Typecast

Story from Janus 61.

Typecast
by Andrew Grantham


'I THOUGHT the spanking I gave you last time might have taught you a lesson,' sniffed Colin Rodgers, the manager of the small insurance branch office.

Mandy, the 20-year-old on the receiving end of the lecture looked appropriately sheepish as she stood in front of the young boss's desk. The blonde was just under medium height with a body that was very well put together, being shapely where shape was called for and flat where flatness was required.

She cocked her head to one side as the lecture continued. Her blue eyes, as big as saucers, inspected the young man behind the desk. Her heart lurched. Colin was dishy by any standard and, when it came to the male of the species, Mandy had very high standards indeed.

'I know you don't like Mr White at Head Office,' grated the manager. 'But to replace the 'W' of his name with an 'S' on the circular we produced was downright derogatory.'

Mandy had to force herself not to smile. She thought that what she had done had been an act of sheer genius. Mr White at Head Office was an absolute pig. So, too, was his colleague Mr Walker.

There are plenty more secretaries at the Job Centre, you know,' Colin threatened.

The blonde wisely refrained from saying that all those girls at the Job Centre wouldn't let their bosses smack their bottoms.

'Perhaps another spanking might make you take more care in future,' he suggested. Through the mirror on the wall directly behind his pretty secretary, Colin could see the bulge her young bottom made beneath her tight, navy blue skirt.

'As long as you don't give me the sack, Mr Rodgers,' tweeted Mandy, knowing full well that the sack was the last thing she would get.

'Not this time,' he told her, getting up and locking the door of his office.

Behind his back, Mandy smiled smugly, feeling feverish shivers running up and down her body. She had been looking forward to this moment for days, ever since her deliberate 'mistake'.

With the door closed, Colin Rodgers took off his jacket and hung it on the knob. He also removed his tie. Then he sat down on an upholstered couch against the back wall of the office.

'Come here, Mandy!' he ordered.

The dark-haired, firm-jawed young man watched with accelerating heart as the submissive girl took a few steps towards him. She really was deliciously pretty with small, high breasts and sturdy, finely curved legs. Her lovely posterior which he looked forward to baring for the second time might almost have been constructed to a specification set down by a dedicated spanker.

The flush on Mandy's cheeks highlighted her basic sexuality as she stood in front of her boss and lowered her skirt to reveal a white, scallop-edged slip beneath. That came down and off came her wedge-heeled shoes.

'Over my lap!' he instructed, trying to sound as stern as possible. 'Put your head on this side!' He tapped the seat cushions to his left.

His secretary carried out his command, pretending not to be aware of the state of his arousal as she stretched herself across his lap. The tail of her blouse hid her bottom, but Colin soon pulled it above her trim waist to expose her black nylon covered sit-upon.

He used both hands to peel away the flimsy covering. The panties reached her knees and were turned inside out. Colin's breathing quickened at the sight of Mandy's perfectly rounded and neat little bottom.

The manager placed his left hand on the small of her back to hold her in position and he used the other to explore the silken surfaces of the magnolia globes completely at his disposal. They were meaty, deep-clefted and he knew from experience that they wobbled delightfully under impact.

Colin felt the girl go rigid and her bottom tensed up. Mandy pushed her face into the settee cushions. She wasn't as brave as she had been just a short while earlier when she had positively looked forward to the hiding. The blonde realised she now had cold feet over a hot bottom.

His hand left her rear. There was a pause and she felt her bum-flesh sting suddenly as the first slap landed. It took away her nagging fear and doubt and an unseen smile came to her lips.

Colin raised his hand and repeated the smack, the afterburn causing the 20-year-old to wince. Already he was hitting far harder than he had done the last time and he had only just got started.

Colin began to pepper the girl's derriere with hard, stinging slaps, first on one side of the crease and then on the other; but always overlapping slightly so as to maximise the existing hurt and to open up a new area at the same time.

Mandy jerked back her head and began to thrash it from side to side. Eventually she started to squeal and she flayed her legs about showing no regard at all for modesty. She humped her hot little bottom up and down as the blistering fire from her tormented nates engulfed her body.

Mandy knew she couldn't complain; she had asked for it all down the line.

Colin paid her thighs some attention by way of a change. It was a painful change and the blonde clawed the fabric of the settee with her nails.

'No more – please, Mr Rodgers,' she panted.

Colin didn't know whether she meant it or not, so he continued to rain blow after blow on the now-scarlet target which jiggled, contorted, rose and fell.

Mandy began to shriek and his left arm gripped her more tightly as she oscillated her hips and buttocks very fast indeed in reaction to the scalding hurt being inflicted upon her nether regions.

'Please! Please! No more!' she screamed, twisting her head to appeal to him with wide, wet eyes.

Colin stopped. He didn't want things to go beyond a darned good spanking, highly tempting though the prospect was. It wasn't what Mandy wanted at all.

* * *

'Mr Walker from Head Office on the line for you, Mr Rodgers,' trilled Mandy, putting the call through. 'He sounds rather annoyed.'

She licked her lips and sat back in her swivel chair. Her beautiful body began to heave with excitement at the prospect of having her bare bottom smacked again over her boss's lap. He might even go further this time. She would certainly encourage him, of course.

The blonde girl was smugly content. She thought that typing an 'n' instead of an 'l' in Mr Walker's name on the circular that had gone out had been a stroke of sheer genius on her part.

The new girl - story from Roue

Story from Roue 09.

The new girl

"She will be in trouble soon, poor thing!"

Mildred and Annie were whispering, as they stared at the wayward stance and untidy appearance of their new classmate. They experienced a natural sympathy for any girl at the convent school who did not completely subscribe to the strict rules laid down; they themselves did not so subscribe. Why, the regulations were virtually Victorian, despite it being the 1920s! They continued to gaze at the rather delightful Ella Lukyn; they could not help hoping that she might unwittingly create a diversion in their dreary lessons.

The girls were standing in line for the thrice daily inspection of their personal appearance. The inspection was conducted by Sister Diqna, a tight-faced nun approaching middle-age. She had been with the Order since girlhood, and stood no nonsense from her charges, even though they were of the age to be young ladies.

Sister Digna examined each girl from head to toe, her sharp piercing eyes missing nothing. In her hand, she carried a long rod with which she was wont to rap the knuckles of offenders who dared to permit their dress to fall below the high standards demanded by the convent. She looked critically along the row. All the girls were dressed alike in long black skirts, black woollen stockings with small boots, together with high-necked white blouses.

Was anyone spoiling this picture of uniform neatness?

"Dorothy!" Her voice cut through the air, her eyes trained on a tall girl. "You have a mark on your blouse!"

The girl automatically stretched out her hand; her knuckles were rapped sharply, causing her to wince with pain. Sister Digna requested the little book and pencil which each girl had to keep on her, and the inscribed a thick black mark. Dorothy's friends peered across, aware of the consequences. Three black marks in the week meant a birching. It was the untidy Dorothy's second for that week, and only two days had passed.

Sister Digna continued the inspection, dressed in her immaculate habit. Here and there, she employed the rod on the knuckles of a girl whose stockings were wrinkled, or whose skirt was not smoothed down in the manner befitting a truly modest young lady. Suddenly, she had stopped in front of Ella, the new girl. Hair pins stuck awry out of the girl's low fair bun; her uniform was obviously newly purchased, but it looked as if it had already suffered a whole term's use. The blouse was dirty and rumpled, and the skirt had creases, suggesting it had spent the night in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Sister Digna gazed at the sight with disgust. A grim expression crossed her face. She could see that the girl's black stockings were obviously almost half-way down her legs. Momentarily the Sister was at a loss for words, but the titter from Ella's classmates quickly brought her to a decision. Ella Lukyn might be a new girl, and hence deserving of a little leniency, but she must also be made aware of the discipline necessary for such girls as herself.

Sister Digna ordered the slim, rosy-cheeked seventeen year old into the centre of the room. Ella's hands were slouched behind her. The girl had been furious at her parents' decision to send her away to a finishing school; consequently, she determined to reap as little of the desired benefit from it as possible. She glared resentfully at Sister Digna. Only after a moment's rebellious silence did she hold out her hands as instructed. The rod swung down on them forcefully four times.

