I know I am extremely fortunate to have taken an early holiday in 2020. It was the Fort Worth Ultra Marathon on the 1st March, that inspired it. Ordinarily, we would have taken a break in the summer, but for some reason I had thought that the 31-miler in Texas, would be an appropriate physical challenge, for what turned out to be the craziest of crazy years. I’d never run an ultra before, my previous best was the Oslo marathon, a 26.2-miler, through the streets of the adopted city of the famous playwright Henrik Ibsen.
Swapping theatrical culture for some serious cattle ranching had its appeal though – I spent the entire time marvelling at the abundance of strong, fit, and thoroughly masculine men. Long live Forth Worth! Yee-hah! I was like a kid in a candy store, and Jem had to keep me on a very short leash until we got to a part of Texas with a touch less testosterone.
San Antonio was a very different experience to Fort Worth. We were hustled from the first moment we arrived, and this was quite a culture shock for us Brits, who spend much of their time living in the super laid back countryside of South West France. We simply aren’t used to having sales reps in our faces, and we don’t take kindly to it, let me tell you.
We ate lunch in a bar in central San Antonio, and weren’t too impressed by the over-zealous attentions of the bar and wait staff. Being British though, we were nice about it, even if I did grumble into my rib-eye steak… a bit.
“Don’t mumble, James, it’s rude. If you have something to say, speak up.”
“You might not actually want me to do that, sir.”
“Mmmm-hum.”
“She started it.”
“Hush now Jacqui, we’ll talk about this when we get to the hotel.”
“But, sir-”
“No buts, Jacqui. Final word.”
“Yes, sir,” I sulked.
****
Once we’d settled into our hotel room and made plans for the afternoon, Jem decided to have that little talk with me about the fanatical waitress from lunchtime. I don’t recall much talking. What I do remember, is being suspended over his lap while he yanked my shorts and pants down, and set about painting my bottom with his palm. He gave his curt, if not pointed, lecture between blows, and I resolved to keep my trap firmly shut for the rest of the day. He eventually let me up and issued a final warning:
“Any more attitude from you today, directed towards anybody, and I don’t care where we are, you will feel my belt.”
I hate it when he says that. ‘You will feel my belt,’ is a phrase that goes right through me, and my HoH uses it to devastating effect. He’s done it before in public, taken his belt right off and thrashed me with it, in front of everyone and anyone who happens to pass by. The one that sticks in my mind the most, is when he belted me over the bonnet of his Jag. He actually stopped the car, ordered me out, and belted me in full view of the passing motorists - somewhere between Reading and Basingstoke. Yes, he really did that. So, you must understand that this was no empty threat. Indeed, I take him so seriously that I almost never wear a belt or carry a hairbrush. I must be one of the few women from the so-called advanced world that doesn’t have a hairbrush in her handbag. I follow Harper Lee’s advice to the letter, ‘Having a gun around is an invitation for somebody to shoot you.’ (Atticus Finch, To Kill A Mocking Bird). I apply this to belts and hairbrushes alike, as Brits don’t usually carry guns.
****
The afternoon was splendid, we took a long walk down by the river in the beautiful San Antonio sunshine. The passers-by were friendly, my legs were almost fully recovered from the ultra-marathon, and we had a wonderful time in each other’s company. Mr. James decided that we ought to treat ourselves to an apéro as it was getting on towards dinnertime – having spent over five years in France, some of their habits have certainly rubbed off on us. I didn’t exactly complain because I had my eye on a great place for Tacos nearby, so I certainly wasn’t against anything that took us closer to chow time.
We climbed up from the River Walk into one of the many bars lining the banks. I cannot for the life of me remember its name, but it was British themed. Red telephone boxes and the waiting-on staff wore kilts – can’t think why Mr. James was attracted to this particular bar. Any ideas? I made no protest, wiser to keep quiet as my bottom was still a tad sore from his lecture, and so long as there was a beer in it for me, I didn’t care what the staff were (or were not) wearing.
“You can’t be in here with that,” a voice from behind the bar piped up.
“Pardon?”
