Victim?

Story from Fessee 04.

Victim?
by Nick Fowler

Marcus considered himself to be a civilised man, a small 'l' liberal, and yet here was Sally, his young wife of only a few months, offering a solution primitive in its primordial savagery. Suddenly he was shocked and excited, where, moments before, he had been furiously angry.

'Alright,' said Sally again, looking at the dented wing of their once immaculate M.G. 'Mea cupla. I did it. I was careless. I can't pay you, 'cos I don't have any money of my own, as you well know. So, take it out of my deserving hide. Put me across your knee and give me a jolly good spanking. It's what Daddy would have done.'

Standing there before her in the drive, clothed in righteous indignation, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout, Marcus looked so adorably pompous that Sally could scarcely suppress her giggles. She did love him, but he was a wimp at times.

'What Daddy would have done...?' repeated Marcus in astonishment. 'Surely not what....'

'Not what his Beatitude, the Rev. Canon Horace Willoughby-Yeates, would have done?' interrupted Sally irreverently. 'You bet. Either him, or Mummy. His view of atonement was positively Judaic. He once gave me eighteen of the best with a springy cane for nicking 50p out of the offertory plate. After all, my need was greater than St. Jude's. I'd just laddered my last pair of decent tights.'

Really. Marcus looked at this remarkable girl as if he was meeting her for the first time. She was the same petite, impish, blonde that he had married, a mere two months after meeting her at a Special Interest Holiday on English Drama that he had been running, but yet somehow she was not the same. There was a devil-may-care, do your worst, hang the consequences, look in her cornflower blue eyes that he found both challenging and disturbing.

'So,' said Sally provocatively, arms akimbo, 'are you going to beat me, and forget it, or do you propose to nag me to death slowly, over the next six months, whenever I take the car out on my own?'

The vision of Sally, knickerless, and with her dimpled bottom up, across his knee suddenly appealed to him enormously. There had been undeniable hiccoughs in the smooth running of their marriage or late. As there must be, he appreciated, when a stuffy academic falls for a lively, lovely girl, twelve years his junior. He hadn't had much experience of girls, he admitted that, but he had never thought for one moment of spanking her.

He was a lecturer in English at the University of Petworth, staid, respected, but somewhat humourless. He sometimes wondered what Sally saw in him. He would have been surprised to learn that not only did she admire his academic brilliance, but also considered that he had 'hidden potential'. Sally liked playing her hunches regardless, and Marcus, she told herself, was going to develop as a human being, in ways that he little suspected. Ways which he would have dismissed as ludicrous.

Now suddenly it seemed to Marcus his own inspiration that the chastisement of Sally was not only something desirable, but long overdue. She was far too frivolous, and at one or two college functions had been positively embarrassing in her disrespectful attitude towards important influential senior colleagues upon whom Marcus's advancement depended. Perhaps spanking was the curb she needed. Yes, thought Marcus, the salutory sting on his hand upon her soft, young buttocks might well be the answer.

'Alright,' he blustered, trying to sound authorative, as if the punishment of naughty young women was something that he indulged in all the time, 'you asked for it, and you're going to get it, and I hope it will be a lesson to you. Come into the house.'

Demurely Sally preceded him to the lounge. Marcus might have been startled to see the small triumphant smile which played around his young wife's lips. This was not how a sinner should look. Surely she should be apprehensive at the prospect of smarting flesh and humiliation of the spirit... However, Marcus was so flustered by the breakneck speed of events since Sally had pranged the car into the garage door that he hardly noticed the roguish spring in Sally's step which spoke of mischief rather than fear.

Marcus seated himself on the wide leather couch, which had been a wedding present from Canon Willoughby-Yeates, and Sally knelt, and then wriggled herself companionably across his thighs, squirming into a position that would present her shapely but not overlarge bottom to best advantage, while leaving it softly resilient to the hand of justice.

Her skirt was tight and black. Would it be better, Marcus debated, to work it up past her slim hips, or to unzip it and pull it down. He chose the latter means of denudement, experiencing an unexpected thrill as he masterfully undid the button that held the waistband, and firmly slid down the metal fastener to breach the bastion between him and retribution. Sally appeared undismayed, and raised herself a little to faciliate the skirt's descent to her ankles. Beneath it she was wearing stockings and suspenders and white nylon panties, and through the translucence of the silky fabric the flesh of her bottom could be glimpsed by Marcus as pale, creamy pink. After due consideration he decided to keep them on her. To begin with, anyway.

The first ten minutes or so Marcus devoted to soundly slapping the lower thighs and lush undulations of the foothills of her buttocks. Yes, it was a fascinating experience to watch the creamy flesh colour to a coral pink, and then red, under the semi-transparency of the little nylon knickers! Then, tiring of that ploy he carefully lowered them and gave twenty more minutes of his time to bringing the whole of her nude bottom to a satisfying and angry crimson. Sally's cheeks quivered and shook violently, and she gasped, though did not cry out, as Marcus vigorously applied condign discipline to the soft cushions of her posterior. Having started, it must be admitted that he was now loath to stop, quite carried away on this wave of dominance. He was, he decided, evidently cut out to be an assertive husband, and if Sally was accustomed to this kind of punishment then there was little point in pussy-footing!

His right hand was stinging quite painfully from the unaccustomed exercise when he finally stopped and stood Sally on her feet. He looked into her flushed face, quite expecting to see... What? Revulsion, subjection, anger? But the radiant expression that it carried showed that although she was now busily engaged in gingerly feeling a most horrendous smart in her scarlet bottom, she was very far from subdued. Also if she was suffering remorse at a couple of hundred pounds' worth of car damage she was hiding it well. It seemed that he had given her carte blanche to behave badly, to crunch the car whenever she wanted to. Marcus had the nasty feeling that she had out-manoeuvred him into giving her a 'punishment' that she wanted, and now he would have to forget about its cause, as in honour bound.

Sally looked meaningfully towards the stairs that led to their bedroom, but as Marcus showed no sign of responding to the unspoken invitation, she signed, pulled up her knickers, and kissed him affectionately before resignedly beginning preparations for the evening meal. A girl couldn't have everything, and she already knew that Marcus had to be ill to go to bed during daylight hours.

Marcus remained on the couch and pondered this new problem as something quite outside of his experience. Spanking might make a model wife out of a hoyden, but somehow he doubted it on this afternoon's evidence. He loved her, but...

(He loved her butt, as the Americans would uncouthly say. My God, what was happening to him? That was almost a joke, and he never made jokes, or understood them.)

'Pull yourself together, Marcus Fenwick M.A., B.Litt.' he told himself severely, 'and ask yourself what you are going to do about your wife. She is extravagant, has no sense of what it costs us to live in this style on a junior lecturer's salary. She is slapdash, untidy, and only a passable cook. She is hopeless in the garden, and so unreliable as to be useless as a joint wage-earner.'

Marcus appreciated that spanking could give him a control over Sally that he had lacked so far, but it was a two-edged sword, and one that he wanted to cut with, without slicing his own fingers. It was obvious that Sally liked corporal punishment far too much. His problem was how to turn a 'turn on' into a deterent.

* * *

COMMANDER RONALD FENWICK R.N. (Rtd.), Marcus's father, who has paying his usual Sunday visit, straightened up from pruning the roses. He liked to tackle the overgrown 'jungle' of a garden, and fortunately was gifted with green fingers.

'Have you thought any more about my selling up my place, and making my home with you and Sally?' he asked Marcus, gesturing toward the delightful, but far too large for two, Queen Anne cottage which was their home. 'Roseacre's' far too large for me,' he continued, 'and it would make sense if I sold it, bought into your place, and came to you. I know that money's a bit tight for you. As you know, I get a bit lonely on my own, since your Mother died, and not only could I contribute towards expenses, but would be company for Sally, while you are away at the university.'

It was not the first time that the Commander had made the suggestion, and Marcus and Sally had given it serious thought, and decided, 'yes'. But now, delaying the news, Marcus carefully steered the conversation into talk of juvenile delinquency. Before retiring from the Navy, Fenwick senior had had a reputation for being a strict disciplinarian, and now Marcus was anxious to learn his father's views on a gang of teenagers, boys and girls, who were terrorising a local housing estate.

'Only one cure for those young louts,' the Commander snorted, 'Take down their unisex jeans and give 'em a damned good thrashing on their bare behinds.'

Marcus had suspected that that would have been his father's opinion, but it was useful to have it confirmed. Surprisingly he did not know too much about his father, and it was only since the old boy's retirement that they had become close. When his father was home on leave from the Navy, Marcus had usually been at boarding school, and then had come university, and his career. But the death of Marcus's mother had formed a bond between them.

Encouraged by his father's 'hang 'em and flog 'em' attitude, and with his own plans for Sally firmly in mind, Marcus now expanded this punative discussion to include the family environment, discussing, severity, implements of correction and techniques. Ronald was uninhibitedly forthcoming, and it was an incredible piece of good fortune when he disclosed to Marcus that he had actually used to spank his mother during the early days of their marriage.

'Needed to, my boy. Lovely gal, but one of the flightiest young women I have ever met, and with me being away so much...'. He looked at his son searchingly as if suddenly doubtful of his parentage.

Marcus, slightly shaken, returned this confidence by telling his father about his recent discovery that Sally was spanked by her parents, almost up to the day of her marriage to him, and went on to describe in detail the accident to the car and its consequences.

'I hope that you warmed her bottom good and proper,' said Ronald, with a chuckle. 'Reminds me of a WREN I had serving under me in Portsmouth. Gave her an extra three strokes for not wearing regulation knickers, if I recall. It happened like this...'

But Marcus had learned enough to be going on with. 'How would you like to move in with us, and chastise Sally for me when the need arises?' He interupted. 'She'd be delighted – for you to live with us, I'm not sure about the other,' he added with unaccustomed honesty.

His father looked at him in astonishment. 'But would you mind, me boy? Me chastising your Sally, I mean. It's not as if I'm her father.'

'Father-in-law, and that's as good as,' replied Marcus enthusiastically.

'Besides, I know that she likes you. From my point of view I should quite enjoy seeing her getting her just deserts, and it would be a salutory experience for her to be punished by a third party – and it's not something I'd like any Tom, Dick or Harry to do. It certainly needs to be kept within the family.'

'How right you are,' said the Commander, his eyes gleaming with reawakened desire. He was no hypocrite, and only too well recognised the degree of sexuality is such as bizarre proposal, for himself and for his son. But the idea undoubtedly turned him on, as it would most red blooded men. It would be a cold fish indeed who could even contemplate the idea of spanking an attractive girl's bare bottom without feeling a distinct thrill. For the moment he wondered why Marcus was 'farming out' such a delectable responsibility. He shrugged. What the hell. Never look gift horses....

Nevertheless Ronald was canny enough to appreciate that he would need to keep a grip on his emotions, and realise that this was punishment and not sex. In the past, however much had he enjoyed spanking that delightfully curved portion which lay between his wife's suspender belt and stocking tops, and the occasional delinquent WREN, he had always kept the issue separate from lovemaking. When spanking had been a titillating foreplay before love then Helen, his wife, had known that it was intended as stimulation. Perhaps that was the mistake that Marcus was making. Secretly he felt that his son was a bit of an odd ball. Ah well, it takes all sorts, thought the Commander, who was given to thinking in cliches.

* * *

MARCUS lost no time in initiating the new, strict, regime. On the very first evening after his father moved in with them Sally stacked the dinner dishes after their meal and said cheerfully, 'Well, they can stay there until morning. Perhaps the fairies will do them.'

'I don't think they will,' said Marcus aggressively. 'But you will. I am sick and tired of coming down in the morning and seeing unwashed plates with food scraps and congealed gravy on the table.'

'If only we had a daily woman,' Sally pouted. 'Perhaps we can afford one now that Ronald's here and contributing.'

Marcus banged his fist down on the dining table, making the crockery rattle alarmingly. 'I consider it a grave discourtesy to my father to talk of his money, when it's only a matter of laziness on your part.'

