“The wind howled across the moor that night, raking the last few resilient leaves from their branches. Gillespie lay awake, watching the moonlight phantoms play over the ceiling. He was aware in the back of his mind that tonight marked the end of his first month at the school and his first month since his father had packed up the farm and moved to London, leaving the boy here to, as he said, make a better man of himself than he was.

Was his father right? At nineteen years of age he should be at university, not this imposter remedial school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Did his father know what this place was when he sent him here? Or was the old man so diminished by his own shame to care?

And that woman. That imposing, demanding, winsome woman, that harpy from Hell – had he known what he could expect from the moment he arrived in this drafty old mausoleum, he should have run into the moors and never looked back.

A weight settled onto his mattress, but this was no mere incubus. She sat there on his bedside, having leapt unbidden from his sleepless mind. But his mind could not have conjured her like this, in her chemise and robe, her tresses unfurled from the tight captivity of the day.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ he said to the banshee, ‘It’s after hours. This is the boy’s dormitory.’

She held a finger to her lips, glancing to Hodges and Sweeney asleep in their beds beside his.

‘Outside,’ said she, and that was all.

He could see no lantern in the hallway, perhaps the school was so familiar to her that she could find her way in the dark at any hour. He was further unsettled by the notion. There she waited for him.

She then said, ‘Mister Wenthorpe has confessed.’

Of course, Wenthorpe had broken. Wenthorpe, that son of a wastrel, couldn’t help himself when there was a pub about. Of course, he’d gone back, of course, the goatherd’s girl had identified him. He could almost forgive the sot if he hadn’t been incriminated as well.

‘Nothing to say, have you?’

‘No, miss,” he said.

‘I see,’ she said, ‘And do you know where Mister Wenthorpe is right now?’

‘No, miss.’

‘He is down the hall this very night, nursing a sore bottom. I expect he will find it difficult to keep still through tomorrow’s lessons.’

 ‘But he confessed...’

‘Indeed he did, but it did not spare him. Imagine, then, what awaits the guilty party who remained silent.’

‘I will…’ he bit his tongue, ‘…apologize to the girl.’

‘Very magnanimous of you, Mister Gillespie, but that will not repair my reputation or her shame. You are no longer a gentleman. Your lord’s house stands empty. You are little more than a highborn boor, and you will be punished accordingly.’

He hoped she could not see trembling. He had managed to escape her punishments all but once before, and it was not an experience he had wanted to repeat.

Still, he was the son of a lord, and an Englishman. ‘Your study, then?’

‘I think not,’ she said, ‘I have already worn out hand and slipper on Mister Wenthorpe. I am tired, Mister Gillespie, so this will wait until day’s end tomorrow. I am telling you this purely out of courtesy.’

She turned on her heel and strode down the hallway. Before the shadows took her, she stopped and said, ‘I had expected more from you.’

By the time he found the words to respond, she was gone.

He retired to his bed, taking pains to leave Hodges and Sweeney in their slumber. He would not sleep this night in dread of the coming dawn.

"This has been Chapter fourteen of Miss Alice’s Star Pupil, first published in Cane e-zine, September 2002,” the woman’s voice concluded. “Please join me on Tuesdays and Fridays for new uploads, or purchase the entire Miss Alice series via my website. Special thanks go out to my Ninth-Form sponsors…”

Bertie sat upright on the couch and pulled up his zipper. It was something that he’d always felt equal parts admiration and frustration for the Miss Alice series, its ability to tease its readers with the warning of a spanking, only to hold the suspense for another dozen chapters. The same format that had kept its readers on edge had clearly translated well to a podcast format, one that boasted over two hundred thousand listeners.

It was nearly eight PM, too close to Rachel’s expected arrival for him to finish. He’d have another chance when the next chapter dropped on Friday.

He was about to remove his earbuds and sign out when he was reminded of the draft he still had saved among his e-mails. If he wanted an answer to his request, he was running out of time to put it off. It was time to act like the son of a lord and an Englishman.

His e-mail, after numerous edits, read:

I’ve been a long-time reader and eighth-form contributor to the podcast. I believe the next book to be recorded is Miss Alice Goes Abroad, which was my introduction to the series. I would humbly ask, if you are still permitting guest readers, to voice the part of the Porter when the episode goes to air. – Mr. Almeida

Sent. He’d laboured over that message for over a month. Now he could only wait until the author saw it and formed a response. If she even bothered to respond.

To his utter shock, he had just stood up and pocketed his phone when it immediately buzzed with a new notification.

I remember you, Mr. Almeida. You’ve been very respectful and considerate in my class, so I will treat you the same. I stopped allowing guest readers on my livestream some time ago. Many would not have passed their elocution class, others still could not stick to the script. I’m sorry.

