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CHAPTER 2
“Thank you, Respected Sister, may I please have another swat?” I said, gasping for breath and waiting for the sting of the next swat coming down on me. The stinging, burning sensation was incredible. I had never imagined a flyswatter delivering pain like that. Sister Martha paused, sliding the swatter over my hips and across my thighs before smacking down hard with the second swat.
“Thank you, Respected Sister, may I please have another swat?” I caught a quick breath before blurting it out, trying not to show the stress in my voice.
Sister Martha leaned over my ear, and I could smell the overwhelming scent of some perfume, I couldn’t quite place what it was. You would think that after two years behind the fragrance counter at Macy’s I would be able to place it but I didn’t. I just braced for the next shot. “Relax your butt muscles, girl” she cooed. “It will ease the shock.”
You try relaxing your butt with that thing smacking down on it, I thought,
waiting for the next swat and feeling the handle of the flyswatter sliding up and down my butt crack. Then it came, hard and fast. I don’t know of I had relaxed or tensed my ass, and it didn’t really seem to matter.
“Thank you, Respected Sister, may I please have another swat?” I almost yelled it this time.
Martha leaned toward me again. “Don’t you dare yell at ME! Unless you would like an extra three.”
“Sorry Respected Sister,” I whimpered, trying to show contrition. “May I please have extra swats for yelling?”
“Since you asked so nicely, why not two?” Martha replied, giving me two quick hard ones.
“Thank you, Respected Sister, may I please have another swat?” I repeated twice, as fast as I could. The next three swats seemed even harder as I completed my gratitude, even asking for one more after the last one.
“Since you seem to be too stupid to count correctly, I will oblige you,” Sister Martha sneered as she reversed her grip and brought the wire handle of the flyswatter down across my flaming cheeks.
“Thank you, Respected Sister, thank you,” I said, turning to crawl back to the line. When I reached the line and started to stand up at attention, I quickly swept my hand across my butt where I could feel the ridge of a welt from that last swat.
After all 21 of us had received our first sets of six or more swats and we all remained at attention, arms aching from holding them at the position, Sister Beatrice rose again.
“You will all now take a seat on the bench behind you,” she said.
“Yes Supreme Sister, thank you, Sister,” we said, turning to approach the bench. I looked down before I sat, seeing that the bench was made of a rough plank with three strips of angle iron running along each edge and the center of the seat, to create maximum discomfort, I was sure. We all sat, knowing that the pressure from the iron edges would be agony.
Sister Beatrice walked along our line without looking at us as she approached a pair of doors at the end of the room. “Sister Barbara will now bring the basket, and you will each draw a ball from it. That will be your number for our intake interview process. After taking a ball, place it in your mouth with the number facing out, place your hands in a prayer position between your breasts and remain that way until your number is called.” Sister Elaine opened the door for her as they went into the adjoining room, leaving us with Barbara and Sister Martha.
“Yes Supreme Sister, thank you, Sister” we called out as she left. We each chose a ball from the basket as Sister Barbara passed along the bench. My number was 16. When all the numbers had been chosen, Sister Martha paced up and down the line and followed Sister Barbara to the door.
“Sister, be sure to place the welcome mat,” Martha said as she left the room. Sister Barbara rolled out a rough sisal mat in front of the door, then took a bucket and dumped and scattered the contents across the mat. It was a mixture of sand and rough gravel
Sister Barbara grinned as she spread the last of the gravel with the toe of her shoe. “We call this grovel gravel,” she smiled, lifting up a small hatch at the bottom of the door. It looked like the kind of door you would use for a dog or cat to come and go in your house, To get through it, you have to be on your belly, I thought.
“This is where you will enter the interview room as your number is called. Listen for your number and then enter with the proper attitude.” She closed the door behind her and we heard a bolt locking it shut as the little door swung back and forth from its top hinges. A lecture on obedience to the laws of Scripture came over the loudspeakers as we each waited our turn.
While we sat there waiting, I thought through the whole process. Is this even remotely worth the indignities I’ve already suffered today, I thought? This is probably just the beginning of what these cruel bitches have in mind for us, and why should I go through with it? Then I remembered what Linda had told me, and how she had gotten a great job with the Church’s credit union through her membership in the Women’s Committee. And her two kids went to the Church’s prep school tuition-free. And I had heard that the discipline required for membership was tough, and continued right up to the top of the Committee’s structure. Little did I know, right?