Ella was immediately ashamed of the tears which she felt springing to her eyes, knowing that the other girls were watching her being punished. Two black marks were entered in her little book, and she then returned to her place, a flush of humiliation covering her countenance.

At the end of the first week, Ella received as severe a birching as any other girl would have received, who had chalked up so many black marks. And the birch itself left its own set of marks. This was an almost unheard of event for a new girl, since Mother Superior possessed a slight weakness for any girl wrenched so recently from her family and friends. But then it was also unheard of for any new girl to behave quite so badly!

For the simple acquisition of black marks, Mother Superior did not in fact thrash the girls so severely and thoroughly as for individual and more positively evil misdemeanours. Even so, Ella found the experience an exceedingly painful one, for she was not accustomed to such treatment from her father.

When she had lined up with the other girls awaiting the punishment before the door of Mother Superior's room, the moons of her posterior were quivering against her drawers.

Indeed, what a picture this line of eight nervous wrong-doers presented! All were dressed exactly alike in their uniform black and white; and each girl had that uniform at it neatest. An attempted look of penitence was upon Ella's face, in the hope that it might soften the heart of Mother Superior. It was, alas, a heart which had been hardened long ago against such ruses.

Each girl entered the room in her turn. The sound of her cries from within produced a chastening effect upon the girls still waiting. The fear within Ella grew, and she shuddered at the sight of the girls as they re-emerged, observing with horror their dishevelled figures and the blotchy marks of tears upon their cheeks.

Being the new girl, Ella was last in the row. She saw her companions being shepherded away by a stony faced nun to make sure that they remedied the defects in their appearance. For, after the punishments had been meted out, it was Prayer Time. It was required that each girl be as perfectly garbed and clean-faced at though the morning were fresh and new.

At last, Ella found herself stumbling into the study. She stared with terror at the birch being swished so menacingly through the air. The crackling twigs caused her to tense her posterior, and a sinking feeling spread within her.

"I am sorry to have to see you here so soon like this," announced Mother Superior. The old nun's eyes glinted at the girl; yet she truly meant what she had said. It hurt her that she should have to punish a new girl so quickly. "At least, for once your uniform is in order!" she observed wryly; but then her voice became a bark. "Bend across that chair!"

Ella obeyed, feeling herself quaking, wishing the birching was all over. The nun slowly gathered the girl's long black skirt up, hooking it about the waist, leaving exposed the pair of old-fashioned coarse drawers the school insisted its pupils must wear.

Ella flinched and blushed, for even Sister Digna did not usually submit her girls to the indignity of an inspection of their undergarments! As Ella felt her mentor's hands upon the laces of her drawers, she held her breath. A moment later, she felt the garment dropping down her legs, shamelessly exhibiting her most intimate regions. It was then that she vowed that never again would she bring such divine retribution upon herself. No longer would she be wicked. Never again would there be a wrinkle in those hated black woollen stockings; never...

The first stroke of the birch fell across the white cheeks of the girl's rump. Forgetting all else, Ella cried out in shock, feeling the twigs tearing at her naked flesh.

Mother Superior was indeed thorough in her chastisements, but she was not utterly lacking in mercy. Although whole-heartedly believing that every girl should receive her just desserts across her bottom, she only rarely prolonged the agony of the punishment for longer than was absolutely necessary.

Swish! Swish!

The birch swept through the air swiftly, each stroke following immediately upon the preceding one. Mother Superior chastised each buttock alternately, administering three strokes to the right, and three to the left in perfect fairness. Several times, Ella's hands also caught the impact from the twigs as she tried to shield her vulnerable regions. Her posterior felt as if it was being pierced by a thousand daggers.

"Qww! Ouch! Please stop!" She yelled out, and then burst into unrestrained tears. She did not, as both Mother Superior and Sister Digna informed her afterwards, conduct herself in a manner of which she could feel in any way proud.

For the next few days, Ella's dress and her conduct was that of the perfect young lady. Indeed, Mildred and Annie, with whom she had already become friendly, were quite distinctly disappointed. However, as the pain in her rear subsided, Ella's accustomed and irrepressible yearning for excitement – a yearning which had so concerned her parents – resurfaced. It was this which led to one of the greatest scandals concerning the sheltered and old-fashioned convent school of St. Gabriel's.

There were at the time several young men home from college, residing in the village. They had an eye for young ladies, and the nuns frequently warned the girls never to look in the direction of the men, for so great was the devil! The first time Ella spotted these gentlemen, who were not indeed uncomely specimens, her maidenly heart skipped a beat. Instantly she summoned Annie and Mildred to the dormitory window, and under her instigation, all three girls were waving their straw hats in the direction of the young men; hats in which they had just been so properly attired while walking in a neat crocodile line following Sister Clementine. Alas, that very woman was now standing right behind them, her eyes and body rigid with shock at the gross immodesty of her charges.

Her voice caused them to turn around, and their lips twitched at the black expression on her face. She instructed them immediately to follow her; she led them to the cells sometimes used by the nuns during retreat and penance. There the girls remained, each in solitary confinement, until a lay sister commanded them to follow her to Evening Prayer.

Sister Digna was carrying out her customary inspection of the girls' uniforms before Mother Superior entered. One girl's boots were not blacked, another girl had not tucked in her blouse properly, and her stockings were holed. Each merited the rod and a black mark; but the three culprits of the day were left standing separately at the back, as if they were unclean!

The girls knew not which way to turn in their fright. Ella felt her cheeks going bright red, for the other girls constantly glanced at them, intrigued to learn of their crimes. Annie and Mildred were trembling, causing Ella to be all the more frightened; and she could not prevent her hands from giving her rear a rub through the black skirt. How she loathed the suspense of waiting! Yet how she dreaded the punishment which was sure to come!

Mother Superior entered the hall. The girls gasped out in unison. She was bearing the vicious-looking birch. Their gasps were silenced immediately.

Mildred, Annie and Ella had to submit, knees shaking with trepidation, to the ordeal of prayers, before they were to learn of the exact nature of their fate. And never before had they prayed so fervently!

There followed a terrible pause. In a daze, the three girls heard that they were to receive ten strokes of the birch each in full view of the school. Such humiliation was unthinkable, unbearable. Ella looked at Mildred, then at Annie. They were biting their lips; Ella could see that they were as filled with anguish as she was. How would they bear ten strokes from that vile birch?

Ella's hands were all the more insistently rubbing at her posterior. She was praying that perhaps they would be birched over their skirts. Annie whispered the same idea to her; but none of the girls believed it possible.

The voice from a Sister cracked through their hazy states, ordering them to step forward on to the stage at the front of the hall. The girls were paralysed; they could not move. Ella could not face the thought of having to walk up in front of all the other girls, and then being chastised, whilst all those eyes stared at her.

Mother Superior was becoming impatient. She indicated to a couple of the Sisters to do what was necessary. The Sisters grabbed hold of the girls, pushing and pulling them to the front. Ella felt her cheeks burn, and she could see the quiver on her two companions' faces. Now, in front of the whole school, Mother Superior was lecturing them speaking of their dreadful misdeeds, and saying how she intended to exact the punishment due. The girls were stunned by her next words.

"You must truthfully admit that you deserve the punishment; the birching is no less than you deserve."

The girls hesitated. Then, eyes averted from their gazing companions, they each repeated, "I deserve the birching which I am to receive." Merely uttering the words caused them to wince: and they sensed the smirks on some of the faces of the other girls.

"Bend over!" Thus commanded Mother Superior. As the girls did so, they saw that some of the other nuns also had birches in their hands. They were swishing the cruel twigs through the air. The noise caused Ella almost to yelp out loud, but she gritted her teeth. The very worse in degradation was now taking place, for the nuns who had pushed then on to the stage were now lifting up the girls' skirts, letting the material flew over their backs. The whole of the rest the school could see three pairs of drawers in a neat line. Briskly, the nuns undid the laces, and the drawers fell to the feet of the offenders. The girls squirmed; they were aware that their very private parts, those private parts which they know they should always keep concealed, were on view.