Sally sighed, and looked at her father-in-law, and raised an eyebrow.

'Sorry, Ronald. Oh, dear, I've put my foot in it again. It seems as if I'm in for another spanking.' She spoke more archly than she intended, being rather embarrassed that Marcus's father should be witness to a family 'row' so soon after his arrival, but she was also glad that he was there, because this time any 'consequences' would surely be taking place in their bedroom. Her bottom cheeks twitched in anticipation, visualising Marcus perhaps unleashing a hitherto unknown passion. How could be resist, turned on, and already on the bed....

The supercharged eroticism of her thoughts almost made her miss the quietly menacing tones in which Marcus now informed her that she certainly did deserve a spanking, but that this time his father was going to administer it.

For a moment she was bewildered and disappointed, but then brightened. Perhaps voyeurism was his turn on, she thought. Before she could investigate her own feelings about this intriguing subject Marcus's father took control.

'Right, Sally,' he said sternly, 'I warn you in advance that this will be a sound spanking, and will make your bottom very red and hot. You may cry if you wish, but if you struggle, or try to resist, or attempt to get up before I have finished I shall fetch my cane from the bedroom and start all over again.'

The Commander's icy tone made it abundantly clear that this was no fun thing. He really meant it. Sally gasped. The deliciously erotic stratagem whereby she had planned to seduce her passionless husband through spanking had suddenly turned sour on her, and her father-in-law, who she had previously admired as a kindly, bluff, old seadog, was changing into a tyrant before her eyes. What was Marcus about to let happen?

'If you feel that strongly about the sodding washing up, Marcus,' she protested, 'I'll go and do it. There's no need for all this drama. You should have said how you felt about it. Getting your father to spank me is a terrible idea. So it is that you should, come to that. I'm much too old to be spanked. It's utterly humiliating. So we'll forget about me ever suggesting it.' And turning on her high, pretty heels, flared skirt swinging about her knees, she headed for the kitchen.

The older man moved quickly, blocking her path with his body, and drew her to him. Holding her close he raised her skirt above the waist with his left hand and with the flat of his right palm landed two vicious smacks to the softness of her knickered bottom.

Sally yelped her dismay, and her soft round eyes filled with despair as she saw her husband's cold, unfeeling response. There was no help to be expected from him. She now realised that there was no going back. She had introduced spanking into the domestic scene, and now, like Goethe's 'Sorcerer's Apprentice' it had turned upon her a hundred fold. Automatically she obeyed the Commander's instructions and positioned herself on her knees on the carpet, with all her weight on her palms.

Her chastiser threw one leg over the obeisantly kneeling body, clenching his trousered legs tightly about Sally's waist. She was now held securely, with her skirt pulled up to the small of her back to shamefully expose her panties, which in that strained position were pulled snugly into the dark furrow between the voluptuous globes of her buttocks. She gasped as a hand forced her down even further, so that her bottom reared, and the straps of her suspenders cut painfully across the flesh between stocking tops and panty-waist.

The Commander swung his palm in a blurred arch of movement, and brought it cracking down with a resounding smack on the tantalising spheres of Sally's nubile flesh. The speed and force of the ruthless assault, followed by the searing smart, made her try of wriggle free, but she knew herself to be firmly imprisoned.

Fascinated, both men watched the crimson patch that spread swiftly beneath the flimsy, silken panties, which barely covered the squirmingly upraised bottom.

'I warned you,' snapped the Commander, 'what would happen if you tried to free yourself. Marcus, perhaps you will kindly fetch the cane that you will find hanging in the wardrobe in my bedroom.'

While he was put of the room the Commander continued his hand spanking with seemingly renewed force. Small yelps became shrill cries. This really was punishment, the kind of thing that she had left home to escape.

Marcus returned, carrying a supple malacca cane, and his father paused for a moment as if to assess his helper's reaction. That Marcus had no sympathy for his wife's wriggling and painful gyrations was evident as he said, 'Dad, I think that to impress Sally with your role of supervisor of all of her future activities you should give her quite a sound caning. Better that she knows now the kind of correction that she can expect to receive in my name, and in my interest.'

Sally could hardly believe her ears, and her burning buttocks and throbbing loins robbed her of any further will be resist. Quietly she did what was asked of her, and in only a few moments she was positioned, as commanded, over the square oak chest in the middle of the room, which Marcus considerately covered with a rug.

'The quicker you learn, Sally,' said the Commander, 'that things around here are going to go the way that Marcus wants them, then the more comfortable it will be for your bottom.'

The Commander! That was how Sally was beginning to think of him. Nor Ronald, or Pops-in-law, or any of the old affectionate, jokey names. The new realisation of the meaning of his rank seared home like a stroke of the cane. One who commands. He who is going to command me, and I am going to obey! she thought.

Her insides jellified, and she foolishly attempted to protest that it wasn't fair. The protest was cut short by a searing stroke of the slim, wicked cane, scoring across her bottom. She gasped, and sobbed, 'It isn't, it isn't.'

'What isn't?' asked Marcus inquisitively, having heard only the end of the tearful little objection.

'Fair, that you should be the master in your own home,' replied his father, his stinging strokes of the cane continuing upon Sally' bottom, although not yet at full force.

Marcus smiled in haught superiority. If he had had qualms about his wife's bottom being caned they were now forgotten. Now he actually relished her agony. He would show her the natural superiority of men, and Fenwick men in particular. He would be the master of his house, every minute of each hour of the day.

'I think six of the best to begin with,' the Commander said, 'On the bare, naturally.' And suiting action to words he inserted his fingers in the waist band of Sally's little knickers and pulled them down to below her stocking tops, the bottom so exposed was already hot and angry looking with one or two strips where the harder cane strokes had made an impact.

Satisfied that there was no impediment to the painful progress of the cane, he laid it tentatively across poor Sally's scarlet bottom, as if to measure the swing accurately, and raised the wicked wand preparatory to the first promised stroke. Soon she was writhing again under its dreadful dominance.

'Oh, oh, oh,' she yelled, as both men gloried in the rod's contact with the jiggling flesh, and as the cane travelled hotly downwards over her bottom, six strokes somehow became nine.

All will to resist her husband's demands vanished, and she submissively sobbed, 'Stop, oh please stop. I'll do anything.'

'Three more,' said Marcus to the Commander implacably, triumph reflected in his voice. 'You might as well make it the round dozen.'

Sally was now about ready to establish a new and satisfactory routine, he reflected. Meals on time, a house kept clean, and television programmes only of his own choice. Sally's 'proper yelling', as the Commander's flexible cane bit home for the final time interrupted his contented reverie, but no matter. Sally stood up, her hands clutching her scalded bottom cheeks, her face streaming with tears, her clothes dishevelled. Most satisfactorily woebegone and sorry for herself.

His thoughts turned to the voicing aloud of more important matters. 'Go upstairs, Sally', he said, 'and make the bed up in the second guest room. It will be for me. From now on we are sleeping in separate rooms, because I have no wish to be disturbed when you rise every morning at seven and begin the housework under father's supervision. When I command you to my bed it will be for a visit of one hour's duration, maximum, probably less. Father will let you know when. Is that understood?'

'Yes, Marcus.'

'Good, now off you go, and straight to bed when you have carried out your instructions. Just this once the washing up may wait until the morning.'

'Yes, Marcus.'

Sally fled. She was longing to soothe the 'scarlet torment' that was her ill used bottom, but didn't dare. Not until her husband's bed was made and turned down ready for the Master to slip autocratically between the chaste white sheets.

In her own room, as she now supposed it to be, she viewed her welted buttocks in the mirror. Her own father had said often enough that she benefitted from a thorough, knickers down, thrashing, and now here it was, back again. What ever had possessed her to actually seek a spanking from her husband. She pressed her burning, naked flesh into the cold of the mirror glass, and signed with the blessed relief of it. Her thoughts relived the half hour. She had not taken much notice of Marcus's father before this, dismissing him as an amiable nonentity, retired, and therefore 'past it'. But now, thinking of him, the likeness to her own father's dominant attitude held a strange excitement. She got into bed, the tingling in her bottom chasing sleep away, and reflected ruefully how brief had been the interlude of 'normal' marriage. Her hand slipped down between her thighs. She was back, enfolded in an all too familiar prison of authority, and the perplexing thing was that though it should have been hateful, it was somehow strangely comforting.

-------------------------

Continuation of this story

Making It Better

Story from Swish Vol.5 No.3.

Making It Better

A girl with a maid, this might be called. Maids are usually subservient – or try to be. But this one wasn't. She was determined to train Judy to take what she knew she really wanted.

* * *


Caren always used to look at me with a strange smile. I say 'always', but actually she had only been with us for three months. Even so I noticed it. I thought her maid's skirt was outrageous really. I mean, showing the tops of her stockings when she sat down, and the whites of her thighs. He always looked at her when she sat like that.

"Why d'you keep giving me sidelong looks and smiling like that?" I asked her once. She was the only maid we had, and maids were always like friends – living in – everything. When I said that Caren moved past me and closed the kitchen door. I thought that was strange. "You haven't had it yet, have you? I can tell, you know. Besides, I'd hear." I stared at her. I didn't know what she was talking about. I mean really I didn't. I told her so.

She didn't answer me – not directly. "You're old enough. Certainly old enough. I wonder he hasn't put you to it," she said. I got a bit mad with her. "I don't know what the bloody hell you're on about," I told her. "Really, Judy?" she asked and raised her eyebrows. She looks quite lovely actually – always used nice perfumes. A bit expensive for her, I thought then. I was more naive then. "We're on our own for a while – I'll show you," she said, "wait."

Well – it's something to be ordered about by a maid, I can tell you, but curiosity made me wait. Then she came down holding it. That cane. My jaw gaped. "Where.... where did you get THAT?" I blurted. She laughed at me. "Oh, come on, Judy, it's not mine. It was here already. You really haven't had it across that beautiful bottom of yours?"

"No," I said, "don't be stupid, of course I haven't." Then she gave me THAT look. "Maybe it's me who's supposed to start you off," she murmured. I coloured right up to the roots of my hair. "You dare try," I said. It was crazy – a sort of panic seized me, because I somehow knew she wasn't joking. I made to push past her but she seized my hair. Being longer than hers, it's easy to. I squealed, trying to wrench away from her. "You stop it!" I yelped. I was like a kid again instead of twenty-one, but I couldn't get away.

"Oh, so you're going to struggle, are you?" she laughed, "I thought you would. All right – let's have you in the living room." I won't go into it all how she got me – got me undressed right down to my knicks. It was all too unbelievable, and the bitch knew I wouldn't scream blue murder to the neighbours sitting in their garden. The fact that I'd been wearing only a T-shirt and hotpants helped. On the sofa she just smothered me for a long moment and I.... well, I began to weaken. I mean, she had her miniskirt right up and her furred pussy was rubbing against mine through the nylon veils. "That's better," she breathed when my arms went limp, "it's best to have you warmed up before you get into it, Judy. Better than taking you from cold. You've lovely tits, darling – beautiful legs. And your bottom is just a dream. Beside, this is only the beginning of your training."

T...t....t....training? That started me off trying to shake myself out of that ridiculous situation. I'd allowed myself to get into it, after all. I didn't have to put up with it and I told her so when THWA-AAAACK! right across my bared botty came that cane, and did I YELP! "Now STOP it," Caren said severely as if she were talking to a schoolgirl. In fact I think she'd have got a big kick out of it if I had been, or more likely she was pretending that I was and she was the schoolmistress. When you really get into it you have all sorts of fantasies like that.