Perhaps I should say more about myself. My name in Meredith, I am 37 years old with twin daughters, 14 going on twenty-two. I have shoulder length brown hair and I color out the grey streaks that are starting to show. I have brown eyes, my best feature as far I’m concerned, and I’m 5’6” tall and weigh a little more than I should, 143 pounds. My figure is 34/26/35 with hips that flare a little too much and boobs that are just beginning to sag more than I would like. My legs are pretty good, if I do say so myself. I’ve noticed deeper “smile lines” around my eyes lately, but hey, I said I’m 37, didn’t I?
My arms were beginning to cramp holding them in prayer position as I waited my turn for the interview. The first woman to be called had to crawl through the doorway on her belly, scraping over the gravel and I could see how the rough fibers of the sisal mat would scratch at my nipples and bush when I had my turn. My pubic hair matches my natural brunette, and I trim it only enough to be able to wear a fairly modest bathing suit. That was another unspoken edict of our Church – that grown women should be groomed like “real women.” That is, bikini waxing and Brazilians were frowned upon, especially in the Women’s Committee.
As the second number was called, a door to the left of the interview room opened and the first woman to be interviewed came out, sliding backward on her rump across a double line of what looked like large push broom bristles. I could see her tear-stained face as she rubbed her butt when she stood up to return to the dreaded bench that was really digging into my own butt cheeks feeling like they were on a hot grill. The second woman rushed to the door and got on her belly to crawl through. She was what I would call a plus size and she struggled a bit to wiggle her hips through the door, breathing hard, digging with her toes to slither through the narrow opening. I looked to the side and noticed a couple of other ‘big girls,’ thinking that they were going to have a real challenge fitting through.
My thoughts drifted back to my conversations with Linda about joining this group, and how tough it could be to gain acceptance, much like a sorority she had said. Never having gone to more than a two-year degree community college, and not getting degree there, either, I had no real experience with sororities other than to hear the usual rumors and myths about hazing and initiation rituals. When I had pressed her for more details, she had replied,
“Well it is about ‘discipline,’ and all that goes on with it. Obedience, total obedience, and the commands of Scripture. And it’s the obedience training that can get tough, not to mention the confessions.”
“Confessions?” I had asked. “Like Catholic confessions?”
“No, not quite,” Linda said, laughing. Confessing your sins in general, plus any really big moral issues you are expected to voluntarily confess and then to ask for and accept the discipline that leads to forgiveness.”
“You mean, you confess stuff and get spanked for it?” I said, remembering that the only thing my ex-husband really liked about the Church was its discipline ethic, about the male being the household leader and thus subjecting the wife and children, especially the wife, to regular corporal punishment and discipline.
“You can expect that on a regular basis, especially as a single mom,” Linda continued. “But it’s the training routine and discipline that leads up to acceptance to the Committee that is really tough. But I think you have what it takes to make it.”
“And what might that be?” I had asked.
Linda smiled slyly, trying to find the right words. “Look, you really, really want to get into this group, right? And you have a solid Faith and belief system, right? And you are willing to do just about anything to be part of it, right?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Then you will make it, but it there will be some rough times, especially getting the initial acceptance into training. Some women don’t make that at first, and then have to go through ‘Acceptance Training, something I can’t tell you about right now. The others, the prime candidates like you, are accepted into ‘Humility and Obedience Training,’ which will allow for faster admission into the group.”
“But, is there a limit to what I have to put up with?” I asked.
“Hard to say,” Linda answered, “depends on what your own personal limits and desires are for gaining acceptance and the help it can bring to you and your girls. And if I didn’t think you could do it, I wouldn’t have put your name up. I’m taking a risk here, too, you know.”
“How so?” I asked.
“If you don’t make it, or you decide to quit, that puts my own standing at risk and I will have to answer for it,” she said, firmly. “So don’t put me out along with yourself.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I replied, hugging her. “Thank you so much for your help and for your belief in me.”
Number 3 was called by the loudspeaker as number two came scrabbling out the left hand door, crab-walking but having to slide her ass down as she came through the doorway. She was sobbing as she scooted over the brushes and then struggled to her feet, her head hanging down, and rubbing at her broad butt with red knuckled hands.
