Copyright 2002 to <mijita@newsguy.com>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

At Hadrian's Wall
by Mija

This was truly the most amazing trip. I had spent my whole life (or so it feels) hoping to get to go to Hadrian's Wall. I know that must seem like an odd dream for a California girl, but there it is - and after all, I'm a very strange girl.

When I was very little, I wanted to be an archaeologist and participate in excavations. Find little pieces of lost civilizations and discover what life was like for people from long long ago. Hadrian's Wall was the place I most frequently imagined. Why? Maybe a television program? Who knows why we want anything? But I think it had to do with the wall once, from a Roman perspective of course, being the edge of the known world. Barely civilized, an outpost against the terrifying (for surely they must have been scared to build such a wall) Scotsmen.

At fourteen, I'd read all sorts of accounts, real and imaginary, of soldiers sent to patrol the wall, their letters home consisting mostly of pleas to loved ones begging "get me out of here!" Even now California seemed no further from Northern England than Rome. To those soldiers from southern Europe it must have been like being banished to the moon.

I knew that in the summer the hills we were driving past would be covered with grass greener than anything from where I'm from. But right then it was at the edge between winter and spring. The grass was shades of yellow, brown, grey and, I kid you not, pink. There was the barest hint of green emerging. When I finally saw the wall, the rocks were similar colors, covered with lichens, making the wall seem like it too was a living thing.

Paul pulled into the car park as I craned my head, trying to see past the trees that surely blocked the ruined military fort he was taking me to see. For miles I'd watched the grey rock walls that dotted the countryside, trying to decide where they changed from something strictly dry stone wall (which my companion never ceases to mention at least once is both an art and a dying form) to something more planned and, well, Roman.

There was little to see from the car. A National Trust tearoom selling some very basic refreshments and what looked like a very nice gift shop. I have a definite weakness for gift shops, even ones that carry the same items I've been looking at all over the country. Paul mostly indulges my vice, but still, I hate always having to ask to go in them.

"Come on, hurry," I urged, "Let's go." Paul, who had been taking his usual sweet time locking the car doors, said nothing, though he looked at me with green eyes that half warned, half teased. My hands immediately went to my bottom, which was sore from a very hard "just because" kind of hairbrush spanking earlier. It was, no doubt, the reason that despite my growing excitement I'd been relatively calm and well-behaved for the entire drive. But that calm had passed even though my bottom was still tender.

Right now, immediately, I wanted to go and see the wall. It was the only thing on my mind and the excitement almost hummed. He took my hand and kept me from tripping or walking into anything as I looked around at the grey rocks, the signs, everything but the direction we were going (yeah, he does a lot to keep me from walking into poles, deep holes and moving cars). As we walked past the tearoom and shop, following the signs directing us to the wall and fort, we passed the restrooms or, as the doors say with a bluntness to make Emily Post blush, "toilets."

"Do you need to use the restroom, Annie?"

Only he didn't say restroom, he said the "t" word in a voice loud enough that I was sure everyone was looking and imagining just what I would being doing in there too. Couldn't he have at least said "the ladies" or something like that?

"No." I answered right away, even before I realized I did sort of need to go (Mom said you should always try and mostly I've never met a restroom I didn't like enough to visit). And after all, there hadn't been a place to go after our fish and chip and soda lunch in the car.

But I didn't really have to go, I reasoned, or I would have noticed before now. And I could always go back in fifteen minutes or so, after I got a good look at the wall. Maybe even sneak in some weak tea and glance through the gift shop.

Reflexively I rubbed my palms together as I walked. It was a nice day for March in the North-East. Which is to say it was chilly, with a cold wind and weak sunshine.

We followed the path a bit further, through a gate that warned us of coming fees. (We were prepared. History costs after all.) One more turn of the corner, I thought, and then we'd be there.

The path turned stony and then opened up out of the trees. We looked down onto a smallish gorge that separated us from another NT shop and, further still, the fort. The wall stretched out from it on either side. It was about a mile and a half down a steep path and up another one.

It was a spectacular setting, but that wasn't what was going through my mind. What I was thinking was should I tell him at this point I need to go back and use the restroom? I opened my mouth to and imagined his comments after the "no" I'd given not ten minutes ago. I looked across the distance at the wall and the National Trust building on the other side and decided that there would be a restroom over there. So as we started down the hill, I didn't say anything.

The stones on the path were sharp shale (I think) and hurt my feet even through shoes. Though they were Doc Martens, my favorite pair of red double t-bar buckles, the soles were worn thin and were no match for the big rocks under our feet. This made me step carefully, and go more slowly than I would have liked. By contrast, Paul had on heavy work boots and seemed unconcerned about the state of the path except to hold me steady over the wobbly places.