"WOW-OW!" I squealed and got another. She was standing with one leg up on the seat of the sofa and me bent over her thigh. Well – so O.K. – I admit they weren't hard ones. That cane was too thick for the job. It wasn't meant to be a tamer but to act as a warning. It was never used really the way canes are used in stories. There were a couple of thinner ones upstairs. He kept them in his wardrobe and of course I'd never seen them before, not until she showed them to me first. Anyway, I'm skipping back and forth and I don't mean to. It surprised me how strong Caren was. She dropped the cane that first time and spanked me, you see. I strove to get up, but that wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do with a hand clamped firmly on the back of my neck and my bare tummy tight over her stockinged thigh. She was standing up still, as I've described. It was a good position, she explained afterwards. She could really get it into me.

OH – I didn't know one's bottom could burn so much! "Stop it, stop it, STOP it!" I was howling. There were real tears in my eyes and I was squeezing my bottom cheeks so tight. My bottom was a real ball of fire. As it should be sometimes, Caren said coolly when, after about the twentieth, she let me slip down blubbering on to the floor. Then she came down upon me and drew my knicks right off. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" I went on sobbing as if she were still spanking me. My bottom was an orb of heat-rage on the carpet. She didn't take any notice. Holding my shoulders down, she began to tongue my nipples.

All the funny noises I made when she was holding me! I was struggling, too, but she ignored that, simply brushing my waving arms aside, sidling one stockinged knee right up between my thighs until its roundness was pressed against my pussy where I was all moist. She rubbed her knee there subtly and my bottom bucked all the more.

"Wet – you're wet, aren't you – oooh, nice!" she husked. Her silky thighs rubbed all over my own. Her mouth captured my own. I'd never been kissed by another girl on the mouth and certainly not lying on the floor with my bottom hot and my thighs held open. "Nice – it's nice," she crooned, "aren't you feeling better now?"

"No, I'm not, I'm not," I sobbed all babyishly. The carpet in our living room is thick enough but it still scoured my hot cheeks a bit. I think she knew that and rolled me on to my hip, doing the same herself so that we were locked face to face and tits to tits together, one hand soothing my bottom and the other up under my hair at the back of my neck. Even then I went on blubbering against her moist mouth. That was a lovely feeling, too, she said – and said afterwards again, feeling my half open mouth all quivery. Then of a sudden she began to work me with her finger, first in between the tight cheeks of my bottom and then cupping her hand right under to my pussy.

It was like a thousand sparklers were exploding in my tummy. I yammered and clung to her the way I told myself I never meant to. My legs shot down, straightened, and I kinda hung my head back while her kisses rained over my neck. "There, there – making it better.... making it better," I could hear her saying. I suppose I knew that she meant what was happening to me. It was like fire and ice together – in my bottom and in my pussy. I was coming.

"Come, baby, come," she breathed and rolled me over on my back, opening my legs wider. I drew my knees up, feeling one slender finger urge in between my lovelips while her thumb rotated around my clitty. My mouth and my eyes were open. I could see and yet I couldn't. One orgasm after another rippled through me – my thighs were sleeked with wet. Her tongue was in my mouth. "Lovely, lovely, lovely," she was crooning. I lost count of all the times I came. Then I slumped – my eyes rolled right up into my head, Caren said, and then I was still, cuddled tenderly into her. She cupped my throbbing, pulsing pussy and just held me.

"I knew you'd be good for it," she said afterwards and helped me dress. I felt shy with her – shy and yet not. It was impossible to describe. "If I want to spank you again tonight, will you let me?" she asked. I didn't know what to say. I didn't even know I was going to say anything, and then I heard my voice say, "Yes – if you want to." I felt trembly all for the rest of the day thinking about it, like a dream. I remembered what she'd said about training me, but it was only a word, I told myself. When it got to ten o'clock that night, I made an excuse and went to bed early. I wondered, though, if Caren would be bold enough to slip in. She did, though. She put her finger to her lips and I nodded, like we were conspirators. Then from behind her back as she silently closed the door she produced a thin slender cane.

I was lying on the bed with my nightie on.

"He wanted to cane me tonight – downstairs. I wouldn't let him." I sat up. She could see I didn't believe her. We had to whisper. "He.... he doesn't," I said wonderingly. Caren laughed and stroked my hair, drawing my face impulsively into her shoulder. "When you're not here, he does," she said softly. She could feel and hear my gasp against her neck. "Oh god, he does – he takes my knickers down for it," she said. I guess I knew it was true. I clung to her. "Yes he does, as he will you now. I told him I've spanked you."

"Caren – no!" I threw myself back on the pillow, covering my face, like the world had come to an end, "you didn't!" I couldn't look at her. I had my eyes closed tight. "Yes, Judy," she said, and her voice was suddenly firmer, "it's me who has to put you to your trials first. Roll over now and put your bottom up. It'll only be a light one – a sparkler, as we call it. Just to start you off."

I couldn't believe this! "No!" I squealed. I drew my knees up. My nightie only covered half my thighs. I never wear panties in bed. A sudden sharp slap on my legs made me yelp. Even as I did I tried to muffle the sound, praying it wouldn't be heard above the TV downstairs. "OVER, Judy." Caren said sharply. She took my shoulder and rolled me like a sack of coal so that my shoulder bumped the wall. "It won't make a noise if YOU don't. I'm only going to give you a light sixer, Judy. Now put it up, UP – come on – or there'll be more noise than you know about."

It was blackmail really. I didn't want to, I DIDN'T. I threw my arm back – lying on my tummy as I now was – as Caren flicked the hem of my nightie up over my hips and displayed my bold cheeks. "If you get up...." she gritted warningly, "now, Judy, come on – present it. I have to and so must you now."

"No-woh-woh-woh!" I protested plaintively. I was caught in my own trap of having trusted her, and I knew it. "Oh, you silly – I TOLD you it won't be a hard one, not like I get sometimes," she hissed, "move your knees apart now and steady yourself. Come on!"

It's funny how some words work on you more than others. It was the way that she said, "Come ON!" that did it. I felt like a kid again – at my age! I grabbed the pillow under me, cuddling it like it was my old Teddy. SWEEEE-ISSSSH! "Ynnnnnnng!" I squealed. It was like a streak of lightning coursing across my bared cheeks, biting, snarling into me. Or at least I dramatised it so. My 'first course' as it was afterwards called really was a light one. I've given Caren worse since myself. Even so the breath hissed and sizzled out between my teeth as then I took the next. It was lower – not right across the centre of my halfmoons, but lower and under.

'NOH-OOOH!" I gritted, just knowing I mustn't let the sound reach through the door and downstairs, so I had to swallow in the sound just as I had to draw in the stinging bite of it into my raised bottom. "YES, Judy!" I heard Caren say triumphantly. It WAS a triumph, she told me afterwards, giving me the cane that first time. Before I could recover I took the third, and it seemed so much more of a sizzler that I bit right into my soft pillow and dipped my back in reflex until I made a perfect S-shape, she said – an ardent, offering.

Ardent and offering – yes, those were the words she used to me when she'd finished with me. I was twisting the lower half of my body about like a landed fish while she held me under my armpits making me take the sensuousness of her kisses and the long darting of her tongue into my mouth. "It's all right – it's all right," she kept saying, and I half settled down actually sooner than I thought I would, my face as blurred with heat as my bottom was. Somehow as I finally and tentatively sank down on my back – jerking my botty impetuously as it touched the sheet – she made me give her my tongue in return.

"Judy, you're lovely," she breathed. She got up, slipped her skirt and top off, and I saw that she was wearing her nylons only beneath. She didn't have to tell me she'd left her panties down in the living room – I just knew. "Judy, I want you now," she said simply. "My b...b...bottom stings," I sobbed babyishly. "I know, I know – make it better?" she whispered, "with me, darling, it'll only be my tongue, I'm afraid."

I didn't take in the import of her words then. I didn't have time to. Kneeling down by my bed, she raised one of my legs, pushed my knee back almost into my tummy and glued her mouth to my quim. Then her long pointed tongue darted in and swirled and I croaked "AAAAAAH!" and grappled with my fingers at the rucked sheet. "Oh, Judy, you're salty and wet and lovely, you bitch," I heard her croak, then the sweet firmness of her lips into my mushiness really began to work. Her fingers explored my bottom beneath. I gurgled, choked, cried out softly. I was spilling already – my love juices spurting, caught between the fire and the thrilling-spilling of it. On and on she went until I'd come four or five times. Then she did what I least expected and so was totally unprepared for. Leaving me gasping, as it were, she was up in a flash and I was rolled over on my tummy again.

I knew then. "NO!" I yelled, "NO! Caren, DON'T!" Oh god, my voice must have carried. I'd forgotten. I couldn't have controlled that cry anyway. SWEEE-ISSSSH! CRA-AAAAACK! "YEEE-AAAARGH!" Oh... those were biters... biters.... deep into my hot sphere. I beat the pillow, then clenched it, twisting it in my clawing hands. Another came. A hot searing stroke. Another – another. I blubbered, howled and cried all at the same time, twisting my hips madly to try and avoid that hateful cane which seemed to curve right around my orb as it descended.

Then, as quickly as it had started again, she stopped and leapt upon me, straddling me, her moist cleft rubbing upon my seared halfmoons. "There!" she said triumphantly, "there! That's helped to put you through the mill. Lie still – STILL!"

"I c..c...can't!" I sobbed. In bucking about I all but threw her off, but her legs were well stretched and she kept steady somehow, easing the oiled lips of her quim all around my throbbing bottom until somehow I knew – just knew – she was coming, too. "HOOOOOO!" I could hear her choking softly. I felt her stickiness, felt her go limp. Then she sank down upon me, holding me totally prisoner with her tits globing into my shoulders and both of us making coarse, breath-rushing noises.

"I h...h...hate you, I HATE you," I blubbered when at last she rolled off me, almost falling to the floor as she did, but clutching me into her. "No – no, you don't, Judy," she said firmly. Smeared with tears, my cheeks were sticky against her own hot ones. "You were just ready for that – I knew you were," she said quietly. "I w...w...wasn't," I choked. Her hair stroked my hair, drawing it back from my moist forehead. "Yes, you were," she said with total conviction, "and you half know it already. They're the hardest you'll get, you know. It never gets any worse than that. Nothing is going to work unless we're truthful with one another now."

"I... I don't know what you mean," I mumbled, still screwing up my eyes against the endless tongues of fire in my bottom. Still she cuddled my head and shoulders into her. "Yes, you do, Judy – it brings you on. I knew it would. Hating it and loving it – equally maybe to start with – is part of it. Isn't that right?" I nodded blindly. It was true. She'd sort of made me take it, but hadn't really. I mean, god, I'm old enough. I could have stopped her – I could have stopped her that afternoon. I hadn't. I'd just let myself go, despite all my talk about struggling.

Caren went on murmuring and whispering to me, sometimes making me gasp, sometimes drawing a half-reluctant giggle from me. Sometimes, I told myself, I didn't even realise what she was saying. "I will be both tender and stern when I cane you, Judy. So will he," she said. I made to sit up at that, but her hands held me down. "NO!" I jerked. I meant it. She laid me flat on my back and held me. "You don't want him to make you better afterwards – is that it?" she asked. "Don't be... don't be... don't be s...s...silly," I stammered. The biting and stinging had eased away now. My bottom felt hot, heavy – sort of luxurious.

"It's going to happen, Judy," she said. "You.... you stop it!" I choked. My eyes were as wild as my mouth was loose, she told me long afterwards. Quite daintily she bent, picked up her shirt and top. She was going to walk out of the bedroom just as she was, I could see that. "Not if I let you watch him cane ME?" she asked and was gone, swaying her jiggling bottom cheeks. I loved her. I wanted to call after her.

* * *

The next day it was all quiet, like it hadn't happened. Then about five o'clock (I wasn't in a job at that time), Caren suddenly said to me, "I get randy for a caning sometimes. Not a hard one – like the one I gave you. He puts me over the arm of the sofa, you know. I have to keep my legs straight. He peels my panties down..."

