A.W.O.L.

Story from Fessee 08.

A.W.O.L.
by Nick Fowler

The continuation of the story "Victim?"

IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS WIFE'S BEDROOM Marcus paused and sniffed the air, like a bloodhound seeking a scent, and as he selectively inhaled, a look of fanatical gratification illuminated his not unhandsome face. There it was, elusive as a waking dream, but present nonetheless. It was the unmistakable smell of imperfectly banished cigarette smoke!

'Father,' he said, 'Sally has been smoking!'

'Er, ah, what's that?' exclaimed Commander Fenwick in surprise. 'Are you sure? I carried out a thorough search of this room only this morning, as you suggested.'

'Did you search everywhere? Her underwear drawer, under the mattress?'

'Of course, my boy!' snapped the Commander, slightly miffed that his competence should be in question. 'I wasn't born yesterday.'

'Very well, Sally,' said Marcus, turning to the apprehensive, but very attractive young blonde who was standing between them. 'Where are they, and why was I disobeyed? You know that I will not be thwarted in my wishes, especially when they are in your best interests – and mine! If I send for you to come to my bed, I do not want you smelling like an overabused ashtray!'

Sally flushed. The accusation was so unjust that she decided to remain sullenly silent. She knew that she would be beaten anyway.

'Well, if they are not in your room,' said Marcus logically, 'they must be on you. Take your dress off!'

As Sally reluctantly obeyed, she reflected dismally on the events, graphically described in Fessee, No 4, that had led to the present situation. How she had foolishly engineered the circumstances which had placed her completely under her husband's disciplinary control. It had made her a virtual prisoner in her own home, with her father-in-law coming to live in as her 'warder', while Marcus, a university lecturer, twelve years her senior, was away, building a reputation as a brilliant academic, and a charismatic speaker. His students would have been astounded at "Don Marcus's" other face, which was that of a cold, calculating, tyrant. What made it worse in Sally's eyes was that he never punished her himself, preferring to watch dispassionately while his father, the retired Naval Commander, acted as his "executioner". Now she was incarcerated in a dungeon of her own making, fettered by her proclivities and desires as inexorably as if the links of her chains were of steel, rather than of the mind. The marriage contract was made only of paper, she could pack her things, and walk away whenever she liked, yet she knew that she was shackled to Marcus and the Commander as abjectly as any slave of an Eastern potentate. Like an 'old lag' who fears freedom more than the security of the cell, she was a victim to her upbringing and her desires!

Sally pulled the short black dress over her blonde curls, and stood, shivering and vulnerable, in her bra and nylon panties, stockings and suspender belt. She might just as well have been naked, as Marcus reached inside her bra and produced a packet of cigarettes from one cup, and a box of matches from the other, like a conjurer working 'magic'.

'It would seem, Dad, that you are becoming blasé to Sally's undoubted charms if you are failing to notice such changes in her delightful contours. I noticed immediately!'

'You would!' thought Sally resentfully. 'All you do is watch! What did I see in you, you cold fish? At least your father is human. He's stern, even brutal, but at least he fancies me!'

'Well,' said Marcus, turning to her. 'Now that you conveniently have your dress off you had better be punished. Will you fetch the hairbrush, Dad, and give Sally a thorough spanking for her deceit and disobedience! It is time that she learned that orders are made to be obeyed.'

The chastisement that followed, with Sally bare bottomed across the Commander's knee, and Marcus observing from the comfort of an armchair, was a particularly severe one, as Fenwick Senior felt that he had been let down by Sally, and had been made a fool of. He had begun to feel that there was a bond of trust and affection between them, and that although he needed to be strict for her own good, he was a father figure to her, as well as a relation by marriage.

So now his resentment showed in the severity of the punishment, as the ebony-backed hairbrush rose and fell stingingly on Sally's tender buttocks, and she yelled aloud her doleful remorse at being detected in transgression.

The Commander spanked hard and deliberately, letting each firm wristy impact sink in for its full effect. Sally howled from the very first stroke, not only because it stung dreadfully, but because she had learnt that to be vocal was better than stoic suffering. If you remained silent they just went on until you did yell, and only gave you more for being stubborn. She had learnt that lesson while still quite a small girl, and much painful spanking experience since had done nothing to change her views. Besides, there was an undoubted relief in being able to open your lungs and howl blue murder! It seemed to take some of the sting out of the proceedings! It was as if the burning smart of the hairbrush was soaking into your cheeks, up through your pussy, and into your guts, and needed to find an outlet through the larynx. Otherwise it built up intolerably.

After some six of these scalding collisions between tropical wood and soft flesh, Sally burst into tears. There was nothing feigned about this, and after about ten more she was crying so hard that she imagined that even the neighbours must hear – and the nearest house was two hundred yards away! She kicked her legs and squirmed furiously. She tried to plead, and promised to be good, to give up smoking, and never start again, but the face of Marcus remained coldly impassive, and the Commander took his cue from his son.

Sally began to wonder if he was ever going to stop. Long before he did, her bottom and thighs were beet red, and felt as if they were burning with incandescent heat. At one stage she tried to reach down to protect her ill-used posterior, but the Commander barked, 'Sally, do you want the cane too?' and hastily she jerked her hand away.

But at last it was over, and she sobbed her relief as Marcus nodded, and her mentor laid the wicked brush aside and replaced her panties over a hot, prickling bottom that felt twice the size of normal.

The Commander helped his daughter-in-law to her feet, and gave her a small, comforting hug. 'Right, naughty girl. Off you go and wash your face, and try not to do it again!'

Marcus said nothing but was pleased nevertheless. It was all highly satisfactory, this wife training. At the university functions he attended alone, he sometimes was tempted to tell others of the glowing success of his marriage. He did not, however, for that would have tarnished his image as a humane and kindly man, a liberal with a small 'l'.

* * *

During the weeks that followed, more 'good old fashioned spankings' came swishing home to roost in Sally's reorganised life with painful, and surprisingly satisfying regularity. The Commander scolded her often, while he forcefully reminded her of her many shortcomings. However she was quick to notice that when Marcus was not present to witness her bottom smackings, the hand that was then so firm with her could be amazingly gentle as it stroked and patted her outraged flesh. Then her crying soon subsided, and she discovered, with a sense of shock, that she no longer felt resentment towards him. In fact, at such times, she felt better than she had at any time during the life she had spent alone with Marcus.

May 20th, some three months later, was the Commander's sixty-first birthday, and Marcus was away, attending a seminar at Cambridge. Sally announced that she had a surprise for her father-in-law, he was to sit at the breakfast table and read his Telegraph, and not move until Sally returned. 'Right?'

'Right', agreed the Commander, always pleased, in his son's absence, to indulge her. Ten minutes later there was a tap at the dining room door.

'Enter!' barked the Commander.

The sight that entered took his breath away. There was Sally smartly dressed in WREN uniform, the blue serge immaculate, the seams of the black nylon stockings guardsman straight, the saucy little cap jauntily perched on her blonde curls. She saluted. 'WREN Sally reporting, sir. Er, the O.C WRENS said that I should come to you for corrective discipline, sir. She said that I needed a man's touch! Er, have you got a cane, sir, or should I get one?'

