Photo story from Janus 90.
In the third person
'THE PEST is here again. Crossing the road right now, Sugar.'
'Don't call me that, Lydia.'
'But you are my sugar-daddy.'
'I'd hoped I was something more.'
'We'll have to see, won't we? I don't know how I'm going to feel – I've never done this before.'
The entryphone buzzed from below. 'Come on up,' said Lydia coldly into the speaker. 'You'll find some clothes on a chair in the hall. You will change into them, and wait there until you're called.'
They heard the lift in the mansion block rumbling upwards. 'My dearest,' he pursued, 'you will feel as intensely erotic and stimulated as I feel just to look at you in that outfit. In this respect I know you better than you know yourself.'
Lydia had slipped off her Mandarin wrap and turned to him. She wore a skimpy bra and panties trimmed with lace; seamed stockings with suspender-belt, glossy shoes with five-inch heels. All in black. This was his fantasy made flesh, and the thought of that already warmed her. Beautiful and erotic as Lydia looked, the long crook-handled cane she was flexing in her hands completed the picture for him.
He watched her slender fingers sensuously stroking the shaft. 'Well, Lydia,' he breathed. 'Now you are ready to put your "pest" firmly in her place, aren't you...?'
Beyond the closed door of the room they were in, Jean entered the apartment and looked wonderingly at the scraps of clothing Lydia had instructed her to change into. Why? A small girl of 18, as plain as her heroine Lydia was lovely, she was not aware that her frequent visits here had become a nuisance. It was simply that she seemed unable to keep away from the tall, auburn-haired beauty with the perfect face and figure and network of adoring manfriends! Jean knew she could never aspire to be like Lydia, but to be with her seemed the next best thing.
Although the instruction perplexed Jean, if it was Lydia's wish then she would do it. Stripping off her day clothes she slowly pulled on the snowy white pants, top and socks. They felt snug and cool against her skin. 'Wait until you're called,' Lydia had said. So Jean waited. And waited. Minutes passed, she began to fidget. Whatever was Lydia doing in there? Apprehension stirred – this had never happened before. For Jean, the worst possible thing would be Lydia's ignoring her. Perhaps she had forgotten she was there. Should she knock?
'Stand up straight, girl! Hands to your sides!' a cultured male voice commanded through the intercom. Jean jumped with fright. There was a man in there! She stood to attention, blushing fiercely. Her heart raced. More minutes passed; Jean began to feel alarmed. Her palms and feet were moist with sweat. Should she dress again and slip away? More minutes ticked away, then more...
'Enter!' came the same deep voice through the speaker. Jean turned and opened the door, shivering and anxious.
'Come here – Jeanie.' This time the voice was Lydia's, with a sneer in it as she used the diminutive name. The girl gasped at the sight of her worshipped friend standing there in scandalous scanties, her expression severe in a manner Jean had never seen before. But what riveted her attention was the long, springy cane Lydia was flexing in her hands.
Jean sensed rather than saw the man standing watching behind her. 'Don't dare turn round!' said Lydia. 'As far as you're concerned, only you and I are in this room. Do you understand?'
'But Lydia... And why are you wearing...?'
'Quiet! Do you understand?'
'Y-yes!' Jean swallowed hard. 'Lydia, why am I wearing this? I – I only dropped in for a chat.'
'You've "dropped in for a chat" once too often, my girl. Are you a puppy dog? A duckling that's lost its mother? It's time you were taught a lesson – and I intend to do it!'
'Lydia...' Jean half-turned, apprehensive and confused, towards the man in the shadows.
'Don't turn, I said!' rebuked Lydia. 'How dare you disobey me. Get down!' Her voice was harsh as never before, and she tapped the cane on the girl's shoulder, making her flinch. 'On the floor. Kneel before me!'
More confused than ever, Jean sank to her knees. 'Lower! Prostrate yourself!' Jean found herself responding. Strangely, it seemed somehow beautiful, as she lowered her face to the carpet with haunches in the air, to perform this act of self-abasement before the one she so admired.
'Kiss my feet.' Lydia's voice had become lower, huskier. Jean pressed her lips against the glossy blacknesses, inhaling the tang of leather. She began to kiss the shoes more fervently as entirely new sensations awoke in her; lapped and kissed and sucked as though Lydia's shoes were the face of a lover. The watching eyes behind her were, for the moment, forgotten.
