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The lurking. The smoking.The lying.Jane knows this girl deserves a whole series of spankings. But it’s very hard to bring herself to do that right now. Storm seems so small and so sad.
“You are not going to get away with any of this,” she informs the girl sternly.
“I know,” Storm mumbles.
“Come with me.”
Storm follows Jane over to the couch, where Jane sits, smooths her skirt down over her strong, shapely legs, and pats her thigh. “Over, please.”
Face burning with embarrassment, Storm does as she is told. Jane snugs her up tight, making sure she’s well placed, her bottom nice and high over Jane’s thigh.
“Of all the things you’ve done today,” Jane says. “The smoking, the sneaking about, and the lying, the lying is the worst. Don’t ever lie to me again.” She punctuates that command with a firm slap to Storm’s skirt-clad bottom, before lifting that skirt up and laying another slap on her bare cheeks, her underwear having already ridden obligingly up out of the way.
“But what….”
“No,” Jane says sternly. “Never again. I like to think I can trust you, and you can trust me. And that means we don’t lie to each other.”
“So you won’t lie to me?” Storm asks the question with an intonation that Jane should probably pay more attention to.
“No,” she says, earnestly.
“Have you and Laura gone to the bone zone?”
For a second, Jane is mildly scandalized. Then she feels the temptation to laugh. Then she does precisely what Storm needs her to do — and spanks her very impertinent bottom until it is a bright and cheerful shade of red.
11NO MORE LIES
When Storm’s bottom is very warm to the touch and she’s become a contritely wriggling weight across Jane’s lap, it is time for more serious discussions.
“No more lying, Storm.”
“No more lying,” Storm agrees, from a position that doesn’t really allow for any kind of disagreement. She is awash in the warm glow of post-punishment endorphins and the mental effects of a proper chastisement. For this brief but deep moment, she wants nothing more than to be good forever.
Then Jane gives her a direction she does not want to follow.
“No more smoking,” Jane adds.
“No more smoking,” Storm repeats. “Probably.”
“Not probably.” Jane pauses, something occurring to her. “Where did you get the cigarettes?”
“I bought them at the train station when I went to Basel.”
“Is that true?”
There’s a brief pause. “No.”
“Storm!” Jane exclaims. “We just talked about lying.”
“I know, but it’s very moreish. I used to buy pack after pack. There were plenty of them in my stuff when I came here.”
Jane releases Storm from her lap with one last firm swat to her bottom.
“I want you to collect all the cigarettes you have and bring them to me. Now, please.”
Caught in what seems to be a near eternal dilemma, a proverbial catch-22, the desire to be good and to earn Jane’s favor, and the visceral need to do whatever the hell she feels like doing in any given moment, Storm traipses back to her bedroom and gathers all the cigarettes she has. They’re really kind of everywhere, because most of her things are really kind of everywhere. Still, she does as she is told and gets every last one of them.
“Here,” she says a few minutes later, dropping a lot of crumpled, half-broken, cigarettes on Jane’s desk. “This is all I have.”