The look of delight on the old boy's face told Sally that her birthday present was an inspiration. She well knew the Commander's nostalgia for the distaff side of the Senior Service, and his joy in recounting his punishments of sundry naughty WRENS, who had fallen foul of him during his long and distinguished service, was quite tedious.

'Ah well,' Sally thought, 'It's all good fun. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.' That it was to her advantage to win the Commander as an ally was obvious, and should be well worth the expense of the uniform, plus a caning or two!

'Humph!' grunted the Commander, his eyes twinkling. 'Got a cane here, I think. Usually keep one to hand for occasions such as this.'

He crossed to a cupboard and produced the springy malacca. 'Right, young woman, pull up your skirt and bend over and touch your toes!'

Not without difficulty Sally hitched up the tight blue uniform skirt and bent herself over, presenting a pretty sight in seamed black stockings and suspenders, yet it appeared that the effect was not entirely to the Commander's satisfaction.

'And where,' he barked, 'are your regulation knickers?' It was a good question, because Sally's delightful bottom was attired in white frilly panties. Indeed, the Service outfitters, from whom she had purchased the uniform by phone and credit card, had said nothing about naval underwear.

'Er, sorry, sir! I forgot,' stuttered Sally, trying to make the best of the situation.

'Then two additional strokes to remind you!' said the Commander joyfully. 'Get up, while I find you some.'

He rummaged in a seachest and finally came up with a pair of navy blue Directoire knickers, perhaps the trophy from some long gone disciplinary encounter, and handed them to Sally. 'Put these on.'

Sally removed her own un-WREN-like frillies, and placed her high heels into the elasticated legs of the nylon bloomers, pulling them up snugly over her thighs and bottom. They felt constricting but quite comfortable, and would, she told herself, be some protection from the bite of the cane – if she was permitted to keep them in place over her rounded bottom.

'Now,' resumed the Commander, 'back down again for eight of the best. That's what delinquent ratings deserve!'

He had laid two well-placed strokes on Sally's knickered bottom, which stung despite its tight fitting and silky protection, when the phone rang. Signalling to Sally to stand up, the Commander picked up the receiver.

'Bramblehurst 7234. Fenwick...'

It was soon evident the call was going to be long and involved. The Commander placed a hand over the phone's mouthpiece and told Sally to return to her duties. 'I'll return to our unfinished business later, WREN Fenwick,' he told her absently.

'Permission to go outside, sir?' asked Sally impishly, an idea already hatching in her mischievous imagination. What fun it would be to go out in her uniform, and pretend to be a real WREN! Even to take the Commander's Cavalier for a spin. Of course, there would be a spanking when he found out, but he couldn't be too severe after the birthday present, and it would be worth it.

'Yes, carry on,' said the Commander, his mind on the phone conversation. Sally skipped out, picking up the car keys from the sideboard as she did so. Little did she know...

* * *

His call over, Commander Fenwick looked for Sally, his 'unfinished business' in mind. Where was she? He recalled her asking permission to go outside – into the garden, he had assumed – but she wasn't there.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour. It was then that he discovered the absence of his car. She was gone! Scarpered, deserted! Well, absent without leave, at the very least. God, what would Marcus say when he returned? Thank goodness that he wasn't expected back until later. But where was she?

* * *

At that moment Sally was in a layby, being questioned by two burly Naval policemen. The sight of a pretty young WREN rating proceeding in a leisurely fashion in a smart new Vauxhall Cavalier GL, had aroused their suspicions, and they had become even more suspicious when their jeep had flagged down the car and they discovered that the WREN driver had no identification, no license or insurance, or even a handbag. They came to the conclusion that the young woman was A.W.O.L., and the car stolen. Nor would she give the name of her unit. What she did do was to become increasingly angry and abusive and call them names, finally kicking the Master-at-Arms, Taffy Evans, painfully on the shin. After that they put handcuffs on her for their own protection.

Finally she calmed down enough to tell them some cock and bull story about being on a 'secret mission' for Commander Fenwick of Queen's Cottage, Bramblehurst!

'Right ho,' said Taffy to his assistant, 'Barnacle' Bates, 'we'll take her there. I served under a Commander Fenwick once, finally swallowed the anchor about three years ago, but it can't be him, or can it? He's hardly the James Bond type. You take the jeep, I'll drive the Vauxhall with Mata Hari in it.' And bundling Sally, her wrists still locked behind her, into the back seat of the car, they set off in convoy for Bramblehurst. They entered the gates at lunchtime, which was the identical time as Marcus's M.G. His university seminar had finished unexpectedly early!

* * *

In retrospect, Sally considered that the sight of Marcus's face, on seeing her marched in, in WREN uniform, between two matlows, her wrists locked behind her in bright, steel fetters, was almost worth what was to follow. She only wished that the neighbours had been on the look-out, but, disappointingly, they weren't. However, that was the rosy view of nostalgia, after the stripes had faded. At the time it was all quite horrendous.

There were redeeming features, but hardly from Sally's point of view. Bos'un Taffy Evans was an old shipmate of the Commander's, and that made things easier, especially when his old C.O. produced a bottle of Lamb's Navy Rum. As for A.B 'Barnacle' Bates, the other member of the patrol, he was happy to go along with anything, it was all better than touring the sodding Motorway, and so long as Petty Officer Evans was happy to carry the can...!

'It's my birthday today, lads,' said the Commander expansively. 'Would you like to come back here for a meal and a yarn tonight? If you are both off duty, of course.'

'That we are, sir,' said Taffy, always happy for wining, dining, and a pipe of shag. 'Er, what about the young lady, sir? Hadn't we better take the cuffs off her?'

'I suppose you'd better!' said the Commander offhandedly, glaring at Sally, 'Not that it would hurt her to be kept in irons for a few hours. She's due for a Court Martial after you leave, and without pre-empting the verdict of the Court, I'd guess that she was in for a flogging and a spot of jankers!'

'Tell you what,' broke in Marcus, who had said little until now, preferring to leave it all to the Senior Service, 'she owes you something for that kick on the shin, Bos'un Painful, is it?'

'Oh, very, sir!' grinned the Master-at-Arms, rubbing the offended spot, and trying to recall which leg had received the impact of Sally's small shoe.

'Well,' said Marcus, 'if you'd like to carry out the sentence of the Court, we'll hold over punishment for you to administer. I believe that traditionally it was the duty of the Master-at-Arms to give floggings!'

'Quite right, sir,' said Taffy. 'Er, will the sentence be carried out on the er – bare er posterior of the young lady, sir, like they used to do with Midshipmen?'

'Naturally, Bos'un, where else?' asked the Commander in surprise.

* * *

The Naval Police patrol having departed about its lawful business, taking the handcuffs with them, it took little time to decide Sally's fate. After all, she was guilty, and with no mitigating circumstances.

'Absent without leave. Taking a motor vehicle without the consent of the owner, and assaulting a Warrant Officer!'

She was told that she would be given a dozen strokes of the riding crop, at dinner that night, to be administered by the Master-at-Arms, and, what was more, Sally would wait upon them at table – both before and after her punishment, which would take place sandwiched between the sweet and coffee courses. Naturally, all her pleas for clemency were rejected. The Senior Service is a tough taskmaster!