'Turn around.' Lydia's voice had changed again, was slightly hoarse. 'Turn round and show me that part of you I'm about to attend to with this.' Jean felt the cane tap her left buttock, and she scrambled around the floor as bidden. 'Arch your back,' she was instructed. 'Push your wicked little bottom up and out.'
Jean did so, experiencing a warm, novel thrill. She had long since convinced herself that she was dull and plain, that no part of her could possibly arouse the least interest in man or woman. Yet here was Lydia looking at her bottom, of all things, as though it were something special. At least, she was looking at it.
'Stand up and turn to me!' Jean scrambled to her feet and stood humbly before her friend. Lydia's expression was stony as she surveyed her with a cold sneer, the cane in her hand raised admonishingly. 'Hang your head, you shameless pest,' she said, and watched the girl flinch and grow pale. 'You are about to be punished. By me. I shall cane your bottom, and I promise it will be an experience you will never forget.'
Lydia saw how submissively the girl stared down, biting her lip as the words sank in. 'You may well look guilty, my little pest,' Lydia hissed, 'but you thoroughly deserve to be punished, don't you agree?'
Jean was unable to meet her eyes. 'I... yes... I suppose so, Lydia,' she mumbled, 'I know I've been a nuisance...'
She drew the unresisting Jean to her feet and turned her about, then prowled behind her, heady with power. The cane felt lithe and flexible in her grip. She longed to swish it down as he had made her practise earlier, with a cushion as the target.
The sound of the cane flashing down with whop after whop to thump into the cushion, together with the movements of Lydia's body and her squeals of effort as she put her force behind each stroke, had so evidently stimulated him that the exercise itself had become erotic to Lydia too. She had gradually grown more proficient in her aim and swing, and had reached that critical point he spoke of, where the cane seemed literally to become a living extension of her right arm. When that same cane struck Jean's living flesh, how different would the sound be? Lydia had never even guessed at this latent, now urgent, desire within her psyche to dominate another – but he had seen it and induced her to address it.
It will come naturally to you, he had said. Sure enough, she found herself fingering the cane with an exquisite gloating feeling, longing for that quivering, pencil-slim shaft to come alive in her hands for a real purpose.
'Bend forward across the bed... Jeanie. I want your bottom tightly over.'
There was no longer any doubt in the girl's mind what was about to happen. For the first time in her young life she was to experience the possibly unbearable pain of a stick hitting her rump. This practice had long since been banned at the school she had left only two years before; but sometimes, in the midst of fantasy, she had wondered vaguely what it must have been like. Jean found herself leaning steeply over the bed, taking her weight on her hands and presenting what she had always referred to as her 'bum' for the promised punishment. This was, alter all, Lydia, and not some hatchet-faced schoolmarm of a bygone decade. Lydia, about to cane her! Jean's thoughts and emotions were in turmoil.
'Please, Lydia,' she began. 'I'm very tender there... My bottom hurts easily.'
'Quiet, or I'll hit it even harder!'
'Push it UP! OUT! Push that arse OUT. Come along, good and tight!' As if frantic to please, or too frightened to do otherwise, Jean made an incurving arch of her back, straining backwards and rising on tiptoes, and Lydia watched with satisfaction how the while pants tautened across the suddenly tempting rumps.
'Ple-e-ease.' Jean turned her head, eyes pleading then widening in alarm as they watched the cane rise then speed down with a shocking hiss, striking her tensed bottom and skidding off. The girl yelped, in surprise rather than pain, for the impact had not really hurt.
Lydia could feel his disapproval. A ripe young bottom at your mercy, and all you can do is tickle it! Preparing for the second shot, Lydia lifted the cane above her shoulder, eyes smouldering, muscles tensing. This time she took careful aim and swung with greater force. The cane struck full across Jean's buttocks with a loud report, and the jarring of the contact shuddered up her arm.
Jean shrieked as a streak of fire burned through the thin fabric of the white pants and deep into her bottom, spreading like a shockwave. It was intolerable. But before the frightful hurt abated, another searing brand blasted across her buttocks, then another, and another as the cane swung back and forth through the air to collide with her tightly-knickered flesh: whick-whick-whopp.
