From the Top Shelf - On the Bare

'On the Bare' is from a novel by Hilary Chale called Fined or Caned. It is set in Britain of the future, where citizens are subject to corporal punishment instead of fines for minor offences.

Our heroine is Margaret Shade, who has been caught smuggling a large quantity of wine into England after a holiday in Paris. She has been sentenced to 67 strokes of the cane administered by a caning machine. The punishment is based on a formula, and she can take her strokes in as many installments as she likes. Here is her first visit to the punishment centre.

The marble floored lobby was much as she expected. There were two lifts straight ahead, and facing each other were two counters. The one on the left was marked Gentlemen, the other Ladies. There was a small computer screen on each. Margaret went up to the young uniformed woman, and produced her card.

"Have you ever done this before, Madam?"

"No"

She inserted the card beneath the screen. When it came out again she said: "If you take the right hand lift up to the second floor, there will be someone to meet you." She smiled.

Neither Margaret nor the girl saw any incongruity in the pleasant tone of the conversation. She entered the lift and went up.

"Good morning, Madam, may I see your card?"

Margaret held it out.

"Thank you - you see we never speak names aloud in the passage."

She was personable, perhaps a little younger than the one in the hall. "Probably a trained nurse as well." Margaret judged.

"Have you a friend with you?"

"N-No. Could I?"

"It says so on the card"

"Of course, my fault."

Of the doors along the passage, two stood open. They stopped at the first.

"This will be your changing room," she led the way in.

"When I go out, you shut the door. You won't be able to open it again until after you've been punished. That door opposite leads straight into the punishment chamber. The instructions are all written up on the wall here and next door, but it may help if I tell you."

"Yes, thank you."

"You strip off everything below the waist: shoes, tights, panties - everything. There must be nothing whatsoever below the belt line. When you're ready, you can call me on the intercom, which is here. As soon as the chamber is ready for you, I will call you and unlock the door. It's all done electrically. You will be inspected on the closed circuit before you're allowed in."

"I see."

"The one thing you MUST have in the chamber with you is your card because it activates the machine and keeps count, but you mustn't bring in anything else. Understood?"

"What do I do when I get in the chamber?"

"You'll be told, and anyway the instructions are there. It's quite easy."

Margaret nodded.

"And don't forget, if you have any doubts, or want some help, call me. Just remember, once you've closed this door, you have to go through with it."

"I follow."

"Well, are you ready?"

"Will there be anyone else in the chamber while I'm -"

"No, not unless you ask."

"What about a friend?"

"There's a special friends room. You'll see."

"Alright. I think I'm ready."

"OK - and good luck."

The wardress left the door open behind her. Her footsteps retreated down the passage and she obviously went into another room. Margaret's heart began to pound. She went over and carefully shut the door and then tried it so see if it would open. It would not. She was left alone to her fate.

The room, though rather severe in its white paint and illuminated ceiling, was comfortably, almost luxuriously, furnished. There was a wall wardrobe with hangers, a luggage stand, a leatherette covered stool and an easy chair. The shower room had a bidet as well as a loo and a basin. There was a built-in dressing table with a wall-mirror - and another very low one. She smiled as she recognised its purpose.

She began to undress and hang up her clothes. Skirt first, then her tights. Her shirt hung well below the belt. It would have to come off. She was wearing a bra which she didn't really need. Her breasts had always been firm. The bra could stay now. She pottered about, put her handbag in the cupboard, took it out and extracted the card, put the card on the table.

"Time to take my pants off," she muttered through gritted teeth.

She put them on the cupboard shelf and briefly looked at her smooth buttocks in the low mirror.

"Before," she muttered, "Now for After."

She pressed the intercom switch. She was trembling slightly but not entirely from fear.

"Hullo?"

"I'm ready."

"So I see. 'Fraid you'll have to wait a few minutes. Sorry."