Ella's bottom twitched. How she wished it would not! She was conscious of the fact that fifty girls or more were staring at her most intimate region, observing every movement. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. Annie and Mildred possessed similar feelings. Oh, why, why had they fallen for the sin of gazing at those men!

Mother Superior stared at the three naked posteriors sticking out, her eyes moving down to the tops of the thighs and then on to the black stockings. The sight did not please her; but the girls truly needed to be taught a lesson, if they were to avoid the path of the devil. Site instructed three of the Sisters to take up their birches and to commence the punishment, each stroke for each girl taking place at the same time.

The twigs seemed to be continually crackling through the air, as the birches swiped down against the unprotected skin, and Mother Superior counted in slow long tones.

At first, the girls tried to keep themselves under control, but by the fourth set of strokes, they were openly crying, their hands instinctively endeavouring to save parts of their most vulnerable rears from the cruel cutting twigs.

Mother Superior allowed a moment's rest, and then ordered some senior girls to hold Ella, Annie and Mildred down, whilst the next six birchings were delivered. The Sisters administering the punishment did it with a zeal and with great deliberation, catching the most tender spots. Ella felt as if her ramp was a furnace, and each twig seemed determined to do its utmost to sting her time and time again. The other two errant young ladies had similar feelings. When it was all over, they were too dazed from the stabbing and smarting to take it in. Their collapsing bodies were helped along to the cells. There they remained isolated from each other, for the night. It was a hellish night. None of them could sleep, and whichever way they turned, they found their rumps throbbing with pain. Sobs and tears kept bursting forth.

From that day, the behaviour of the new girl was so in keeping with the strict lines of her now impeccable uniform that no one could have faulted it. And Annie and Mildred maintained similar high standards. Their posteriors could not face the birch ever again.

A Stradled Miss

Story from Blushes 47.

A Stradled Miss

The fact that it was her own fault did not help one little hit. She had complained to Mr Summers that she thought it was the instrument itself that was wrong. That is why she was making such a hash of her lessons. The soft eyes, hazel haired young woman had often repeated that the violin itself did lend to her ability and natural talent to play the fiddle. Then he had made that awful, unbelieving threat. Right here in this brown study of a room. When he had told her that she lacked a natural discipline, she had not understood. Then he had painstakingly told her that his idea of discipline was something of a personal nature, and had even gone on at some lengths regarding the lack of discipline in young people today. She had not considered herself one of the 'young people' because she was more than twenty years of age.

She was slightly shy and this gave her an added piquance of her softly contoured face. Her eyes were trusting of anybody in authority and her whole being was geared up to being a violinist. Sadly, the fiddle on which she practised and took her lessons belied the ability that she thought she possessed.

Mr Summers was a past master with a violin and he had produced some beautiful music from their very instrument that she had complained about.

Although it seemed fair that he should expect something similar from her, she could not understand this new theme of his. He had shown her he was angry with her excuses and that was when he had told her that she was not too old to be disciplined. The remark had left her with burning cheeks. The very deep feeling of shame that he had invoked by making such a suggestion had caused her to writhe at the very thought. And he had increased the tension in her body when he had explained what he considered proper methods of discipline.

She tried not to visualise the scene which his lecture had summoned to her mind. Surely he was trying to frighten her into making greater efforts. He could not mean that he considered her a pupil to be actually disciplined. Some of his younger pupils, yes... but not her... not now she was twenty years of age. She had to purposefully surpress the very picture of her lovely young body being placed over his lap and her panties down so that he would be able to see her bare bottom stretching so that his hand could actually spank her.

All the time that he had been speaking to her, she had held the violin as though it was something with which she could protect herself with... and yet this was the very instrument that had been the cause of him making the astonishing statement that she needed discipline. Vicky had never been naughty in all of her life and so the question of discipline had not arisen. The thoughts now riding high through her system was that there was no way she was going to let him punish her on her bottom... covered or not. It was unthinkable. That afternoon he had patted her bottom when she had passed him to leave the room. That in itself had been awful. She did not like him, or anyone else for that matter to touch her like that. It was a very intimate part of her body, she felt, almost as intimate as the soft lips between her legs. She should have told him there and then, on the spot that he had no business patting her dress where it covered her rounded bottom. Yet, and here was the rub, one did not address oneself to Mr Summers in such a cursary manner. He was not the type who one could speak to like that.

But the following week when she had turned up he had patted her bottom again as she had walked through his front door. This was not to be habit forming, she felt and she would tell him so as soon as they were alone.

As she entered the study where she practised, she saw the instrument case... he invited her to open it... her eyes opened wide in amazement... it was a real Strad... the King or Queen of violins. Almost reverantly she picked it up and cradled it gently...

'You have been complaining about the age of the instrument you have been practising with... now let me hear you prove that you can do better with a master instrument.'

He had called her bluff... she made the same hopeless mess as she did when she was playing with the broken down instrument.

'Stop! Stop! For heaven's sake stop,' he put his hands over his ears as though to blot out the cacaphony of noise.

Vicky nearly burst into tears at the helplessness that filled her very soul.

'Now come here Vicky,' his serious tone instructed her to stand next to him.

No. She was not going to let him carry out the threat he had made last week. Not that!! She did not want to do it and so she was not going to let him do it. There was something sinister and forbidding about his angry tone now.

'What do you have to say.'

There were many things that Vicky wanted to say, but Mr Summers had his hand up her dress!!

She would have to raise an objection... in a minute. The trouble was the fact that she was wearing ankle socks and therefore her legs were bared so his stroking and investigating hand came into contact with her smooth skin! In a minute, when he stopped speaking she would tell him that she was not prepared to take this sort of treatment... his hand inside her brief white knickers actually feeling the smooth skin of her tightly clenched bum cheeks.

She was shuddering the uncontrollable tremors of deep shame. This was the unthinkable happening. And all the time he was explaining to her that this was the part of her body that needed the discipline.

Her bottom had done nothing wrong!! Why should that be punished? Not a question to be asked out loud or course, but she desperately ached to move away from that investigating hand.

'Mr Summers,' she choked. 'I am not prepared to have my bottom spanked. I am too old to be smacked on my bottom and I do not think you should be doing this.'

It was very properly said and she had spoken resolutely. The trouble was that she had been standing next to him when she had started to make her formal protest but by the time she had finished, she was neatly stretched across his lap and her dress was already raised above her waist!

'Mr Summers,' her voice was more urgent now and exasperated with a sense of fear. 'Please... no... please... Mr Summers,' the tone of her voice was shaded with a rising sound of surprised shame.

Her brief white panties were being eased down her body and now they were stretched tight some half way down her thighs and the bottom that she had thought so precious and private was openly on view to his eyes and what was worse, she could feel his palm smoothing out imaginary creases from the perfect smoothness of her tightly clenched cheeks.

'Mr Summers... please... I must insist... owww... ahhh...'

This was too awful for words. Not only the shame of exposure but suddenly there was the introduction of stinging anguished pain. Vicky realised that all her thoughts that she was too big to be spanked had been a pure waste of time. Mr Summers was doing the impossible and unthinkable. He was bringing his hand down onto the bared cheeks of her shapely bottom and he was making it sting... what was more he was increasing the agony of her humiliation.

This was hateful. It was demeaning and stripping her of modesty and dignity. She had to keep her legs pressed tightly together too... it was getting worse by the second because the hot skin where his hand landed was raising in heated temperature and the sting was transforming into very real pain.

'No... ahh... please... it hurts too much... my bottom... please Mr Summers... I'll try harder... lots harder... please... no more... yeeooow...'

Vicky punctuated her protests and complaints with involuntary kicks of her feet and Mr Summers was treated to a view of his special pupil that no other person would ever hope to see.

Soft nates that had been so smooth and creamy white were now exhibited in stark contrasting red and that red was getting deeper and deeper each time his hand laid across her bottom to teach her the rudiments of what discipline was all about.

His left hand had to press down firmly on the small of her back and she struggled fitfully.