Lydia watched the girl trample her feet and draw deep, gasping breaths. Somehow it wasn't Jean any more, but an eroticised object on which she was wreaking a glorious vengeance. As she continued to swing the cane strongly against the tender globes in the tight white pants, felt and heard the explosive impacts, swung high and down again, driving the stick hard to its target, the sound of it all was bliss – the jolt as each stroke connected, the shrieked response and convulsive shudder, the sense of absolute dominance over the stooped, trembling girl – all thrilled Lydia to the roots of her being.
She was barely aware of his presence now, yet the fact that he was there charged the air with erotic tension. She brought the cane whopping down one more time, drank in the whack, the yelp, the reactive kick of the leg, the groan of near-despair. 'Please, Lydia,' came the pitiful voice. 'N-no more. It hurts so much...'
Lydia realised that she was panting, fell a flush in her cheeks and his eyes watching absorbedly the transformations taking place in her. She was aware, too, that her feelings matched his own: she was becoming phenomenally aroused, though in a higher form than the merely physical. It was as much a transcendence of the spirit as a stirring in the loins. After this extraordinary experience she would do more than grant him her favours: she would demand her own tumultuous satisfactions.
Jean had sunk forward on the bed and was whimpering piteously. 'I'll give you something to sniffle about!' her tormentor snapped. 'Take off your knickers and bare your bottom!'
Moaning, the girl obeyed, squirming across the bed as she wriggled the pants down her legs. With Jean's buttocks now fully exposed, Lydia saw them as an erotic focus that almost made her gasp: two smooth, pale, moony orbs just made to be caned. For a moment she could scarcely breathe, and the hand which held the cane shook. She thought she heard him chuckle, damn him, as she leaned down to tap the cute buttocks and watch them wobble and shudder.
Had Jean been aware of the feelings her supposedly plain, dumpy bum was awakening in Lydia as well as in the watcher, she would have been astounded. Yet she trembled with trepidation that even keener pain would soon be visiting her burningly sore rumps. The cane tapped them tauntingly, then rose high behind her. There was a hiss, a grunt, and a sizzling brand ignited her naked bottom as the cane found its mark!
'Oooooaw-aghhh!' This time the pain was far more intense than at any time during the caning over the knickers that had been provided for her to wear. For Jean, the humiliation of baring her bottom in front of Lydia and receiving corporal punishment from her was quite bad enough, but the dim knowledge that there was a man in the room watching her ordeal was mortifying. Lydia began to cane steadily, making weird little cries in her throat as, again and again, the speeding cane collided with Jean's seething buttocks and leaped away, printing burning tracks across the soft mounds.
Whimpers and shrieks came from the girl as she squirmed beneath the flexible stick. In her eagerness Lydia half-knelt on the bed to better direct the strokes, while Jean watched helplessly over her shoulder as the cane descended. She writhed her hips and clenched every muscle, striving to absorb the blazing hurt; though, had she but known it, Lydia's application was only moderate compared with what it might have been. As the cane continued to rise and fall the air was filled with yelps, grunts and gasps from both females: one in pain and appalled embarrassment, the other in elation; while the rhythmic swish and thwick, hiss and thwack of the rod as Lydia swept it down again and again was a torment for one and a delight for the other.
Lydia had become well aware by now that caning was a skill indeed, and that she was a natural – laying the strokes as though she had been born to it, exulting not so much in the stings she was inflicting as the supreme sense of power which sent her senses soaring to higher levels of awareness and making her, in a way impossible to define, more complete.
For a moment she paused to catch her breath, watching with a dispassion that surprised her as Jean wept into her hands. With taunting gentleness she tapped the cane on the tormented buttocks, enjoying how the pneumatic surfaces flinched, quivered and settled as the girl groaned louder.
For Jean, with her bottom apparently on fire, those two little cane-taps on its burning surface seemed to say that her punishment was over at last. She sniffled into wet hands, thankfully becoming limp as Lydia told her the good news in words as well. And then she heard her mistress being congratulated by that deep male voice.
As Lydia ceased to concentrate on Jean's bare bottom she discovered that her own was tingling as if in sympathetic rapport with the other – and realised that his gaze had now switched to her buttocks and was hungrily caressing them. She felt a physical thrill to think that where his eyes were roaming, his lips and tongue would very soon be doing the same.
Lydia turned away from the softly sobbing girl with a mysterious smile. He had been right. All three in that room had been transformed by what had just taken place, and her relationship with Jean had at last become meaningful for her. She wondered whether the girl would be coming around quite so often in the future, and what would happen when she did.
Lydia turned to him. And smiled again.