'By the way,' asked Marcus, 'why the WREN uniform?'

The Commander explained.

'Well, since Sally so obviously enjoys dressing up, she can dress in a maid's costume to serve us dinner tonight. One of my girl students has just the outfit – won it as a bet in the last university Rag Week, I understand. I'll give her a ring, and go over and collect it. In the meantime, you, Sally, can get out of that ridiculous uniform and start preparing the dinner. Er, sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that the uniform was ridiculous, only on Sally!'

'Humph!' said the Commander. 'I thought she looked rather good in it. Which reminds me of unfinished business...!'

* * *

The maid's costume which Marcus borrowed from his student may have been ideal for Rag Week's Fancy Dress Ball, but would have given any self-respecting 'nippy' in Lyons' a blue fit.

It consisted of a sexy little dress in black satin, cut so low at the bust as to be positively indecent, and so high at the skirt hem that it scarcely covered Sally's bottom – and didn't when she bent forward. It was worn with a frilly petticoat, which pushed out the short skirt even more, and black seamed nylon stockings held up by a black suspender belt. The miniscule panties were decorated with lace ruffles across the seat, and there was also a dainty frill of lace where they fitted snugly to the thighs. This travesty of traditional servitude was worn with a small white apron and a starched little cap which perched cheekily upon Sally's golden curls. She looked delicious! The Commander said so, secretly Sally thought so, and Marcus – well, Marcus kept his own counsel! Sally would have enjoyed the charade if she had not been so apprehensive about her coming whipping. However often it happened to her, she told herself glumly, it didn't get any better, or hurt any the less! She hoped that Taffy Evans was a kind man. He was far too powerfully built if he wasn't!

Furthermore it was the first time that she had had her bottom bared and whacked before anyone other than family! She tried to tell herself that it was all utterly shameful – but had to admit that the idea sent little thrills of secret pleasure through her pussy-parts. She hoped that she wouldn't be too much of a baby when the riding crop began smoking down on her tender situpon!

* * *

The Commander's birthday dinner was a great success – mainly because Sally hadn't cooked much of it! It had been delivered by a restaurant. Taffy and 'Barnacle' Bates could scarcely keep their eyes off Sally, as she moved around the table, serving from a hostess trolley, and it must be admitted that Taffy's preoccupation with the disciplinary task ahead of him quite blunted a usually excellent appetite. He hoped that no one could sense his 'hard on' under the table.

After the sherry trifle had been appreciated, demolished, and cleared away, the Commander excused himself and returned dragging a large, pony sized, Victorian rocking horse which had long been in the attics of the old cottage. It was a beautiful beast, grey and mottled, benign and handsome, still polished in its varnished paint. How it must have delighted some long dead child. What a price it would bring in the sale rooms! But now Marcus and the Commander had another use for it.

The Commander led Sally across it. He held the horse's reigns to keep it still, and indicated that Sally should mount. The stirrups were short, suitable for a child, but not a grown girl, and Sally had to bend her knees. Her bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches, the skirt of the ridiculous maid's costume riding up. Sally's plump cheeks were like full moons upon which the ruched knickers strained alarmingly. Marcus moved forward and with some difficulty peeled them down over the out thrust, pouting globes. 'Barnacle' Bates, whose erection was as rampant as Taffy's, hoped that he was not about to disgrace himself beneath the linen table cloth!

Now knickerless, the twin cheeks, framed between straining suspender elastics and stocking tops, were of a tantalising, healthy fullness.

'I think,' said Marcus, 'that the chastisement will be more salutory if her buttocks are lightly treated with olive oil. The riding crop will, I am told, sting more!'

'Oh no,' pleaded Sally, 'It's going to be bad enough as it is!'

The reply to this presumptuous comment was a warm up spanking from the Commander that lasted almost ten minutes, and brought a hot stinging glow in its wake. It was almost a relief when Marcus returned with the olive oil and quite impersonally coated the hot, scarlet flesh with it. He could almost be dressing a salad, Sally thought indignantly. How could she have ever thought that she loved such an unfeeling block of marble!

In the meantime, to complete his victim's utter subjection to the prescribed punishment, the Commander slapped the deep, wide cleft of her buttocks, while Sally howled in protest, but to no avail.

The preliminaries over, the Commander produced a leather-bound riding switch and handed it to Taffy Evans, saying in judicial tones, 'Right, Master-at-Arms, a dozen strokes, and lay on well!' Then he jerked on the reins of the rocking horse, causing it to rear up and present Sally's rump as target for the first biting stroke. Grimly she hung to the animal's wooden neck, grasping its real horse-hair mane for scant comfort, and yelped as the plaited leather cut into her plump flesh.

Taffy took his time. Between strokes Sally looked over her shoulder, taking in the stern expression of the Commander, the gloating elation on Marcus's face, and the pop-eyed disbelief of 'Barnacle' Bates. There could be no mercy expected there! Fortunately she sensed that Taffy Evans was not using his full strength, which was as well, or he would have cut her bottom into ribbons! As it was each stroke burned and stung abominably!

What a team the Bos'un and the Commander made! As each stroke fell the Commander would let the horse, and Sally's whipped buttocks, down, only to rise again into the trajectory of the next downward stroke of the riding switch.

At the eighth stroke, Sally, who had tried to keep a count of the punishment, gave up, and just hung on waiting for it to end. If only, she thought between wails and gasps of pain, and pleas to be a better girl in future, if only she had never told Marcus that she had been brought up on smack bottoms! If only, just for once, she could be a distributor of punishment, instead of a victim! She owned to being a silly, reckless, little fool, but...

Taffy brought down the switch on an already tender spot and Sally howled, just howled. It was a combination of pain, misery, and a realisation of her ignominious position, dressed in a ludicrously sexy costume, and bent, half naked, over a rocking horse, having her bare buttocks soundly whipped for the gratification of four men, two of whom had been strangers until a few hours earlier.

Marcus watched the whipping with cold interest. That afternoon he had toyed with the notion of summoning her to his bed for an hour, as he had hardly seen her for several days, but he had decided that it might not be prudent. It might give his wife the wrong idea. Comforting her wasn't in his interests. In his opinion any punishment to Sally's deserving bottom should be painful, both during and after its application, and for as long as possible. His marriage was benefitting beautifully from these attentions to the defects in his irresponsible wife's demeanour. What a good idea of his father's to bring in an expert!

'Last three!' said the Commander to Taffy. 'Excellent work so far!'

"Crack! Crack! CRACK!" As the horse rocked and reared in its final disciplinary canter, and Sally bawled to the full extent of her lungs, all others present enjoyed this finale, the salute to her welted behind of a skilled disciplinarian.

It was the most expertly delivered beating that Sally had ever endured, and was certainly far more than she had bargained for when she had set out, so full of mischief, in the Commander's car that morning. Somehow she slithered off the rocking horse and stood swaying on her feet, moaning and sobbing as she clutched her palpitating, cringing hemispheres, the tears streaming down her face.