Oh boy, it’s gonna be a long afternoon, I thought.
“Take your place, sit down, and stop that annoying sobbing!” the loudspeaker blared.
“Yes, Sister, thank you Sister,” the woman stammered, trying to ease herself onto the bench. I had seen the redness on her ass and knew that she had been in for some heavy-duty discipline.
Sister Martha’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Number Two, stand up and face the bench hands out front.”
The woman obeyed, walking gingerly and turning to face us with arms extended.
“Show your palms,” Sister Martha ordered. “Now, show your knuckles.”
The woman showed both sides of her hands and the palms were bright red, along with the knuckles I had already noticed.
“This is the result of attempting to rub your bottom without permission during or after discipline,” Sister Martha said. “Now go to the bench and resume your position.”
I tried to focus on this entire ordeal thus far, drawing up the courage to endure it all, no matter what. Already we had all been stripped and beaten, verbally abused and I stared at the ‘dog door’, as I called it, seeing my own humiliation crawling through on my belly like some kind of worm. Then inside the interview room, it would only get more intense, I was sure.
Time seemed to drag even slower and I could see other women struggling to hold their arms in prayer position. And we were only up to Number 12. Four more to go, I thought. Then who knows what?
“Number 16,” came the call from the loudspeaker. I jumped up and headed for the door, talking a quick swipe across my ass with the back of my hand. The welt from the flyswatter handle had been positioned to be in direct contact with the center angle iron on the bench and I was on fire. I dropped to the floor, stuck my arms out ahead of me, and started wriggling through the door. As my head pushed the door up, a strong hand gripped my hair, shoving me back.
“Arms at your sides, girl, and crawl like a worm,” Sister Elaine barked, shoving me again. “Now back out, lie on your belly with arms down and crawl in here.”
The dirt and gravel on the coarse mat rubbed and scrubbed into me twice as I scrambled back, then using my hips and shoulders and grinding my way across it again, pushing up the door and entering the interview room. My nipples felt raw and I glanced down at my belly as I was pulled up to hands and knees by Sister Elaine’s strong grip. She shoved me toward the center of the room where the four Supreme Council members sat in comfortable armchairs arranged in a quarter circle. There were three trays on the floor in front of them. The walls were draped in heavy velvet and by the spooky quiet feel of the room there must have been some serious soundproofing behind them.
Elaine brought me to the center of the room, guiding me by the hair and then pulling me up to stand before them. She tapped my elbow as she spoke. “Attention position, girl.”
I stood as straight as I could, hands locked behind my head, eyes down, not daring to look at them directly.
“Meredith Chamberlain,” Supreme Sister Beatrice said, looking over my file. “Welcome to the interview room. Do you know why you are here?”
“Yes Supreme Sister, thank you, Sister,” I said, keeping my head bowed.
“And do you have in faith in Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
“Yes Supreme Sister, thank you, Sister.”
“Yes, Ma’am will be sufficient replies for this interview,” Sister Martha chimed in. It will save time, understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered, feeling as meek as my trembling voice.
“Very well,” Sister Elaine joined the group and took her seat.
Sister Martha leaned forward, pointing at the trays. “Let’s get right to the deeper questions. On your knees, in the center,” she said.
I knelt down, glancing at what looked like large seeds. I was right.
“We call these the trays of truth.” Martha continued. “It’s quicker to get to the real truth when kneeling on helpful reminders. Those happen to be dried cherry pits and olive stones in the center. And if we have to we will move you to the left, where the cracked corn and various birdseeds are featured, you will have yet another cause to be quick about the truth to our questions.”
I didn’t even want to know about the third tray to the right, but I couldn’t resist a look at it. It looked like broken glass, but then I saw it was crushed stone and quartz. Might as well be broken glass, I thought. The pressure on my knees from the dried seeds and pits was awful.
“Meredith, are you prepared to accept our discipline?” Martha asked.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered, trying to control my breathing.
“And our training regimens, no matter how challenging?” Beatrice followed.
“Ye -- Yes, Ma’am,” I stammered, ready to scream at the pain shooting up from my knees.
“Tell us, Meredith,” Beatrice continued. “How sinful are you?”