Vicky would never have believed that such pain was possible. She was not sure which was worse, the pain or the shame. But to have to be placed so squarely over his lap whilst he spanked her was something she could never have imagined. She had thought that it would be painful but nothing like this had entered her mind. It was a full explosion of various emotions. The shame was awful, the stinging hurt was impossibly expressive and never ending, and there was too the fact that she was actually over his lap, like a naughty girl revealing the full exposure of her naked bottom not only to his eyes but also the full treatment of his able spanking palm.

When he had reduced her to tears he released her. There seemed to be no protest left in her now. He directed her to her seat and insisted that she sit there, dress fully hoisted and with both nates fully exposed so that when she sat down she was showing off the cheeks that she once thought so private and precious.

All those silly thoughts were banished. Vicky was still responding to the shameful agony, the degradation and the reminder too that if she had to be disciplined, it would be by the medium of going over his lap. It would forever be a terrible reminder of the distress that her body could be subjected to if ever she thought herself too precious to have to bare her bottom for a real good old fashioned spanking.

Red Cheeks in Room 616

Story from Februs 23.

Red Cheeks in Room 616
by Michael O'Connor

It was on perfect July days like this that Jessica most resented her job as a chambermaid. While most of the world enjoyed itself in the sun, she was toiling in the most mundane job imaginable. At least it she were a waitress, she would get decent tips. Her only consolation was that, in less than two months, she would have enough money saved to kiss the Beachview hotel goodbye and join her sister in New York, in time to celebrate her twenty-first birthday in style. Only that could make her summer of drudgery seem worthwhile.

She was relieved to find that room 616 was not a mess. Having already cleaned fifteen others, since eleven a.m., it would be nice to finish with one that did not resemble a rubbish tip. This room would take her less than ten minutes. Then, she could enjoy a well deserved break. If only all guests could be so considerate.

She had almost finished in the bathroom, before she noticed the object on the shelf below the mirror. At first glance, it appeared to be a black leather belt, but closer inspection revealed it to be some kind of strap, with seven strips of thick leather on one end. Jessica picked it up and carefully examined it, smiling slightly. In her four months as a chambermaid, she had chanced upon many strange things in the rooms she cleaned. Pornographic magazines and sex toys were not uncommon. Compared to some of the bizarre belongings she had chanced upon, a strap was decidedly ordinary, but she found it nonetheless fascinating.

She could not help wondering about the guests in room 616. What kind of person would enjoy being flogged with a leather strap? She imagined a woman on the receiving end, willingly accepting punishment from her masterful lover. It could be a man being dominated by a woman, of course, but Jessica found the former scenario somehow more erotic. She raised the hem of her lime green uniform dress a few inches and whacked her left thigh with the strap, just hard enough to sting slightly. Then, remembering that either the occupants of the room or her supervisor could walk in at any second, she put the object back where she had found it and finished cleaning the bathroom.

While she was making the bed, she made another intriguing discovery. Lying on the floor underneath was a bulging packet of photographs. She knew she should leave them as she had found them and finish her work, but the strap in the bathroom had already stirred her curiosity. She glanced towards the door, then picked up the packet and took out the photographs. The very first picture caused her to gasp loudly. She was looking at the rear-view of a woman with shoulder length silvery blonde hair. Her upper body was laced into a black basque. From the waist down, she was completely naked. She was gripping the back of a chair and tilting forward on shiny black stiletto heels, legs wide apart. But it was not her pose that startled Jessica, but rather the half dozen livid red lines running across her ample buttocks.

There were several more photographs of the woman in this pose. In two of them, a cane was touching her backside. Most of the other shots showed her in an outdoor location, either bent over and touching her toes or hugging a tree, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the thick trunk. Her face was visible in none of the photographs. The emphasis was on her naked hind quarters, being variously reddened by cane, hand and what looked like the strap on the bathroom shelf. In the numerous close-ups in the collection, the results of the punishment were clearly discernible.

As she studied each photograph carefully, Jessica felt a strange tremor of excitement. She tried to imagine how the naked woman must feel as she embraced the tree, anticipating the next crack of the cane on her buttocks. Was being caned a kind of unusual foreplay, or did it take the place of the sex act itself? Such activities took place in a world far beyond the experience of the twenty year old. Though she was no stranger to sex and enjoyed it immensely, the kinkiest thing she had ever done was allow one of her boyfriends to grip his cock between her breasts and give her what he called a "pearl necklace".

Suddenly realising she had spent over ten minutes poring over the photographs, she stuffed them back into the envelope and replaced it under the bed. How she would explain herself, in the event of the guests walking in, was something she would rather not contemplate.

Jessica spent the remainder of the day tormented by what she had seen. She felt like a voyeur, who had stolen a peek into a deliciously dark and forbidden world. Had the photographs of the woman been more explicitly sexual, she was certain she would have found them far less fascinating.

She did not share her discovery with her colleagues, who would have just treated it as a cheap giggle. Instead, she clung to the hope that room 616 would still be occupied by the same guests, when she returned to it the following day.

* * *

She was doubly lucky. Not only had the CP fans not checked out, her supervisor had also failed to report for work, which meant Jessica was working on her own. But instead of seizing the opportunity to slacken her pace, as she would normally have done, she had cleaned her first fifteen rooms in double quick time, spurred on by the mouth-watering prospect of further exciting discoveries in 616.

To her delight, she did not even have to search for the photographs. A pair of bulging envelopes lay on the bedside table, like a welcoming gift. She forced herself to resist inspecting the contents until she had cleaned the bathroom.

The first envelope contained the pictures she had already seen, so she quickly laid it to one side. In the second, she made her most thrilling discovery, so far. The complete set of photographs had been taken in the very room in which she was now standing. That realisation alone was sufficient to stir her juices once more.

There were a number of bathroom shots, featuring the blonde woman naked under the shower and on all fours in the bath, ripe streaks of the cane printed on her dripping buttocks. The two frontal shots showed her only from the neck down. She was standing in the shower, lifting her heavy breasts in both hands and squashing them together. Florid markings of some form of strap or rod lay on her soaked, succulent globes. There were more photographs of her lying face down on the bed, kneeling on the chair before the dressing table and bent over the knee of the photographer. In the bedroom shots, her buttocks appeared more severely reddened than they had in the bathroom. A few taken after dark showed her pressed, face forward, against the window, her arms and legs spread wide, a cane creasing her already well punished rear cheeks. Had anybody looked up from the street below, they would have had a spectacular frontal view of her nakedness through the glass.

Jessica lost herself in her study of the exceptionally erotic photographs, forgetting that the door was half open and she was directly facing it. She struggled to attune herself to the feelings of the woman, who was obviously submitting to her punishments completely of her own free will. Her hands trembled as she leafed slowly through the photoset. Was the greatest thrill in the striking of the cane on her flesh, or the anticipation, just before the stroke fell?

She thought she heard a sound from the corridor outside, which panicked her back to reality. Hurriedly stuffing the photographs back into their packet, she replaced them on the bedside table and returned to her work. Seconds later, the door opened. Looking up, she found herself face to face with a woman with silvery blonde hair, who was unmistakably the model in the photographs.

She appeared to be in her early-forties, slightly plump, yet very attractive. She was wearing an ankle length black silk skirt and loose white blouse. Jessica realised she was blushing to the roots of her auburn hair.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' the woman said, in a soft Scottish accent. 'Are you almost finished here?'

'Uh... yes, almost,' the chambermaid stammered.

The woman studied her intently for a minute, as though reading her mind, then turned and disappeared into the bathroom. Jessica finished making the bed, started to leave, but then glanced in the direction of the bathroom and saw that the door had been left open. The woman had her back turned to her as she stepped out of her skirt. She was not wearing any underwear and the skidmarks of a recent caning were clearly visible, from the backs of her knees to the top of her buttocks. Jessica stared helplessly, once again experiencing that odd, warm tingling in her loins. The woman suddenly looked around, caught her looking and reached over to shut the door. Just then, a middle aged man in jeans and a white tee-shirt entered the room, startling Jessica from her reverie. She glanced at him, then the woman, and for a moment, the three occupants of room 616 were frozen in position.