'Alright,' said Marcus unsympathetically, 'You can make the coffee, just as soon as you are ready!'

'That,' he thought smugly, as he saw his wife painfully pull up her panties and head for the kitchen, 'is how married life should be!' He was 'Don Marcus', university lecturer, master of his own life and family, in the most scorching and primitive way. And the lessons would go painfully on, for as long as he chose, and until he was satisfied. It certainly beat being a liberal with a small 'l'!

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

Come into my Parlour

Story from Fessee 01.

Come into my Parlour
A short story by Paula Meadows

She was young. She was beautiful. She was titled with a paragraph in Debrett. I was forty two, manifestly undistinguished and in awe of her. I had not won the second world war, driven racing cars or climbed mountains. I had worked all of my life as a professional with various charities and had considered it a feather in my trilby when I was appointed General Secretary to A.S.F.A.T.A. & I. which stands for Associated Societies for Aiding the Aged and Infirm. We ran homes for elderly and invalid men and women, put out to grass and otherwise neglected by our basically uncaring society. A very worthy cause. Subscription list enclosed!

I was not afraid of the aristocracy per se. Oh no. All major charities rely on patronage, Royal, aristocratic or merely City Rich so I was accustomed to meeting and working with volunteer helpers many of whom also had paragraphs in Debrett. But Lady Millicent was young, beautiful and I'd seen her photograph in Country Life, riding, swimming, and being received at Buck House long before we actually met. When we did meet she was aloof, condescending and her life outside my committee remained a closed book.

Her smile was ravishing, but polite. It invited no familiarity, and the fact that she caused me to have an erection every time I saw her was a fact that only I knew but she did not begin to suspect. I think. I hope. I believe.

* * *

Until the day, almost four years after she had come into my office to introduce herself, when she casually asked me to escort her to the house of an amusing friend she thought I'd be interested to meet. The friend was considering an annual commitment in the form of a financial donation which was tax free. The friend was a famous high society portrait painter.

I agreed at once and a London taxi whirled us to a very good address in Belgravia. A trim housemaid answered the door and Lady Millicent and I were ushered into a stately parlour where our hostess, Amanda Felicity Cummins greeted us. She was clad in trousers and a woollen jumper that was filled with bosom which jiggled. A mannish girl, this artist, with short hair and an abrupt manner which got down to business at once.

Lady Millicent seemed unexpectedly nervous and withdrawn, perching herself primly on a hard high backed wooden chair. I was offered a portion of a large settee and a cup of Lapsang Souchong, with lemon. The business of the evening was accomplished within ten minutes. At which point I expected to be ushered out of the house and on my way.

Instead our hostess rounded on Lady Millicent with an abruptness that startled me.

"Well Millie," she snapped. "Don't just sit there like Patience on her bloody monument. Strip!"

Lady Millicent's hands fluttered in agitation.

"Oh Mandy. I can't. Not in front of —"

"Don't be so damned silly," Amanda exploded. "I'm painting you in the nude, aren't I? Let's have a look at you then. Don't play the spoiled aristocratic bitch with me darling. I know you too well."

"But, but — I CAN'T! Not in front of — er 'um."

Did she mean the maid? Or me?

I sat glued to the settee, my arms wrapped around my kneecaps.

"Get 'em off," Amanda said tersely. "Stop wivering and waving your scruples about. You haven't got any. You know it and I know it and so does Polly Perkins over there."

Two nervous hands undid two unimportant buttons. A pleading look mixed with reproach and outraged modesty. Amanda, hands on hips smiled grimly. "Move it duckie," she said. "Or you know what happens, don't you?" From behind her back she produced a riding crop which she flexed in her large, spatulate hands.

Polly Perkins, the housemaid moved around from behind the settee. She winked at me.

Slowly the blouse was removed and creamy shoulders emerged and then the bra was hesitantly unhooked baring the breasts, pink tips erect, which I had only seen in masturbation fantasies. The protests and the hesitations proliferated as the skirt was unzipped and silken french knickers were pulled unwillingly down.

"That took far too long," said Amanda. "I insist on instant obedience Millie. YOU know that. Kneel over the stool."

And she did. She did. She DID.

What followed thereafter is best described in pictures and that is how it is described overleaf. I learned a lot about Lady Millicent I'd never suspected before.

The distant hauteur of her public persona dissolved into cries, twisting and turning as a network of welts covered her buttocks crimson and she melted into a warm sensuality that permitted every possible liberty to be taken.

On Monday, at the Annual General meeting she swept in, greeted me with her usual polite condescencion and her ice blue eyes warned me to keep my place and act as if it had never happened.

So I did. For a while.

Victoriana

Story from Fessee 07.

Victoriana
by Matthew Silk


The tinkling bells on the front door shattered the peace of the little antique shop where Arthur Sullivan was reading a book – Art at Auction. He glanced up at the nearest clock among the many which surrounded him. Four o'clock and his first customer of the afternoon.

He looked over his pince-nez to see who this rare visitor was and immediately closed his book. It was HER – back again for the fourth time in a fortnight.

She was blonde, slim and pretty and he guessed she was one of the young wives from the new estate on the edge of the village where he had recently given one of his lectures. She was dressed simply in a flowered summer frock with straps over her bare shoulders. As she closed the door she gave him a quick, almost guilty, glance.

He smiled and began polishing a pair of brass candlesticks while secretly watching her progress in her soft plimsolls as she walked round the shop.

She pretended to be interested in several items, picking them up and examining them, but she didn't fool him. He knew she had come back to look at one thing – the same thing she had looked at on each previous visit – the Victorian umbrella stand in the corner stacked with canes.

On her first visit she simply looked at the canes and crops he stored there, not daring to touch them. The second time she actually picked one cane up and examined its silver capped handle. She seemed about to ask him a question when her courage failed her and she fled. On the third visit, a couple of days ago, she stayed in the shop a lot longer and ended up at the umbrella stand twice but moved away each time another customer came in. Now she was back again, hovering, examining, edging her way round to the corner where the umbrella stand stood.

Arthur opened his shop in the tiny village three years ago. He did not advertise his interest in CP but it was surprising how quickly fellow enthusiasts found him. The dedicated could always discover at least one classic Victorian flagellation novel on his dusty bookshelves or an erotic lithograph of a domestic discipline scene tucked away among the prints. And for the true regulars, perhaps half a dozen, he would always take orders.

He kept the canes as the one openly visible sign of interest. He liked to see the young couples giggling as they examined a yellow rattan or the reaction of men dreaming half embarrassed dreams. It made him laugh and it made him sad. So many thoughts of if only... passed across the faces of the browsers.

From a young boy Arthur was convinced he had been born into the wrong age. Once he had discovered the Victorian era he was fascinated by every aspect of it. He studied history through school and went on to specialise in the Victorians at University.

His encyclopaedic knowledge made it inevitable that he would pursue his interest through his career. It had been his dream to own his own antique shop one day but it had taken him until a few years ago, in his middle age, to save enough capital.

Customers were few and far between but Arthur did not mind. He was not in the business to make a vast profit. His real interest lay in keeping the spirit of the Victorian age alive and the longer he lived in the confused, selfish, decadent, ill-disciplined twentieth century, the brighter shone the beacon of reason and ideals from the Victorian era.

