of his trousers. “I’m honoured that I have the same arrangement as Mary, even if I’m a hell of a lot louder about it. I mock her, but I am the same and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“You’ve always had a knack for timing, Lorraine,” he breathed, “You’ll be back to denial by tomorrow.”
“No, no denials at least until I can sit down again, give me a week at least, until then make the most of it,” she might have said more but suddenly she lifted her mouth the floor and filled it with is resurgent manhood.
“What you need is another spanking,” he groaned.
“Promises, promises,” she said with her mouth very full.
The end for now.
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