'Doing a striptease for the chambermaid, Diane?' the man demanded.

'I forgot to shut the door,' she replied.

'I'm finished here anyway,' said Jessica.

'No need to rush away on our account,' he told her. 'You've cleaned the bathroom, I presume?'

'Yes.'

He smiled. 'Then you can't fail to have noticed my toy. Careless of me to leave it lying around, I know. Bring me the strap, Diane.'

'Ken, I think the girl wants to leave,' she protested.

'Don't argue with me!' he snapped, startling Jessica. 'You needn't bother covering yourself up either. Our guest has already had a good look.'

'I really must go,' Jessica pleaded.

'Of course,' he replied, stepping aside. 'You must be very busy. Though I trust you found time to look through more of our photographs.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You left one lying on the floor yesterday,' he explained. 'I thought you might have found them exciting, which is why I left the second set out for you today.'

'Aren't you the nosy little cow!' Diane said, emerging from the bathroom, strap in hand.

'I didn't mean any harm,' Jessica protested, her face burning red. 'I just took a quick look. I couldn't help it.'

'Quite understandable,' the man reassured her.

'Understandable my arse!' his furious wife cried.

He snatched the strap from her. 'Your arse! Yes indeed, my dear.' He glanced at the name badge on the uniform blouse of the chambermaid. 'Jessica, would you kindly shut the door? You can leave if you want, though I suspect you would rather stay. Your appetite has been whetted, so to speak.'

Jessica knew she should go. If she was caught socialising with the guests, she would be in serious trouble. But curiosity got the better of discretion and she decided to remain. Her heart pounded as she shut the door.

Ken instructed his wife to remove her blouse. With a glance at Jessica, she meekly complied. Underneath, she was wearing a cream coloured lace bra that only half cupped the generous globes of her breasts. Without taking it off, she lay face down on the bed and spread her arms and legs wide. Though she hesitated before obeying each of her Master's commands, it was obvious that she was eagerly anticipating her punishment, perhaps even more so in the presence of the chambermaid.

Her husband looked at Jessica. 'What do you think, my dear? Should I spank her, strap her, or cane her?'

'Oh gosh, I don't know,' she replied. 'It's not really for me to say.'

'Diane is at our mercy,' he told her. 'She will accept her punishment by whatever means we choose. So tell me, Jessica, as my partner in dispensing justice, what's it to be? If you don't help me, you may have to take her place.'

She looked at the woman so helplessly laid out on the bed and realised the thought of trading places with her was far from appalling. But Ken was surely just making an idle threat, as part of the role he was playing. She did not think he would really contemplate punishing her.

'The cane!' she cried.

He smiled. 'I was hoping you'd say that. You'll find it at the bottom of the closet.'

Jessica found it and handed it to him, hoping he would not notice how she was trembling with excitement. As he flexed the cane with both hands, the woman on the bed looked around and bit her lower lip. Jessica could only imagine how she must be feeling.

'Jessica, pick a number between one and thirty,' Ken told her.

'Er, twenty,' she answered, her own age being the first thing that came to mind.

His wife clenched her buttocks.

'Twenty it is,' he said, raising the cane high above his right shoulder.

It whistled through the air and struck Diane's buttocks, with a snap like a firecracker. She responded with a small cry and Jessica winced. A straight line blossomed across both quivering cheeks. The man waited a few seconds, then delivered a second scorching stroke.

Diane gripped the sheet beneath her with both fists, crying out through gritted teeth as he administered a total of twenty resounding whacks, laying each one across her bottom with a well practised expertise. By the time he was finished, the streaks of the fresh caning lay cherry red over the paler hue of her previous punishment.

Ken studied his handiwork with obvious satisfaction, then looked at Jessica. 'Would you like to punish her now?'

'Me!' she exclaimed.

'There's nobody else in the room,' he replied patiently. 'She's had enough of the cane for now, but I'm sure she wouldn't object to a good spanking, for dessert. Would you, my dear?'

'Only on one condition,' Diane answered.

'And what would that be?'

'That she can take as good as she gives. It's not fair that I should be the only one on the receiving end.'

'Well?' her husband demanded, looking at Jessica.

The young chambermaid looked from one to the other as she battled with a dizzying conflict of emotions. The prudent part of her mind told her to use the door, but she felt a strange compulsion to participate fully in the game of which she was already part. She might well live to regret it, but might rue turning down the invitation even more.

'Would I have to be punished?' she asked, her voice trembling.

'It's only fair,' Ken replied. 'But you needn't worry. As you're obviously a novice, I'll be gentle with you.'

She considered it a moment longer, then agreed to the conditions. Diane raised herself into a kneeling position on the bed and leaned forward, gripping the headboard with both hands and thrusting out her bottom invitingly. Jessica knew what she was expected to do, but looked to Ken for permission. He directed her to kneel next to his wife, took her right hand and pressed it to the hot flesh of her left buttock.

'There's nothing to be afraid of,' he said. 'Diane is well used to receiving discipline and will let you know when she has had enough. Ready?'

Jessica nodded.

'Then let the spanking begin.' He drew back her hand and planted a tentative slap on the woman's bottom. 'That won't do at all,' Ken tutted. 'Let me show you.'

With his left palm, he struck his wife's buttocks a full blooded slap that made her cheeks shudder and evoked a small yelp. Jessica followed his example and was rewarded with a cry that was more for encouragement than from pain. After she had struck Diane's bottom a few more times, she felt her initial nervousness dissipating and her arm settled into a spanking rhythm.

'That's more like it!' Ken told her. 'Let's have those cheeks nicely reddened.'

Jessica's instincts took over and she threw herself wholeheartedly into punishing the woman. Her arm rose and fell in a near blur, stinging slaps raining down on both livid buns. The electric tingling of her palm only encouraged her to strike even harder. She thought Diane would scream at her to stop, after a dozen or so smacks, but it seemed as though she was a true glutton for punishment. By the time she finally called a halt, every inch of her bottom was a throbbing shade of sunburn and Jessica's arm was aching.

'Your turn now,' Ken told her.

Though spanking the other woman had turned her on more than she could ever have imagined, Jessica was suddenly very nervous again.

'I... I'm not sure I want to be punished, after all,' she stammered.

Ken frowned. 'That's very selfish of you, especially as you were allowed to freely redden poor Diane's bottom. Besides, you deserve it. Peeking at our private photographs, without permission, was not a very nice thing to do.'

He was right, of course. Jessica allowed him to persuade her, lying to herself that she had little choice. Hesitantly following his instructions, she unbuttoned her skirt and allowed it to fall at her feet. He then told her to bend over and touch her toes.

'She has earned a punishment she won't forget in a hurry,' Diane said, climbing off the bed. 'My arse feels like it's on fire.'

'A sound thrashing is most certainly in order,' her husband agreed, licking his lips. 'What do you suggest?'

Listening to them calmly discuss what form her chastisement should take, whilst studying her submissively upthrust hind quarters, Jessica felt utterly vulnerable and helpless. It was a surprisingly exciting feeling. She knew there was still time to change her mind, but she wanted to experience the excitement the other woman had felt when being spanked.

It was finally decided that she would be caned. As it was her first time, Ken thought she should be allowed to keep her tights and knickers on. Diane vehemently disagreed, but fortunately for Jessica, his word was law.

Peering back between her legs, she saw him take up position behind her and flex the cane. 'Ready?' he demanded.

'Yes,' she whimpered.

She heard the cane slice the air, then felt the blazing bite as it exploded across her bottom. She choked back a shriek that would surely have been heard throughout the entire floor of the hotel. Diane watched intently, savouring this moment of sweet retribution. Jessica's flesh toned tights and white cotton panties provided meagre protection from the vengeance of the cane and she almost cried out for mercy, after only the third stroke. But the pain was accompanied by an undeniable pleasure that strengthened her resolve to endure at least a few more whacks.

She withstood two dozen, before Ken decided she had had enough. By then, her bottom was throbbing violently and her eyes brimming with tears. But even more intense than the pain was the soft, warm tingling between her thighs. She was almost disappointed it was over, until Diane spoke.