"No!" I shouted, "I don't want to hear!" I rushed out of the room and slammed my door upstairs. It wasn't true. I didn't want to know about it. Was it true? I hated myself for getting up and going back down again. I couldn't help myself. "Caren, please – is it true?" I asked. "Oh, you ARE a baby – of course it's true," she laughed and cuddled me. "He wants to cane your bottom, you know. Won't you let him?" "NO!" I blurted. Caren stepped away from me. Her eyes were harder than I wanted them to be.

"You stop this, Judy," she said, "you're not going back on it."

"I won't," I said. My lips trembled, my legs trembled. Caren shrugged. "O.K." she said bleakly, "then I won't spank you or cane you again – not ever. I won't ever kiss you or caress you or be able to make you feel better afterwards. Sorry, I can't stop talking now, I have work to do," she added in a cold, distant voice. She moved away. I went after her, feeling as if my feet were taking me rather than that I was directing them. "C...C...Caren..." I said. She turned and looked straight at me. "Well?" she asked. I lost my nerve. "N...n...nothing," I said. Suddenly she stepped towards me and lifted my chin. "After dinner tonight," she said. I made to say "No!" but no sound came. It was like I couldn't move. Then I turned and ran upstairs into the bathroom and turned on the taps, ripping my skirt and knickers off and fancying I could hear her laughing softly downstairs.

I don't think I could see properly or hear properly or anything at dinner. At least, that's how it felt. Caren kept hovering over me. When the wine was finished she poured liqueurs, moving quietly and efficiently. "I'll bring the coffee in," she said after that – saying it in a sort of possessive way. The TV was on in the living room. It was all a coloured blur to my eyes. When I was drinking the coffee my cup was chattering all the time against the saucer.

Moving back and forth as she always did, Caren was so cool that I began to relax. I even kidded myself I was watching 'Dynasty' on the TV. I could hear her washing up. It seemed all right. He hadn't said a word. I'd actually almost really relaxed when I heard the door of the living room open and close and Caren was standing there. She had the cane in her hand. It would have been easy to hide. I realised that then. I was stricken. My hand went to my mouth the way you never think it will in real life.

"Come on," she said very, very quietly and walked over to me like a panther. "Caren, no!" I said. It came out like a squeak. I mean in FRONT of him! Then she laughed and said to him, "You see – she didn't believe me." I suppose even then – even then – I believed it was a joke. I wanted to jump up. I couldn't. My legs were jelly. She moved forward more and stood over me. "Darling, get up – please," she murmured. I knew it was true then. I saw him get up and take his tie off.

"No," I said, "oh no! No, Caren – Caren, don't!" – "YES, Judy," Caren said. Her eyes weren't bleak – they were kind – almost laughing. Then it was him – coming over. They pulled me up between them. I could feel myself flopping, crying, twisting, pulling. "Judy, don't cry – it won't be hard, I promise you it won't be hard," Caren was saying. I screamed, and my skirt was up. They were so bloody efficient between them – making me ready for it. He was... he was.... he was t...taking my knickers down! I kicked, I cried more. Over the arm of the sofa where they put me, Caren sat and held my shoulders.

"No-woh-woh-woh!" was all I could hear myself sobbing. My bottom was naked, my skirt right up. She had to hold me tighter then, pressing my face down into the cushions. "It's all right, it's all right," she kept saying, "Judy, you want it." – " YA-AH-AAAAAH!" came my screech then. He'd stepped back and sort of nipped me with it, just gently at first. "You... you... you cah-ah-an't!" I screamed and then SWEEE-ISSSSH! WHOOOOO! Caren was laughing, laughing! "Judy, wriggle it – come on!" she was saying. SWEEEE-ISSSSSH! "NO-OW!" came my shrieks, on and on and on. It bit me, bit me, bit me, stung me. I writhed and wriggled, held by her. My stockinged legs twisted this way and that. I didn't care any longer what he could see.

Oh god, it was an eternity – yet it was only eight, Caren told me afterwards. When they let me up I was like a rag doll, squeezing my blasted cheeks, tears rolling down my cheeks, flopping down on the sofa, on my hip, on my tummy – every which way. Caren was on her knees by the side of me, an arm around my shoulders, murmuring, comforting, whispering, like she'd done the night before in my room. She began to finger me. Down there. In front of him! I tried to stop her. "No, no," I sobbed. I was trying to push her hand away. I rolled over on my tummy again, hiding my hot face in a cushion. She laughed and gave me a little smack, wouldn't let me pull my skirt down.

"OH-WOH-WOH!" I kept sobbing. "She's ready for it," I heard her say softly, "I know she is. Go on." Then came my final cry – my long piercing one, my hips lifted, and the big swollen plum of his prick oozing up under me, into me, parting the lips, sinking up until my squirming bottom was rammed into his belly.

"Just hold her like that," Caren said. The words came like a quiet command. She had got up. Even through my choking, disbelieving moans I somehow knew she was stripping off. The bitch. Another few throbs of his big cock in me and she knew I was going to want it – 'making it better'...

Half Moon

Story from Janus 41.

Half Moon
by Nicholas Holland

Editor's note:

This story is the second in 3 long-range trilogy examining the faults, fortunes and fated fustigations of that really naughty nymph, Victoria Moon, who at her age surely should know better. Readers may turn to Janus 25 for the preceding story. The author is an astronomer who writes fiction very occasionally in between gazing at the stars.

The final instalment, Full Moon, will be published eventually.

* * *

IT WAS three years later...

The sun lanced through the tiny porthole with blinding intensity. Victoria Moon pushed the light-sensitive sun glasses firmly against the bridge of her perfect nose and turned back into the spacious cabin. Apart from four inch stiletto-heeled shoes, the sun glasses were all that Victoria wore. As usual the freedom of nudity served to excite and stimulate her and she felt a sensuous warmth that wasn't entirely due to the Mediterranean sun. Her bikini lay in a pool of expensive silk at the foot of a double bed and in a moment of impatient petulance she kicked it across the cabin. Where the hell was he? She wasn't accustomed to waiting for any man and under normal circumstances she would have left ten minutes ago. These weren't normal circumstances of course and Victoria chose to wait. She would wait as long as she had to. Perhaps her destiny and the future direction of her life depended on it.

With a sigh of reluctant acceptance Victoria lay back against the soft pillows of the huge double bed. The deep mattress and cool cotton of the sheets embraced her nakedness, inviting her to stretch luxuriously and relax. Reflected in the tall mirrors of the fitted mahogany wardrobe, Victoria's body curved with feline grace, its golden hue relieved only by the templates of bikini white and the rich tufts of gold at the base of her belly. She pushed the sun glasses up into soft blonde curls and closed her eyes. Sleep was not something she had time to indulge in. She would not... could not... must not allow herself the luxury of sleep to accelerate the passage of time. To think was more important. Essential.

To some people three years is a long time. Boredom and the role of ordinariness expand and prolong the tedium of dissatisfaction. Victoria Moon had no such problem. The three years since Adam Krane had persuaded her to walk into the inviting web of his peculiar practices and philosophies had passed quickly. Naturally she still hated him.

Victoria's thoughts rolled gently across her mind, unfolding and splashing against her senses, creating images that in turn excited and tormented her. She remembered that bright evening three years and one month ago that had since become the 'first day of the rest of her life'. The small office where she had received the kiss of destiny that flawed the virginal perfection of her pink flesh had seemed a heaven in the hell of her boredom. In reality and with the change of time, Adam Krane's office now seemed a tatty preface to the space and luxury that enveloped her and which she would soon find impossible to live without. The charisma and magnetic power of the man was not there to overpower her and colour her thoughts. She despised him and yet she knew that he had provided her with an excuse and a new escape route to be herself. She had no feelings of guilt for the way she regarded him. Guilt though would always provide her with the excuse to seek out what he had so necessarily provided. She would never admit to herself the real reason behind the inexplicable series of events that had since shaped her life. There had always been the guilt and then the cleansing. The cleansing was important because without it the guilt would gradually torment her and she would be impossible to understand. Indiscretion would compound indiscretion and the strong hand of a mentor or Svengali was necessary to return her to the status quo. Victoria Moon needed the hand of discipline. The realisation flashed across her mind like the lash of a cane.

After Adam Krane, Victoria's life had changed dramatically. A succession of boyfriends walked into and out of her life like so many migrating swallows. Purity of body evaporated with the simmering of hot sexuality, and the prize of sweet virginity was sacrificed at the altar of insensitive youth. He had been a soccer star and Victoria basked in the glow of his reflected glory. He caned her and beat her and took sex from her with all the subtlety of a charging bull. Victoria knew that love was something that he probably couldn't even spell, let alone understand. She stayed with him for six months, not because she loved him, but because of the lifestyle that he enjoyed. She left him at a time of her own convenience. As was her way in those days of selfishness and insecurity, Victoria received a better offer and simply took advantage of it. Circumstances – though Victoria preferred the word fate – caused her to meet Henry Pountain at the country club which her husband had grudgingly allowed her to join. The age difference had not bothered her because Victoria felt that she had no one to answer to but herself. Her relationship with her husband had been one of sex and continuous beatings. As long as she was around for him to 'show-off' at the many social events his highly successful football club staged, that was all he seemed to care. Victoria half expected to be placed in the massive trophy cabinet after each usage.

The divorce had been quick and a lot less painful than her marriage. She was granted a small alimony although she hardly needed it – Henry's millions were more than sufficient recompense. They were married a few days after her decree nisi.

Life with Henry was idyllic. He was the complete antithesis of her first husband and for a while she delighted in his gentleness and generosity. He demanded nothing from her and in return he gave her everything that she had ever wanted. Increasingly though, Henry spent more and more time involved in the everyday affairs of his massive corporation. Boredom set in and Victoria's old restlessness returned. The infrequent love-making with her aging husband wasn't improved by the mild heart attack that Henry suffered because of overwork. Victoria's restlessness soon became frustration and once more she returned to the country club for diversions. There were many of them – perhaps too many. Mostly they were older than her and often in their forties. Virile young men were also welcome, attracted to her like bears to some exotic honey. But she used them and then discarded them, fluttering from one infatuation to the next.

Victoria remembered with little satisfaction. The guilt would not let her escape so easily. It haunted her like a nemesis, returning persistently and remorselessly. She turned languidly on the cool sheets to look in the mirror. Perhaps it showed? But all she saw was the golden perfection of glorious womanhood. The guilt was inside her – a malignant growth that had begun to eat into her soul and torture her mind. Henry was so kind to her and she really wasn't worthy of him. How could she cheat him the way she had? If he ever found out it would hurt him irreparably and the ruthlessness he showed in business would be turned on Victoria. He would delegate the responsibility of course, because that was his way. Perhaps she would be summoned to the office of his solicitor, but whatever course he chose Victoria knew that it would be final. Henry's decisions always were. No matter how deep the hurt, Henry would conclude the matter instantly and Victoria would be out on the streets... without so much as a penny of her own.

But Henry did know. Victoria's fears were justified.

For two weeks Victoria had flirted outrageously with the Captain of the 'Belle Grande' (apart from Victoria, Henry's only obsession). The fact that Captain Hugh Scullion was one of her husband's most loyal friends had not seemed to make any difference to Victoria, though he perplexed her and no man had done that since Adam Krane. Mostly they were predictable in their response, often fawning, but inevitably losing her respect. Captain Scullion did not respond like other men. His greater experience had taught him the errors of succumbing to the intimidation of feminine beauty. Victoria did not over-awe him.

During lunch she had finally evoked a response from the ice-cool Captain. 'Victoria,' he said softly, 'I'll see you in my cabin at six o'clock.' He had paused and with a smile finally added, 'and make sure you're suitably dressed!'

Victoria's tension, like the guilt, did not show. Her pulse rate had increased and her heart beat was quicker. The excitement of the illicit meeting was as satisfying as her present nudity. But the risks were immense.

