Tuesday, 1 February 2011

The Butler

Story from Februs 38.

The Butler
A Short Story by Matthew Silk

Sam picked up the phone in her office and shouted, 'Tony get in here!'

She slammed the receiver down in irritation and flung herself back in her chair. Why was it men NEVER did what you asked them to?

A minute later Tony, early 20's, short cropped hair, handsome in his fresh, youthful way, sidled into her office with all the arrogance of his young years.

'Tony, the figures for the Zurich meeting next week. Where the hell are they?' Sam demanded.

'Oh, there was a computer glitch. We're a bit behind. I was going to put them together on Monday,' Tony replied breezily.

'MONDAY!' Sam exploded. 'I fly to Zurich on Monday afternoon. What do you think I'm going to do: read them on the way out?'

Tony shrugged and smirked.

'I want them on my desk 8am Monday morning or you are out of here. And I mean that.'

Tony's face fell. 'Hey, no. I'm taking my girlfriend to Paris for the weekend. I've booked the Ritz and everything. Can't someone else do it?'

Sam leaned forward slowly. 'Tony you've got to realise there are not many 24 year olds on your salary. You've got to earn it.'

Tony left muttering 'bitch' under his breath. Jan, Sam's secretary, come in with a questioning look on her face.

'He's been talking about that trip all week. I think he was going to propose.'

'He'll get over it,' shrugged Sam sweeping back her blonde hair in frustration. 'When I was at his stage I would have jumped at producing those figures. These boys think the city is all champagne, Ferraris and bragging to girls in bars.'

Sam saw Tony surrounded by his mates glancing in sullen rebellion in her direction. She got up. 'I'm going home. I can't stand them all mooning at me like that.'

She walked out of her office across the floor feeling the eyes of the young boys in the bank staring at her resentfully. 'Goodnight boys, see you Monday,' she said cheerily.

As the lift doors closed she gave a long sigh and felt suddenly tired. It was a constant battle with the boys and a battle she had to fight on her own. She knew the senior partners were looking closely at how she was handling the pressure. If she complained how tough it was they would think it as a sign of weakness, but they didn't see it was twice as hard being a woman in the boys' club of the city.

Still, there were compensations. Like the gleaming new Z3 in the underground car park, her luxury riverside penthouse flat and of course George, her butler, even now preparing for her return...

She took the Z3 out into the city traffic opening the roof to the sunshine.

A builder in a white transit whistled as he looked down at her bare legs.

She sped away.

At the next set of lights she nicked open her mobile and dialled George.

'Very good, madam,' he said in his slightly Scottish burr which never betrayed his real feelings.

'Oh, and George.'

'Yes, madam.'

She hesitated. This was it. Did he know what she was going to say? She'd been thinking about this more and more through the week. The time seemed right. She was tense and needed to be relaxed for the meeting, but you could never really tell, not until you were there, bottom bared, the strap in his big hands...

'George, will you stay late tonight?'

They both knew what she was asking for. She held her breath feeling as if he had already pulled her wrists behind her back and was bending her over the back of the sofa.

There was a terrible silence at the other end of the line as he decided her fate.

'Of course, madam,' he said in the same calm even tone he always used to address her.

She closed the mobile and felt a thrill of anticipation. There was no other feeling like it in the world. Already the adrenaline was pumping.

She did not have time for a relationship with a man. She could look for a husband when she had made her money for life. Right now she was single and ambitious and happy to keep it that way.

But her life could be lonely and domestic chores tedious after a day of high powered decision making. A manservant seemed the ideal solution. A man who was reliable, efficient, attentive, loyal and discreet but did not went to sleep with her.

George greeted Sam at the door wearing his red striped apron. The flat was filled with the warm aroma of his cooking.

'Hello George,' she smiled conspiratorially. Once she had given her permission the discipline could come at any time.

She waited for an order to go and bend over the sofa with her short skirt pulled up and knickers on view but none came and she walked past him into the living room with its spectacular view of the river.

Another good thing about George, if he had been her lover she could have had to ask him all about his day, they would have been coexisting or he would have been jealous of her career. George was simply there caring for her with meticulous attention.

She threw her bag and coat on the sofa with deliberate carelessness. George hated untidiness, she really did feel mischievous.

He came in without a word of disapproval and picked up the coat and bag. She'd already done enough to be put over his knee and spanked swift and hard with his big, powerful hand but he made no move.

He returned to the living room. 'Would madam care for an aperitif?'

She giggled. 'Oh you mean a drink. I thought for a moment you had something else in mind'. She looked at him coyly but his stony expression remained impassive. Another stroke earned. Or perhaps six hard spanks over a kitchen chair with his leather paddle reddening her bare bottom while she counted and thanked him for each one. Mmmm...

She opened the sliding doors and stepped out onto the balcony. She stretched out on the lounger closing her eyes. Someone once told her your butler knows everything about you but says nothing. Sam had not appreciated at first what "everything" meant. Within a week George had tidied her vibrators, discovered the tawse and riding crop she had been using on herself in her knicker drawer and knew exactly what she liked to read in bed.

Once she realised how impossible it was to hide anything from him she found it surprisingly easy to ask him to use the tawse on her himself.

'Please don't be offended I won't mind if you don't want to...'

'Of course, madam,' he had said as if she had just asked him to do the washing up.

Soon after she found herself lying flat on the bed in her bra and knickers with George standing over her sternly, the tawse in his hands. 'It is customary, madam, with your permission, to administer the tawse to the bare buttocks.'

'How do you know that, George?'

'A Scottish upbringing madam, coupled, I must confess, with a certain prior knowledge.'

'George! You've done this before!'

'It is an unusual, but not uncommon request from ladies who have previously employed me, madam,' he said, sliding her knickers deftly down her legs and hooking them like a trophy over the bedpost.

George had proved himself to be a remarkably efficient, experienced and strict disciplinarian.

After that first spanking their relationship took a new, irreversible direction. She never knew how he would deal with her. Sometimes he just appeared with a leather glove on his hand and issued a curt order, 'Over my knee, lassie.'

Or she might find him – standing by a kitchen chair, the belt wrapped round his fist. 'Bend over, lassie.'

There were so many ways. She'd been spanked with wet dressing gown cords while holding onto the cold shower in the bathroom. She'd been laid face down across the solid wooden coffee table, her feet dangling over the edge end felt the smack of the paddle on her arse. She'd been bent over the balcony rail and felt the lash of the martinet as she watched the sun set over the city skyline...

'Your drink, madam.' She opened her eyes with a start to see George holding out a tray for her.

'What time would madam like to eat?'

It depended when she was going to be spanked. Which was better, spanked first then eat with a stinging behind or eat then spanked, or spanked, eat, then spanked again, or spanked between courses... oh stop it! she admonished herself.

'I don't know George. You decide.'

'Very good madam. Shall I run your bath?'

'Yes, George, that would be nice.' It would also give him the opportunity to use those dressing gown cords. The door locked. No escape. God she remembered that night. She shocked herself sometimes how far she allowed him to go.

She sipped her drink and closed her eyes. The cane. George, in his formal butler clothes. She, bending over, fingers pointing to the floor twitching nervously as he swished the rattan behind her. Her backside feeling enormous and so vulnerable.

Or standing underneath the black metal spiral staircase, her soft white dressing gown falling gracefully from her shoulders revealing her elegant blonde slenderness, being ordered to raise her arms, grip the cold metal as he approaches with a blindfold.

'Your bath is ready, madam.'

He was nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

She took off her clothes in her bedroom and slipped on hew dressing gown, soft and warm. George was already testing the water with his hand and frothing up the bubbles. She looked for the damp cords but could not see them, the candles were flickering in the darkness.

He removed the dressing gown leaving her naked before him. He could order her to grab the rail on the other side of the bath. 'Legs straight, ankles touching, bottom out, chin up.' But he simply stood aside and she slipped naked into the warm tub.