The day and place were lovely and I tried to focus on looking up at the wall in all its ruined glory. But you know how it is. Once you realize you need to use the restroom, well, you really need to. And it's soon all you can think about. Anyway, that's where I was, hiking toward this place I've always wanted to visit, trying not to trip or puncture my foot on the sharp rocks.

I took another few steps.

"I didn't think it would be this far from the car park to the site."

"Me neither," he replied. "Still, it's nice the way we'll be able to look down and not see any cars or anything. Good planning really."

I agreed in principle, however, in reality my feet were sore and the urge for the restroom was becoming, well, urgent. Still, I had to be cool. We walked on a few minutes and then, as we started up the hill, I spoke again, as though it hardly mattered.

"So, I wonder what's up there?" I pointed toward the stone building three fourths of the way up the hill.

"Probably another shop. Maybe a historical centre of some sort."

I nodded, and then threw in as an aside, "And maybe another restroom."

Paul stopped dead. His hand on my shoulder stopped me as I started walking past him.

"I'm sorry, Annie, did you say you needed the toilet?"

I shrugged and tried to look away. "Well, yes, maybe. I mean, it would be nice if there's one up there, just in case?"

"I thought I asked you and you said you didn't need to go."

"Well, you know, I may need to go later. But I'm sure there's one up there."

Paul looked less sure.

"Do you need us to go back?" He pointed toward the buildings over a half mile (uphill) behind us.

"Oh no, I'm sure I don't need to go." Well, sure I didn't need to go right at this moment anyway. Which meant that I wasn't really lying. Right?

"Not that serious," I continued. "I'll ask at that other Trust place."

Paul nodded, took my hand, and we walked up to the second visitor center (or centre if you'd rather). The building near the fort is big, so I was hopeful that there'd be a restroom inside. After all, no one who worked there could be expected to walk a mile each way when they needed to go, right?

Wrong.

Inside was a smallish shop, complete with chocolate (the stuff is sold everywhere in the UK, proving what a civilized nation it is after all) and a National Trust interactive learning centre (which was full of very kewl stuff, including lots of ancient dice games - guess I was right about them being bored). But when I asked if there was a "ladies", the man in the shop pointed back toward the other hill.

"Didn't you see it? The toilets are back over by the parking lot."

There was that "t" word again. Clearly Emily Post needs a missionary plan for the UK.

After thanking him (gee gosh golly!), I busied myself with the exhibits, not looking at Paul even though I could feel his eyes on me. Reading through the materials about the wall, I could almost, almost forget how bad things were getting. So long as I could avoid thinking of water, running streams, rushing rivers, waves cresting, dams bursting. . . .

Okay. So things were a little more serious than I'd let on.

Still, we paid our money (you didn't think this was free, did ya?). Okay, so Paul paid. Whatever. Anyway, he held my hand tightly as we walked up to the fort and the wall. It was every bit as wonderful as I'd imagined. And the trees did do a great job hiding the car park. The only thing that would have made it a little better was if there hadn't been so many screaming kids. Okay, one especially.

As we walked by this young boy, he was (at least this was my impression) yelling: "toilet, look the toilet, this is where the Romans went to the toilet. Hey come see where they went to the toilet. Right here, right in this hole in the ground. Mum, can I go down here? It's where the Romans went to the toilet!"

My legs tightened a bit, the pressure to go and explore that hole for myself seeming still more intense. Still, I tried to press on, looking at the wall, getting Paul to take some pictures of my bendy man on the wall, trying to keep my mind off the fact it was rapidly becoming clear to me there was no way I was going to be able to walk a mile back over a rocky path without a trip to the ladies.

Even though there was no ladies.

Okay, now through all of this, Paul was very quiet, and, it seemed, watching me closely. When we heard a child yelling at his parents, in that "No no no" sort of way, he hadn't said much of anything, even when I commented on the kid being kinda spoiled. The man seemed happy enough, but quiet.

I suddenly felt very aware of my bottom. The bottom that got such a hairbrushing a few hours ago that I could feel every bounce in the road as we drove here. His hand was gently cupping my right cheek.

How best could I tell him I needed the restroom? And what could he do about it anyway?

Desperately I looked for a wall or something out of the line of sight from the fort. Of course, any place out of the line of sight couldn't really been seen where I was standing. Still, I was sure if I struck out west I could find a private place. The question was, how to do it with Paul's hand locked on mine. I could hardly wander away, much as I might want to.

