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THRASHINGS IN PARADISE

by Stanlegh Meresith


1. The Assignment

There is a valley in the heart of Italy which the locals call 'Paradise'. On three sides, the snow-capped mountains rise majestic, shining in the winter sun, their foothills clothed with beech woods as silent as a soul at peace. Wild flowers bloom across the fertile fields in spring, and streams of cool, clear water flow on into the long, hot summer, feeding the sunflowers, olive groves and orchards that blossom there in abundance. The harvests are plentiful, the people content and time seems infinite.

At the end of the road that leads up the valley stands an ancient convent whose nuns, for five hundred years, have served Christ with the compassion only women can feel. It is to this convent that the subject of our story made her journey, one summer not long ago.



Jessica had just made a cup of tea and settled down with her laptop when the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth tinkled from her phone on the coffee table.

The screen read 'Peter'.

"Ah!" she murmured brightly, clicking to answer. She was glad to hear from Peter: it usually meant a chance to earn some extra cash and have an adventure into the bargain. He was the editor of the Spanking Gazette, a niche publication to which Jessica had contributed various pieces in recent years.

"Peter!"

"Jessica! How are you?"

"Good, thanks. And you?"

"Can't complain. In fact, we've had some rather important news. A rich sponsor has offered to provide funding for the Gazette."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Who is it?"

"I can't divulge that information, I'm afraid - even to you, Jessica. Suffice to say he's very big in fast cars."

"Oh! So it's not true what they say then?"

"Very funny," he said, sarcastically. "Anyway... what do you know about Dominican nuns?"

Jessica smiled and took a deep breath. "Well, Peter... did you know that the Dominicans were founded as the Order of Preachers by Saint Dominic in 1206? Yes, and Dominican nuns, unlike their brother friars, don't travel or preach; they live a contemplative life following the four pillars of Dominican life, which are..."

Peter cut in with a whistle of appreciation. "Wow! You really know your Dominicans, don't you?"

"Well, I should," said Jessica. "I spent five years at one of their boarding schools. 'Laudare, Benedicere, Predicare'. And not forgetting, 'Piegarsi'."

"Eh?"

"The motto of the Order: to praise, to bless, to preach."

"And the last bit?"

"Piegarsi - to bend over. That wasn't officially part of the motto, but it might as well have been at St Catherine's Academy for Girls, Haywards Heath. They put me off religion for life."

"Gosh! Why don't I know about this?"

"You never asked."

"More to the point, why haven't you written about it for the Gazette?"

"I have!" said Jessica. "In my stories and those pretend letters. It wasn't all imagination, you know."

Peter gave another whistle. "I'll have to go back and read those again!"

"Pervert!"

"Thank you," said Peter, smugly. "And would you wish the editor of the Spanking Gazette to be anything else?"

"Fair point," conceded Jessica. "Anyway, what's the story with the Dominicans?"

"Well... it seems there's a convent in Italy where the... er... mortification of the flesh, shall we say, is not just a mediaeval memory."

"Really? They still go in for flagellation?"

"Apparently so. I'm amazed, in this day and age, but the source is actually quite reliable."

"And what is the source?" asked Jessica.

"I got it from our fast cars man. There's an American spanko site which has a link to a dormant blog by someone calling herself St Catherine. In an archive on this blog is a piece describing a visit to this convent, though it never says where it is or what it's called - not even any clues. The woman stayed for a month, and her backside when she left... well, let's just say it's not for everyone. Anyway, Mr Fast Cars is keen we do a story on it, and he's willing to pay handsomely. He says it'll send the Gazette to another level in the spanko community..."

"I'll do it," said Jessica.

"Are you sure? It's a bit risky - a foreign country, scary nuns with whips..."

"I'll do it, Peter. I'm used to scary nuns, and don't forget my assignment at Seatwarmers Unlimited..."

Peter laughed, relieved. "How could anyone?"

"And anyway, I could use some spiritual rejuvenation right now," said Jessica flippantly. "How much is Mr Vroom-Vroom paying?"

"Two thousand quid, plus expenses."

"Wow! Did I say I'll do it?" exclaimed Jessica happily. "I'll do it twice!"

"Thought you would!"

"But where is it?" asked Jessica, worried. "Am I supposed to try and find this place myself? That could take forever."

"Nope - Mr Vroom's handled that. It seems he managed to locate the author of the St Catherine blog, and, well, money talks, doesn't it?"

"Loud and clear!"

"What you will need to do, however, is prepare your story; you'll need a way in. We've got you on a plane from City Airport to Rome next Friday. I've got everything you need here at the office."

"I'll pop round tomorrow. See you."

Jessica leapt up, tossed her phone on the couch and gave a whoop of joy. She grabbed her laptop, looked up 'St Catherine's Academy, Haywards Heath' and noted with surprise that her old Headmistress was still in charge. She jotted down the phone number.

"First," she muttered, "a trip down Memory Lane."


The butterflies began when she came off the A272 onto the B road that led to her old school. This last stretch was all too familiar from her youth, and it hadn't changed much. Back then, the girls on the hired coach from the railway station would gradually fall silent the closer they got to the school, glumly pondering the pitfalls of the coming term. Jessica's feelings now were mixed: smug in her adult independence (speeding confidently along in her Mini), but nervous too about the interview to come.