'Oh, George, would you put some music on?'

'Certainly, madam. May I suggest Handel?'

'No George. I don't think so. Moby. Play.'

'Very good madam.' He hated "popular" music as he called it. Silly old sod. She smiled naughtily as the clapping rhythm of the first track beat through the flat. 'A little louder, George, I can barely hear it,' she called out, grinning cheekily. There was a pause and then the volume was turned up, but only slightly.

'Three extra strokes for the loud music lassie.' She smiled and sank beneath the bubbles.

* * *

When she was ready to get out, George stood by her with a towel which he tucked round her. Her legs were pink from the heat of the bathwater. She went into her bedroom where she dried herself and let the towel fall to admire herself in the mirror. She turned her back and examined her bottom, round and still young and pert. She moved her hips feeling the undulations of her cheeks as she cupped them in her hands wondering what marks she would bear later, trying to imagine the sting.

'Let me put an end to those thoughts, lassie. Bend over, that's right, where you are standing with your bottom facing the mirror and your feet apart... Now will it be 12 strokes of the cane or six with the crop?'

'Oh the cane please, sir. Two strokes of the cane are better than any with that nasty crop.'

But George was busy in the kitchen. He really was making her wait tonight.

She went to her knicker drawer and picked out her sexiest black silk underwear. Mischievously, she slipped her dressing gown back on. George disapproved most sternly if she did not dress properly for dinner. If that didn't provoke him she did not know what would.

She went out into the living room. The dining table was laid for dinner with candles and napkin. As George entered with the wine she caught his silent disapproving eye. Her hands reached automatically to the belt ready to disrobe. But he swept past her. This was serious. She was clocking up punishment points by the handful and nothing was being done about them. She felt herself gradually losing control as in a negotiation that was going wrong.

'What's for dinner, George?' she asked as lightly as she could as she dropped her hands.

'Souffle to start, madam, followed by a cutlet of lamb in a rosemary and red wine sauce.' He was pompously proud of his cooking.

'It sounds lovely.'

'It is ready now, madam.' He looked meaningfully at her dressing gown.

A sudden wicked idea came to her. 'Oh, George, it is such a lovely night. You know I think I shall have dinner on the terrace.'

That did the trick. George looked ready to explode. She had him now. She smiled innocently, her hands moving seductively back up to her belt, ready to open her gown and let it fall to the carpet, baring herself before him for the thrashing she now so thoroughly deserved.

'As you wish, madam,' he said through grilled teeth, once again ignoring her.

She was left open-mouthed with astonishment at her let-off as he cleared the table in double quick time and relaid it on the terrace.

'Dinner is served, madam,' he announced a little breathlessly, five minutes later.

The dinner was, needless to say, superb. She sat alone enjoying the view of the many lights of London below and began to relax. She spent her life battling the boys in the office, fighting for deals, fighting for space, never giving in like everyone else in the modern age. It was so relaxing to have someone like George to submit to when you came home.

It was getting chilly. She took coffee in the living room while George cleared up. She asked him to put Handel on the CD player and listened to it on the sofa.

She saw him leave the kitchen and go to her bedroom and she knew he was finally preparing for her.

She began tingling all over as the adrenaline pumped through her. These were always the best and worst moments like just before an important presentation when her nerves were jangling.

'Stand up, lassie, and remove your dressing gown!' The order took her by surprise. George had approached so quietly she had not heard him. Instead of slipping the dressing gown seductively to the floor as she imagined she would, she stood up a little too quickly and gawkily and the gown fell in a lump at her feet.

George's face was as hard as granite, chilling her. 'Step this way, lassie. It's time to pay for your atrocious behaviour tonight. Quick now, you little tart. I'm going to teach you some respect.'

He had never spoken to her so disrespectfully. She stood frozen to the spot not knowing how to react.

'So, disobey would you? Right, that's it. Treat me like a dog and I'll' treat you like a dog. On your hands and knees. NOW! Crawl to your punishment.'

She dropped down on all fours and began crawling humiliatingly past his feet. She had negotiated fearlessly with some of the most powerful men in the city but they were pussycats compared to George in this mood.

Her bedroom had been transformed from the soft room of her sleep into a bare, stark dungeon. The bed had been stripped to the sheets and the pillows removed. Free standing spotlights illuminated the bed in an unforgiving glare. The doors of the wardrobe had been opened so the mirrors inside faced the bed. In the corner there was a table covered with a lace cloth almost like an altar and on the cloth were two tawses, a martinet, a crop and a selection of vibrators.

As she crawled across the soft carpet a tape of a previous punishment began to play through the speakers. The vicious swish! and smack! of the tawse striking her bare behind followed by her cry vividly bringing home her coming torment. She glanced in the mirror at the person on all fours looking nervously back at her and wondered, not for the first time, whether they were really the same person.

George picked up the tawse, every movement precise and composed. She saw him in the mirror stand behind her, the tawse dangling down, her rear nicely positioned doggie fashion. He slipped the leather strands through his fingers, raised the tawse and gave her three smart strokes across her taut knickers.

'Don't disobey me again. Now lie on the bed, lassie.'

She scrambled to her feet, her cheeks stinging and lay flat out on the bed on her stomach, her arms stretched out above her head and ankles pressed together. She thought of the boys in the office – how they would love to see their boss stretched out like this waiting meekly to be spanked. Or one of the Swiss bankers she was to meet next week, 'Certain interesting information has come to light about you, Miss Brown. Before we begin this meeting we are going to bend you over this table and Heinrich here will lift your skirt and administer traditional strokes of the cane to your English bottom. Kindly count the strokes clearly and thank us for each one. Afterwards, your knickers will be taken down and your marks inspected, when you have been chastised to everyone's satisfaction we will begin the negotiations.'

She searched George's impassive features. He would never betray her, would he?

He unclipped her bra, neatly removing it and then slipped her knickers smoothly down her legs, hanging them on the bed post. She closed her eyes and saw a vision of Tony smirking at her predicament. (Hello, Miss Brown, George has told us all about what you like and how you like it...)

Smack! The tawse landed across her bare behind opening her eyes in an instant.

She had barely time to catch her breath before the tawse landed again equally sharp and uncompromising. She looked up pleadingly at George but his Celtic features remained stern and determined, betraying no emotion.

After six he ordered her, 'Turn round, lassie.' She obediently lay facing up to him gingerly placing her tender bullocks on the sheet.

George looked down at her and then look a firm grip of her ankles with his left hand and raised her feel so they were pointing straight up at the ceiling, lifting her half off the bed.

'Whoh!' she cried, taken by surprise. She flung her arms out wide and grabbed the sheet on either side to steady herself. The flat leather tongues smacked her bottom forcing an immediate, yelping cry from her lips.

He lifted her higher by the ankles, his fingers pressing into her bone and spanked her again, holding her tight as her legs twisted in his grip. She tried to cover her bottom with her hands but he simply yanked her higher so she was resting on her shoulders unable to prevent the furious lashes of the tawse across her behind. She begged to be spared but he was so strong it was impossible to escape. He held her comfortably, as if from a hook, and ignoring her shouted apologies and promises never to treat him disrespectfully again, continued to strap her behind and thighs with free, unfettered swings of his arm. She had long lost count of the number of strokes when he suddenly let go of her ankles and dropped her back on the bed.

She rolled onto her side clasping her hands to her burning rear while he went to the table and returned with the crop and a vibrator.

'You were a very naughty wee lassie, tonight,' he said calmly.

'Naughty, yes,' she confessed in a whisper, desperate to please.

'And what happens to naughty lassies?'

She eyed the crop suspiciously. 'Oh no, George.'

'Oh aye, lassie.'

He took hold of her feet again pushed her up the bed and lifted her ankles back over her head until they were hooked through the bedrail above her.