'I ought to be allowed to punish her too.'

'We'll have to see how she feels about that,' her husband replied. 'Had enough, Jessica?'

'Yes... uh, no, I er.... don't know,' she stammered.

Diane did not permit her to dwell on the matter. Gripping the waistband of her tights with both hands, she rolled them down to her knees. Her panties followed. Bright pink cane brands criss-crossed Jessica's creamy cheeks. The woman caressed them softly. When Jessica did not object, she inched her right hand down between her legs. A fingertip touched the hot, damp slit of her sex and she responded with a soft moan. She had never before been touched in this way by another woman, but submitting to the caning had titillated her more than anything she had ever experienced.

'Oh my, she did enjoy her thrashing!' the woman purred, manipulating her fingertip between her slick labia. 'Perhaps she ought to leave now.'

'No, please!' Jessica gasped. 'Not now!'

Ken smiled. 'Don't be cruel, my dear. Our guest obviously agrees that she has not yet been sufficiently punished. Is that not correct, Jessica?'

'Yes!' she gasped as the woman's finger slipped deeper inside her, driving her wild. 'I must have more punishment!'

In response, Ken brought his right palm solidly down on her left buttock, causing her to whimper softly. He slapped her several more times on either cheek, as his wife continued to vigorously frig her. The half naked girl was flushed and breathing heavily, drunk on a potent brew of sensations. He then disappeared into the bathroom, returning with the martinet that had lain on the shelf. Just as Jessica was poised on the brink of orgasm, Diane's finger was cruelly withdrawn from her sex.

She took the leather strap from her husband and he dipped the long finger of his right hand where hers had just been, standing far enough back not to obstruct the twin targets of her buttocks. Had he chosen to use something more substantial than his finger to penetrate her, Jessica would not have objected. She had reached the point where she was ready to do just about anything to achieve the blissful release that was so near and yet so far.

Diane began energetically flogging her with the martinet, the seven strips of stiff leather laying tongues of fire on her already tender nether cheeks. Ken's finger danced within her, in time to the swish and crack of the strap on her flesh. The combination of pleasure and scorching pain was breathtaking. Jessica reacted to each stroke with an agonised hiss.

At least two dozen lashes later, the girl's entire body rocked violently and she cried out in the unmistakable throes of climax, pushing back against Ken's clenched fist arid gouging the dark pink carpet with her fingernails. The instant he withdrew his sex slicked finger, Jessica slumped breathlessly to her knees, her face crimson and sheened with perspiration. The cane creases on her buttocks were a similarly irate shade, blending into the ragged streaks scalded by the martinet.

Having allowed her a few moments to recover, Ken tapped her gently under the chin with the tip of his cane.

'You'd better be getting back to work, Jessica,' he said gently. 'We wouldn't like to see you get into trouble.'

'Uh, yes, of course!' she blurted, clambering to her feet.

'Wait!' Diane cried. 'Before you cover yourself up, would you mind us taking a souvenir to remember you by?'

'What do you mean?' asked Jessica.

'A few photos of your lovely red rear cheeks,' she smiled. 'They really are a picture.'

The Voice at the End of the Line

Story from Janus 44.

The Voice at the End of the Line
by Julie Holmes

The telephone rings. I cross the room and lift the receiver, reciting the number automatically, annoyed at being disturbed, not even suspecting what's about to happen.

'It's time for us to have a chat,' a disembodied male voice rumbles. 'We need to discuss some misdemeanours that have come to my attention.'

'I don't understand – who are you? What do you want? I think you've got the wrong number.' I can hear my voice rising – a mixture of fear and confusion – and struggle to remain in control. 'I'm replacing the receiver now,' I tell him.

'No you're not: you're going to listen to me and do as I say.' For some reason I feel compelled to listen rather than follow my instinct to end the call and disconnect the phone. There's something vaguely familiar about the voice; something about the tone. But it's huskier and more impersonal than anyone's I can think of. I think of old films with clandestine calls being made with handkerchiefs held over the mouth-piece. If I weren't so shocked, I'd find the image amusing.

'What do you want?' I ask again.

'To talk, to settle accounts. To make you realise the truth about yourself.'

'I don't understand. Who are you?'

'You ask too many questions,' the Voice replies. 'Your task is to listen, to answer truthfully when I ask you questions and to do exactly as you are told. Do yon understand now?'

I'm so shocked and scared I don't realise I've been asked a question, so don't respond. 'Do yon understand now?' he repeats, louder this time, quite threatening.

'I think so,' I manage to mumble.

'Good. But speak up. Right, you know why I'm calling, don't you?'

'No. No, I don't. Who are you?' As soon as I say it I realise I've asked another question and for no obvious reason my hands tremble and I gasp and start to stutter an apology.

'Quiet!' he raps. 'Tell me what you are wearing.'

'My housecoat,' I reply.

'Just your housecoat? Anything underneath? Any shoes or slippers? Tell me everything you are wearing,' the Voice persists.

'I'm wearing my housecoat. It's long, dark blue, some sort of velvety material. It has long sleeves with buttoned cuffs and a high mandarin collar, only the top couple of buttons are undone. The buttons go right to the hem, but I've only fastened them to my knees. Underneath I'm wearing a navy blue low-cut bra; it's front-fastening. I also have very small matching panties and I'm wearing flesh-coloured tights.' It seems silly, but it's almost a relief to have managed such a fully detailed answer. I stand straight and prepare for the dialogue to continue.

'Any jewellery? Any shoes? Are you wearing make-up? How are you wearing your hair?' He's impatient. I feel like a dunce in the classroom who's failed to give an obvious response to a simple question.

'I'm not wearing any footwear. My hair's tied back with a rubber band; I was putting on my make-up when you called. I still have to put on my blusher and lipstick. I've got a choker around my neck – it's about an inch wide, navy velvet – I wear a lot of navy blue – with a Victorian brooch at my throat. I'm wearing a gold watch.' I pause, realising that I've told him all this to cover up my nervousness. 'And a couple of rings.'

'What sort of rings?'

'A dress ring – sapphire – on my right hand. And a gold band on my left.'

'Your left hand? A wedding ring?' His tone is harsh. I take a deep breath.

'Yes. A wedding ring. I'm married.'

'Why are you half-naked at seven o'clock in the evening? Why are you putting on so much make-up?'

'I'm going out. For a meal. With somebody.' Why am I answering him and why do I let myself feel so afraid?

'Are you going out for a meal with your husband?' he enquires and from the sound of his voice I can tell he knows I'm not.

'No,' I tell him. A pause. 'I'm going out with a colleague from work.' A longer, more eloquent pause. 'A male colleague.' Then in a rush: 'My husband's working late and, anyway, he doesn't mind. He knows.'

'Does he? Did you tell him?'

'No. He just knows. It's okay. Anyway, it's none of your business. What do you want?' I'm almost screaming, from fear and indignation.

'SHUT UP!' he yells. I feel my body tremble, feel tears of fear creep into my eyes. I breathe deeply and listen for his next question.

'Which room are you in?'

'The living room.'

'Close the curtains. Take the mirror off the wall and prop it on the sofa so it rests on the arm furthest from the telephone. Do it now, then pick up the receiver again.'

'How do you know the layout of my flat? Who are you?' I am so scared now: is he a friend, a neighbour, a burglar?

'Just do it,' says the Voice, deep and threatening. If only I could identify that elusive voice: I'm certain now that it must be a fairly intimate acquaintance. I try to imagine the voice in a different situation, but still I cannot quite place it. It sounds as though he's speaking through a mouthful of cotton wool. I do as he has told me and say so when I retrieve the telephone receiver.

'Now,' he continues, 'hold the phone in your left hand, unbutton your housecoat from your knees to your waist with your right hand. Have you done that?' I tell him I have. 'Good. Now keep listening to me while you remove your tights with just your right hand. Put your hand inside the waistband and pull them down slowly. Very slowly. Keep your hand flat against your belly as you do it. Feel your flesh, the way a lover would. Come on now, don't linger too long. You're not supposed to enjoy it that much! Get those tights right down; down your thighs, over your knees – feel them baggy at your ankles; take them off over your feet. Ready?'