Bertie let out a long breath. Well, in this respect at least, Miss Alice had not forced him to wait. It was not the answer he would have liked, but it was more or less what he had expected. It was time to see what he could scrounge for dinner for Rachel and himself.

His phone buzzed again.

Out of curiosity, why would you be interested in the Porter in Dartmouth? He appears in only two chapters and his spanking takes place from Mr. Cooper’s perspective.

He glanced at the door. Rachel would be coming home any minute.

Because I don’t think I could do Mr. Desaulniers justice with my accent, he typed back. The Porter’s the only proper Canadian character in the series.

It must be after midnight, Greenwich time. The author was clearly a night owl.

Another buzz.

It occurs to me that a livestream won’t be necessary. Perhaps we could arrange a private recording session.  Should your performance meet my standards, I will then consider incorporating it into the podcast.

She laid out a suggested list of equipment, and a time of six-thirty on Thursday. He agreed ecstatically and hid his phone as Rachel’s key clicked in the door.

It was on.

***

He was considering calling it off.

He hadn’t read their shared calendar beforehand, and had missed that Rachel had the night off from work on the Thursday. Then she’d uncharacteristically decided that she was going to make dinner. The stuffed cauliflower was, to Bertie’s surprise, far more delicious than it sounded – but by the time they’d both finished their meal, it was already 5:56.

“Thank you for cooking,” he said, “I’ve got this podcast I really want to catch-“

“Not so fast, mister. It seems to me when you do the cooking, I do the dishes.”

He had no time – he’d had the time earlier to set up the microphone, but not to calibrate the webcam. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

“Just this once, please,” he pleaded, “You can spank me later.”

“Deal,” she kissed him back and crossed over to the sink.

His phone read 5:58. Miss Alice wasn’t the kind to forgive tardiness. He’d left his laptop in the bedroom, which while it wasn’t the most comfortable place to record, should ensure him some privacy. The Porter only had a few lines, so he should be done by the time Rachel had done the washing-up-

His laptop and the microphone were both missing.

“Rachel, have you seen my computer?” he yelled.

“It’s in the living room. And what do you need with my mic?”

5:59. He bolted into the other room to see the laptop propped up facing the couch. The microphone stood just off to the side, the pop filter already locked in place. The screen was already open to Miss Alice Speaks.

The hairs on the back of Bertie’s neck sprung up. And then the green light on his webcam blinked on.

“Good evening, Mister Almeida,” came the voice with its comfortingly familiar Northern accent, “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?”

“My apologies, Miss.” He lowered the screen slightly to account for the glare. “Circumstances got away from me.” Only his own face stared back at him – Miss Alice had turned her own webcam off.

“Speak up, please.”

He sighed. “Miss Alice, I’m thankful for you taking this time, but could we table this activity?”

“It’s on the table right now, Mister Almeida. I’ve given you a unique opportunity and you’ve arrived unprepared and quite frankly underwhelming.”

He turned down the volume as she scolded him, hoping that Rachel wouldn’t hear.

“Who’s that, honey?”

She stood in the doorway, drying her hands with a dishrag.

“Ah, Miss Dawson, come join us please.”

He’d been too harried to put it together before, but now it dawned on him that there was only one way the audio setup could have been assembled before he even got to the room.

Rachel took a seat on the couch beside him, setting the rag down on the table.

“Miss Dawson?” he squeaked.

“You said I needed to double-check the charges on our credit card, remember? You think I’d forget about Miss Alice?” She turned the volume back up.

“Miss Dawson joined as a Seventh-Form contributor,” Miss Alice explained, “She also wanted to act out one of the chapters from the current book – I believe you said it was chapter twenty-nine, love?”

Chapter twenty-nine… the class is excused to go to the pub for the night, all save Mr. Gillespie, who is sent to bed without supper after his earlier transgression. He charms the innocent maid Willa into bringing him a mince, but she finds out about his proscription from one of the cooks and returns to his room. Gillespie expects to be having the maid for dessert, but instead…

… Oh.

“Mister Almeida, would you agree that Miss Dawes’ scenario is more appropriate for this evening?”

Bertie nodded glumly.

“I seem to recall Mister Gillespie answering his door in the altogether. Perhaps you’d like to set the scene?”

Rachel nudged him in the ribs. “You heard the lady. Take it off.”

“You’re leaving the webcam on?” he hissed.

“And since you did hide the truth from Miss Dawson as Gillespie did from young Willa,” Miss Alice continued, “I think we can forgive a little deviation from the text. Are you disrobing, Mister Almeida?”