She looked straight up at him through her bent knees. 'No, George, please...' But he remained coldly formal and unmoved.

He took a wooden ruler from his inside pocket.

'Stop your whingeing, lassie. Now open your mouth.'

She opened her mouth and he placed the ruler between her teeth pressing it hard against her lips.

'Bite down on it.'

She clenched her teeth tasting the wood with her tongue.

'Now shout as loud as you can.'

'Nngghhhnnnnnn,' she yelled, barely making any sound.

'Good, we don't want to disturb the neighbours,' he said.

He knelt on the bed and switched on the black vibrator gently pushing it into her just a little at first but sending the buzzing rhythms through her in waves.

She began to moan as he slid in deeper, harder and stiffer than any man could be and as totally reliable and efficient as George himself. He thrust it in and out smoothly, her moans growing louder as the humming shaft drilled deeper.

Then he withdrew it wet and glistening. She watched him stand and raise the crop and saw him swing it down across her buttocks with the full force of his arm.

'NNGGHHHNNNN.' She yelled as loud as she could but making barely any sound at all. She hung on the rail, the effects of the stroke burning deep into her as he observed her, totally detached from her suffering.

When he was ready he delivered another stroke and then another, cruel and precise in their execution, their effects searing through her. Then he inserted the vibrator, slipping it in and out of her, then the crop lashing her again, then the vibrator, on and on, open to both, never to be forgotten...

* * *

She lay face down on the bed basking in the warm afterglow, the stripes, still stinging, lined across her backside, binding her like an embrace. George had been superb tonight. He had never taken her that far before. Still, she fingered the ridges across her cheeks, and smiled shyly to herself, she had deserved it, she had really been a very, very naughty lassie.

She heard George cough politely behind her. 'Will that be all, madam?'

'Yes, George,' she sighed. 'For tonight. Oh, and George?'

'Yes, madam.'

'Thank you.'

Monday, 31 January 2011

The Harmony Man

Story from Janus 76.

The Harmony Man
by John Undermeyer

THE candles on the dinner-table burned bright and intimate, nicely reflecting the kind of gathering it was. The Governess dabbed her lips fastidiously on her napkin. 'The investigation and hearing are over,' she said. 'And I have asked that Princess Sonia Lavinia be taken downstairs.' Her eyes glistened in the wavering light, dark as coals in a perfect face framed by raven tresses. At 40, she was still a beauty.

The Ambassador growled into his wine. 'The cane has always been the traditional way we punish, here at the palace. If that were ever to change I should make it a resigning matter.' As he replenished first my glass, then his own, I observed how the once-handsome features had become fleshy and slack, with rosy cheeks, double chins and round bibulous nose that put me in mind of an old-time Music Hall comedian or a classical actor playing a clown — an illusion at once dispelled by the purposeful set of the mouth and shrewd no-nonsense gaze.

'Do let us finish our meal before we go about our duties,' said the Harmony Man. He sat across the table from me, spare and ascetic, lean and tall and very grave, his hollow cheeks almost skull-like in the candlelight, hair long as a wild-maned musician's and prematurely white as if from shock. Spearing a delicious piece of white meat with his fork, he went on, 'This lobster really is too good to be kept waiting. Whereas the Princess is rather bad — naughty — has forgotten herself...' His sentence tailed off into a humourless chuckle shared by all of us. There was very little humour about the Harmony Man. His hands were large, bony, capable and strong, and I felt a pang of pity for the condemned Princess, awaiting her fate in the bowels of the building.

The Governess nodded. 'When a girl is to be caned,' she said in a voice creamy with scarcely-repressed pleasure, 'it does not matter how long she is kept waiting. No doubt it will do her good to contemplate her sins, and imagine the effect of a whippy cane falling across her naked bottom.'

The Harmony Man turned to me as if to give me a chance to catch up with the conversation, no doubt moved by my increasingly amazed expression. As a travel-writer I had discovered in the far-off Kingdom of Custodia a beautiful country uncontaminated by the modern age and rich in fascinating surprises — not only in its landscape and architecture, but in its customs and social structuring. Now here was another surprise.

'It is true, Sir Arthur,' he went on to explain, 'that the cane is our traditional way to punish. Because it is vital that discipline be maintained. We have in our charge here at the castle no less than fifty young men, and probably a slightly higher number of starry-eyed girls. They are in the process of getting to know each other so they can choose a partner and get married.'

I blinked, and the speaker favoured me with a grave smile. 'We of the Custodia aristocracy have always managed our affairs this way,' the Harmony Man continued. 'Our top families all send their children to Castle Matrix when they reach marriageable age. They woo here. And they wed here. Eternal vigilance by the Governess and the Authorities is the only way to stop the palace from turning into a bordello.'

I shifted in my seat, feeling slightly warm. How was this going to sound on television back home when I, the media-dubbed 'latter-day Somerset Maugham' (I even look like him) gave one of my famous 'travel-chats' about my experiences here?

The Governess now took up the story. 'When transgressions take place,' she said eagerly, 'which they do with monotonous regularity because boys will be boys and girls will continue to let them, the Harmony Man must do his duty.'

I smiled, acknowledging the sense of her argument. 'Governess,' I said, 'kindly explain to me how Alex Michaelis here won his title of the Harmony Man. Since it would seem that his sole task at the castle, incredibly, is to cane girls who have been sentenced by the Tribunal, I cannot see how he possibly brings them anything but disharmony.'

My three companions at the table chuckled in unison. Plainly the question had been asked many times before by travellers like myself, innocent of their ways. The Ambassador took a deep draught of wine and cleared his throat. Obviously he thought himself the best person to unravel the mysteries of Custodia to me. He placed his knife and fork together on his plate, and began.

'It has not escaped our notice that in every other western country, Sir Arthur, moral standards are lower than here in Custodia. And the divorce rate is higher. We attribute this happy state to the ministrations of the Harmony Man.'

'Come now, Ambassador,' I replied. 'If what I hear is true, the Harmony Man may cane as many as three naughty girls each day — but he can hardly have an effect on the whole population.'

The Ambassador dabbed dews of sweat from his massive brow and leaned his heavy bulk forward. 'On the contrary, Sir Arthur,' he insisted. 'What happens at the top of our society governs all that goes on in the lower classes. So long as our people see the leaders disciplining their families strictly and promptly, so they will continue to do the same to their own kin. Laxity begins at the top. Spare the rod, spoil the child is an English maxim. You in England have forgotten it. In Custodia we practise what you used to preach, although here we are talking of young adults.'

The Governess squirmed forward in her chair and licked her lips — almost lasciviously, I thought. 'When girls arrive here at Matrix,' she explained, 'I have them each before me, and explain the rules of courtship. We believe in shared work, sport and leisure time, with good conversation. We do not believe a successful partnership is built on mere passing fancy, or the hot desire of one lusty body for another. This is why close physical contact is forbidden. I turn a blind eye to intermittent hand-holding, but allow no further intimacy. Indeed, we have a specific example of a marriage failing because our disciplines were not adhered to.'

The stately beauty turned to the Harmony Man, who gave a wry, bitter smile at her remark. 'It is true. Sir Arthur,' he said. 'I married a foreign girl in a foreign country. She did not have to pass through the Custodian system of courtship and betrothal. The marriage was an utter failure. I put it down to weakness on my part.

'When my wife began to be wilful I let it pass. When her eye began to roam I thought it mere playfulness. I know better now. Had I brought the stick to Antonia, our union might have been saved. But she cuckolded me. From wedding to divorce took three years.'

A speck of colour had appeared in the cadaverous cheeks, suggesting to me that within this grimly authoritative figure lurked great passions, a righteous wrath only barely kept in check by a fine sense of justice.