Margaret wondered who else could see her. There was little point in modesty at the moment. She settled herself comfortably on the cool leatherette and lit a fag. She didn't often smoke. She could see what Mary had meant about it making a change. This could scarcely be more restful, save for the thunder of her own heartbeats. The smoke floated, and went on floating lazily to the ceiling.

She had finished two-thirds of the cigarette when she sensed that the intercom had gone live. There was a short cough.

"Madam."

"Yes?"

"You may go in now. Don't forget your card."

The chamber door clicked. She stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, opened the door and went in.

Naturally she knew about these machines. She had, in fact, seen the gloating illustrations in the Sundays when the first centre had been opened. All the same it came as a surprise to her. The whole apparatus faced towards the left-hand wall. There was a large drum-like roller on its stand. Two spring-loaded short metal arms protruded from machinery housings, which stood, about six feet apart, one either side of the drum. Into the socket at the end of each arm, a three-foot cane had been inserted. They now stood, swung back, wide open and slightly to the front.

"Or rather, behind," she thought ruefully.

The wardress's voice came over the intercom.

"Insert your card, blue side up, into the yellow slot on the top of the left hand machine - that's right. Push it right home."

"Now go and stand between the machines and face the drum."

"Mount the yellow step on the drum itself. You'll find that it's quite firm."

The drum was not fully round, but cut off flat at the lowest part so that about a quarter of its circumference was missing. This flat base was well above the ground, and extended outwards to make the step. Margaret stepped up. It was, as she had been told, perfectly firm.

"Now, in a moment you will bend over the drum. If you leave things as they are you will receive six strokes. But if you think you can take more, you can set the control for more by pressing the red button by the yellow slot."

"No more? Very well, Madam, bend over."

She settled herself over the drum's padded leatherette, which was cool on her stomach, as the chair's had been on her bottom.

"Now listen carefully. If you look down you will see two holes in the step on the other side. When I say 'reach', put your hands through those slots and grasp the handles you will see at the bottom. Your wrists will immediately be pinioned and you will be held in that position until it is over. When both your hands are pinioned, there will be an interval of one minute, and then your punishment will begin."

"I see" said Margaret.

"OK, now - reach."

She put first her left hand, and then her right into its slot and grasped the handle at the bottom. It incorporated some kind of trigger. There was a snap and her wrists were enclosed in a smoothly fitting hold. The machines made a faint whirring sound and the canes, which she saw out of the corner of her eye, swung round out of her vision and behind her.

A million thoughts and images chased across the inside of her head. Seeing her school-friend Anne's own bottom marks. The almost unbearable silence. The row with Miss Cullin. Should she open her legs or keep them together? She opened them slightly. Had she stubbed that cigarette out? The holiday in Corfu.

There was a very small click on her left.

She had not consciously heeded it. The cane cut into her rump like a cold fire after a second of nothingness, and drove a wave of horror up her body, almost to her throat. She gasped, astounded. Then there seemed to be an endless pause. She felt a very small movement. The drum, with her on it, was rotating about half an inch. Now she saw why it was mounted on an axle. The next stroke would come a hair's breadth lower down.

This time there was a click on the right!

She noticed it and prepared herself. Again that empty cut followed by the stampeding pain upwards, and then the hot line rising across her. The drum turned another half an inch.

The left-hand cane was coming next. If only she could see something other than her arms and the floor. A mirror would help, a low wall mirror like the one in the changing room. Her heart and mind, and understanding, were in one world; her knees, feet and curves in another, separated by the great mass of the drum. The only contacts between the front and the back worlds were the messages of fiery pain.

Click.

This time she tried to meet it. Somehow it might be better that way. She remembered how Miss Archibald's school cane had hurt her right side more than her left. It was the end curling round which did the damage. These canes were finely aligned and dispensed very even handed justice. All the same, that left hand one did hurt her right buttock more than the other.

Click.

With the right-hand cane it was the other way round. It made her shift uneasily. The drum was still moving its half inch between strokes. Two more to go. To think that she would have to endure this regularly for weeks! She was going to meet the next one too. She did not want to scream but she couldn't help drawing in a great gulp.