As Victoria waited, a meeting was taking place in her cabin. Henry and Captain Scullion relaxed and drank arctic-cold Martinis. The subject would have surprised her. She was the earnest topic of their conversation and Henry was confiding to his loyal friend the problems of being married to Victoria. Captain Scullion, because of his own experience, had naturally suspected the nature of his friend's problems. In fact, before Henry had told him, the loyal Captain had already initiated steps to correct the distressing situation. At this very moment the errant wife was waiting in his cabin. Waiting on his pleasure – a pleasure which she had woefully misinterpreted.

'So you see Hugh,' Henry Pountain was saying, 'the damn girl needs your strong hand of discipline. I'm sure I can leave the method to you, after all you have succeeded admirably in the past and I simply wouldn't have the heart to do it your way. Besides, it's the only alternative to divorce and you know how I feel about that.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of more drinks, served by the object of another of Victoria's flirtations, a young Portuguese with flashing good looks who was called Raoul. She had received little encouragement from the handsome cabin boy and started to make life as difficult as possible, by asking him to 'fetch and carry' for her to a ridiculous extent.

Although the business at hand had been concluded, Henry insisted that the Captain finish his drink and let Victoria 'stew in her own juice', as he quaintly put it. Captain Scullion was happy to agree, it would have been part of his tactics anyway.

* * *

When the Captain entered his cabin, Victoria – who had been waiting for well over an hour – was pacing impatiently to and fro, inwardly seething. She was still nude.

For a long period of charged expectancy they looked at each other, Victoria suddenly aware of the massive aura of authority that the immaculately uniformed Captain exuded. Even the gold anchor on the impressive hat seemed to symbolise his immoveability. She felt his eyes boring into her like steel gimlets. The impatience and anger brought about by her waiting instantly evaporated under the probing eyes and Victoria felt more nude before him than she had ever felt in front of any of her lovers. But she gloried in it. He couldn't know of the narcissistic delight she experienced when completely nude. She wanted him to look at her. It was her tender trap.

Victoria found it difficult to meet those intense eyes. 'I... I've been waiting over an hour...' she said weakly.

He ignored her and strode purposefully across to confront her. Victoria momentarily caught her breath. Damn it why was it that men like him always made her feel so... so... inferior? Well, she would call the tune for once. He wouldn't dominate her – after all she wanted him. He was her choice.

'Do you like the "suitable dress"?' she asked coquettishly, her confidence returning.

He smiled. It was the first change of expression since he had entered the cabin.

'Birds of paradise my dear always look better in their summer plumage.' He stepped back and openly carried out an obvious mock inspection with his eyes. 'And yours is prettier than most!'

Briefly Victoria shivered, though not with cold. 'Oh dear,' she said 'ONLY better than most?' She had to play the one game that she was good at. It was the only way she could win, and winning was all.

Slowly he reached out with his right hand. Victoria watched with helpless fascination as it swept lightly and sensuously over the golden perfection of her left breast. She made no move to stop him. Immobile and available she let him do as he wished. His forefinger and thumb closed softly around the rich nugget of her erect nipple and pinched it very gently.

'Come with me, Victoria.'

She had no choice but to follow him. He pulled her by the nipple across the cabin to a chair beside the double bed. In one movement he sat and pushed her across his lap. Victoria found herself in an all too familiar position and the expectancy returned. She dug her strawberry-red fingernails into the thick pile carpet to maintain her balance. Slowly she began to writhe her naked bottom, searching for his strong masculine response. Little mewing noises squeezed from her throat, but he stilled them with a firm hand on the flawless perfection and began to stroke the flowing curves. Beneath the gentle touch, Victoria held her breath.

Suddenly and still without a word, or any indication of his emotions, he began to spank her. Victoria's breath expelled itself with a sweet hiss at the first impact. But he was gentle and she moaned beneath the stimulating hand, her bottom undulating slightly – rising and falling as if to meet it.

Scores of gentle little slaps rained down on Victoria's acutely offered buttocks and still he did not speak. Every emotion except for an intensely erotic response within her loins was drained from her body. Her head was spinning from the heady excitement of the intimate situation. Deliberately she exaggerated the writhing of her hips, trying to detect the normal male reaction she desperately craved. The slaps continued unabated, bouncing incessantly off the golden hillocks and heating the very core of her womanhood. She gasped aloud, but the reaction was not provoked by pain. Sensations on the surface of her trembling flesh were insinuating into her total being and spreading like an addictive drug. Breathing heavier now Victoria cried out.

'Harder... harder!' she gasped, 'please Hugh... please...'

The soft pattering sounds that had filled the quiet cabin were abruptly stilled. Momentarily there was a lull and then... the palm of his toughened hand impacted on the offered, upturned cheeks of bare flesh like a rifle shot. She almost slid off his lap, so sudden and forceful was the striking hand.

Victoria had barely had time to react when another, louder and even harder blow smacked her bottom with stinging force. Thousands of red-hot sparks seemed to scorch into her tender flesh and Victoria cried out. For a moment her buttocks glowed like burning embers and the heat was intense. Frantically Victoria twisted and turned to escape the searing agony, but the firebrand of his palm rekindled her burning flesh with even more intensity. For barely a second her senses and nerve ends were ignited. She cried out again – louder this time and almost plaintively.

For what seemed like hours she lay across his lap gasping and then, still without a word, he helped her to her feet.

'Stand by the bed and wait for me!' he commanded.

Now it was Victoria's turn to be silent. My god he was strong! Her whole lower body throbbed and ached like hell, and her buttocks blazed infernally. She had never been so helpless to a man's strength in her life. If only she could chip the granite of his self-control. Wasn't she having any effect on him? He didn't seem to even care that she was completely naked. Surely he couldn't be immune to her soft, willing body? Most men couldn't keep their hands off her. Yes, he was special and Victoria realised that she needed him... URGENTLY... and NOW.

She went after him and stopped him in the centre of the cabin. Her hands went to the lapels of his uniform. She had to start the thaw of this man's icy reserve. Firmly he took the hands away and very deliberately placed them by her sides.

'You will do as I have told you,' he said. 'Now go back and wait by the bed.'

The depth and purpose of his voice sent little fingers crawling up Victoria's spine. He excited her like no other man since Adam Krane. Immediately and blindly she obeyed him, returning to stand meekly by the bed. She would have to wait on his pleasure. She was his plaything and the understanding of that accelerated her pulse yet again. Perhaps this was the game that he always played. Perhaps if she went along with it the conclusion would be all the more satisfying.

Victoria's eyes widened. From the wardrobe opposite the bed he extracted a long slim punishment cane and walked slowly towards her. His eyes were unsmiling.

'Now the moment of reckoning, my dear,' he said. 'You came here to cheat on your husband, didn't you?'

Victoria did not reply. She looked from the blue flint chips that were his eyes and stared sightlessly at the floor. The truth stung her, but she had thought he was a willing partner to the subterfuge. She felt very childish and very guilty.

'When you cheat on someone Victoria, you succeed only in cheating yourself.'

He stood impassively before her, the crook-ended cane resting on his shoulder like some kind of military sword. Victoria felt nervous and on edge. She knew what her fate would be and the dawning came like the light – gradually and inevitably. She shivered, though not with cold, and the prospect of tasting that bittersweet bite filled her with excited trepidation.

He stepped forward one pace and Victoria was aware of his closeness. His sheer physical presence intimidated her and yet... she welcomed it.

'You realise, of course, that you must now pay the price of your waywardness. Any further transgression on your part, Mrs Pountain, and you can rest assured that it will be your last.' He reached out and with one finger lifted Victoria's chin so that she had no option but to look into the chilling depth of his glacial blue eyes. She could not hold them with her own and looked away.

'Unless I have your assurance that this whorish behaviour will stop, then I can guarantee with some certainty, that Henry will divorce you!' Once again he paused.

'Well?'

Victoria could not even begin to contemplate what life would be like if she were divorced. She had increasingly relied on Henry for everything. To once more become a secretary was unthinkable and Victoria inwardly shuddered. The answer to his question was simple... and no choice existed.

'You have... you have my... assurance...' The voice was hesitant and the spirit unwilling. Victoria did not fully understand herself, but she did know that assurances were one thing that she wasn't good at keeping. She bit her lip.

Captain Hugh Scullion considered her reply and then removed the cane from his shoulder.

'For the moment let us say that I believe you. We must now consider your punishment.'

Expectantly, Victoria looked up. For some reason the excitement had intensified and for a few seconds she wondered why. It was him, of course. To be punished by the Captain of the 'Belle Grande', Henry's most loyal friend, was exciting. It was almost as if she were about to be made love to. If only he would... She would let him. She would make it easy for him.

'I think that one dozen strokes will go some way towards atoning for your indiscretions, don't you Mrs Pountain?' For the first time his voice had lightened. If was as if the decision had cleared the sombre atmosphere and the punishment soon to be applied to Victoria's perfect bottom would provide the necessary boost of adrenaline that he needed; as much as Victoria needed the chastising result.

He took hold of her arm and turned her roughly towards the bed.

'Place a pillow on the edge of the bed and lie face down on your tummy. Your knees will be straight and your feet on the floor. Now go!'

Silently and meekly Victoria obeyed. When she was in position he placed her feet carefully together and stepped back.

The first lash of the cane against Victoria's arched bottom was stunning, its shock effect intensified by the sharp whistling hiss as it cleaved the air.

The breath was driven from between her clenched teeth and Victoria's fingers dug deeply into the cotton sheets. Her bottom quivered violently and fire raged through her loins. The sudden pain surged like an electric shock, charging her entire body. Tears welled into her eyes.

The second stroke was even harder and the third worse.

Now the pain seemed to have taken over her whole existence. There was nothing else. No Henry. No infidelity. No 'Belle Grande'. No lovers. Nothing. Nothing but flaming pain.

But there was Captain Hugh Scullion and there was the cane!

For the fourth time the teeth of agony severed her contact with all other reality. Her mind became a core of searing heat and her bottom an untouchable cinder. Victoria started to cry.

Coldly and clinically Hugh Scullion applied the fifth stroke. Immediately after the bamboo ripped the air a red stripe of retribution blazed across the centre of her golden buttocks, marring their perfection and matching the four others.

She was sobbing softly now, her fingers opening and closing on the sheets. Hugh Scullion paused to allow her a momentary respite and for the pain to take greater effect. He was amazed that so far she had not yelled out. She had simply accepted his punishment and then absorbed it. He could hear only her soft girlish whimpering.

For Victoria the waiting was terrible. She burned and ached. Please get on with it. Please.

Just as she started to look around the sixth stroke lashed into her relaxed bottom. For the first time she cried aloud. Caught unawares Victoria grabbed frantically at her raging bottom, her legs scissoring in agony.

'Be still, you little whore,' he said menacingly.

Victoria threw her head down and lay still. The excitement returned, triggered by one little word. A word that one of her lovers had always used. A word that she loved to hear and a word that was always used before they had sex. She loved to be a sexual whore. She would be his sexual whore. Why didn't he take her now? She was open and ready for him. She wouldn't resist. She needed him. How she needed him.

But Hugh Scullion did not need Victoria. Her body meant no more to him than the canvas means to a great artist. He was simply using her body to paint the cane strokes of a masterpiece.

He adjusted his stance and the cane bounced from the yielding bottom with blurring velocity. He felt the shock waves ripple along the muscles of his arm and saw the seventh scarlet stripe materialise in less than one second. Again she cried out, her brightly scored bottom writhing and arching. He watched with great satisfaction. She would never forget this thrashing.

'Lie still!' he commanded.

EIGHT!

NINE!

TEN!

The eleventh stroke was as perfectly placed as the others. Each incandescent weal was less than one inch apart and perfectly parallel. Captain Scullion had produced a masterpiece, inspired by the vision of exquisite beauty that confronted him. A beauty that was about to receive its coup de grace.

For the second time in what had become a Mediterranean time-warp, Victoria sensed that he was making her wait. Through tear-streaked eyes and with mascara running down her flushed and delicate cheeks, she risked an apprehensive look behind her. For a moment she did not see him, only his image in the wardrobe mirror. Then it was gone as he moved towards her. For a few more seconds her eyes remained looking into the mirror, transfixed in horror and fascination on her own bottom.