'I came back to Matrix Castle,' continued the crisp, clear tones, 'and asked to be of service to the State. I have been caning truculent, disobedient, misbehaving girls for twenty years now. The intent is not to bring harmony to their naked bottoms. Quite other. The final result, however, is that the discipline I impose, imposes harmony on the marriage.'

The candlelight glimmered on the Governess's hair. In the subtly flattering radiance she might have been a girl of 20 herself but for the firm, matronly set of her mouth. 'You see,' the lady went on, 'in Custodia we believe that the wife should defer to her husband. It is a point we bring home both during courtship here, and during the marriage ceremony. There is scarce a girl who enters the castle chapel to wed, who hasn't first danced very prettily under Alex's rod.'

She sipped at her wine, eyes glowing as she warmed to her theme. 'Most of the punishments are for sexual offences,' she told me, looking intently into my face till the blood in my veins seemed to glow in response. 'But even if there are no sexual transgressions before the wedding, the girls generally give us a reason to bend them over our whipping-block. At least once. Sometimes twice. Alex is sufficiently competent to ensure a third appearance is hardly ever called for.'

The Governess was clearly at some pains to emphasise to me the sincerity of the Custodians' beliefs. Her eyes shone even more avidly and her breathing became a little tremulous as she went on. 'Alex does his work with the utmost skill and precision. It is his craft, his profession. More than a job — a calling, rather. We are all delighted with the manner in which he carries out the sentences of our Tribunals.'

I gazed curiously at this tall, slender 40-year-old woman dressed all in black, her raven-coloured tresses offsetting the paleness of her long, slim neck. The Governess, it struck me, not only approved of the way her girls were punished; it undoubtedly aroused her sexually. It is also true to state, I confess, that the prospect of the Princess Sonia Lavinia being caned was by no means dismaying to me. Princess Sonia's picture adorned the popular papers of Custodia virtually every day. To see her naked figure under the cane would be utterly delightful.

The Ambassador refilled my glass. I could not help noticing how he constantly replenished his own, nor his evident keenness to continue my instruction in Custodia's ways. 'When a girl is accused, she is brought before the Governess,' he explained. 'The Governess is sole judge of the evidence, and it is she who passes sentence. With rare exceptions she demands a dozen strokes of the cane. As soon as the number of strokes is pronounced, the girl must strip naked and she is then taken downstairs.'

Downstairs was a very vague word, and I wondered what kind of place it would turn out to be as the Ambassador talked on. 'You cannot deny that a girl's body is shaped in a way which suggests the Creator knew the value of a caning,' he growled urbanely with that sage yet whimsical look. 'Female buttocks, with their round meaty softness, are perfectly designed to receive the rod. The Harmony Man works in a manner which ensures that absolutely no real damage is done. The girl receives a short sharp shock — there may be a little kicking and yelling, a few wriggles of protest, some tears perhaps. But we men and women understand that this is the correct order of things.'

He gave the Governess a shrewd glance which included her in his remarks. The look she returned him was heavy-lidded, and what I can only describe as sultry.

There was a knock on the door and a liveried servant entered. He approached the Governess diffidently. 'Excuse me Ma'am,' the young man began. 'I am instructed to convey a message to you from the Princess Sonia Lavinia.'

'Indeed,' said the Governess abruptly. 'And what can that young wanton have to say to us?'

The flunkey cleared his throat, somewhat overawed to be addressing such distinguished personages. 'Her lady-in-waiting,' he faltered, 'says the Princess insists you have no right to send her downstairs without the permission of her father or mother. And since their Majesties are abroad...'

The Ambassador and the Governess both responded. 'Why, the damned insolence...' exclaimed the man, spilling a little wine on the table.

'I'm afraid the Princess is misled,' said the woman, her handsome features hardening and her dark eyes glittering. 'At her age her parents no longer possess any legal responsibility for her; their authority is purely monarchic.'

The Ambassador deferred to the Governess's icy tones. 'I have absolutely no hesitation,' he declared, 'in assuming authority to punish Sonia. I'm quite sure that her father would insist on it. Indeed, my sentence was lenient compared to what he would have demanded, were he here to witness such behaviour! Sonia had better keep quiet. If punishment is deferred it will be the King who decides on the number of strokes. I doubt if it will be under twenty!'

The servant bowed himself out, all too aware that he could bear no hopeful message of postponement or reprieve to Sonia's lady-in-waiting. Then, without the least sign of our conversation having been disturbed, the Governess looked at me again.

'The parents of all the young people in the castle have been through this system of marriage preparation,' she said in her cool, crystal voice. This includes the King and Queen before their coronation. Parents know perfectly well that their offspring are being disciplined and taught to obey. Girls defer to their husbands. That is the way we do things here. No exceptions are permitted. The skills of the Harmony Man are known to the mothers and fathers of every young person. The very fact that a girl arrives here looking for a husband means her parents fully approve of our system. Some daughters even arrive with a sealed envelope, which usually contains an admonition to me to make certain the daughter takes the rod before tying the marriage knot. This is because she will then know for certain what a truly good thrashing with a cane is like.'

Here my instructress smiled thinly. 'In future life,' she continued with a purr, 'her husband then need only allude to the event in the most passing terms to bring an erring wife back into line. It is, in the most literal way, a case of "once bitten, never forgotten". And I do assure you,' — here the Governess drew her tongue very slowly over her lower lip as she spoke the words — 'Alex's cane truly bites!'

'And so you see,' said Alex Michaelis, 'how I won the name by which I am known throughout the Kingdom. The Harmony Man ensures harmony after marriage, harmony based on obedience to the man. The tradition has been strong in Custodia for many hundreds of years. Our duty is to keep it alive, and our leading families endorse the way with enthusiasm.'

'Indeed,' I answered heavily, greatly intrigued. 'And are the young men permitted to witness the objects of their desire receiving their punishments?'

'Certainly not,' supplied the Ambassador with vigour. 'But they are informed when it is to take place. Indeed, everyone knows when a miscreant has been "attended to". Her face is puffy, her cheeks pink, her eyes red with weeping. She walks with a gingerly step, and the long skirt she is made to wear after a thrashing hides the weals, but does not make it easy to hide their effect.'

Breath came sharply from the Governess, and I could not help noticing a heightened awareness at the mention of weals and weeping. She smiled at me intimately and confided, 'We even have questions whispered between the girls. They think I don't notice, but my ears and eyes are everywhere. "Has your turn come yet?" one will ask another. "Have you met the Harmony Man?" "Have you hung over that wretched block?" "Did the Governess award you twelve? — me too! God, wasn't it terrible?" '

We had finished dinner and the flunkey cleared the table. 'Do you mind if I smoke?' purred the Governess, whose silky voice was beginning to attract me. Two gold cigarette-lighters appeared and the dark-eyed, long-fingered woman-in-command favoured mine. The Ambassador poured port for three of us. The glasses were generous. I had noticed with some surprise that, although he clearly enjoyed his food, the Harmony Man had drunk only bottled spring-water.

I could not help my mind flitting to thoughts of Princess Sonia Lavinia. I knew she was an only child of royal parentage. Her mother had been a world famous tennis-player before she married the then prince, who was much older than her. Their daughter was the darling of the world's press photographers, and it was easy to understand why. She was strikingly beautiful — but, perhaps more to the point, she led a full sporting life. A favourite news-picture was of Princess Sonia on the tennis-courts stretching for the ball in a way which clearly showed her gleaming white knickers under a pleated mini-skirt, and a pair of long slender legs as beautifully shapely as they were athletically nimble.

I had already learned that the young people who came to Matrix Castle never saw 'downstairs' unless they were to be disciplined. What I did not know, however, was the traditional attitude to 'distinguished' foreign guests such as myself. I was a personal friend as well as diplomatic colleague of the Custodian Ambassador. Fortunately he admired my books (my trade was author and explorer), and listened regularly to my broadcast on the World Service — and I wondered whether I could induce him to invite me to witness the punishment of the delightful Sonia. The Ambassador liked his wines, but he was certainly no fool, and knew exactly what was in my mind without my having to broach the subject.