That was the left hand again, and she had not notice the click. If the drum goes on turning like this, some poor soul will be standing on her head, she thought. Wonder when it turns back? Must remember to ask.

The right hand click.

She arched herself and thrust her haunches back as far as she could. Difficult in that position. It seemed to come like lightening. God! Then there was that faint whirring. She could see the canes again over her shoulders. The grip on her wrists relaxed and disappeared.

"Did you want any more, Madam?"

She shook her head and started to scramble up. As she did so, she noticed the grilled observation window opposite the changing room door. No one there now. Tomorrow?

She took her card and went back into the room.

"Would you mind shutting the door, please? We've got someone else waiting."

She did as she was asked. Then she pressed the intercom. "Can you come down?"

"Yes certainly. In a minute or two."

She began to examine her bottom and feel it with her hands. The welts stood up, red and virtually contiguous. If there had been a double mirror it would have been easy. Looking back at herself created lighting problems. She had to look round one way and then the other. She tried standing with her legs apart and bending over to look between them. She wondered how long they might last. It was not material, really, because there was so much more to come. A quick calculation by school arithmetic. She had had about 9% of it. There was a knock at the door.

"Thought you might like a cup of tea."

Margaret, apart from her bra, was naked. "Oh, how nice," she said, "please come and sit down if you're not busy." Just as if she was playing hostess in her own home.

"It's alright. There's usually a bit of a rush after lunch but my colleague can cope now."

She sat down. Margaret, of course, opted to stand.

She began, "I shall have to come here more often. In fact I'm coming for my next dose tomorrow. I'm with another girl who is coming too. One can make appointments?"

"No, sorry, it's first come, first served. Everyone is supposed to take their turn but we try and help. It's not always easy for people. When were you thinking of coming?"

"Eleven?"

"Should be alright. I could fix it so you are done at different times."

"I'm not sure how it will work out," Margaret began, then it all tumbled out, ending "- and I don't know if she will want me to - to - see her."

"That's easy. It's her decision. We ask her and if she says 'no' you don't get to watch. Friends have to sign the book of course."

"Another thing. That drum which one bends over. I suppose it must turn back?"

"Yes. Every seven strokes. Were you thinking of taking more today?"

"I haven't got a lot of time. How long does it take for the marks to disappear?"

"Going on a seaside holiday, or something?"

Pause

She was still naked, drinking tea. Presumably the wardress could see her stripes in the mirror.

"Some are tougher than others. I can't say yet how you'll shape. Might get an idea tomorrow though. You wouldn't want to come every day, would you?"

"Er, no, I don't think so."

"We get a few hardy 67's you know. Must be difficult for them in a hurry. We're not supposed to suggest or persuade people but -"

"You were practically inviting me to take more."

"Yes. You see if you took four nines - thirty six - that leaves thirty-one. One seven and four sixes. Nine visits, tailing off in severity a bit at the end. You've had one. You'll finish in a month if you come twice a week, especially if you come tomorrow."

"I would certainly come on Saturday if you're open."

"Seven days a week service, actually, but I'm not here on Thursdays. My day off."

"I hadn't really thought this out. In fact I've never thought about it before. "

"I'm not surprised, it comes as a bit of a shock."

"It certainly does!" said Margaret with feeling.

"It hurts like hell too," the girl said. "Not easy to get one's idea straight."

"You've had the cane?" asked Margaret, surprised.

Just then the intercom interrupted: "Rosemary!" and the answer was left in the air.

"That's me," the girl said, " I must be going, but I'll see you out."

"Thank you for coming and talking to me." Margaret said.

"Your bottom's alright at the moment," said Rosemary. "I wouldn't touch it if I were you."

She waved goodbye and ushered Margaret out of the building.

It seems that Margaret has made a friend. She's probably looking forward to their next cuppa and chat already.