I steered our wanderings toward the western edge of the fort ruin.

"I was thinking I might like a bit of a walk over this way."

My voice sounded false, even to me, as I gestured lamely toward the west.

I could feel Paul's eyes on me as I looked out across the tall grass.

"Have you seen enough of this site then? We can head over to the next one. The admission is good for both."

He gestured back to the car park.

But no, I didn't want to leave this site yet. And darn it, I was sure I wasn't gonna make it back down then up that path.

"Um, no, I thought I might just have a private little walk."

I dared a glance into his face. A mistake by the way. He'd listened to me. He had heard. He suspected. No, he knew. (Apologies to Poe by the way.)

"Yes," he agreed, holding my hand tightly and starting to walk. "Let's take a little walk to somewhere with a bit of privacy."

I protested a bit, while still following.

"You don't need to come, really. I'll be fine and will come right back."

I sounded feeble. I couldn't even convince myself he was going to let go of my hand.

He ignored me and we walked about two hundred yards, out of sight of the fort, around the edge of another hill. Ahead were a cluster of trees, bushes and a low outcropping, the remains of some long-ago farmer's dry wall.

In the distance, the shouts of children at the fort carried across to us. But we were alone. I looked at the bushes, feeling both embarrassed and that the time for such embarrassment was long past.

"Excuse me," I said.

Still he followed me.

"Step behind those bushes over there." His finger pointed and I did as I was bid. Eagerly.

Now, um, for those of you who aren't female, you might not know that it isn't anywhere near as simple for women as it is for men. And if you're wearing jeans, as I was, well, if you're me, you need to take them off so as to eliminate the risk of anything bad happening to them.

Paul was polite and didn't peek or anything 'cept to find tissues in my jacket (which he was holding along with my jeans). And then it was all over and I pulled up my panties.

Those of you who are more alert to such things may have seen this next part coming. Let me be very clear in saying I saw no such thing. I even came part way around the corner, shivering a bit and demanded my jeans back.

"Come on Paul, the wind is cold and I'm freezing my tush off!."

One look from him and it was suddenly hard to swallow. Or even breathe. Oh shoot!

"Really? Is it? Maybe we should warm it then."

And before I could do anything (though without jeans it's not like I could have run anywhere), he'd sat down on the wall ruin and pulled me over his knees, panties (again) down. Hard hand smacks reminded me that my bottom was indeed already sore.

"What did I ask you when we first got here?"

"Ow! Ouch, please! I'm sorry okay?" This was really stinging and I was sure the sound was carrying for miles.

More hand spanks were my answer.

"I'm sure you're very sorry. What did I ask you when we first got here?"

When did he get so strong anyway?

"Nooo, oh please, someone might see. You asked if I needed the restroom!"

Still harder smacks, these on the tops of my thighs.

"That's right. And what did you tell me?"

"Nooo," I wailed a little. "I said 'no'!"

Paul let that stand with a minute or so of spanking. It was impossible not to try and squirm off his knees. Tears started falling. I felt really sorry for me!

"And that wasn't the truth."

This wasn't a question, nor did he seem to want an answer. Instead, his hand just paddled into my bottom.

"Even the littlest child here knows when to use the toilet. You could have ruined this trip for us both, and I know how much you've been looking forward to it. I'm not sure why you didn't go when you had the chance, but maybe if you're afraid people might see this, next time you'll plan a bit better."

Or something like that. I'd lost track of what he was saying, focused as I was with my bottom pleading with me to stop the spanking.

Which he finally did, just as I was sure that I was going to start howling.

Finally, Paul let me up and held me close, bottom still bare. I sniffled, explaining that I had really wanted to get to the wall and had thought I could go back really easily and how embarrassed I was when he talked about "toilet" where people could hear.

He didn't say anything, but helped me wipe my face and eyes and blow my nose, finally letting me pull up my panties and get back into my jeans.

We went back to the fort and wall in silence, my hand holding Paul's tightly as I tried to neither wipe my eyes nor rub. I was sure that many at the ruin had heard my little "correction", but assumed that that sounds were one of many of the parents here reacting with the ultimate expression of frustration to one too many bratty demands.

I was pretty sure no one guessed, even when Paul landed a few hard smacks (just because) on the seat of my jeans. Still, even though I was enjoying examining the ruins, I wasn't sorry when Paul commented that I was shivering (Northern England is cold to a Southern California kid) and we should get back.

We trudged back, down the hill and then up, my hand clasped in his. Which was nice because it kept me steady over the rocky places.