Bertie looked to Rachel for an out, but she wasn’t giving it. With a sigh, he stood and began to pull off his shirt and pants. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rachel moving the webcam for a wider shot of the couch.

Finally, he turned back to Rachel, hoping he wasn’t giving the camera too much of a view.

She looked up from her seat. “You lied to me. You know what’ll happen when Miss Alice hears about this?”

He remembered the next line, “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”

“Oh, I will. But she’s not going to harm a hair on your head. She won’t have to.”

With that she grabbed him by his forearm and hauled him over her knee. She wasted no time laying into his backside with her palm, and Bertie gritted his teeth as the old familiar sting set in.

In the novel, Gillespie had fought and hollered, less from pain than from the indignity of being manhandled by the help. But Rachel was no Victorian servant girl, and he’d been over her knee enough to know what she was capable of. Tiny though she was, Rachel was bringing her full strength down on him, and Bertie’s ass was going to feel every gram of it.

He’d been at a loss for how to play Gillespie when this scene had been thrown at him, but it was clear that very little acting would have to be involved.

Bertie yelped as she caught him square in the flank, painting a new handprint over a spot still tender from the last one. He twisted in her lap, but she’d already braced her arm expectantly, and his wriggling took him nowhere.

“I see you’ve done this before,” said Miss Alice, and he was reminded of their unseen observer. “I see he’s getting quite pink.”

Rachel chuckled, “This is nothing. Usually, I have to be at it for fifteen or twenty minutes before gets red enough for my liking.”

“I believe we can expedite that. Mr. Almeida, do you remember what happens next in the story?”

Rachel reached for the cloth that she’d left on the table and pulled it away, revealing the wooden spoon she’d hidden beneath.

Bertie recoiled. He’d only felt the scorch of that spoon once, and he’d been testing it on himself. He hadn’t dared suggest it to Rachel after that, but it seemed that his girlfriend had done her research.

“Are you ready, Mister Gillespie?” she purred.

He gulped, and she took that for her answer. The meaty smack of the tool against the curve of his backside wasn’t the loudest he’d experienced, but what the spoon lacked in volume, it made up for in concentration. He kicked out of instinct, but Rachel was already out of the way.

Even so, it was if she took the near miss personally. The spoon swung down again and again, leaving chalky white impact marks that made Bertie jump with each strike. He was almost thankful that Rachel’s grip was the only thing keeping him from landing on the floor and taking the table down with him.

Almost.

There was a snap, and silence.

“Oh dear,” crackled Miss Alice, “They don’t make them like they used to, do they?”

Rachel considered the splintered rod she’d been left with, and cast it away. She relaxed her grip on his midsection.

Bertie crawled to his knees, reaching back toward his aching butt. Before he could rub, Rachel took his hands in hers and fixed him with a glare.

“You want trouble, Ber- Mister Gillespie? You don’t have to seek out Miss Alice’s attention, I’m right here.”

In the novel, Willa had slapped him across the face, and Bertie was grateful for Rachel’s creative license. Instead, she pointed to the corner of the room, at the end of the camera’s range. Hands on his head, he staggered into his assigned post.

“Bravo, love,” he heard.

“Thank you, Miss Alice.”

“Much as I hate to lose two sponsors, I understand that you will be continuing only with the one membership – and that Mister Almeida is not to be contributing without you being present.”

“Unless we’re both present. It’s only fair.” Rachel looked over her shoulder, noticing movement from Bertie from the image on the screen. “Personally, Miss Alice, I’m happy for your help. Your books were a great inspiration to me when we started exploring this side of our relationship. I’m guess I’m thankful you ran so we could walk.”

“Oh, poppycock. My late husband wouldn’t have it, and I didn’t give so much as a smack to my sons growing up, though Lord knows they could have used one.”

“So you never…”

“Only in my kinky little mind, love. Ta.”

She left the discussion with a pronounced beep, leaving Bertie and Rachel once more alone in the room. He exhaled in expected relief, but Rachel was quiet and he knew better than to leave the corner without permission.

He heard Rachel clicking at something on his laptop. After a moment, she padded over to his side, extending his phone.

“Here, I got you something.”

He wiped his eyes and pulled up a new message. As the app opened, he was treated to a three-second video of his crimson bare bottom dancing over Rachel’s lap. His face took on the same colour as the video continued in a loop.

“I think I’ll send it to you every time you’ve earned a trip over my knee. Call it an early anniversary present.”

“Thanks, sweetie. You shouldn’t have.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re welcome.”

As he looked for a place to set his phone down, it vibrated in his hand. A second gif played, identical to the first.

“Rachel, you already sent me this.”

“I know. Now let’s talk about the dishes…”