'My dear Governess,' he murmured suavely, turning on his most disarming Ambassadorial manner. 'I don't think there could possibly be any objection to Sir Arthur accompanying us downstairs, do you? He is totally discreet, completely trustworthy and I am certain he understands that such a rare favour will not be divulged in Custodian society. But since he is at our table, and has been such a truly interested party in our conversation...'

The corners of my hostess's attractively mobile mouth twitched. Her eyes gleamed — almost teasingly, I thought. 'So you wish to see the Princess Sonia Lavinia thrashed, Sir Arthur?' she purred. 'You are interested in seeing how the Harmony Man deals with a girl who forgets herself? Sonia was caught entwined with a man in the castle corridors. Well, scarcely just entwined — she was partly disrobed! His hands were all over her body, and I have little doubt that her own hands were no less idle than his!'

It was the Harmony Man who now took charge, seemingly spurred to action by the woman's words. He rose to his feet, tall and gaunt, his shock-white hair and cadaverous face looming above us in the candlelight. 'I do not think we should keep Sonia in suspense any longer, Governess,' he announced in deep, sonorous tones. 'So...' His gesture included all those at table, including myself. 'If we have finished our eating and drinking, please follow me.'

The Governess, the Ambassador and I rose in unison. We were in the Harmony Man's private quarters and had only to walk into his hallway, where there was an electric lift barely large enough to hold us all. He pushed the button and the doors slid open. A minute later we had descended five floors and were, I estimated, in the very lowest part of the castle. I could not remember whether there was just one level below ground, or two.

He led us into a brightly-lit room reminiscent of a wine cellar. The roof was curved, fairly low, covered in the most brilliant whitewash and lit with a strip of fluorescent light which killed every shadow in the place. This was a room in which there was truly no place to hide. Standing in a corner, utterly naked, with her hands on her head, was the Princess Sonia Lavinia. I caught my breath, for she truly was a most magnificent specimen of healthy, lusty young womanhood. Every inch of her flawless skin glowed in the hard light with a tan of purest honey, the muscles of this thoroughbred athlete rippling and twitching almost imperceptibly with the tension of her stance. Her hair was a miracle of glossy amber, strikingly rich and bright. She was clearly angry at being made to endure such humiliation, yet afraid to give vent to her wrath — for, despite her own high birth, she had little doubt of the power and influence wielded by my three companions.

At first the Princess Sonia Lavinia was tempted to try and look us in the eye, but strength of numbers, allied to the fact that she did not know who to single out, caused her to lower her gaze. Having seen this gorgeous young female so often in press photographs, fully clothed or in seductively brief sporting gear, I was naturally keen to view her entirely naked. Nevertheless I affected an air of insouciance, and let my eyes roam over her while taking the greatest care not to make my keen interest too obvious.

Girls like Sonia, I pondered to myself as I took mental notes for the journal I would later write, need the cane, for their lovely faces and (as I was now able to judge) equally lovely young bodies are no guarantee of an inner beauty. Indeed the longer I gazed, the more obvious it became that Sonia was a proud, disdainful hussy who abused her power as a royal princess, adopting a domineering and arrogant attitude to any she held in thrall on account of her fame, status and beauty.

Now she tossed her haughty head, with its perfectly coiffeured leonine hairstyle as amber-gold as a summer sunrise, and the swanlike neck threw her pointed chin into a dismissive tilt as if to say she was far too good to be disciplined by the likes of us. Sonia was old enough to be married (22 if I remembered the newspaper reports rightly), but equally old enough to be reminded of the importance of good manners, sweet speech, an amiable smile and solicitude for others.

To my mind the girl lacked all these qualities. That such a uniquely endowed, incandescently perfect creature in shape and form should house such a spoilt and odious character was the greatest irony — and, in my eyes, the Harmony Man suddenly became a majestic, even heroic figure: one who drove out devils from within the flesh, who righted wrongs and wrought harmony from discordance.

But, as I say, what the Princess lacked in inner gentleness she made up for abundantly in outer graces. Her skin was sumptuous; soft, unblemished and milky. Her breasts were less developed than I might have expected, shallow and saucer-like with honey-nipples which the coldness of the cellar had caused to recede. This sparseness was echoed in the rest of her body. Flat at the tummy, trim at the waist and narrow over the hips, she still had to complete the filling-out process which comes to all women.

She was facing the wall, so I could not see that magnet-to-all-men — but I could enjoy her bottom. It was an absolute delight, each soft cheek perfectly round and smooth, no unseemly marks, no flab, but all youthfully fresh and firm. Dividing the cheeks was a crease reminding me of the fold in a peach (indeed her nether-cheeks had a soft peach-down on them), and that cleft produced a slight shadow which grew deeper as it flowed downwards to disappear between her legs. And what legs! Long and graceful as a ballerina's, supple and sturdy as an athlete's, the thighs ripely plump and firm, calves and ankles limber and smooth. I could, I confess, have worshipped those glorious limbs alone. Combined with the rest of that ideal form, however, the overall effect was to make me dizzy with pleasure at such perfection.

The voice of the Harmony Man, abrupt and commanding, broke the silence and my rapt musings. 'To the block, please, Sonia. We are ready to begin.'

I drew back as the exquisite princess turned, and my eyes followed that delectable royal bottom as it undulated softly to her walk. Each step caused a gentle roll of the hips; I could not remember a time when I had seen a young female's rear-end that so invited the cane — let alone on a girl so wickedly wilful and deserving of chastisement. It was good to know how skilled the Harmony Man was at his work, and I relished the thought that one session under his tutelage was enough to give a girl an experience she would remember for the rest of her life.

The petulant young lady (shivering just a little if I was not mistaken) strode to the centre of the room, her head defiantly lifted and studiously ignoring we four watching adults, cold-eyed and unforgiving. She stopped at the whipping-block — which bore a faint similarity to the beheading blocks of old England, save that it was much higher, and the 'dip' was carved all the way through so as to fully accommodate the middle-part of the body. And what a body that insensate block was about to embrace! The Princess stood naked before it — trembling for certain now despite her show of aloof bravado — erotically lush, divinely sculptured. In what contrast, I again thought, to the tainted character beneath its flawless surface.

'Bend forward across the block.'

With a sound between a groan and a sigh, the lovely girl addressed herself to her fate. Alex Michaelis positioned Sonia on the block with all the precision of an over-fastidious window-dresser setting up a mannequin in a shop window. The block was high, and in order to have her hips at the apex she had to climb three low steps placed at the base. Her upper body was lowered slowly down the opposite side, hands and arms dangling, because her fingers were not quite able to touch the floor.

Then the steps were removed so that her feet hung free also. Thus the girl lay in the shape of an inverted 'U' with hands and toes an inch or so off the ground. Her sun-bright hair dropped in folds over her perfect face, so she could see very little. It occurred to me that the position rendered her both helpless and uncomfortable, as well as unutterably alluring with the twin domes of her luscious rump thrust sweet and high, full and round and ripe and ready. I confess I gazed in adoration on those moons of beauty, unblemished as yet by the hot streaks of pain so soon to ignite them. Indeed, the sight of that divine bottom, so pale and smooth, tense and waiting, is with me yet and will ever remain so.

Seemingly from nowhere the Harmony Man produced a long, devilishly thin cane, tapered towards one end. His tall, spare figure stepped up on to a platform next to the block, which lifted him so that the girl's haunches were on a level with his waist. It was the perfect whipping height, and he wasted no time starting work.

I have seen various punishments meted out during my travels, but I cannot think of one that equalled this for determination, thoroughness and professionalism. It was as well, I thought, that Princess Sonia could not see the instrument he wielded, for the sight would certainly have struck fear into her heart.