'No. I can't manage one-handed. I can't get them over my bottom,' I moan.

'DO IT!' he yells. They come off but get ripped by my nails in the process. 'Just do as I tell you, when I tell you,' the low tones rasp. 'Take the elastic band out of your hair and shake it loose over your shoulders. Just with your right hand, of course.'

The band's tight and some of my hair is tangled in it but eventually I manage to do as he says. Tears slip silently down my cheeks: at the same time as I try to work out who this man is and how he manages to exert such influence on me. I worry about the effect crying will have on my make-up, so carefully applied only a few minutes ago. What is happening to my world? 'I'm ready,' I tell him submissively.

'Good. Stand with your feet apart, about shoulder-width. Now tell me about your date tonight.'

'It's not a date. I'm just having dinner with a colleague. There's some business we need to discuss, there wasn't time at work.' It sounds feeble even to me, although when I said it on the phone to Paul, my husband, this afternoon it sounded perfectly plausible. Paul certainly accepted my tale although, to be honest, I made a point of calling when I knew he'd be busy and wouldn't want to talk. In any case, he's out most evenings himself. That's partly the trouble: if he were at home more I wouldn't be looking around for distractions like Donald. I'm not sure I even like Donald all that much. My mind wanders but is brought to heel again by the Voice.

'Don't bother lying to me. I know about Donald Danvers and the quick business talks over drinks and meals. They take place at his home where very little is eaten and I suspect not much talking is done, although probably drinks are consumed and as for business – well we don't want to get vulgar, do we?' There's an evil, malicious tone to his voice now.

'Look, you've obviously been spying on me. I don't know who you are or why you're so interested in me but just leave me alone. Hang up and stay out of my life!' I shout.

'Take your knickers off.'

'What? Didn't you hear what I said?'

'Shut up and get those knickers down now,' he says coldly. 'Just the one hand remember.' I hate him; I loathe myself, but I find myself obeying his orders. I feel almost like an automaton, under his remote control.

'Now take your breasts out of your bra, but don't undo it. Lift the left one out first, then the right. Take your time. You can enjoy it if you want to,' he adds, almost friendly. He doesn't know me that well, then: I hate wearing a bra with no panties. I don't know why but it makes me feel uncomfortable, even if I'm on my own. I always put my briefs on first and take them off last when getting dressed or undressed. I know I'm blushing as I carry out his commands. The cups of my bra dig uncomfortably into the underside of my breasts which are fully exposed and pushed unnaturally high, like some fantasy illustration in a men s magazine.

'Now spread those legs wide. Wider than your shoulders. It's a good job you've got central heating, isn't it? I'd hate to think of you standing in a draught.' Central heating or no, I shiver and my skin prickles with goose-pimples. My nipples harden. 'Tell me about Donald,' he says.

My throat is dry and once again I'm close to tears. It takes a great effort to find my voice and keep it steady.

'My husband's gone off me. He comes home late. He ignores me. We don't...' I try again. 'We don't have sex very often. I met Don at work. We get on okay. It's something to do. That's all.'

'What would Donald say if he saw you now, posing almost naked for a stranger? What would your husband say?' Ridiculously, he sounds genuinely interested.

'I don't know how Don would react. I don't know him very well really. Paul would probably be angry,' I tell him.

'Only probably? Aren't you certain? Tell me exactly what you think he would do,' the Voice persists.

'He'd be angry with me, that's all.' I hate discussing my husband like this more than anything else this monster has made me do so far. I don't have time to analyse what my feelings are – guilt, embarrassment, anger, shame? – but I'm in terror of what is to come. How much longer can this go on? What more can he do to me? I don't understand what kind of satisfaction he gets from this situation. I want to scream, to refuse to go along with him any longer, but am unable to resist the urgings of the Voice.

'Tell me what he'd do exactly. Would he hit you for instance?'

'Oh no. He'd never do anything like that. He'd just be annoyed that I'd gone along with you. He'd want to know who you were. I suppose he'd assume that I knew you and had chosen to have an erotic telephone conversation with you.' As soon as I say it, I realise my error.

'So you find our conversation erotic, do you?' I can hear the contempt in his voice and I shiver.

'That's not what I meant. I only meant that Paul might interpret it that way. Wrongly, of course.'

'I don't think he'd be wrong: I think you are enjoying our talk. If not, you'd have hung up by now. You are enjoying it aren't you? Standing there naked except for your choker and the bra pushing your tits out. Are your legs wide apart? Open them wider.' He pauses. 'Are you enjoying our conversation, Julia Holmes?'

The use of my name is a shock. Although he obviously knows a lot about me and has been to my home at some time, somehow, as long as he didn't call me by name, I could distance myself from him. I mumble that I'm not enjoying it at all, but as I say it I wonder if that's entirely true.

'I'm growing tired of this conversation. I disagree with you. I do excite you. All men do. You're just naturally promiscuous, Julia, and Paul knows it. You are a wanton, easy slut and need to be brought into line. Do you understand?' His tone has become sharper, authoritative, like a Victorian master addressing an erring scullery maid.

'No I don't understand!' I bluster.

'Stop lying! I don't like women who lie. And, as I said, I'm getting bored with this conversation. Let's get down to business. You've been behaving like a whore ever since you got married, and probably before, but I won't concern myself with that. How many men have you slept with since marrying Paul?'

I'm beyond lying or arguing. 'Five,' I reply. 'Or six. I'm not certain. Six I think. Yes, six.'

'Six! And you think Paul doesn't know?' He sounds incredulous.

'I'm sure I've been discreet. Anyway, he wouldn't mind.'

'Wouldn't he? Well, I mind! It's obscene the way modern women flout their wedding vows. They mock the institution of marriage itself. Just because you go to work, it doesn't mean you can forget your station in life. You're a woman and your function is to serve and respect men in general and support and obey your husband in particular. You seem not to understand this, Julia, so I'm going to help you learn. Go and put some shoes on. The high-heeled navy blue mules, since it's your favourite colour. Go and fetch them, then tell me when you've got them on. Put them on in the bedroom and walk across the living room to the telephone with them on. Quickly!'

I don't argue. Absurd though the idea is, I'm half-convinced he can see into my flat. I put the receiver down next to the telephone on the coffee table and run to the bedroom. I scrabble around in the wardrobe, but can't find the shoes he's described. Finally I locate them under the bed, put them on and walk back to the telephone. I feel ridiculous. I'll never wear these mules again.

'I'm wearing them,' I tell my caller. 'What now?'

'Getting impatient? Calm yourself. Pick up the telephone and put it in the corner of the sofa at the opposite end to the mirror, between the arm and the back. Have you done that?' I tell him when I have.

'Good. Now continue to hold the receiver to your left ear and tell me what you can see in the mirror. Go on.' I comply.

'The mirror's not very big. I can't see my face or below my pelvis. The arm of the sofa would block the sight of my legs anyway. I can see the choker, with the brooch glinting; my hair's falling over my shoulders, covering my bra straps. I can't really see my bra because I've pulled my breasts out of the cups as you told me. It makes my breasts look bigger than they really are and pushes them up high. My nipples are quite pale so they don't really show in the mirror, apart from the tips because they're a bit darker and slightly hard. It's a bit cold without my clothes on. My tummy's rounder than is considered fashionable but it's not flabby. My pubic hair is a sort of light brown.'

'Look over your shoulder. Tell me what you see now.'

'I see my hair hanging below my shoulders. I see my bra crossing my back. I see my hips and my bottom. There's a slight line across my bottom showing where my panties were. It's quite firm and high and my thighs are in good shape. I belong to a health club, so I'm quite fit and I have an all-year, all-over suntan.' I realise I'm starting to sound quite boastful and wonder if that's wise.

'Bend over the arm of the sofa: be careful not to disconnect us. You can rest your elbows on the seat. I want you to look in the mirror. Put your feet close to the sofa so that your arse is high and you can see it in the mirror. And spread your feet wide.' It's amazing how quickly even the most bizarre situation comes to seem normal. I no longer find it strange or repellent to obey the Voice.

