The Old Chandelier

The Old Chandelier


The reception room was elegantly decorated. Above me stood a high corniced ceiling and a candelabra chandelier. To my left, if I had been able to observe it, was a fireplace and imposing mantelpiece. The carpet was Paisley type weave of blue and beige and the wall paper Herbert Morrison. Behind me was a wood panelled screen that enabled the room to be opened into a still larger one. This screen normally functioned to allow the adjacent space to serve as an office. As such, its thin wooden panels did nothing to attenuate any sound between that office and the chamber in which I was currently stood. In this case attenuation would have made little difference since, in accordance with my express wishes, Mia had left open the reception door on her way in. This permitted the various sounds of the proceedings to be audible not only in the office, but throughout this Victorian Town house in the heart of Sydney.
Had I had time to ponder my predicament, I might have wondered if my childhood days at a catholic school had left me with the fantasy in which I was currently engaged. Certainly there were similarities between those days and the present. For example, it was the case that the interior of the building had the same old house flavour as that of my school. Equally there was the current sight and sound of that leather strap as it was raised and delivered with painful force across the palms of my hand. The fact that the sound was audible to others going about their business in complete disregard to my plight bore yet another resemblance. It was there, however, that the analogy stopped. For a start, we did not undress for discipline at school. Yet here I was, stark naked, stood to attention for all to see. At school a woman did not deliver the strap. Yet this delivery was from no ordinary woman but one bedecked in knee length high-heeled boots. Finally, I do not recall having an erection during school punishment. In this case, so huge was my penis that its tip was coming tantalisingly close to the piece of black leather as it followed through across my outstretched palm. Thung! “Hand out” Thung! “Get it up nice and straight” barked the authoritative female voice like that of a sergeant major.  The session had begun some ten minutes earlier when I had been lead out of that self-same room to The Brass Room – the name given to one of several fully equipped dungeons in the establishment of Salon Kitty in Surry hills.