The young woman had now edged her way round to the umbrella stand once more. She stopped, hesitated, then quickly darted her hand forward fingering the leather handle of the cane with the silver tip end. She replaced it in the stand and was about to flee again when he made his move.

'It is a relic of Victorian domestic discipline,' Arthur said quietly in her ear.

She jumped. He was close behind her leaning forward to pick up the cane. She looked as startled as a shoplifter caught red handed by a store detective. Arthur ignored her embarrassment and held the cane in front of her so she could see its full length.

'This is a particularly fine example of craftsmanship. Whoever had it made obviously went to a great deal of trouble,' so saying he bent the cane between his hands demonstrating its continued supple springiness.

'I think this shows two things,' he continued. 'Firstly the importance the Victorian family man put on maintaining discipline in his home and secondly that a cane like this would be intended for regular use over a period of several years.' He smiled at her. She was still blushing guiltily at being caught showing an interest.

But Arthur was warming to his favorite subject and was encouraged by the fact that she was making no effort to leave.

'It was probably made in this village for a local household. Canes were often used on servants but were also kept for wives.'

'Wives?' She spoke for the first time still looking away from him.

'Oh yes, the Victorians were much less guilt ridden about corporal punishment than we are today. They were able to accept it as a part of everyday life. They simply didn't have the hang-ups we have invented for ourselves in the twentieth century with all our pseudo-psychology.'

He paused but she did not stop him. Indeed she seemed interested in hearing more.

'For instance, take The Times of April 6 1855 commenting on a fine of £5 for a lady called Emilie Gordon for thrashing her horses too excitedly. It suggested that instead of a fine she should be sent to prison and given 'a few private whippings by the stoutest woman in Hampshire.'

'Can you imagine The Times advocating anything like that today? There would be uproar. But the Victorians saw no problems with the caning and whipping of adults, including women, if they deserved it. It is only in the twentieth century, and only in the west, that we have come to believe that there is something odd in people who believe in administering – and receiving – corporal punishment.'

'Was it common, then, for wives to be... you know... er...' she couldn't finish the sentence.

'Thrashed?' He finished it for her. 'Yes,' she replied quietly.

'Hard to say. But there is a lot of evidence in diaries and unpublished journals that many wives were whipped, or more likely birched.'

'Gosh,' she said. 'They really were kinky then.'

'No, not really. The Victorians, you know, had none of the problems we have with pleasure and pain. They would have found it absurd that anyone would have found pleasure in pain. A good caning hurt, they understood that. It was meant to. At the same time words like sadism and masochism with their sexual connotations simply did not exist in their vocabulary. The twentieth century invented those words and now any kind of infliction of pain, especially as punishment, is labelled sadistic. And because punishment to be effective invariably involves pain to some degree we have found ourselves barely able to punish. That's why we have all these soft sentences today. The odd thing is we have created far more confusion and guilt complexes because we have failed to understand, as the Victorians understood, that some people need, indeed want punishment to help them distinguish between right and wrong. There is plenty of evidence from private diaries that Victorian wives who were thrashed when they played up respected their husbands far more for whipping them and were far happier themselves. That has nothing to do with sadism.'

He paused and smiled. 'I'm afraid you have got me on my hobby horse, I tend to get carried away. I feel very passionately about the Victorians. I feel we malign them. We are far more sexually repressed than we think. We like to think of ourselves as living in an age of sexual freedom. In fact we are hopelessly constrained by our own moral and sexual prurience. We think we know ourselves much better because of all our clever psychological theories.

'In fact the pseudo psychology operates like a straight jacket. Anything which deviates slightly from the normal is regarded as a suitable case for treatment. We run away from most of our problems by trying to explain them. The Victorians with their birch and canes had a far more practical approach and those wives appreciated it. I love the Victorian age – that's why I run this shop and give my lectures.'

'I know', she said. 'I've got a confession to make.'

He raised an eyebrow.

'I've been to one of your lectures.'

So, as he thought all along, she wasn't just a casual browser in his shop but had been coming for some purpose. But what?

'Which lecture did you come to see,' he asked.

'The Victorian marriage and household. You talked then about discipline in the home.'

'Ah yes, the servants.'

'And the wives,' she whispered.

'Yes, certainly, the wives as well. From the private diaries I just mentioned.'

'That's right. You said that in the Victorian household wives could expect to be thrashed. I remember everyone laughed.'

'Yes,' he said with a frown remembering his disapproval at the immature giggling among the audience.

'What I wanted to know was... what I came here to ask was... what a wife might be caned FOR.' She turned and looked at him for the first time and he noticed she had beautiful blue eyes. She was no older than her mid twenties and very fair skinned.

'Well,' he hesitated, unsure where this conversation was leading, 'Neglect of duties, insubordination, carelessness, petulance, causing a scandal, that type of thing.'

'Causing a scandal? What, like having an affair you mean?' she suddenly seemed very nervous.

'Yes, a Victorian man would obviously very much disapprove of any impropriety like that. He would take the most serious view of his wife even flirting with another man.'

'You mean a wife could expect a severe whipping if she was in any way unfaithful?' She was almost trembling yet seemed driven by a determination to have her questions answered.

'Yes,' he replied. 'A wife could expect the severest punishment for disloyalty.'

'How many strokes would having an affair merit, do you think? Say on a young wife, about my age, who like me had been married for only just two years and who still loved her husband dearly.'

He looked at her carefully. He could sense his reply was going to be very important for her.

'Twenty four strokes, I would say. That was an average number for a really serious offence,' he replied honestly.

She bit her lip. 'As many as that? Even though it was the first time she had been unfaithful and it was only a one night stand?'

Suddenly, as if a dam had burst within her, she began to talk rapidly, the words pouring out.

'What if the wife had just gone out once with someone at the office where she worked when her husband was away on one of his frequent trips abroad and she was lonely and she had a little bit too much to drink and had rather stupidly gone to a party with this work colleague and things had gone too far.... And what if she knew that if she told her husband he wouldn't spank her silly little bottom like she deserved? What if this wasn't the Victorian age when she could look forward to a deserved thrashing and then got on with her marriage but 100 years later when her husband would never dream of caning her but would be dreadfully hurt if she told him the truth about what happened? What could a young wife like that do?

'You're right,' she said with sudden anger. 'It was easier for the Victorians. They didn't have to live with this terrible guilt.' She seemed on the point of bursting into tears. Taking a deep breath she continued in a quiet voice. 'What if she loved her husband TOO MUCH to tell him? Couldn't the twentieth century wife go to a man who lived nearby who was interested in the Victorian age and how Victorian wives were punished? Would he do that as a favour to her do you think so that she could solve her dilemma and save her marriage?' Her blue eyes were full of pleading.

'Yes,' he replied quietly. 'If that was what she wanted.' She drew the cane quickly out of the umbrella stand and placed it firmly in his hands.

'It is,' she whispered urgently. 'My husband will not be back until the end of next week. He will never know. Cane me here, now, this afternoon, please.'