“You can’t drink that in here,” said the same voice, which I could now see belong to a very young, very blonde, and very scruffily dressed barmaid. I had no idea what she was talking about. I turned to see if Jem had any answers, but he had slipped off to the restroom leaving me his wallet to order us some drinks.
“You’ll have to put that in your bag or leave,” persisted the mouth on legs.
“Excuse me?” I said, in a polite a tone as I could muster. “What exactly appears to
be the problem?”
“You can’t drink your Diet Coke here, coz you didn’t get it here,” she drawled, in a most aloof and dismissive manner. I suddenly realised what on earth she had been going on about. My Head of House struggles to regulate his temperature, from being a young boy he has always required a lot of soft drink or other fluids to keep him going. He drinks a lot of Diet Coke and sparkling water to ensure that he is properly hydrated. So long as he is sensible about his condition he doesn’t require any medication. I had been carrying a spare soft drink during our walk-in case he had needed it. This apparently offensive item, was still in my hand as I made myself comfortable at the bar.
“It’s okay, lady, we’re British we don’t do that sort of thing in our country,” I smiled sweetly at her.
“You’re gonna have to put that in your bag,” she persisted. She’s pissing me off now…
“Don’t you worry, I’ll put the exploding Diet Coke bomb into my bag, and how
about you fetch us two beers?”
“Please.” I nearly jumped out of my skin. Jem, unbeknown to me, had returned from the restroom.
“Please,” I added, swiftly. The barmaid sloped off and I looked up at my HoH absolutely bricking it. I just knew that he was going to blame me for this.
“What was all that about? It’s not like you to forget your manners.”
“No, sir. I... I-” the barmaid came back with two pints, gave me a spikey pout and Jem settled the ticket.
“What happened, Jacqui?”
“Sir, I... I don’t know.”
“Jacqui…”
“She had a hissy fit about me having a bottle of Diet Coke in my hand, because I
didn’t buy it from here.”
“Well she needn’t have worried, we’re British and it simply isn’t the done thing to
consume, on the premises, something one didn't buy on said premises. We don’t do that sort of thing in our country.”
“That’s what I said, sir!”
Jem was observing the barmaid carefully as he talked this through with me. Weighing her up, considering carefully the likelihood that it was me, and not the person in the customer services role that was being rude.
“Why did you fail to say ‘please’ to her, Jacqui?”
“Because… because… I don’t know, sir. I guess I was just flustered because she was
so rude, sir. A proper little hustler with some big ass, big mouth, big bad
attitude.”
“Pardon?”
“Sir.”
“Better.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry-”
“That’s enough,” he said, raising his hand, “I’ve heard enough. We will finish our
drinks and then I will take you outside and give you what you evidently need.”
“But, sir! That’s not fair! She started it. I didn’t do anything!”
“Jacqui, I caught you forgetting to say please.”
“Yes, sir, but I had good reason-”
“And your reason for forgetting to say ‘sir’ was what?”
He had me on that. I couldn’t explain it, other than to say that I was so mad with the rude girl behind the bar, that I had then reacted by also being less than polite. First to her, and then to Jem. One of those ‘and the red mist descended’ type situations which never end well. I concentrated on enjoying my cool beer, and having as pleasant a conversation with my HoH as I could manage. Hoping that, if I behaved nicely, he would go easy on me. Hopium, Jacqui. You’re smoking hopium.
After we’d drunk up, my HoH led me out of the bar and back the way we had come. Clearly, he had already decided where he was going to carry the punishment out. There was a little newsagent on the river front, and to one side there was a shallow alcove. Presumably the thinking was that I could be belted there without impeding the progress of the other pedestrians.
“Bend over,” he said, stopping and rapidly removing his belt. I did as I was told as slowly as I could get away with, without racking up more licks. The longer I was bent over the more people would witness my ignominy, and I badly wanted to keep that to a minimum. My cheeks – this time facial – were already red.
“Right down, Jacqui.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, touching my toes rather than just my knees. Somehow, I’d thought that having my hands on my knees was less humiliating than touching my toes. On reflection, it is probably far less embarrassing to comply fully with the directions in the first place, rather than editing them to try to save face when there is none left to save. Either way, I was going to be disciplined in public, and how I wish now that I’d just done as I was instructed first time. I know resting my hands on my knees doesn’t cut it for punishment. I’m expected to bend right over and willingly touch my toes, obediently tolerating all that is to be dished out.