Once again he caught her unawares and Victoria saw and felt the final stroke simultaneously.

The sound of the impact filled the cabin for a brief moment of piercing intensity. Victoria shrieked as the thin cane sliced diagonally across the eleven red fingers of pain that held her bottom in its agonising grip. The two interwoven sounds tore through the senses, numbing even Hugh Scullion. But the feeling was merely fleeting and the Captain stepped back to allow Henry's beautiful, young and chastised wife to reflect on her appalling misbehaviour. She had been suitably and efficiently admonished. He had succeeded as he always did. The girl would think twice in future when she met an attractive man. And to think that she had tried to make HIM a party to the deception of his best friend! No, he was certain that she now knew her place.

Victoria lay sobbing for fully ten minutes, the pain stabbing into her tenderised buttocks like a dozen innoculations. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they were innoculations against further adulterous affairs. Victoria could not say; she could not think of such things. All she could think of was the pain and the man who had inflicted it. Her thoughts added to the self-pity that she felt. She wanted this man. This man – no other. She truly needed him and the control that he had over her. She wouldn't rest until she made him part of her life. Henry's money didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Captain Hugh Scullion.

* * *

Wearing the silk bikini Victoria scurried painfully down the narrow passageway to the cabin she shared with Henry. She passed Raoul, the handsome young cabin boy without a word, remaining with her back to the wall in mortification lest should he see the red weals which the bikini failed to cover. She watched him knock on the Captain's door and eventually enter. With relief Victoria returned to her cabin, Captain Hugh Scullion obsessing her thoughts.

Raoul entered the Captain's cabin with a smile. He was aware of the reason behind Victoria's hasty retreat and it afforded him some amusement.

'Come in, my dear boy,' said Captain Scullion. He was wearing only shorts.

Raoul removed the immaculately starched jacket and threw it into the open wardrobe. He flopped onto the double bed and mopped his handsome brow.

'Christ Hugh, I'm exhausted!'

Captain Scullion studied him for a moment.

'Dear Raoul,' he said, 'you're very tense. Just relax. We have all night. There will be no interruptions, I promise.'

Strange Vibrations

 Story from Roue 20.

Strange Vibrations
by Barry Roberts

He glanced over at her feeling certain that she was about to say 'I told you so.' She didn't – but the look she gave him rendered words unnecessary.

Ever since the first time Doug's second wife, Roberta, had met his daughter she had left him in no doubt as to her feelings regarding the girl's behaviour and the treatment she felt would remedy the situation. 'She's a wilful, spoilt brat,' she had told him once, 'and it's all your fault. You're far too easy with her. You give her an inch and she duly takes a yard. And what do you do? Nothing. If I had behaved like that when I was her age I'd have got a damn good hiding.'

The thought of chastising his daughter had crossed his mind on numerous occasions but the nearest he had come to punishing her in such a manner was by threatening it. 'If I catch you doing that again,' he had warned her often, 'I'll tan your backside.' The threats were always ignored and, when disobeyed, simply weren't carried out. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. Pocket money was stopped, curfews set, treats denied. Every form of punishment was employed except one – chastisement.

'Things'll change when we get married,' Roberta announced a week before the day of the wedding, 'I won't stand for any nonsense I can tell you. The moment she steps out of line she'll get a good hiding. If you won't do it then I will!'

Doug had decided not to get into an argument about it – thinking that they would cross that bridge if and when they came to it, although he felt certain that there was no 'if' about it – Linda misbehaving was a bridge that they would come to in no time.

On their honeymoon Doug agreed to his bride's suggestion that they confront Linda with the matter as soon as they returned home. He was far from happy about the situation but felt that, as it was something of such importance to his new wife, then so be it. 'Just don't expect me to hand out any of the hidings,' he told her. 'It's simply not me. I agree there are times when Linda deserves to have her bottom smacked – as long as you understand that if there's any walloping to be done you can do it.'

* * *

'...And so,' Roberta concluded her lecture of the girl as the three of them sat around the kitchen table on the day of their return, 'any further misbehaviour will be punished. Not in the way that your father has seen fit to 'punish' you but in the way that your mother used to punish you before she passed away; the way that all naughty children should be punished.'

Linda opened her mouth but was denied the opportunity to speak.

'I know that was a long time ago and that you probably consider you're too grown-up to be treated in such a manner at your age but let me tell you, I was thrashed by my mother until I was well past my twentieth birthday so, as you see, seventeen isn't too old to have your backside tanned.'

Linda took it very well, her father thought. There were no protestations, no tantrums. When her step-mother had finished the girl simply shrugged her shoulders, rose from the table and left the room. Perhaps, Doug mused, there would be no need for his new wife to carry out her threats after all. It was a thought, though, that he didn't have much confidence in. Sooner or later, he felt, Linda would do something that would warrant a spanking. He just hoped that it would be later rather than sooner.

* * *

'Okay, officer – we'll deal with it,' Doug told the constable.

'Very well, sir. You can count yourself lucky that the shop owner decided against pressing charges. If you ask me – what that girl needs is....'

'Thank you, officer – we'll take care of it,' Doug interrupted.

Roberta showed the constable to the door. 'Have no fear, officer,' she assured him, 'She's going to get exactly what you were going to suggest. Believe me – she'll be sleeping face-down tonight.'

The constable smiled. 'Very pleased to hear it, madam.'

'Well?'

'Well – what?'

'Go on then – say it. Say "I told you so". You said that my letting her get out of hand would result in her getting into trouble with the police before long. So come on – out with it.'

'I'm not one to gloat, Doug, but you have to admit I was right.'

Doug knew that she was. He was also fully aware of the fact that he'd failed as a father. If he had punished his daughter's disobedience with more severity in the past she'd probably have never strayed so far from the straight and narrow as stealing from the corner shop. He was angry with himself but far more incensed with Linda and when his wife announced that she was going up to Linda's room 'to make her pay for her crime' he put up no protests. She deserved it – it was high time she paid for her waywardness.

'I'll leave it to you, then,' he said.

'You not coming up?'

Doug thought awhile. 'I'm not going to do the, er....'

'I know, Doug – you've already said that you'll leave it to me.'

'Then – why....?'

'It's just that I think you ought to be there – witness it. You are her father when all's said and done – even if you don't act like it at times.'

The two of them climbed the stairs to Linda's room. They entered and shut the door behind them. The girl was sprawled out on her bed reading a magazine.

'You know why we're here?'

'S'pose so, step-mother,' Linda replied.

'I've told you not to address me like that. "Mother" will do. Now, come on – stand up – show a bit of respect.'

Linda threw the magazine to the floor and, giving a long deep sigh, got to her feet. Her stepmother sat down on the edge of the bed while her father took up a position by the wardrobe. Linda's arm was grabbed hold of and she was pulled over Roberta's lap. The woman gave the seat of the girl's tight jeans a couple of slaps and then said: 'No – this won't do at all. Stand up.'

She got to her feet and was given the order to take her jeans off.

'But....'

'Get on with it, girl. You wouldn't feel a thing through those. Come on – get them off!'

With all the alacrity of a snail on valium the girl obeyed and stood before her step-mother in blouse, tights and knickers – to be given the further command to remove her tights.

'Right, Linda,' Roberta said, shifting her position on the bed slightly and taking hold of Linda's wrist, 'come on – over you go.'

With more than a little deliberation the girl followed orders and lay across her step-mother's knee awaiting the chastisement. Her blouse was pushed out of the way to reveal a pair of skin-tight pink cotton knickers. Roberta looked over at her husband and back down at the seat of Linda's pants. She put her right hand inside the waistband of the garment and began to pull them down.

'Er... no, Roberta... I don't think that's necessary,' her husband commented.

'Look,' Roberta said, holding the knickers at half-mast, 'who's doing this – you or me?'

'You are, love – but it's just that I don't think there's any need for the girl's pants to come down, that's all.'

'Can we get on with it, please?' Linda's voice came from floor level.

'What harm can there be in taking her knickers down? You're being ridiculous, Doug. She's got to feel it.'

'You've had her remove her jeans and tights – that's enough. She'll feel it alright.'

'Look,' Linda said impatiently, 'take the bloody things down if you like – only get on with it, will you?'

'No, maybe your father's right – you should feel it. It's just that whenever I was spanked as a child it was always on the bare bottom. No, you can keep them up,' she announced, putting them back into place and pulling them up tightly around her teenage bottom. 'I'll just have to hit harder to make sure you get the message.'

Doug didn't know where she had got the practice in – but the spanking that she gave his errant daughter was certainly a thorough one. The smacks fell at a rate of practically one per second and the entire area of Linda's shapely behind was attended to. The girl winced as her bottom was warmed and let out a couple of yelps when the stinging hand of her stepmother landed with more severity. Not to be out-done by her husband's request for Linda's bottom to remain covered, Roberta concentrated more and more on the lower part of the girl's cheeks and the tops of her thighs where there was no protection. It was when Doug saw the redness forming on his daughter's lower buttocks – after about a minute and a half – that he intervened.

'Um... I think that's enough, dear.'

Roberta looked up at him. 'Very well – six more, okay?'

He nodded. Roberta yanked the knickers up as far as they would go and the material disappeared into Linda's bottom-crack leaving the cheeks almost entirely bare. She laid those last six whacks on with all her might and the girl was screaming for mercy at each one. Her bottom wobbled and contorted and finally, when it was all over, heaved gently.

Linda stood and adjusted her knickers before laying face-down on her bed.

* * *

'Don't you think that was a bit harsh?' Doug asked his wife as they made their way downstairs.

'Rubbish – did you see any tears? No. Next time she gets a good hiding it won't be with my hand – I can tell you.'

Doug sincerely hoped there wouldn't be a 'next time' or, at least, that if there was, it wouldn't be for quite a while. He knew that Linda had deserved her punishment but the whole thing had left a nasty taste in his mouth. He still wasn't entirely convinced that physical punishment was a good idea and the thought of his own flesh and blood, Linda – naughty though she was – receiving a tanning with the back of a long hairbrush (Roberta's suggestion) didn't appeal to him at all.

* * *

'Tell your father what you've been up to today!' Roberta yelled at a crestfallen step-daughter. 'Come on – out with it!'

Oh God, thought Doug, she's been up to her tricks again. Bet this ends up with Linda getting another hiding.

'What have you done then, Linda?' he asked the girl.

'Well....'

'Come on – I said I'd make you tell him, now get on with it, girl!'

Linda looked up at her father. 'I... I'm sorry, dad...'

'What have you done this time, Linda?'

'I... er... I was doing something in my bedroom....'

Roberta bullied the girl into telling exactly what it was that she was "doing" that had caused so much fuss – how she had been lying on her bed in only her bra using her fingers to some effect between her legs. Her father was disgusted with her. He had never thought he would ever actually want to see his daughter get a severe thrashing, but such was his anger that he said: 'Right, young lady – if that's an appropriate term for someone who indulges in such acts – get up to your room! Your mother and I will be up shortly.'

Linda left the room and plodded up the stairs. Roberta looked over at her husband, happy in the knowledge that perhaps, at last, she had won him over to her belief in the use of corporal punishment.

'I think this calls for your hairbrush, love,' he suggested.

They ascended the stairs and Roberta went into their room to pick up the hairbrush and, as her husband discovered when she entered Linda's room, something else.

'Where the hell did you get that from?' he asked, astonished.

'Bought it the other day,' she replied, giving the slender cane a noisy swish through the air. 'Just the job – don't you think?'

Doug didn't agree. A row broke out over whether Linda was to receive her just deserts by way of hairbrush or cane. Roberta's suggestion that a dozen-or-so smacks followed by six of the best with the cane wasn't met with her husband's approval and it was finally agreed that the cane would not be used on this occasion, but would be employed should Linda get into big trouble again.