She'd phoned ahead and been surprised that Sister Benedicta remembered her; it was ten years since Jessica left. When she saw the old sign, in the familiar blue and green, announcing St Catherine's Academy Boarding School for Girls, and turned onto the drive that led down the hill, her bottom actually started tingling as if it could sense the imminent danger of strap or cane. The tingling felt pleasant, and she was proud of how she'd turned those experiences to her advantage in her career, such as it was.

"Miss Richards! Do come in." The Headmistress had aged: her wrinkled cheeks sagged and her mouth was more pinched than ever. As Jessica followed her through to the study, she wondered how old she was now - surely close to retirement. She looked frail.

Sister Benedicta seated herself with a sigh behind the leather-topped desk that Jessica remembered well, and gestured to a chair nearby. Jessica's glance went immediately to the cupboard in the corner where the punishment implements had been kept. Were they still there? Surely not - it was illegal now, even in private schools like this one.

"So how is it I can help you?" For all its Irish lilt, Sister Benedicta's voice hadn't lost its fearsome steeliness; Jessica's buttocks tingled anew. She blushed, struggling to remember she was twenty-eight, not seventeen.

"Well, Sister, I'm here to ask for your guidance." Jessica put on her humblest, sincerest voice.

She went on to explain that, though successful in her career (left unspecified), she had reached a point in her life where she felt the need for deeper meaning. She had, she said, allowed her Catholicism to lapse, something she now deeply regretted, and she wished to undertake a retreat somewhere far from the distractions of her present life. And, having no parish priest to turn to, she had, in her hour of spiritual need, thought of her former teacher.

"I keep thinking, Sister, of the words of St Catherine of Siena that you taught us. If I remember correctly: 'the dutiful maiden annuls her self-will, which is the cause of all evil, and subjects it to the yoke of holy obedience'. I believe I should spend more time in contemplation, remove myself from the selfish temptations of daily life."

The Headmistress' narrow-eyed gaze had been fixed intently on Jessica throughout this short speech. She steepled her fingers. "And how is it I can help you achieve this?"

"I'd like you to write a letter of recommendation for me which I can present to the Prioress of whichever convent might offer me retreat. I'm thinking of going to Italy."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, Sister."

There was a pause. Jessica's face burned under Sister Benedicta's neutral, assessing gaze. This wasn't going well. She'd forgotten how disconcertingly her old Headmistress could stare you down until you felt as if the slightest untruth was scrawled in letters of blood across your forehead.

"Very well, Miss Richards."

As simply as that, and with the merest sigh as she finally removed her gaze from Jessica's bright red face, Sister Benedicta reached for pen and paper and began to write. Jessica's fingers knotted sweatily in her lap as she waited. Her stomach was in turmoil. She glanced again at the old cupboard that had heralded so much pain for her bottom - and also, let it be said, so much subsequent pleasure, those nights of lone sexual ecstasy in the dorm after lights-out.

Eventually the headmistress finished, placed the folded letter in an envelope, sealed it and wrote 'To Whom it May Concern' on the front. As she passed it across the desk, she caught the direction of Jessica's gaze and turned to the cupboard. "We don't do that any longer," she said.

Was the tone wistful, or did Jessica imagine that? The Headmistress got up, slowly, and eyed Jessica with some disdain. "It's a pack of lies you've told me today, Jessica. I know that. But you're a grown woman and you make your own choices." She moved towards the cupboard. "I expect you'll be wanting to know if the contents of this cupboard are the same as they were." She turned. "Eh?"

Transfixed by the power the older woman still held over her, and embarrassed to her toes by her lies exposed, Jessica nodded. Sister Benedicta opened the cupboard doors wide.

Hanging from a rail within were a collection of canes and straps. She picked out the longest cane, gripping it firmly by its crooked handle. Coming round to the front of the desk, she stood, eyeing Jessica expectantly. "I think you owe me this," she said.

Without a word, Jessica stood, moved to the desk, lifted her skirt, and bent over. She felt her panties pulled down to her knees.

The Headmistress stepped back and measured the last foot of the cane against the middle of Jessica's naked buttocks. Like a golfer preparing a stroke, she moved the cane back and forth a short distance two or three times, ensuring it was aligned satisfactorily with its target. Then, taking a deep breath for maximum effort, she raised the cane back as far as her arm allowed, rose onto her toes and thrashed it down across Jessica's bottom with all the fury of a woman scorned.

Jessica's whole body jerked; her head flew back and she gave a strangled gasp. Her knees gave way and her chest heaved as she struggled for breath. She groaned in agony; a searing line of molten pain throbbed and expanded through the flesh of her buttocks. She grasped the edge of the desk in front of her, her palms damp with sudden sweat, and tried to breathe.

Sister Benedicta, meanwhile, had returned the cane to the cupboard and closed the doors. "That's all you get," she said, coming back behind Jessica and pulling her panties, none too carefully, back into place.

"Eesh!"



© Stanlegh Meresith
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.