Back at the shop and information center, we browsed around. I bought two books on the wall and fort - which wasn't bad for me shopping-wise since I have a book thing and there were at least two others I really wanted - and Paul bought a floopy ruler like one a friend of ours has. I knew from experience the thing was going to sting like crazy while looking really silly. (Stuff like that always leaves me feeling a bit foolish for it hurting.) But as we left the shop and moved toward the patio (or whatever such things are called in England), I realized that Paul hadn't entirely forgotten the events back across the trail.

"There's the toilet, miss," he said, pointing. "You go use it and then come back here to me, please. And you wash your hands well."

My face burned at that last, sure everyone was looking at what sort of girl needed a reminder of such things. Still, I nodded (no way was I going to say 'sir' there) and made to go. But he wasn't done even though I was sure my face was bright red.

"And why am I telling you to do this rather than just asking or reminding you?"

The answer sprang from my lips with surprising quickness. I'm still not sure if it was a submission or a desire to flee.

"Because you don't trust me to do the right thing when I should."

My fevered prayers that this would be a specific enough answer were heard and I was allowed to go in and use the "toilet". I felt oddly calm, wondering if he was thinking, as I was, of a story I'd told him of being spanked by my Nana when I was very small for wetting my dress after ignoring her reminder to use the bathroom.

That was how I felt. Very small and naughty.

When I came out, Paul asked me specifically if I'd used the - well, you know. Though not too specifically - the issue of how was thankfully left out of it. By now, I was committed to staring at the ground until we got back out to the car.

Oddly, I felt less ashamed then before. I knew someone must have heard, or suspected, based on snatches of conversation, that I was in trouble, but that didn't concern me so much anymore. As seems to happen in these circumstances, the world had shrunk down for me until it included only the two of us. And he'd taken care of me in a situation which, while comic, had felt overwhelming. When his hand brushed mine, I clutched his tightly.

As we left the busy car park, I found myself squirming on the car seat a little. Each bump seemed to remind me of the soreness of my poor bottom. Two hard spankings in one day seemed very mean, even if I had been a trifle naughty. I sniffled in a way I thought was pitiful.

"Sit still, miss."

I tried, pouting, but soon found myself shifting again. Smack! his hand landed hard on my thigh, over my jeans.

"Ow!" I whined, stupidly. "That's so mean! My bottom really hurts you know."

Like he was going to be moved by that tidbit?

A smug "well it's supposed to" was the reaction I expected. But instead, Paul said words that chilled me.

"Not as much as it's going to."

My heart leapt and began thudding in my throat - drying my mouth and keeping me from swallowing.

Sure, I could have asked what he meant, but feared I knew. My hope became that he would wait until we got back to the hotel where I could stuff a corner of the quilt in my mouth. Inside behind a locked door is always better.

All hope of something inside was dashed when he turned the car off the road at the side of a clearly abandoned stone building. The shell of its grey stone sides still stood, but it was roofless and any plaster had long since weathered away. Paul drove far enough behind the building so as to give us a view of the road. This would give a tiny bit of privacy and maybe ten seconds before anyone (like the police?) pulling in behind could see us.

This was a far cry from any locked door.

Paul got out, but I sat, arms crossed, on the front seat. I could hear the traffic of the not-too-busy road, but my eyes were focused on the endless waves of grass, made still more pink by the late afternoon sun. It was beautiful there with a bleakness that made me think of Thomas Hardy. I'm not sure if it was the landscape or what, but when I heard the car boot (that's what Paul calls it) pop open then slam closed, a tear slid out of my right eye.

The door opened and chilly air invaded the warm car pod. I stared at my lap as he reached across and unbuckled my seat belt.

"Young lady?" Those words. Do they affect others the same way? Causing a flush, making it hard to breathe? The total flight or fight reaction at a time when neither are possible.

Turning toward him, I took his hand and stepped out of the car. He tucked the bundle he carried on the floor, sat down in my seat and pulled me between his legs.

I looked into his eyes. He looked back at me somberly.

"I'm very disappointed in you. Do you know that?"

I nodded, tears gathering, chilled by the cold wind.

"What happened was very embarrassing, but could have been a disaster. Couldn't it?"

"Yes, sir," I admitted reluctantly, imagining walking a mile back in wet jeans.

"And so simple. This was so unnecessary - all it needed to prevent it was you telling me the truth when I reminded you. Who would think that a big girl like you couldn't be trusted with such a simple thing?"

My head shook. There was no answer to this. Maybe he wouldn't expect one.

He went on. "And you've been doing so much better at not lying to me. Why would you lie about such a silly thing anyway? How did that happen?"