Roberta laid the cane down on Linda's dressing table. 'It can stay here,' she told the girl, 'as a reminder of what you'll get if I catch you doing what you did any more.'

'Come on now, Linda,' her father said. 'Get yourself ready – I haven't got all night – I've got a darts match this evening.'

Roberta was clearly delighted with her husband's newly-found enthusiasm – a delight that was not shared by his daughter, he thought as he looked at the girl's miserable countenance.

Linda stripped down to her petticoat and her step-mother stepped forward to take the straps of the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Linda obeyed the order to lie face downwards on her bed and waited motionless in her matching white nylon bra and pants.

'I think we'll have them down – don't you?' Roberta said to her husband, feeling confident that he would agree.

'Er... yes, okay... take them down, love,' he replied.

Roberta walked around to the left side of the bed and, taking hold of the waistband of the tight knickers, dragged them down to Linda's knees. The girl buried her face in the pillow as her step-mother took aim with the wooden-backed hairbrush. It came down with a splat onto the bare skin of Linda's bottom. Down it came again and before long was beating a rhythm on the contorting cheeks. Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'This'll teach you never to do anything so disgusting again,' Roberta growled as the hairbrush did its job. Splat! Splat! Splat! – 'Ow Owww!' Splat! Splat! 'That's it, my girl, yell all you like – I'm not stopping till you've paid for your badness.' Splat! Splat! Splat!

Realising that his wife meant it and beginning to feel a little queasy at the sight of his daughter's bare bum turning a bright red, Doug said: 'I'll... er leave you to it, then, love.'

'You going?' asked his wife holding the hairbrush threateningly over the chubby bottom of his daughter.

'Yes... I'll be off down the pub – you know – get a few arrows in before the match,' he answered awkwardly and disappeared.

Roberta stopped the spanking and went into her room to watch as her new husband got into his car and drove off. She returned to the girl who was still obediently lying on her tummy on the bed.

'He gone?' Linda enquired of her step-mother.

'Yes, he's gone.'

'Right,' the girl said, standing up and taking off her bra then bending over in the centre of the room, 'you can get to work with the fucking cane now – can't you?'

'You reckon you can take it on top of that whacking – it's very red, Linda – are you sure?'

'You know me, Roberta – glutton for punishment.'

Roberta laughed. She went over to the dressing table and picked up the cane, giving it a couple of strokes through the air. Linda bent right over as far as she could and gripped her ankles and Roberta stood to her left side with her left hand resting on the girl's back.

'Six – okay?' the woman announced.

'Yeah – come on, stop titting about – I'm dying for it – it's been so long.'

The cane came down forcing a gasp from the lips of the girl. Thwack! 'Yeoww!' Five more strokes cracked explosively across the crimson bottom, five more lines appeared across the cheeks and five more squeals were emitted by the naked girl.

She flopped face-down onto her bed and Roberta applied some cold cream to the well punished arse.

'Strangest reason for getting married I've ever heard,' Linda commented, her words muffled to some degree by the pillow on which her head was resting.

'But I love him, Linda.'

'Perhaps you do – but I know of something that you love more.'

Roberta gave her step-daughter a playful smack on her rear-end then returned to the creaming of the girl's buttocks. Her hand slid in between Linda's legs which parted automatically. With her left hand smoothing the lotion over Linda's bottom, her right was now sending electric sensations through the girl's body as it performed a very experienced massaging of the private regions.

'You're a bad, bad girl,' she said as her left hand lightly spanked the stinging cheeks of Linda's bottom. 'Fancy playing with yourself – you know that's my job.'

Michela's Awakening

Story from Februs 35.

Michela's Awakening
A Short Story by Jemmie Lynne

'Is that all they wear?' Michela held up the thin, open backed surgical gown. 'Hardly decent. Won't even cover their bottoms.'

'They show much more than that.' The Chief Warden's smile grew sweetly sadistic. A prim, fitted uniform and robust figure gave authoritative presence to a woman who clearly stood no nonsense. 'A criminal's naked backside must be visible for punishment to be given, and seen to be given. Besides, humiliation through exposure during chastisement is equally important as the chastisement itself. It's a great deterrent.'

'I agree, though I wouldn't like to wear it myself.' Michela dropped the garment back over the punishment stool and examined the row of flex canes lining the wall. She was a tall, vivacious girl with slender figure and high rounded bust, the sort that made women envious and men lustful. Superior in manner and presence, she carried herself with an air of certainty which came from belief in belonging to an upper class. Born in the two hundredth and fifty-first century where the populace comprised seventy-five percent women, she confidently believed only the beautiful and domineering could succeed. 'Where's the girl? You may bring her now. I wish to start the interview immediately,' she said and selected a cane, swishing it in test, ready for the unfortunate girl's arrival. When the Warden shrugged in puzzlement Michela tapped the cane impatiently against her booted calf, light glistening over the moon spun silk of her long matching skirt and tunic, the cloth clinging to every curvaceous mound and crescent of her lovely body.

* * *

She had chosen the outfit not for this occasion, but the interview she attended earlier that afternoon with Miss Juliet Hawthorn, owner and editor of Venus News, the leading all female newspaper in Euro Zone One. As a rising journalist, Michela was eager to be on Miss Juliet's staff, prepared to go any distance in achieving success.

She had hoped the interview would be conducted in private, but was disappointed to find an assistant present, a girl barely from her teens, short, petite, with full breasts visible beneath a translucent blouse, her hips surrounded in a cling wrap micro skirt.

Miss Juliet and the girl sat side by side behind a crystal table. A single, high backed chair stood in front. Beyond the glass walls, hover pods scurried along the airways carrying their passengers between the ten colossal pyramids which formed the mid millennium city of London.

'Please sit,' Miss Juliet indicated the chair. 'This is Tara, my assistant for the day. She has arranged all the details for your test assignment.'

'Yes Miss Hawthorn,' Michela answered in a measured and respectful voice. She found Tara's look and smile more of cynical examination than welcome. She took an immediate dislike to her.

'You come highly recommended,' Miss Juliet said, 'but in applying for a position on my staff you must, like all applicants to Venus News, undergo a test assignment. I wish to know your tenacity in finding the truth and facts of any given news item.'

'I go all the way, Miss Juliet. No hold barred.' Michela breathed deeply so her breasts rose beneath the silk sheen of her jacket.

'You are aware,' she continued, 'the Government has re-introduced corporal punishment for the caning of petty criminals, both men and women alike. How do you stand on this matter?'

'I'm all for it,' Michela said, praying this was the woman's approved view.

'And women. What do you think of them caning women? Sometimes in public. Does it not degrade?'

Michela chose her words with political care. 'I believe it wrong to cane women of respectability, but for the habitual criminals who disgrace our community, I feel it's a pity they did not get thrashed when young.'

'You wouldn't like it?' asked Tara.

'Nobody would like it,' Michela said in dismissal. 'That's the whole point. The cane may sting but the humiliation involved during its administration is the real punishment.'

'Tara would love it,' Miss Juliet stroked the girl's cheek making her blush at the suggestion. 'She loves to be spanked. A good caning would send her into ecstasy. Have you ever been spanked?' she asked Michela.

It was Michela's turn to blush. 'I was slippered once by the head girl at school. I was sixteen, she was eighteen.'

'And did she take your knickers down?' Tara mocked.

'Certainly not. I was chastened as befitting a young lady.'

'I bet she put her finger inside you. I bet she had you off.'

'She did not!' Michela said indignantly, burning with the memory of the prefect's touch, of her fingers working slowly amidst the oils of her young vagina, her body held helpless over the senior's knee until drawn to unforgettable climax.

'What a boring life you've had,' Tara quipped tartly.

'That's enough,' Miss Juliet said. 'You will be punished for your rudeness and Michela shall watch.'

'But Miss Juliet,' the girl protested.

'Miss Juliet nothing. You're in for a good spanking my girl.'

She rose from the desk and crossed to sit in regal splendour on a rolled back couch, her split skirt parting to reveal firm thighs and lace top stockings.

'Come here Tara,' Miss Juliet ordered. Reluctantly the girl crossed to her boss's side and stood with head bowed.

Michela turned her chair for a better view. A tingle of excitement flicker within the moist confines of her vagina.

'Remove your knickers and bend over my knee,' Miss Juliet ordered. Tara glanced in wilful hostility towards Michela but did as requested.

Michela sensed a bubble of excitement tingle at the back of her spine while she watched the girl comply in submissive obedience. She lay with her stomach flat across the other woman's lap, her head almost to the floor, her legs straight and angled behind, her bobbed hair falling slightly forward and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Miss Juliet stroked the cherub roundness of Tara's rear with open pleasure, fondling the naked buttocks offered upwards in such vulnerable exposure. It became blatantly clear to Michela she had spanked Tara, and possibly other girls, many times before and she realised that in accepting a post she would almost certainly be spanked herself.

Miss Juliet confirmed her fears. This is how I keep order over the staff of Venus News. Any misdemeanour, infringement of policy or laziness on the job is punishable by a good spanking. Are you willing to accept this rule?'

'Yes Miss Juliet,' Michela said, her sex felt on fire.

'Corporal punishment comes in many forms but for a young girl it is usually the cane, the strap and most enjoyable, the open palm of the hand. The physical contact between administrator and receiver could not be more intimate. Their vulvas pressed one above the other. So close yet distanced by domination and control. Take this as your first lesson. If you're a boss, you'll need to spank your juniors.'

'Please don't,' Tara pleaded with a touch of the theatrical. 'Not in front of her.'

'Stay quiet girl or I'll have Michela spank you also.'

'I would enjoy that,' Michela said, eager to participate.

Miss Juliet raised her hand and brought it down with a resounding slap. Tara squealed. 'Any noise and you will get double,' Miss Juliet told her. Six more times she repeated the hard and measured chastisement then waited and watched the red blush of pain start to colour Tara's taut little buttocks. Michela unconsciously pushed one hand down between her legs, conscious of a growing wetness that bubbled with excitement.

'You will observe the first flush of pinkness across the girl's skin and notice I have spanked each cheek over the full roundness of her buttocks. I find this part the firmest and most sensuous area of contact, a delight beneath the hand and where I shall concentrate my efforts. The more the same place is spanked, the greater her backside will sting, and the more it stings, the more she will have excuse to wriggle against me.' Again she raised her hand, bringing the palm down with full force. Forbidden to cry out, Tara, as predicted, began to wriggle. Miss Juliet continued her chastisement. By the end of the twelfth slap the girl's skin had turned from pink to red and her hips were squirming over Miss Juliet's lap in apparent effort to ease the pain. But it soon became apparent her movements were not involuntary.

'Do you realise what she's doing?' Michela pointed.

'Of course, she's masturbating herself against my leg, trying to climax before I cease her punishment. I shall find it most pleasant to disappoint her. At this moment she would not change places with anyone but my enjoyment comes from forbidding her gratification. To delve into the exquisite power of blending pain and sensuality. It is an achievement few ever realise. Enough,' she ordered and pushed Tara away. Both watched the girl pull on her knickers, wincing as the white lace stretched over her skin.

'You may go now Tara,' Miss Juliet dismissed. 'Check all the arrangements are in place for Michela's assignment and let us know immediately the prisoner is available for interview.'

When Tara had left, Miss Juliet crossed to a drinks cabinet where she poured smooth, amber liquid into two cut glasses. She passed one to Michela. 'Here's to control,' she toasted.

Michela sipped. She found the drink sweet but with a pleasant after taste that for reasons she did not understand heightened her smouldering libido. 'My,' she pressed herself. 'This does strange things.'

'A little aphrodisiac developed in space. One of those exquisite discoveries only available to the seriously wealthy. It causes acute sensitivity of the skin and erogenous zones. Even the breath of one's lover can recreate a climax. I take a glass each day. One of life's little pleasures for a rich and lonely woman.'