“If you are going to misbehave, Jacqui, the least you can do is accept your
punishment like a woman.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Two extra.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I responded and meant it. I was disappointed that I’d not complied fully and immediately, and I now wanted - very much - to do this right.
He didn’t hang about. The first lick was full-blooded, and I couldn’t help but expel a fair bit of air on impact. I’m not required to count and thank in public, unless instructed otherwise, as Jem isn’t after an audience, and he certainly doesn’t want to draw any more attention than necessary to public acts of a disciplinary nature. He aims for just enough attention to emphasise the humiliation factor, but not so much that we attract an overt audience, or worse, a conversation with law enforcement.
I kept my mouth closed and pressed my finger tips hard into my toes. My thin, cotton shorts were stretched tight across my buttocks, and I was already regretting opting for bikini briefs, when full ones would have granted a smidgen more protection.
The second, third and fourth were delivered rapid-fire, and my ass was smoking well before he crashed the sixth into the crease between buttock and thigh. I panted with the effort of staying down and not crying out.
“The two extras,” he announced, dispassionately. I took a very deep breath, tucked my finger-tips under my toes, trapping my hands with my own feet, to ensure that they didn’t fly back to protect my posterior in any way. The last two were properly laid on, and I had no awareness of anything other than the pain in my backside. Within less than a minute, I had transitioned from being extremely concerned about what others might think, to not even being aware that other people existed. The power of physical discipline.
“You may get up,” came Jem’s voice from close to my earlobe. He’d bent down to address me quietly.
“Yes, sir, thank you,” I whispered back, slowly regaining my full height, and most of my composure. I resisted the urge to grab my bottom as I didn’t want to draw any more attention to it. Instead, I nonchalantly swept my bag off the floor, and waited patiently as my HoH returned his belt to it’s proper place.
“At least that snotty little cow didn’t see, sir.”
“Quite, Miss James, she certainly had an attitude on her didn’t she?”
“So you did know that it wasn’t me?”
“Of course, but that doesn’t excuse your poorly judged, retaliatory behaviour now,
does it?”
“No, sir, of course not. I’m not complaining.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well done.”
“Huh?”
“You took that well, even though you had a fair case.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. In my opinion she needs a proper good whipping.”
“You’re not wrong there. If I’d had my way, I’d have thrashed both of you side by
side.”
“Wouldn’t she have gotten more than me though, sir?”
“No.”
“Wait, what?”
“No, Jacqui. I’d have given her less than you.”
“But why, sir? I didn’t start it and-”
“Because you are my young lady. My young lady. I expect better from you. You
are, and will be, nothing like as full of attitude as Little Miss Hustle back there.
You will behave properly – at all times – right?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Now, let’s see about getting some Tacos, I seem to have
worked up quite an appetite!”
“We’re still going for Tacos?” I said, face lighting up.
“Of course I am. You, on the other hand, can have bread and water…,” he stopped, watched my face carefully as his words sank in, and when he was satisfied that I wasn’t going to protest he cracked a smile:
“Good girl, didn’t take the bait. You’re learning.”
“Thank you, sir,” I grinned back at him, wryly.
“Come then, let’s go eat Tacos!” He said, dragging me off to dinner. I let him drag me off, content in the knowledge that he’d judged the situation correctly, and in actual fact, had treated me extremely fairly. High standards? Yes. And that is why fair doesn’t always look the same, it’s different things to different people, and that’s fair.
*The author wouldn’t want to be a kilted bar ho, with a stinking attitude, in any case. I’ll stick with the beltings, thanks!
**That was an extract from SIX OF THE BEST 2020 which can be read in full here:
Click below to download now:
SIX OF THE BEST 2020
“SIX OF THE BEST 2021” will be out on 24th December 2021 and I am currently writing up 2017 through 2019… as they were especially turbulent years.
Jacqui James
Live-Lash-Love