There was a pause long enough to tell me this wasn't meant rhetorically. He expected an answer.

My eyes left his and fastened on the bundle on the front passenger floor. His gaze followed mine.

"I - I don't know, sir. It just sort of slipped out. I didn't really mean to. I mean, I didn't think."

Neither of these are great excuses. But he seemed to consider them anyway. My thought at the moment was oddly how lucky I was to have found someone so fair. How else could I trust him, after all.

"This isn't going to happen again."

Tears overflowed and I bit my lip hard. I hate knowing I've disappointed someone I love. Those words had stung even more than the thinnest cane.

"No, sir, I promise. Really, Paul, I'm sorry."

He nodded, to let me know he believed me and I felt a sense of relief. Maybe this really wasn't going to be so bad.

"Thank you. But you don't understand. From now on, it's never going to be a question. If I tell you to, you go and use the toilet, even if you don't think you need to. Is that clear?"

I nodded. It was fair. But a tiny splinter of resentment buried itself in my brain. I'd get used to the new rule. But it would embarrass me. Such a private thing, after all. And aside from that, when he said it, I'd always remember today.

At my nod, he reached up and unfastened my jeans. I gasped a little, feeling him pulling them to my feet, where my shoes got taken off and added to the bundle on the floor. My jeans were folded and put in the back seat, as were my jacket, turtleneck and sweater. Finally, I stood in front of him wearing only my bra, panties and socks. The cold air made me shiver, shake actually as my teeth chattered.

"Please, Paul, it's really cold."

In answer, his fingers slipped inside the elastic of my panties as I fought a rising panic to stay still.

"Someone might see! Please don't!"

He didn't even pause, but tugged them down, then off. A hard slap to the back of my thighs silenced the protest already on my lips.

"Someone might have seen you needing to go off behind the wall to take care of what should have been done in the toilets. If someone sees, what they're going to see is a naughty little girl getting some much needed discipline."

Fearing a matching handprint on the other thigh, I resisted suggesting this might not fly with the police. The rest of my clothes, socks included, followed the panties.

Great. Naked by the side of the road. This was going to look wonderful stamped on my passport when I got expelled from the country. And I don't think I've ever been so cold in my whole life.

Thankfully, though, not for long. Paul picked up a pair of heavy white knickers, gathered them and held them out for me to step into. Now when one has been totally bare, the thickness and warmth of knickers is welcome. My only wish was that they were bigger. Like the size of a sheet.

The shirt was next, all neatly wrapped in laundry plastic. He took forever to unfold it, carefully shaking its crisp white cotton. Never have I slid my arms so easily into the cracking whiteness, eager to be buttoned up, which he did, saving the top button for last. I then stepped into the short plaid skirt he held out. It barely did more that brush the top of my thighs, but if you've been naked, even a very short skirt feels pretty good. I had to put my hand on his shoulder for balance as he helped me on with my knee socks and t-bar shoes.

There, dressed again. Paul stood in front of me and brushed out my hair, tying it in a neat ponytail.

"Now then," he said, looking down at me. "You look very nice. Like a bad little girl who's about to be taught to be good."

On those words, he sat down and pulled my hands, so I was left standing between his legs. My knickers, it seemed, were about to make another journey. He pulled them down to just above my knees.

The air was cold enough to make the soreness in my bottom an ache. When Paul tapped he hairbrush on my bottom, it felt like a block of ice. But not for long. One second later it felt like a branding iron, scalding my bottom, making me want to howl.

I gasped, trying to find a place for the hurt. But by three I was wailing, kicking crying pleading. The wind chilled my tears, making my face feel frozen as my bottom felt as though it were on a stove.

"Please, please, I'm sorry."

He was silent and continued spanking until I was afraid to kick.

"Never again, Annie!"

Three more on each of my thighs.

"Oww! No!"

"'No what, miss?"

Another six.

"No, sir," I gasped. "No, sir!"

And then it was over. I was righted and hugged and buckled back in and we drove off toward Newcastle, my bottom and thighs surely burning through the car seat.

My hand flew to my mouth and I giggled. At first I could stifle it, but then it grew to laughter. I couldn't breathe and laughed in great gasps, tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

Paul looked at me once and then again, finally asking if I was quite finished, only to get another gale of laughter in response.

Finally I settled down, waiting for him to ask me to share the joke.

"So what were you thinking of, miss?"

"Stonehenge", was my only reply before the giggles returned.

SMACK! landed Paul's right hand on my bare left thigh.

But I think he was smiling too.

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