He took the cane from her and moved swiftly to lock the front door and turn the sign to 'closed.' Then he guided her up the back stairs of the three storey building to the top floor. There were two locked rooms facing each other on the tiny landing. He unlocked the right hand door and opened it for her to walk in.

The room was bare except for a chaise longue with a large cushion on the floor and a large gilt over mantel mirror propped up against the wall. Built into the alcoves were two glass fronted bookcases containing his private collection of leather bound flagellation erotica. Hung on the white walls were various lithographs of domestic scenes.

She fidgeted as she looked around nervously. Everything in the room even the lamps and the long drape curtains were Victorian. It was if they had stepped back in time.

'Take off your dress,' he ordered crisply. She slipped the light cotton over her head. Underneath she was wearing only a pair of white briefs.


'Have you ever been caned before?' he asked.

'No, never,' she replied truthfully.

'Kneel down on the cushion and lie along the chaise longue.'

She obeyed, placing her arms in front of her and taking hold of the walnut support beneath the velvet seat of the chaise. She rested with the left side of her face to the velvet looking at the mirror where she could see herself stretched out. Seeing herself, she realised the room had been furnished specifically for punishment and she was suddenly aware that others had knelt where she was now kneeling on the cushion. She found the thought strangely comforting knowing that others had experienced the same gnawing nervousness in their stomachs as they knelt for punishment. They, like her, were time travellers to a previous age, finding some escape from the confusion of the twentieth century by entering the locked punishment room with Arthur as their guide. In the far corner of the room she saw another umbrella stand stacked with canes and crops.

She watched Arthur as he reached forward and slipped her briefs down her thighs, flicking them over her ankles so that she was quite bare. He looked at her young back tapering down to the two firm white cheeks of her bottom waiting submissively for the cane. He was aware of her eyes watching his every move in the mirror as he measured the length of the cane to her buttocks. When he was satisfied he looked at her in the mirror.

'You will remain in position at all times, counting out the number of strokes after every six only. In other words when you have received six, 12, 18 and 24. You will call me Sir at all times during the punishment. Is that understood?

'Yes sir.'

'Very good. Now arch your back and push your bottom out as far as you can.' She complied, her pale unblemished buttocks swelling and opening into a round inviting target.

He steadied the cane behind her, once more catching her eyes in the mirror. She was now focussing intently on the cane as it hovered inches from her cheek.

'You do not have to look if you don't want to,' he said quietly.

'I would prefer to watch as part of my punishment, sir.'

'Very well. By the way, what is your name?'

'Victoria....naaargh!' She cried out as the cane whipped down landing with a fierce smack which sounded like a pistol crack in the bare room.

'Actually, nobody has ever called me Victoria I've always been known as Vicky...yeeeh!...' A second time the cane rebounded like a recoiling spring from her firm flesh. To her credit she kept herself perfectly in position to receive its impact even as she watched it descend.

He sensed that she wanted to talk perhaps to take her mind off the stinging pain.

'And where exactly do you live on the estate?'

'Beaumont Roa...oahwoad.' She wailed as the cane swished down for the third time.

It seemed odd to be holding a polite conversation with this woman who was a virtual stranger whilst thrashing her backside. Yet talking like this was strangely comforting to both of them, as if it made what they were doing the most normal thing in the world.

'And how long have you lived there?'

'Two years. Since we were marri...eed!' she cried. The fiery pain was now becoming too hot for her to remain still as she fought to resist the cane.

'And what is the job you mentioned you do?'

She was still trying to compose herself before she answered. He waited.

'I'm a sec..heck!...retary' she yelped.

He looked at her in the mirror. Her face was flushed and he saw the first signs of tears welling in her eyes but she was still bravely arching her back and pushing her bottom out as far as she could behind her.

He stopped asking her questions, concentrating instead on delivering each stroke square across her beckoning rear.

'Six sir,' she announced calmly and he realised that despite her cries he had barely dented her composure.

He took up the cane once more and they did not speak again. By the time she called 'twelve sir' her buttocks were squirming and dancing to the tune of his cane. When she cried out '18 sir' her voice was choking and tears were running down her face and dropping onto the Persian rug on the floor. Her knees had sagged backwards and slid sideways so that she was no longer knelt over the end of the chaise but sprawled open-legged on it.


'You can stop the caning any time you want, you know. The choice is yours,' he said.

He was aware that it was a choice a Victorian wife would not have had the luxury of receiving.

"No, please carry on. I must go through with it, I owe that at least to my husband. If I cannot ask his forgiveness at least I can prove to myself that I still love him. I can't explain but give me the last six, please.'

He nodded. She turned her head away from the mirror for the first time and looked straight ahead of her. The cane whistled down on its agonising arc. She let out a piercing cry her last pretence at resistance stripped away. The cane no longer seemed to spring back from her firm cheeks but clung to the soft under curves of her buttocks as she absorbed the pain it brought along with the redemption she was seeking.

'24 sir,' she cried out at last sliding fully off the chaise and onto the floor.

* * *

He left her alone as she examined her stripes in the mirror and waited for her downstairs. It was more than 15 minutes before she joined him. She looked even more attractive now she was relaxed and the tension had drained from her. 'Still stinging?' he asked.

'Like hell!' she said with a rueful smile rubbing her palm over her still hot bottom. 'But thank-you, I got what I asked for.'

'You took it well.'

'Thankyou,' she blushed.

He looked at her carefully, measuring his words. 'Now how would you like to be caned again, in exactly the same way?'

'What?' She could not believe she had heard him properly. He couldn't mean it.

'Let me explain. You came to me for punishment, remember? You asked me to cane you as a favour. You owe it to me to at least listen.'

'Alright,' she agreed, still shocked.

'As well as running this shop and giving my lectures on Victorian life I also run a small Victorian Society for a select group of people with a particular interest in the erotic and sexual side of physical discipline. When I told you earlier that the Victorians would find no pleasure in pain that was only half true. The Victorians believed in discipline but they were also very aware of the eroticism of corporal punishment and the sexual pleasure which could be derived from it. But unlike us they believed the two were entirely separate.'

'In our Victorian Society we celebrate this other aspect of Victorian life to which they were so enthusiastically addicted. We concentrate on antique fairs and antiquarian bookshops searching for accounts and unpublished diaries by those men and women who enjoyed the sexual pleasures and fulfillment of submission and erotic discipline.'

'And upstairs in the punishment room, where you have just been so delightfully caned, we re-enact passages from the journals we find. Our lady members eagerly and willingly present themselves before the society to receive the cane or the birch or the whip purely for pleasure and the general entertainment of members.'

Vicky suddenly saw a vision of herself once more stretched along the chaise in front of the mirror with her buttocks bared and pointing up to the poised cane held by Arthur. But this time they were ringed by a group of men and women dressed in Victorian clothes quietly and passively watching her. The vision of her humiliation brought the tingling heat back to the stripes across her bottom as if the cane had just struck.

'Your caning will be written down, every stroke recorded in detail in our society journal which chronicles our meeting,' Arthur continued. He lifted a thick leather bound book from beneath the counter. 'Written here are the accounts of our previous meetings and the descriptions of the punishments with the names of the victims, the number of strokes etc. In 100 years time readers will be able to read and re-live the accounts of your punishment, and enjoy it with us as if they were in the room just as we enjoy the journals of the wives we find. This is how you can repay my favour. I shall let you know when the meeting is.'