To begin with, however, the Harmony Man began to lure his beautiful young victim into a sense of false security. He did this by walking away from the block and standing with his back to the waiting girl. Since her hair hung completely over her eyes, she could only sense what was happening behind her in the cellar, and began to believe that her stern punisher was intent on an exercise that would take him several minutes.

In the meantime Sonia lay tight and defensive, tensed in every sinew, the muscles of that superb body clenched, holding her breath. It was that which gave her away. Believing herself safe for a second or so longer, she exhaled, relaxing and loosening her buttocks. It was in that precise unguarded instant, when she was quite unready for the stroke, that the cane fell.

The whippy wood struck resoundingly against the hapless globes of flesh. The Princess Sonia Lavinia's fingers, long and delicately slender, sprang open like a Chinese fan, then squeezed themselves into tight balls hard as knotted rope. Then they scrabbled at the sides of the block, holding tightly lest the cavorting of her hind-parts should topple her from that high place as her hips squirmed and thrust in a mocking travesty of ecstasy.

'A hit, a hit!' I said to myself, unconsciously quoting from Hamlet. 'A very palpable hit!' And indeed it was, the cane cracking mercilessly across the very high-point of her deliciously round and upthrust bottom-cheeks. And the Princess had been so unready. How cunning, how unfair, I thought — but how absolutely necessary if she were to learn, in one lesson, all that the Harmony Man had to teach her. A snow-white cane-track glared across those peachy domes, turning in an instant to rose. Her sumptuously-formed body juddered as if a galvanic rod had touched it, and a cry shrilled through the room.

From that first stroke the Princess's austere chastiser caned with a speed my eye could hardly follow. That ideal female form, draped in total submission across the Custodian whipping-block, received on its uplifted buttocks the undiluted concentration of the Harmony Man's skills. In his hand the cane became a living entity: he stood tall, erect and stern above the forlorn object of his ministrations, his white mane flicking from side to side and his eye distantly glaring — for all the world like a symphony conductor beating with his dancing baton a tempestuous rhapsody of pain.

Again and again that long, pliant rod thudded, swished and cracked across the lushly-swelling curves of the Princess's gorgeous bottom, streaking both proud buttocks with livid lines. Again and again it sped and impacted, swung back, hissed forward, until that unique royal tennis-girl body, darling of the world's media and naked as when born, ground and strained in helpless anguish against the block which held it.

He thrashed earnestly, seeing no point in spinning out the punishment. Some men might have let the Princess compose herself between strokes. Regain breath, calm her writhing posterior, soften her cries. But none of that for him, for composure simply lengthens the time it takes to turn an angry harridan into a much more appropriate (and appealing) example of weeping maid, head hung in shame and submission, all resistance dissolved out of her.

I was able to detect only three sounds during the whole scene. There was the whirr of the cane as it cleaved the air. There was the smack of the wood on naked girl-flesh. And there were the cries of the Princess. These were never less than vociferous. I do not condemn the girl for her lamentations. No one could have stayed silent under the Harmony Man's ferociously stinging rod. I did notice, however, that as Sonia Lavinia's desperate cries rang round the cellar-like vault — which dramatically enhanced them and added an echo-effect — the Governess sucked in deep breaths of elation, and a contented smile came over her face.

Immediately on the twelfth stroke the Harmony Man dropped his cane and reached with both hands to the shoulders of the bent girl. Grasping them firmly, he lifted her fully upright and off the block. As the Princess landed on the floor, her tormented body, raging with fires in its nether-region, could not help springing upright. In that instant her rigorous disciplinarian sent her scampering across the room with a resounding wallop — this time from his open palm — directly across her soundly caned and sorely-welted arse.

Sonia Lavinia danced a jig of pain and fury. Her head flung about, she drummed her dainty feet; wails of misery resounded against the stark walls. This cavorting did not come from the propelling drive of his smack, but from a desperate effort to assuage the burning which suffused her delectable hindquarters. I found myself fixing my attention on the deep central cleavage of those plumply alluring nether-cheeks, now so rosy and streaked. The large muscles on the outside of her buttocks worked frantically, clenching and unclenching as if in an orgasmic spasm. The lovely girl, hitherto so snootily aloof, shoved her pubis forward, then drew it back and sucked in her stomach, then stretched up on tip-toes as if there were some way she could slip out of her body, leaving it to suffer while she looked on. Once she took her hands to where the cane had stamped its seals of authority, only to pluck them away again as her fingers ruffled the white-ridged flesh of the plushly-upholstered bottom-cheeks.

After some short time at these desperate antics the spoiled, gorgeous darling of the world's press and international tennis circuits became stationary and put all her efforts into her tears, wailing wide-mouthed at us as if howls of accusation could in some way compensate for the tremendous punishment she had just received on her naked backside. But the Harmony Man merely walked to a small wooden cupboard and stowed away his cane, showing not one sign of either sympathy or satisfaction.

The Governess, however, was clearly greatly satisfied and not a little aroused. She had witnessed the kind of salutary punishment she was convinced Princess Sonia Lavinia's sexual misbehaviour had merited — and I confess that I, too, was more than impressed by the style and dexterity of the caning (and this was reflected in a distinct stirring within my own self). The Ambassador was simply nodding to himself, highly pleased to have seen justice done yet again in that underground chamber of searing sorrow and repentance.

The three of us walked slowly to the lift, each deep in our own thoughts, leaving the Princess to her lamentations. The Governess explained to me in a husky, slightly unsteady voice that the wretched girl would eventually be able to make her way back to her rooms, where she would lie — tummy downwards no doubt — and try to bring sleep to her pulsing body. A few minutes later our threesome broke up. We bade each other goodnight with the usual courtesies, recognising that the scene we had just witnessed had been a fitting finale to a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

Back in my chamber I reclined on the giant feather bed. The punishment I had witnessed had left me feeling strangely elated: I can only compare the feeling to the bubbles in a champagne glass which continue to rise to the surface long after the drink is poured. The events of the last few hours had been truly memorable, yet something was still lacking, I felt. Was I simply experiencing the dying glow of delectable wine and good conversation, I wondered. How else could my cup of contentment be filled, this time to the brim, until it overflowed?

My dreams were interrupted by a tap on the door. It opened part-way before I could reach it, and a tall slender figure dressed in black eased in, lynx-like, and gently pushed it closed again. It had happened in a second, and I rose from the bed with a delighted smile. Her beautiful face was pale, her midnight hair tumbled in black cascades to her shoulders. Her eyes, dark and unfathomable, fixed me with a look of strange intensity. There was not merely allure in that gaze, but a naked hunger, a plea from the soul.

'My dear Governess,' I blurted. 'What an unexpected honour! I hope you have come for a nightcap. I happen to have...'

The Governess stopped my welcoming babble with a chalk-white finger pressed against my lips. She had walked towards me with one hand behind her back. Now she brought it forward to show that it held a long whippy cane, which she pushed into my open palm. Then, with a few deft movements, her full-length dress plunged from her shoulders and slid to the floor.

Now, as I gazed at her, entranced, she stepped towards me in only the skimpiest bra and panties and, placing a hand on each of my shoulders, began to knead them sensuously, all the time looking me directly in the eyes.

'Have you the courage, Sir Arthur,' she murmured, 'to finish this evening for me? To bring it to the ecstatic conclusion which I know is possible? Don't you feel that what we have both enjoyed tonight is still incomplete? Can you not sense there are a few more steps to ascend, a new height to reach?'

Without waiting for a reply the Governess walked away from me to my bed and, taking the duck-down pillows, pulled them into the centre of the mattress and carefully positioned her body across them so that her posterior cheeks, as trimly pert as a girl's, were lifted and inviting in their tight sheath of silken panties.

