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“No? Why?”
Jane smiles serenely. “Because, Storm. I intend to make sure you behave.”
There is a moment in which that sentence resonates into the silence between them, Storm stunned and Jane practically transcendent.
The moment passes, when Jane speaks once more. “Now, on to the matter at hand. You decided to ignore my summons yesterday and to backtalk me today when I took your cigarettes. You will be punished for both transgressions now.”
The transition is so seamless and smooth. Storm cannot believe it. Not only is her life over, but she’s going to be punished for some petty bullshit too.
“You mentioned your cigarettes cost you four francs. This afternoon they will also cost you several sets of four strokes of the cane. How many depends on your behavior,” Jane continues.
Several sets of four? It doesn’t take a mathematic genius to realize that means at least eight, when even one is practically unbearable. Storm has heard enough.
“The fuck they will!” She stands up and marches toward the door. “I’m not going to a finishing school, and I’m not letting you cane me. I’m not doing any of this bullshit anymore. I’m…”
“Of course, you’re always free to return home. To your parents.”
Storm stops dead in her tracks, every muscle in her body tense with fury, as she turns back to Jane, shaking with emotion.
“There’s no fucking way I’m going back to them, and there’s no way I’m staying here. You don’t own me, and neither do they.” She takes a deep shuddering breath, and practically wails on the verge of a complete meltdown. “I need a cigarette!”
“Storm.” Jane’s voice is softer than it was before, and quieter. “Come back here.”
“No. I don’t want to. I don’t want…” There are tears in her eyes and a quiver in her voice and that only makes her more humiliated.
She should be slamming out the door and walking into the sunset. She’s more than angry enough to do that. But there’s one last vestige of sense that tells her she has nowhere to go, and that Switzerland, or anywhere in Europe really, is no place for a teenage girl on her own. Though she has told nobody of it, she has seen glimpses of the darkness beyond her little bubble of privilege. Instinct and brushes of unpleasant experience tell her that there are plenty of people out there who would take advantage of her in a thousand different ways if she were to just run.
But that leaves her trapped between her fear and someone else’s agenda. It feels as though physical death is on one side, and the death of her soul on the other. She doesn’t know which would be worse, or if either is actually real.
“If you come back now and put yourself into position, I will make it one round of four strokes of the cane,” Jane says magnanimously.
There is something warm in Jane’s voice, something inviting and domestically seductive. She is offering safety at the simple price of having to obey. Storm is now experiencing the same call a street cat feels while sniffing at a partially open house door where a good meal is being cooked inside. She feels her feet moving the same way a stray’s paws move as it follows its nose, cautiously yet also automatically.
She finds herself back at Jane’s desk, where another shrug emerges from her. “Fine,” she says. “Do it then.”
It is not precisely how one asks nicely for discipline, but it is the best she has.
“Bend over,” Jane says, making no further comment as she rises from her chair.
Storm does as she is told, hating it.
“Palms flat on the desk.”
Storm makes the necessary adjustments. Jane takes the opportunity to slip a single page brochure between Storm’s palms, faced so Storm can read it. The top of the paper has a fancy logo, and the words:Birchbane Institute.
Below that is a spiel for the place Storm is about to be sent off to.
“I want you to read this out loud as you are caned,” Jane says, retrieving her implement. Storm scans the paper, but she is not really taking in the words. She is listening to the click-clack of high-heels on the wooden floor. That sound does things to her, makes her stomach go tight and her body flush with heat.
Jane is behind her with the cane now. Storm hears her make a test swing through the air, rattan cutting the breeze with an intimidating hiss. She also feels her jeans coming down, followed by her underwear. Jane handles her as if she is truly someone she has complete dominion over. There is no modesty here. Jane will not allow it.
“Start reading,” Jane prompts.
Storm starts to read, her words halting. “The Birchbane Institute is a private institution dedicated to the education and betterment of ladies seeking refinement…”
WHAP!
The cane makes sharp contact with Storm’s bare bottom. There is a brief moment’s delay before she lets out a squeal as the heat suffuses her body, sharp sensation taking over her senses and obliterating her ability to concentrate on anything besides the pain. She might only be getting four, but they will clearly be four hard ones.