It was a fortnight later when her husband was away that the card dropped through her door. Opening it she read:

'The Victorian Society requests the pleasure of your company tonight at Sullivan's Antiques at 8pm.'

A Perfect Position

Story from Fessee 10.

A Perfect Position
by Camilla Hope

IN HIS YOGA CLASSES, Hensai seldom spoke. His cane did all the talking. Long, lithe and supple, it disciplined the recalcitrant bodies of a dozen young ladies, all attempting to achieve the perfect pose.

Buttocks of all shapes and sizes reached for the sky in the 'plough' posture, spread generously in the 'cat,' wobbled enticingly in the 'golfer' and firmed out admirably in the 'pendulum'. If Hensai was amused or titillated by the sight, he gave no sign. Calmly, with a deft flick of the right wrist, born out of years of practice, he stung the backsides of those holding a position that reached short of perfection. Only a faultless asana would escape his silent, yet effective, reprimand.

Classes were held in a large studio attached to Hensai's Victorian mansion. At one end of the studio was a platform where he would demonstrate each asana for the benefit of his students. This was done slowly, deliberately and expertly, so that there could be little doubt in the minds of his acolytes as to what was expected of them. When he had finished his demonstration, the students moved slowly into position, whilst his keen, watchful eye regarded each one critically in turn. Only when the movement was complete, and each student had settled into the posture, did he step down from the platform and make his way around the immobile forms. He used his cane to correct any errors, and then metered out a single stroke with a force appropriate to the magnitude of correction needed, upon the unfortunate posterior of the miscreant.

You might be forgiven for thinking that only a very select few would have the courage to return week after week for the sting and humiliation of having their rumps publicly admonished for slackness, lack of attention or ineptitude. Not so. Hensai's classes were ever popular and always full. He never needed to advertise. Students came by recommendation, but were only accepted after an interview with the Master himself. Each prospective student was left in no doubt as to the nature and efficacy of the tuition, and signed a 'contract' accepting the terms and conditions, and an undertaking never to reveal the methods personally devised by Hensai himself. Any betrayal of this contract would result in instant dismissal from the course and a permanent ban from the 'school'.

It was only by the fortuitous emigration to New Zealand by a student that Margot was invited to join the beginner's class. Introduced by a long-standing, disciple and stalwart member of the advanced class, a few probing questions satisfied Hensai that Margot was of sufficient calibre to withstand the rigours of the strict discipline necessary for the practice of yoga.

New students were always 'worked in' lightly. As their bodies and limbs grew more supple and pliable, more was demanded of them, but for the first few weeks, all that Hensai asked was that the student worked to the best of her ability. The cane still controlled, but gently; gradually accustoming the acolyte to its encouraging 'kiss' across her rear quarters. Pain was not the purpose of Hensai. Yoga is a gentle form, and it was only when a student had reached the stage of possessing the ability to perform an asana fully correctly, yet insulted the form through laziness or inattention, that the full potential of the cane was felt.

In keeping with Hensai's insistence on discipline, all the students wore the same black leotards cut high over the hips, offering scant protection to the buttocks encased only in royal blue, footless tights. No under-wear was allowed; it marred the linear perfection of the human body, Hensai had explained patiently to those who questioned his decision.

Margot joined the class, and for several weeks worked conscientiously on all the asanas, practising daily at home, so that gradually her stiff limbs eased, her joints ceased to creak, and the relatively simple postures of the beginner's class became almost second nature. She was determined too that Hensai's cane never had cause to come into contact with her buxom rear quarters and, initially, she sensed that Hensai was well pleased with her progress.

In the changing room after each class, the other students rubbed their backsides ruefully and examined the pinkened cheeks, comparing notes and accusing Hensai of favouritism whenever one student had a noticeably redder bottom than anyone else. Margot's remained lily-white, and this came in for a certain amount of resentment as well. Disparaging remarks about cowardice came her way; how she should take greater risks and tempt providence, instead of remaining a 'goody two-shoes' and escaping penalty. It simply wasn't playing the game! Chastened, Margot promised to do worse, yet when it came to the crunch, she matched Hensai's standards of perfection, and simply could not bring herself to fall short of his requirements. Deep down too, she was scared, and knew only too well that she was putting off the evil moment; the sharp sting of Hensai's cane across her reluctant backside!

* * *

One wet and windy Friday evening, Margot arrived at the class tired after a hard week at the office. The other students were tired and fractious too, and Hensai's cane was wielded with greater abandon that evening than Margot had ever witnessed before. For the first time, she felt the cane nudge her into the correct position, and the whack across her exposed rump brought tears of mortification into her eyes and a flush to her cheek. An approving glance from the student next to her told her that at last she had been accepted as one of them, and as a slow warmth penetrated the affected area, her fear of corporal punishment diminished.

At the end of each class came a ten-minute period of deep relaxation. A tape of tidal waves ebbing and flowing onto a beach was played, encouraging each student to relax fully and completely, and to forget their problems in the outside, everyday world. As Margot sank into a wonderfully relaxed state, she became aware of a faint snoring coming from the student next to her. Someone falling asleep in Hensai's class! Surely this wasn't possible! Helen was still asleep when the relaxation period was over, and everyone had stretched their limbs back into life again, and filed out quietly into the changing room. One look at Hensai's stern face provoked no comment from the ladies as they left: they all knew that such a misdemeanour would most certainly call for an extra period of 'private tuition', of a kind reserved only for the most deserving.

Margot was halfway home when she realised that she had left her umbrella in the changing room. Although it had stopped raining, she was reluctant to leave it behind and risk losing it, so she retraced her steps back to the studio. She was surprised to find the front door still unlocked: the corridor leading to the changing room was dark, but the light shining through the half-glazed studio door enabled her to find her way. Stealthily, she crept towards the door, anxious not to be seen, and then stopped dead in her tracks.

A quick glance through the glass showed Helen completely naked, in the plough position, having her over-ripe bottom firmly dealt with by a wicked-looking paddle wielded by Hensai.


Fascinated, Margot continued to peer through the glass, keeping as much out of sight as possible. Little had she realised before how perfect the 'plough' was for such a punishment! Flat on her back, Helen's legs were raised from the waist in a shoulder stand, then passed right over the torso with her feet touching the ground some distance beyond her head. Her generous cheeks formed the apex of the triangle, right on target for chastisement. Even better, the recipient could watch the punishment being delivered! Each time the paddle descended, Helen gave a shriek before it even came into contact with her flesh. Then as it hit its mark, her shriek turned into a howl of anguish and she begged Hensai over and over again to stop. Tall and firm, he continued to belabour her quivering, reddened cheeks without mercy, each stroke in tune with a true perfectionist in the art; each wallop greeting its target accurately, so that the entire region was well and truly covered, but once only.

As a grand finale, he laid aside the paddle, picked up the cane and delivered one swift cut right across both cheeks, producing instantly a livid weal, and a heightened screech of protest from Helen.