'Now I'm going to go through with you the punishment your terrible behaviour warrants. Even if Paul chooses to ignore your infidelity and disrespect, someone has to bring you to heel. You make your husband a laughing stock and act like a bitch in heat. It's time you learnt some humility and self-control. Spread your legs wider. Let your arms and belly take the weight. I want those legs really stretched and that bum wide open and displayed. That's good. How many of your lovers have seen you like this? You're really quite an exhibitionist aren't you? I'm sure you're enjoying our talk more than you'll admit.' I groan; I'll admit nothing to this pervert.

'You are an immoral slut and are about to be suitably chastised. Stay still. I'm taking off my belt. It's wide; thick leather made supple by age. It's got a very heavy buckle. Take your punishment well and I won't use the buckle end on you. I'm stroking the backs of your legs one at a time, from your knees upwards. Feel it? Feel it stroking you? Are you afraid of what it's going to do? Tell me what you feel.' It's true, I can feel the aged leather moving up my thighs. I shiver with anticipation and tell him so.

'Good. You are right to be worried. My belt is going to warm up that backside of yours. I think six strokes, one for each of your lovers. Here comes the first; I'm lifting my arm high, the belt's rising high; now it's coming down, fast and hard. It strikes right across the centre of your cheeks. You flinch but you can take it, can't you? Hm, there's a nice pink band where it landed. Does it sting? Can you take the rest?'

'I can take it,' I mumble. I'm surprised to realise that I really felt the lash of the imaginary belt and my buttocks have tensed in anticipation of the five still to come.

'The next one's going to be high up. Keep looking in the mirror: watch yourself finally being treated the way you deserve. I'm raising the belt. Here it comes, on the top of your bum cheeks before they divide. That one will bruise. Was that you gasping? Good. That shows the punishment's having the right effect. Number three's going to be low down. The top of your thighs where the crease of your bottom crosses. Keep those legs long, straight and wide apart.'

We live through the third spectral stroke together. My breathing is getting heavy; my face is flushed. The choker is digging into my neck but I can't get into a more comfortable position.

'The next two are going to criss-cross your backside. They're coming close together, top right to bottom left, then top left to bottom right. Here's the first. Now the next. Just one more to go. Nice and simple, I think. Straight across the middle of your bottom, just above the first. Now!'

I'm shaking and sweating and there are tears making my mascara run. I feel exhausted. 'What now?' I moan.

'Now? Now we move on. Have you ever been caned?'

'Caned! No, of course not.' Once again, I'm caught completely by surprise.

'Well you're going to be now. Stay in position. Be sure to keep the telephone receiver pressed to your ear. I want you to hear me clearly. I think another six, don't you? And each one will land on one of the stripes made by the belt. Get ready. Here comes the first.'

I hear a swish, what I imagine a cane would sound like slicing through the air. He must have a cane that he's flexing near the telephone. That first ghostly swipe cuts into my bottom as he said it would, highlighting that original track from the belt. Imaginary though it is, I can feel the difference between the two disciplinary implements: the belt gave a hot, even band; painful, but not unendurable. The cane is sharper, thinner. It stings and makes me dread the five to come.

'Here's number two. It's going to be high, remember.' I hear the sound of the rod ripping the air and shriek as my mind feels it land not far below the base of my spine. A violent flame of pain scorches the top of my arse. The realism is phenomenal.

I stand upright and start to massage the area with my free hand. 'I hope you haven't moved,' I hear the Voice warn and lower myself over the sofa once more, replacing my arm on the seat. Sticking my bottom out to the very best of my ability.

'Okay. Here's the low one now. Keep those legs perfectly nice and straight.' My teeth clench as I feel the bamboo inflame the delicate skin, crazing me intimately. 'Look in the mirror. Tell me what you see now. In detail.' I look and feel mortified at the sight, gasping from the shockwaves of the cane.

'My hair's all messed up. My eye make-up's smudged. My bottom's raised high and I see a broad pink band with a bruise starting and in the middle of this band there's a thin raised weal. It hurts like bloody hell! I can just see the start of the two belt marks that I know cross over my bottom. My chin's resting on my right forearm and my left hand holds the phone to my ear.'

'You're very articulate, Julia. I bet you were glad to have a rest weren't you? Well, you've three more stripes to come yet. Here comes the top right to bottom – pardon the pun – left.' I hear the whine and experience the sting, but before I can react its corresponding blow strikes in the opposite direction. Fighting the impulse to scream I console myself with the knowledge that I have only a single stroke left to come.

'Just one more to go,' the Voice echoes my thoughts. 'I'll count to ten to give you time to think about your punishment and why you deserve it.' He counts slowly. I listen to the ascending numbers, brushing tears from my face with the back of my hand. As the Voice says 'ten' I hear the cane's journey upward, then down and sob uncontrollably as my tense cheeks flinch under the hallucinatory whipping stroke.

'I think you're learning your lesson quite well,' the Voice coaxes. 'Now show me you understand why it had to happen. Tell me what you've done that's so bad.'

I struggle to regain control of myself. 'I've slept with other men since I got married; I've not respected my husband,' I recite.

'And what do you deserve?' he asks.

'I deserve to be punished physically and to be humiliated. I need to learn that my husband is in control and my life must fit into his and he deserves my respect simply because he is a man and especially because we are married.' One part of my mind finds this liturgy totally natural, while the other is surprised that I can even think these words, let alone say them to a stranger. I know that the second, sceptical view is societal brainwashing, the falseness-at-large that wars inside me with my contrite self-knowledge.

'Describe the punishment you deserve and have just undergone,' he persists.

'I deserve to be made to strip and display myself as I have been told to do,' I say in sincere humility, my better self winning at last. 'I deserve to be strapped and caned on my bare bottom, six strokes of each, so that I am forced to reconsider my behaviour.'

'You know,' he says, ominously chatty, 'you really are a quick learner. That makes me a bit suspicious that your contrition may not be genuine. I think the lesson needs to be reinforced.'

'Just by chance,' he chuckles evilly, 'I have a tawse here. Do you know what a tawse is? It's an instrument used in Scotland to punish errant schoolboys. It's a leather strap about two feet long, a couple of inches wide and almost half-an-inch thick. It's cut down the middle from one end to more than halfway along so that each stroke has the effect of two. I think you need a good all-over bum-warming from my tawse, just to finish off. I can't decide how many strokes you deserve, so I'll keep laying them on and you count them and we'll see how far we get.'

'Here we go.'

Again, I can hear the sound of the strap being raised and then come crashing down through the air, so I assume he really does have one. Two strokes have gone by before I realise I've not been counting aloud. 'Two!' I shout.

'Too late,' he says. 'We'll have to start again.' Now I count each one as my mind and body tell me it's landed. My legs ache from their strained position in the high heels and my back aches from being stretched over the sofa arm. The bra cuts painfully into the soft underside of my breasts and my eyes and throat burn with crying. The cheeks of my bottom twitch every time an imagined whack lands; I'm certain it's all swollen and bruised. I'm crying so hard I can barely make my voice work, but my counting keeps pace with the strokes of the tawse.

'Eight... Nine... Ten...'

'Ten! There, I think that should be enough this time. Now, listen very carefully. I'm going to leave you for a while, but don't hang up. Keep that position and watch yourself in the mirror. Don't get up or rub your bottom. Just stay exactly as you are until I tell you to move. And think about what a good husband you have and how you can atone for your past behaviour. Contemplate long and hard, Julia.'

I hear a sound which I presume to be his receiver being placed on a table. I gaze at the mirror and barely recognize my reflection. Where is the confident, rising young career-woman now? Have I really treated Paul so badly? Why did I go along with that stranger on the phone instead of simply cutting him off? In fact, why am I still co-operating with him?

Too late I hear the main door to the flat open. There are footsteps in the hallway, and then the living room door opens slowly. Still I maintain my position. In the mirror I see my husband standing behind me, a long thin cane and a heavy tawse in one hand. With the other he is removing his old leather belt.

'I think six strokes,' he says in the voice I couldn't quite place on the telephone. 'One for each of your lovers.'