'The cane, Sir Arthur — the cane,' she breathed. 'Finish the evening. You know how. You know why. Please hasten and take my knickers off. I am anxious for you to begin...'

Sunday, 30 January 2011

A Pleasure

Story from Justice Vol.3 No.8

A Pleasure

The linesman called "OUT" the umpire agreed, and the only dissension came from the attractive player who thought she had served an Ace. She fumed and stormed towards the raised dias of the umpire's position.

'Can't you stay awake long enough to keep your eye on the ball and your attention on the game?' she raved.

'The ball was out,' he said firmly and with a finality that helped the fury that she was showing.

She glared up at him then snorted angrily to return to the line to serve her next ball.

The spectators were obviously feeling the discomfort of the situation. The umpire was a well known ex professional and he was a respected official in Diane's club. Furthermore, it was no secret that she had somehow managed to curry his favour and he spent many hours coaching her on the courts to bring her to the epitome of good tennis. That she should have reacted so shamefully and thereby putting him in a very embarrassing position was something that the crowd would rather not have witnessed.

Ever since she had been to Wimbledon to see the championships, and something incidentally that Steve, the older man had arranged, so she had seen how the professionals argued and stormed at the umpires and linesmen that she thought it was quite the thing to do! This business or raving and getting the whole scene in a state of tension was to Diane's mind something very marvellous and added to the drama of the game. Inwardly she felt a strange sensation of pleasure at being able to speak up to the umpire, and it did not matter that he had been such a good friend to her. She would soon weadle round him and the matter would be forgotten by the morrow.

Her mother was horrified when the incident was reported to her by one of the fans.

'What on earth were you thinking about?' she asked her erring daughter.

'Oh Mother,' she responded with an exaggerated sigh. 'It happens all the time,' she explained airily.

'Not with my family it doesn't,' the mother responded firmly.

'If he is umpiring, he expects tempers to flair. It's all part of the game,' Diane tried to explain.

'You show me the rule book and that part of the rules that mentions that arguing with the umpire is all part of the game,' her mother countered.

'Mother, you do not understand,' Diane was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable by this stage.

'I have spoken to Steven,' her mother told her. 'This morning whilst you were asleep. He is recommending to the Committee that you are removed from the list of members. Your dismissal from the club,' Diane felt her throat constrict. Her eyes just stared wide at her maternal parent.

'You.... you can't be serious,' she gasped.

'And that's another phrase that you have picked up from the professionals, except they can afford to be like that. What a disgrace. My daughter, dismissed from the Tennis Club. Never has such a thing happened before,' and Diane could see her mother's eyes brimming with tears.

'We have enough enemies who are jealous of your abilities to play. And it is no small thanks to Steven,' she said angrily.

'I'll go and speak to him,' Diane said.

'I'm sure he is waiting with open arms,' the bitter sarcasm was ripe in her mother's tone.

'I must speak to him,' Diane was adamant.

Tennis was her life and she knew that whatever Steve suggested would be accepted. They would not even vote on it! Steve suggests she goes, then she must. Nobody, but nobody argues with the old pro. Diane dressed in her court dress. She packed her bag with day clothes to come home in. She was going to the club as though ready to play on the courts. At nineteen years of age, Diane had developed into a very shapely and attractive young blonde. The constant practice she put in on the courts helped her thighs and the curvy lines of her body to keep a truly shapely torso. Many men fancied her, and a few women too for that matter, but she had never seen anything in Steve's make up that suggested he would like to get his hands on her. The opposite was true! Steve had two great loves. One was Tennis and the other was Diane. Often he had fantasised with the idea of having her nubile body at his mercy. The number of times he had watched her play and the matter in which the white skirt would ride high whenever she was making a particular stroke or a service, and the way her rounded bottom, just the lower rounded moons peeping from the legs of her tennis knickers would have his blood racing and his mind dwelling on the very happy thought of being able to strip those panties down so that he could feel, fondle and even punish her saucy bottom. Never once did he think the fantasy would come to fruition. Such things are dreams made of, impossible thoughts!

She parked her small two seater and was pleased to see that the only other car in the park was Steve's. It was as though the message had got around to stay clear of the club for a while. It was not all that unusual considering the time. It was well before lunch. She felt very strange and certainly odd, almost as though she was trespassing, which was ridiculous really; she had been coming here since forever, and now, because of the latest events, she felt as though she was no longer a part of the establishment or the club itself.

She knocked on the door very timidly. He was in his own room which housed all the equipment.

'Come in,' she heard him growl.

Oh Lord, he knows it's me, she thought and he is expressing his own anger.

'Steve... I'm sorry. I'm so very truly sorry,' she blurted out as soon as she was inside the door.

She tried to embrace him, but he gently, firmly eased her away from him so that she stood like a naughty girl in front of him. She realised that he was quite a big man. His silver hair beset a reasonably handsome face and his serious, blue eyes were now showing his offended mind.

Steve's mind had gone into over-drive! He was able to see how her shortie short skirt revealed the tight knickers and those knickers were pulled up tight so that quite a lot of her bottom was exposed.

'Steve, I'll do anything to make amends,' she assured him.

'What do you have in mind?' his own tone was full of cynicism. She realised that there was virtually nothing she could do? If he had been a younger man and able to do so, she would have offered him her body!!

'Once upon a time, young Diane,' he started wearily, hopelessly to tell her how things would have been treated years ago, 'many years ago, your attitude would have earned you a really good spanking where it would do the most good. And you would have discovered how a young girl was made to pay for any insolence. You would have eaten your next meal off the mantelpiece,' it was a forlorn hope but he enjoyed that sensation of response inside him as he was able to let her know that she could have been spanked on her bottom.

'Steve. Would that be the answer now,' she blushed crazily.

'I hardly think a big girl like you would sink to having a spanking.'

Steve was beginning to enjoy the course this conversation was proceeding. It had many and varied options!

'I don't think age has anything to do with it,' she thought she must be crazy to be speaking like this. It was as though she was begging him to smack her bum!!

'Listen, Diane. You humiliated me yesterday in front of all those people,' he reminded her.

'Steve I just could not be more sorry, honestly. I accept that I deserve to be humiliated now. Please give me the chance to show how contrite I am. Demand whatever you like of me. Humiliate me in return,' she was certainly stark raving mad, she thought. This was Diane. The attractive belle of the Tennis Club, virtually begging to be punished physically and also to be put to any humiliating posture that he could dream up!

He seemed to be giving her suggestion a lot of thought. She stood there anxiously waiting and silently willing him to accept her physical preparation to be punished.

Steve was in reality past the stage of wavering! He was now working out all the formulas that he could adopt to really enjoy the naked charms of Diane! To be able to have this girl anyway he liked, especially so that she would lay over his lap for a good spanking, and a bare bum spanking at that was only the beginning of his wildest thoughts. One did not rush into a situation like this. One used time, and in that time one relished the full and distinct pleasure of being able to use one's hands and eyes to their fullest range.

'I shall certainly spank you Diane,' he warned her.

'Yes, Steve. Whatever you say,' she blushed.

'I shall certainly hear you plead with me to take your knickers down.'

'I do Steve. Please... please take them down now... please,' she choked in the sheer disbelief of her own begging tones.

She shuddered as she felt his smooth hands stroke up the back of her thighs. All goose-pimples seemed to rise in the wake of his hands as they travelled up towards her short knickers. She ensured she kept her hands free of her sides as she pushed them away... the further shuddering, strange sensations were rippling through her body as his fingers slowly came round to the front of her body to grip the elastic waistband... she blinked as deep shame waves now throbbed like waves through her. The thought filled her....

'Steve is going to take my knickers down... he will be able to look at my body freely and unhindered and I cannot do a thing to stop him.'