'There is no need for loneliness,' Michela gently moved her pelvis forward allowing her Venus mound to press against the other woman's upper thigh.

Miss Juliet's hand slid behind and fondled the taut firmness of Michela's buttocks. 'So beautiful,' she murmured. 'How I look forward to having you in my stable.'

'Sorry to interrupt,' Tara called from the doorway in a bitchy voice. 'The woman is to be caned in less than thirty minutes. We must go immediately.'

Miss Juliet drew back. 'I want your article on my desk by nine this evening, bring it personally.'

'I shall not fail you Miss Juliet, I promise.'

'Good,' Miss Juliet dismissed. 'I think you're going to be a star, don't you Tara?'

'She certainly is,' Tara said with an evil smile.

Michela followed her from the room almost in a dream, her sexual drive at full burn, her mind wild with ambition. Every wish had come true, one simple article and she would have both career and Miss Juliet's bed.

Tara stayed silent as they travelled in a private lift from the three hundred and twentieth floor of the city pyramid to where the Law Courts were situated on the two hundred and fifth. Michela felt a sense of satisfaction that Tara did not sit.

Once beyond the lift gates they walked towards the Law Courts on the opposite side of the public square. Near the glass walls a raised platform held cross bars and whipping posts, their shadows cast in long lines by the setting sun that orbed in the sky beyond. Surrounding the stage, giant television screens hung from wires so allowing a circular view for every spectator.

In the Court House Tara spoke briefly to a receptionist who summoned the Chief Warden. The woman beckoned Michela to follow down a long soulless corridor. Tara remained in Reception, both hands holding the glow beneath her skirt.

Michela's keen senses became invaded by the building's institutional smell and authoritarian atmosphere. She did not care for the place. Its effect was sobering but not enough to stop the bubbling sensuality which flowed within her body.

'This way,' the Warden ushered her into a room. A dozen chairs stood in semi-circle around a high, padded bench. 'The caning stool,' she indicated and picked up a short open backed surgical gown lying across the leather. 'We often get reporters in here but few who would break the law for a story. But remember, we are now committed, there is no turning back.'

'The truth must be evaluated. It is a journalistic duty,' Michela said pedantically and held up the gown. 'Is that all they wear, it's hardly decent, won't even cover their bottoms.'

'They show more than that. Humiliation by exposure is as much a part of the criminal's punishment as caning.'

'I agree. Though I wouldn't like to wear it myself. Where's the girl?'

'We let her go. Too dangerous for her to stay. A lot of people have taken a big chance for your boss, even my own. But then power and money speak.'

'But how am I to interview her?'

'Interview?' The Warden shook her head. 'That girl Tara did not arrange for an interview. She arranged for you to take the offender's place.'

Michela stood in silent shock, her mouth open, unable to believe the Warden's words. 'But,' she stuttered. 'I cannot. I will not.'

'You volunteered. You put yourself on the line as a reporter to learn the effects on a woman chastised. People have risked their jobs to set this up. Mine included. I'm afraid you're in for a well caned backside, young lady. Now take off your clothes, including your knickers and put the punishment gown on.'

Michela stayed still, dazed and uncertain. 'But,' she repeated.

'But nothing. Now hurry They'll by here soon.' She checked her watch.

'This is impossible, a mistake. It's that little bitch Tara, she's turned everything around. You can't cane me. I'm from society.' Michela began to tremble.

'You've no choice. If you back out now you'll be charged with perverting the course of justice and considering the nature of what you are doing, you'll almost certainly be sentenced to a caning. Either way, this is going to happen, so go willingly or do it the hard way.'

Michela felt the dread of realisation, of being trapped without choice. 'How many are coming?' she asked, trying to reconcile herself with the inescapable outcome of her situation.

'Two assistant Wardens and a lady doctor.'

'Only three,' she said as if to convince herself over the inevitability of her predicament. She clutched the neck of her blouse in modesty and thought of the promised career on offer from Miss Juliet along with the sweet revenge to be inflicted on Tara when the time came. 'Okay,' she accepted. 'If there really is no choice, then I must. It can't be that bad. So long as nobody finds out, or realises my true identity.' She began to undress, turning her back on the Chief Warden while she slipped on the hospital gown, tugging at the indelicacy of its length and the open back. Such exposure brought an overwhelming body blush and to her shame, a heightening of sexual excitement.

The Warden knelt to clip metal rings around each ankle and a further set to her wrists. 'Electronic magnets,' she informed. 'They won't bind you, but will hold you firmly in position. It is better you do not move. The Punishment Administrator needs careful aim.'

While she spoke, two Wardens entered pulling a four wheeled trolley which held a stout metal pole rising vertically from the platform. They were followed by the female doctor who shone a vision scan into Michela's eyes then parted the rear of her gown, testing the taut, muscular buttocks beneath. 'Fine healthy specimen,' she declared. 'No problems.'

'I am a lady and don't you forget it!' Michela stated loudly, trying to retain some dignity. 'Now, what am I to do, bend over the bench?'

'No you stand up here.' The Warden led her to the trolley, stepping her up and raising her arms so wrists and ankles became attached to the pole by powerful magnetic force.

'Come on then,' Michela said, bracing her posterior. 'Get it over with.'

'Not here. This sentence is for multi, repetitive crime. You're going out onto the main square. You're going to be caned in public. You'll be on television, a star in every home.'

'No!' Michela squealed in panic, her last vestige of bravado crumbling. 'You can't,' she struggled, desperate to escape while the trolley was turned and wheeled out into the corridor. The amber liquid so pleasantly taken in Miss Juliet's room increased her sense of vulnerability as she remained helplessly fastened. She was aware of every touch and movement, her whole body vibrant with sensitivity. 'I can't go like this,' she protested. 'I'm not dressed. People can see me. Please, they'll laugh.'

'Don't fight it young lady' the Warden advised. 'Simply do as instructed and it will be over before you realise.'

Michela wriggled and squirmed in horror as the trolley was wheeled into the Reception. She could feel the air on her back and humiliation on her face. 'How dare you expose me. I'm from society, people know me. You can't take me into public, please.' She twisted on the pole, eyes pleading to their indifference. A moment later the little group emerged onto the marble square and entered into the glare of TV cameras.

People milled in their hundreds. They sauntered from dinner to clubs, from theatres to parties, wandered in groups or couples, interrupting their early evening entertainment to see the spectacle of corporal punishment.

Michela looked towards the sloping glass wall of the pyramid where the platform she had passed with Tara stood in sinister silhouette against the blaze of lights. Before and behind, giant monitor screens gave opposing views for the benefit of spectators. She moaned her despair on realising the spectacle they intended to make of her, but gave no resistance when the Wardens unlocked her from the trolley and led her up onto the platform.

Above the level of the crowd she felt the horror of her isolation, realising she had became one entity and the spectators another. For the first time she heard her name called. She wanted to dissolve into air and squirmed with embarrassment as they removed the hospital gown. She was given no time to protest. Her wrists were immediately lifted and attached to the bar by magnetic force. At the same time they parted her legs and secured her ankles. Spread-eagled and naked she was held on display for all to see. She cringed at her enforced exposure and was devoured by shame on seeing her image mirrored four times life size on every screen, her stretched figure viewed from every angle. She saw her naked back and the taut front of her body, the dark heart of curls which crowned her pubic mound, hair so carefully shaved and plucked in the privacy of her bathroom was now revealed for public amusement. People who had dithered in half interest pressed closer, drawn by a collective voyeurism that overcame any moral reluctance to witness the degrading of some unfortunate. Men smirked with the unexpected pleasure of being allowed open examination of a naked female, while women gave no sympathy. To them, Michela was a betrayer of feminine modesty and they indulged their secret fantasies in self-righteousness. Tara pushed to the front, arms folded, a sadistic smile curved on her pretty face.

Michela began to shake, unable to contain her sense of utter degradation. On screen she watched a prim young woman in a dark business suit mount the platform behind. She carried a document in one hand and a thin pliable cane in the other. Without waiting for attention she began to read from the charge sheet.

'Prisoner six three one, has been charged and found guilty of the following crimes. Prostitution, common assault, theft and forgery and will receive four strokes for each offence. Any objections may be sent in writing to the Criminal Justice Network. This law enforcement is sponsored by Soft Hands Domestic Soaps and carried out by the Civil and Social Control Department. Live coverage is provided by in-house TV. Sentence will now commence.'

Michela looked to the screen and saw the young woman fold and place the paper in her pocket before conferring with a man in headphones. She moved to stand a pace behind, tapping the cane on her leg, waiting the Studio Director's instruction.

'So, you'd like to give me a spanking would you?' Tara called out. 'Well, see how you enjoy a real whipping, because I'm going to enjoy watching you get it.'

Michela closed her eyes as she felt the cane rest on the prominent curve of her rear. The sound of the crowd gradually hushed. Michela waited. She had no idea what to expect. The vulnerability of her position left her without any degree of physical or mental protection, coupled with the aphrodisiac she had drunk, such public exposure caused her to feel an acute sensitivity which she found impossible to suppress. She was aware of the young woman's perfume, the quiver of her own breath. She felt the air touch her skin, was conscious of every root of hair, of the soles of her feet, of her toenails, of the stretch of muscle pulling the arch of her back taut and narrow.

The swing of the cane sounded with a whispering hiss before laying its burning sting over the fullness of her backside. Michela gasped more in surprise than pain. On the screen she watched with the crowd as a single red welt rose across the round swell of her white buttocks. She saw the intensity of the faces around her, saw Tara hug herself with pleasure. The second stroke landed almost on the first bringing an involuntary squeal of protest and Michela lost the last element of pride. Again the cane laid its smarting strip over the fullness of her rear. She began to wriggle, hoping the movement might lessen the slow measured strokes that repeatedly flamed across her. The gyrations gave no relief but coupled with her ultra sensitivity the movements started an inner and unbridled arousal. In mind and body masochistic passion began to possess every fibre of her being. This was the moment she had inwardly feared and dreaded, the awakening of uncontrollable urges that transformed her humiliation into her own sexual exploitation. She was behaving as Tara. Girl lovers had indulged her in private, but now was the realisation of secret fantasies in inescapable reality. Losing any will or desire to control herself she surrendered to her own gratification. She began offering herself to each stroke. Thrusting backwards and accepting the cane's impetus to drive her forwards, metaphorically accepting the penetration of all present. She wallowed in her defencelessness, in her total humiliation and the secretion of juices which rose in her body and wet the lips of her shaven vulva. The scathing flame that flushed across the round of her buttocks now mingled its fire with the pulsing muscles of her pelvis, clutched and released in wanton stimulation. She demeaned her own body, debasing herself before all who watched, knowing she made them as helpless to her own gratification as she was to theirs. Convulsing the inner core of her pelvis she spiralled to the release of climatic ecstasy. She abandoned herself to lust and self degradation, feeling the fire of her libido born with an intensity far greater than the cane inflicted on her skin. The repeated sting of pain coupled with the flush of her scarlet buttocks shown in close-up on the screen, drove her to new, unparalleled heights. She shivered and squirmed, clutching and releasing the muscles of her sex. She saw the young woman standing behind fixed with concentrated effort, executing each stroke with precision, unwittingly participating in her victim's self indulgence. The sadism of those who watched triggered the start of a new and drawn orgasm and Michela shuddered in open climax, relishing the disgust of those who witnessed while mentally straddling their outrage like an offered phallus.

The final stroke left her buttocks scorched with molten fire. Sixteen blistering welts joined in a flame of smarting skin which gave an inner fulfilment never before realised.

'You wanton whore!' Tara shouted in anger and stamped her foot. 'You're not meant to enjoy it!'

Michela simmered and licked her tongue over moist lips. When they took her down and stood her on the trolley she relinquished all modesty and control. Rubbing herself against the pole, wetting its surface with the moisture of lust, staring into the cameras, pouting for all who had taken her.

'Don't keep her too long,' Miss Juliet told the warden. 'She has an article to complete.'