Sensing that things were coming to an end, Margot quickly dived into the changing room, rescued her umbrella and fled from the annex as fast as she could possibly run.

For a while, it shamed her that witnessing Helen's punishment had produced an arousal more profound than she'd ever experienced before. 'Pervert', she muttered to herself as she ran most of the way home. But deep down inside she now knew just where her own fulfilment lay, and she was determined to achieve it one day very soon.

* * *

The following week before the yoga class, in spite of curiosity and questioning in the changing room, Helen gave nothing away much to everyone's disappointment. She privately planned to have the monopoly of Hensai's attention in 'private tuition' for as long as possible, and no way was she going to reveal the details to encourage the others! She hadn't reckoned on Margot though. That young lady was particularly observant in class that week. For the first time, she noticed that the other students deliberately made mistakes in order to feel the stroke of Hensai's cane. And this week, it seemed as though some of the young ladies were bending over backwards to incur Hensai's annoyance as frequently as possible. At the end of the session, the Master broke his habit of silence and gave the class a severe reprimand.

'The general standard of this class is falling, and I will not tolerate such laxity. I intend to make an example of you.' His eyes roamed severely round the room and alighted on Jane, who had already received more than here fair share of the cane during the lesson.

'Step up to the platform, Jane,' commanded Hensai in a voice of steel.

Trying to seem reluctant and apologetic, she obeyed. 'I'm sorry,' she murmured, as she approached him. 'I promise that I'll do better next week.'

'And so you shall,' replied Hensai. 'But first a reprisal is due for this week. Bend over.'

With her upturned rear end facing the class, she braced herself for the punishment due. Hensai raised his arm and delivered six sharp cuts with the cane in swift succession.

As each blow fell, Jane gasped out loud with the pain and rocked forward on her heels. She could have refused to have taken her punishment and just walked right out of the door, but that would have been too humiliating in front of a class watching with expectant desire and envy. But it was obvious too that it really hurt; quite a far cry from the relatively gentle tap they all experienced on occasion during the lesson itself.

When Hensai had finished and allowed Jane to return to her place on the floor, he demanded whether anyone else would like to step up and receive the same. No one volunteered.

'In future, poor inattentive work in class will result in my choosing one of you to be severely punished. And to ensure that standards are kept high, I shall pick the least deserving among you. You will then be individually responsible for ensuring that no one else in the class is punished for your own misdemeanours. In plain English, the more any individual tries to goad me into giving you the kind of punishment which I know full well you enjoy, the least likely it will be by my own hand. Is that quite clear?'

The class with one accord mutually nodded their assent and Hensai curtly dismissed them.

Margot was now in something of a quandary. If she kept up her struggle for perfection, so that she was admonished by the cane the least frequently in class, she knew only too well that she'd be the victim on the platform. Yet once again, she was aroused at seeing Jane get her just desserts, and part of her longed for the same expert attention.

* * *

The following week, a slightly subdued class worked its way more competently at the asanas under Hensai's watchful gaze. It was noticeable that his cane descended less frequently on upturned rumps than in previous weeks, as the entire class genuinely strived for perfection. Whether it was through an individual desire to be called to account on the platform or through a genuine collective effort not to incur Hensai's wrath, we shall never know. Then Susan, the most recent member of the class, spoilt it all. She suddenly developed a fit of the giggles, which rapidly infected everyone else. In doing a head-stand, she had fallen on top of the girl in front of her, who did the same, causing most of the row to collapse like an ungainly heap of cards.

As the class struggled to regain control, Hensai strode up onto the platform. 'Enough!' he barked. 'All stand facing me.' Promptly, the ladies obeyed. Surely now they were all going to be dismissed from the school for good!

Hensai strode over to a corner cupboard and removed a thick leather tawse. He motioned the first student in front to climb the platform. 'Spread you legs, bend over and grasp your ankles,' he commanded in a voice which brooked no disobedience. She obeyed, and three punishing thwacks were delivered right across her exposed rear quarters. Red-faced, she stepped down, and the second student took her place and received the same treatment. That week, there were ten ladies in all, and each one regretted in turn having been led astray by Susan. The latter, of course, was the only one not to be called up onto the platform. True to his word, Hensai was not going to allow the culprit to enjoy the punishment.

If they all thought that that was the end of the matter, they were quite wrong. After the relaxation session, Hensai ordered them to sit in a semi-Lotus position. His eyes then rested on Margot and her heart sank. In spite of not having tried harder than the rest, she had needed no prompting from the cane that evening, and this, she knew now, meant trouble.

Reluctantly, she stood up and walked onto the platform. They had recently mastered the 'Salutation to the Sun' series of asanas, and he made her adopt one of them as being a highly suitable position for punishment. With her feet apart, resting firmly on the ground, she had to place her hands on the floor some distance in front, so that she formed a neat triangle with the floor as base. Her tights were stretched over her generous rump, and Margot doubted very much whether they would offer any real protection at all from the beating to come. She prayed that he wasn't going to use the cane; anything but that! She had seen the effect only too well after one stroke on Helen's backside!

Her relief when Hensai picked up the tawse again was short-lived. He began systematically at the top of her left buttock and worked his way downwards, thoroughly and evenly. Each stroke kindled a painful fire that Margot, in all her wildest imagination, had never dreamed of. His precision was masterly; never covering the same spot twice, yet not missing out a single square inch. At each stroke, her bottom quivered in protest, and she used every bit of control in her possession to stop herself from yelling out in anguish. This, she was determined to take stoically. The punishment was unfair, and she was certainly not going to give the rest of the class the satisfaction of knowing that the beating was almost beyond endurance. Manfully, she took it, even suppressing a gasp when Hensai delivered a final cut neatly on her inner thighs before more gently working his way between the two moons to the right buttock. Pain and pleasure rolled into one! The arousal that Margot was experiencing was not in the least subdued by the deep, throbbing heat that began spreading across her chastised bottom in a wide, painful liquid flame, that threatened to engulf her totally. It was over at last, and Hensai helped her to stand upright. Furious, humiliated and aroused at the same time, Margot wanted to strangle him. Instead, she bowed in the prescribed manner and thanked him for her punishment. The class watched silently as she slowly and painfully made her way out to the changing room.

In spite of being the first in, she was the last one out. The girls had gathered around to admire the livid red weals, which throbbed and burned until Margot took a cold shower to calm down the affected area. By the time she had patted herself dry, the others had left, and the studio was silent. Standing naked in front of the long mirror examining the damage for herself, there was an unexpected knock on the door. Hensai opened it and walked in.

'I thought that you might need this.' In his hand he held a large jar of cream. Margot juggled with her small towel trying to cover herself from his appraising gaze.

There was a long couch at one end of the changing room. He motioned her towards it and made her lie face down.

'You bore your punishment well,' he said. 'I'm very pleased with you.' Gently, he massaged in the cool, soothing cream and gradually the burning subsided. Lulled into a pleasant calmness by Hensai's administrations, she allowed him to take her further; to transport her to heights she had never previously reached, and suddenly the punishment seemed worthwhile. No sense of injustice remained. Just a perfect, complete union between herself and Hensai, which she wished would continue for ever!