As the material of her shortie knickers eased slowly down her thighs, Diane responded to the very real depths of shameful humiliation. The knicks formed a tight bridge of cloth between her slightly parted thighs and then she was sensing the further shame as his hands slipped round her lower torso to cup both cheeks of her bottom in the palms of his hands.

Steve enjoyed the freedom of the softly posed cheeks and he was enjoying the full realisation of what, up to now, had been a deep yearning fantasy. He posed her sideways and then, with the hem of her T-shirt blouse pulled up to reveal her rounded bum cheeks, he was able to stroke and caress the twin orbs so that Diane became more and more confused in her shame and degradation. No young lady should have to suffer this terrible torment of helpless obedience and not be able to plead her case.

Then he turned her so that she was facing him again, this now enabled him to ease the upper garment even further up her torso until her breasts too were fully thrusting towards him. His eyes were just level with her pubes and he studied the soft downy fur of her mounded hair so that even the twin lips of her sex was running a plough ravine before him. Diane only wanted to cover her semi nudity and also to cross her legs to hide the private intimate lips of her sex. She was virtually frozen into a state of staying just as he was, and even when she felt his finger tips start the exploration of her warm pussy flesh, she could only respond to further helpless shudders of strange sexual heat and the additional shame that flooded through her to crimson her attractive face.

Only one boy had touched her as intimately as this, but with him it was all fumble and prod, Steve was an experienced man and he knew exactly what to do with uncovered cunts and bottoms! As his right hand constantly caressed and explored the ravine between the labia, so his other hand went from one bared breast to the other and Diane was even more confused than ever. She felt the prickly tenseness of her nipples as Steven worked on the flint hard knobs of flesh and all thoughts of having her bottom spanked had fled from her. Unhappily for her, Steve was not suffering with the same amnesia!!

She whimpered like a small child when she felt herself being projected across his ample lap. It came as a surprise to her when she discovered her face inches from the floor as her shapely torso stretched across his knees. Then again she felt his right hand easily caressing over the delightfully and properly posed cheeks of her bum. Her thighs were slightly parted and this gave Steve yet a further view of her body, and nobody had even seen Diane's sex valley from this angle. The full length of her two lips were rudely exposed. Steve instructed her to push her behind into an even rounded and more helpless arch than ever. Eager to obey him, Diane, not realising the view she was now offering, thrust her arse into a very rounded position and she stayed like that as her nether orbs were given the constant stroking massage by Steve's strong palm.

She heard him warn her to stay still, and knew that she was about to be given the promised punishment. She had never been spanked before just could not even envisage the sight she was giving her mentor. She did not even think or imagine what the pain would be like. Then she felt a hash sensation of heated pain throbbed into the right cheek of her bum and before she could respond vocally the left cheeks also felt the angry heat of punishment.

'OW!' It was a response of surprise rather than of pain but then, as the spanking hand resolutely continued the transformation of the smooth creamy colour to a deep reddening, Diane seemed to realise that her bottom was suffering the damnation of hell! The heat was now exploding in sharp painful reactions each time his hand came down and then she was writhing her bottom to avoid the next spank and also to help relieve the angry pain heat which was filling her buttocks.

'Please.... ooooh please... I'm sorry... honestly... I won't be rude again.... I promise.... please.... oh please Steve... I really am sorry.... no... it hurts... my bottom... it hurts, no more please... I'll be good in future... I'll be very good..... very obedient... I promise...'

The stinging was a sensational boiling heat that was spreading all over the cheeks of her arse. Then he ceased and he was able to study the effect of the changing colour from the snowy creamy smooth white to the now very angry tomato red; and there was not one spot that he had missed. From the upper slopes of her backside right the way down to the crease of her thighs, the skin expressed a most definite state of heat. He placed his hands on the right cheeks and sensed that he could feel the hotness radiating from it.

'So you think you can be obedient do you?' he was half sneering. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

'Yes... yes, I swear I shall,' she half cried.

She had tried to put her hands round to prevent his hand contacting her fleshy cheeks but he had pushed her wrists up her back so that she just had to stay there letting the throbbing anger envelope her.

'Then stand up.'

Although she was reasonably dry eyed, she was still snivelling.

'Undress. Take everything off,' he ordered.

She blinked helplessly at the dominant manner of his tone and it was that sort of voice that dared her to argue.

She felt absolutely beaten as she eased her clothes from her shapely body and then she was standing before him, stark naked and showing herself off to him as she had shown her body off to no man.

But it was the punishment that had infused her bottom with such pain that encouraged her to perform so obediently and without question. Diane wanted no more of bending across his knee and projecting her buttocks so that at the most attractive posture she presented herself for the purposeful spanking from his hand.

Ruefully and hesitatingly, but only slightly so that it was not noticeable, she stood letting Steve's eyes wander freely over her curvy torso. Even when his palm slowly stroked up the inside of her right tapering thighs, she stood perfectly still, and the ankles, firmly placed apart permitted his hand to caress all the way up to the mossy bush of fair hair that formed the nest of her pubes. Steve enjoyed the feel of the fuzz as his finger tips brushed it enacting the part of a brush to stroke the mossy covering and then the middle finger teasing lightly the peach shaped mons and the slit at the base of her tummy.

As he ceaselessly continued to probe and stroke the slot itself, he felt the hardening of the clitoris as she became excited to an increase of the fruity sensations of randiness as her clit responded to the finger caresses that he was now exercising.

She gasped but not with displeasure when he felt him slowly stroke his digit into the hot and damp ravine formed by her labia. He felt her pelvis ease forward as she involuntarily responded to his caresses and then she softly moaned, but it was just a whimpering sound that emitted from her throat. She parted her thighs wider and he was able to stroke and feel the heated flesh of her sex lips as she started the emotional journey into a sexual state of delight and pleasure... now Diane was truly getting herself into a pinnacle mountain of passion heat.

Her randiness took control so that it was the only thing she was aware of... she wanted it to continue because now, but the second her balloon of lustful hotness was expanding into a crescendo of heightened passion explosion and this was an all time first for the young girl....

Steve pulled her down so that she was settled on his knees. Her legs were spread wide and she had her thighs opened to be placed one each side of his lap. He pushed her back so that she was virtually spread open before him, her back resting on a small table that had been placed before him. She threw her arms above her head and spread her legs ever wide so that he was able to look down at the proffered cunt as she opened her legs even wider. Her bottom firmly squatting on his closed knees.

Steve studied the hot fleshy lips and as he reached forward he continued the caressing between the lips themselves and then he stabbed his middle finger deep into the sucking tube of her vagina... he felt the tight tunnel grip his finger tight and all the time now, Diane was responding with small squealing sounds as sheer fiery delicious sensations erupted from her body.

When she erupted at long last, she wanted to close her thighs tightly together, but his lap prevented this so she was spread wide and the freedom of her orgasm was enhanced to an even higher state by the inability of her legs to close tight.

He watched her bathe and he was able to see how she was in a state of very high delight from her experience. He let her rest before dismissing her from his room. But first he had her standing facing the wall, her arms raised high and her hands actually placed again the wall itself. He had her thrusting her backside backwards in a very emphasised pose of roundness, and then he smacked her for another five minutes.

She yelped and she writhed, but somehow she managed to keep herself properly postured as her bare arse was thoroughly spanked and reminded her of what happens when young women like Diane get uppity and out of hand.

She was allowed to dress and go home. After she had gone from the sports club house, Steve telephoned her mother.

'You're idea worked,' he assured her. 'I never thought she would agree, but she accepted the spanking like a young babe. Without a murmur of protest.'

He hung up. He was grateful to Diane's mother for suggesting this course of action, it had helped to realise a very favourite dream and fantasy of his.

And Diane was coming back next week for some of the same treatment except this time he had warned her that a cane would be in evidence. She need not complain to her mother, because her mother not only knew about it, but had suggested it herself!