“I don’t know, Ma’am. I try not to sin. I try to teach my daughters the righ—“
Sister Beatrice cut me off. “Of course you think you are without sin, but we are ALL sinful creatures, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Supreme Sister, we are all sinners,” I answered, not sure where this was going.
Sister Martha took a different approach. “How many bed partners have you had?”
I was totally taken aback. My mind was racing. My knees were screaming in agony. “Uh, not that many, I said. I think about six.”
“YOU THINK?” demanded Sister Barbara. “We want to KNOW!”
“S – Si, --Six,” yes,” I stammered. “One in high school, two at a spring break at the Gulf, a guy I had gone to school with, then the guy I married, and then …” I stopped.
“And who else?” demanded Sister Martha. “This is after you married?”
“After I found out he was cheating on me and I told him to leave,” I replied, trying to hold back tears.
“And?” came the demand from Sister Beatrice.
“And, I went out with two friends, got picked up by a guy and had a one-night stand” I admitted, knowing I would probably look like a slut to these strict moral women.
“And do you feel like a tramp?” Sister Barbara grilled me.
“ I prayed for forgiveness, Ma’am. I was just so angry and frustrated.”
“We shall see about forgiveness,” Sister Beatrice said, leaning back in her chair and running her eyes up and down my trembling body. “You may stand up, behind the tray. For now, anyway,” she added.
“Thank you Supreme Sister, thank you,” I gushed, standing up as quickly as I could and keeping my hands behind my head. What’s next? I asked myself.
“Have you ever had any intimate activity with another female?” sister Elaine chimed in. “Be specific,” she added.
I hesitated, wondering what to say. “I, uh, I sort kissed and fondled with two other girls after high school,” I blushed as I spoke. “It was a sleepover party during the summer and we all got a little crazy” I admitted.
“Kissing and fondling? Is that all?” Martha asked.
Kissing and fondling, where?” Elaine demanded.
“Uhh, on the lips, of course, Ma’am,” I answered, hoping to get to another subject.
“On the lower lips, no doubt,” Sister Elaine rose from her chair. She was easily three inches shorter than me, but right then she seemed a foot taller. “That’s correct, isn’t it, you harlot?” She grabbed me by the hair, jerking me to the side and pushing me down onto the tray with the cracked corn. My knees instantly felt like they were on fire again.
“Yes, we all kissed each other on the mouth, and down … down, uh below,” I said, staring at the floor.
“And that was the only occasion for this behavior?” Sister Martha asked, pulling my head up to face their icy stares.
“Yes, Ma’am, the only time,” I said, “and it—“ I cut myself off.
“And it what? Tell us, you filthy slut,” Barbara demanded.
“It made me feel, guilty, and… sinful and slutty!” I said, breaking into sobs.
“Of course you felt that way,” Martha chimed in, “because you seem to have slutty tendencies. But we can take care of that, and I think you’re not beyond salvaging form your sins, do you Sisters?”
Sister Beatrice shifted in her chair. “I think she’s a good candidate for our salvation work,” she said, adjusting her skirt and reaching down beside her. She pointed to her lap.
“Up here, girl, now.”
As I rose, I saw she had a large flat-backed hairbrush in her hand. She tapped it lightly on her thigh as I struggle to my feet and stepped over to her chair. My head was reeling and my knees were on fire. Sister Beatrice’s arm lunged out at my left shoulder, pulling me across her lap and landing the first swat from the hairbrush before I was down.
“Don’t you dare move,” Martha instructed, as Beatrice began a rhythmic pounding with the hairbrush. She alternated cheeks, thighs, and intensity, some hard, some even harder. After about twenty swats in what seemed like ten or fifteen seconds, she shoved me off her lap. As I slid I felt hands in my hair and Sister Martha was pulling me over her lap.
Martha was wearing dark slacks and she parted her legs to put me over her left thigh shoving my head down and then locking me in place with her right leg behind my legs.
“Sister Martha will take it from here,” I heard Beatrice say, handing the hairbrush over. “Now you will count each, thank Sister Martha, and politely ask for another, understood?”
“Ye … yes, Supreme sister, thank you,” I burbled, panting and wheezing to catch me breath. The first one came down not on my ass but on the thigh flesh just below the crease of my butt. It felt like needles of fire.
“One. Thank you Ma’am, may I please have another?” I heard, almost as if the words were coming from someone else.
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