Sam Ramsey serial, Ep.2. "Sarah by the Sea"

Story from Februs 27.

Sarah by the Sea
by Ramsey Stratton

Episode 1

Sarah was a few minutes late arriving in the dining room, and Mary was already seated at a small table in the window looking out onto the sea, an open bottle of white wine in the ice-bucket beside her.

'I'm sorry – I always seem to be late!'

Mary smiled and jumped up. 'No you don't: anyway, I was early.'

They hugged. 'It's great to see you.'

And it was. One of the few pleasures on these business trips was the chance occasionally to meet up with old friends, and Sarah had known Mary for a long time, since they had worked in the same branch for a year. They weren't particularly close, but Mary was very good company, and after a few drinks she could be wonderfully indiscreet about mutual acquaintances in the large enterprise for which they both worked.

'Well, Sarah, tell me everything!'

They smiled at each other again, and fell almost immediately into their usual bantering style of conversation. Within a few minutes, Mary's obvious pleasure in seeing her, the wine, the glorious light glinting on the sea outside, all began to lighten Sarah's mood. It had been a grimly stressful day; but the evening promised to be fun.

Sarah looked around the dining room. The summer was coming to an end, and the small hotel wasn't very busy. There was an elderly couple at one table; a small family group at another; the only other diner was a rather good-looking young man dining alone, on business too, perhaps. She saw with amusement his eyes rivetted to the back of the young waitress as she walked towards the kitchen slim, a blonde pony-tail, white blouse, a short, very tight, black skirt, beautiful legs, and rather sexy, strappy black sandals. From behind, she looked as if she should capture any man's eyes.

And then the waitress paused by the dessert trolley, and half turned. With a sudden start of recognition, Sarah realised that it was The Girl.

It had been about five months before, just after Easter, when she was last in this seaside town. There were a few hours free the afternoon she arrived, and Sarah had gone to the little lane of boutiques in the old town looking for a summer dress. There was a favourite shop where she had bought clothes before, and she had picked a handful of dresses to try on. At first, she was the only occupant of the communal changing room. Then an extremely pretty young girl had walked in. They exchanged smiles, and somehow (or so it seemed in retrospect) a sexual charge built up as they undressed and redressed in front of each other. At one point, the girl – rather unnecessarily – removed her bra to try a dress on, as if flaunting her pert breasts to the older woman, and Sarah found herself smiling appreciatively at the girl. And then – afterwards, she couldn't at all understand why – it happened. Sarah turned her back to the girl, and bent right over to pick up her own clothes, knowing that her small lace knickers would ride up. And as they did so, they would expose the unmistakable marks across her slim bottom still clear from the night before, when Adam had caned her so painfully, so excitingly...

The girl had obviously seen, for she had gasped slightly. When Sarah had straightened and turned, they looked straight into each others eyes. Nothing was said while Sarah quickly slipped on her own dress; but as she left, she had spoken quietly to the still half-naked girl, 'One day, you must try it'.

Sarah had often thought of that encounter since, and wished... Well, what did she wish? She didn't quite know. Though more than once, she had masturbated deliciously fantasizing about The Girl.

* * *

And now, here was the same girl again, unavoidable. A jumble of thoughts rushed through Sarah's mind. Would the girl recognise her? Was this going to be horribly embarrassing? Had Mary noticed her shock? Was she...

The waitress was coming over to the table now. She saw Sarah, and her eyes widened in surprised acknowledgement: and then the two women, older and younger, hesitantly smiled at each other.

'Are you ready to order?'

The meal passed in a daze. Sarah managed to join in with Mary's cheerful gossip; but all the time her mind was on the girl, intensely aware of her physical presence as she served the food, from the fair down on her arms to her pretty feet, from her straw blonde hair streaked by the sun to the shape of her breasts beneath her blouse. 'This is absurd,' Sarah thought, as she poured more wine, 'it's positively adolescent...'

After dessert, Mary excused herself. The girl approached the table with the coffee cups.

'Hello again,' said Sarah, and looked at the girl who held her gaze. 'Can you help?' she added quietly, 'I'm thinking of going to a beach tomorrow afternoon if the weather holds. Is there an especially nice one near here?'

The waitress looked at Sarah, smiled and paused. Then, 'I'm free after lunch tomorrow: I could show you if you like...'

'That would be lovely, really lovely; I'd like that a lot.'

'We could meet up opposite the bandstand; you know it?'

'Yes, I know where you mean.'

'It will be a quarter to three by the time I can get off.'

'That's just fine. I'll pick you up in the car then.'

Mary was a long time returning; when she did, she glanced at the girl now busying herself at the table with the family party, and said, 'Well, I hope I gave you two a chance to make a date. Yes? Oh, don't look all innocent, Sarah. You've been going gooey-eyed over her all evening; and when you've not been looking at her, she's been eyeing you up.'

'Oh no. I mean, yes. Oh God, I didn't realise I'd been that obvious. Mary, if you ever say a whisper about this.'

Mary grinned at her. 'Don't worry; there are some things I don't gossip about. I'm only jealous: she's gorgeous.'

'Mary?'

'Oh yes, she's just my type.' Sarah must have looked startled.

'Don't act so surprised! You mean you've never guessed after all this time?'

'No.'

'Hey ho! Well, if it's going to be true confession time, let's at least get another bottle of wine and sit in a corner of the lounge with it.'

So they did.

* * *

As Sarah drove up, the girl was waiting. She looked even prettier, simply dressed in shorts and T-shirt, her straw-coloured hair loose.

'Wow! Cool wheels!' There was a touch of mockery in her voice.

Sarah had a small white French convertible; the top was down in the hot late summer sun.

'I know, I know: it's a silly indulgence. But the company pays for most of it.'

'I'm teasing. It's great.'

'Where are we going?'

'Drive out of town on the coast road going south; then I'll show you.'

'I wasn't sure you'd turn up.' Sarah was flustered. 'You know I don't even know your name. I hope you don't think I do this sort of thing all the time. I...'

The girl smiled. 'It's OK. Don't worry. And I'm Anna.'

As Sarah drove, they began to talk. Anna was a student, back home for the holidays, working in the hotel as she had done the last two summers to earn money before going back to university. Sarah knew the university town well, and they talked about the place, about Anna's course, and the sorts of music and films she liked, about her friends and her particular boyfriend there. Meanwhile, they left the main road, and drove down a twisting lane, then along a rough track, and parked on a piece of scrub land near the top of the cliffs, next to the only other car.

'It's a bit of a scramble. Do you mind? It's worth it,' said Anna.

The path down the cliff was indeed very steep in places; but the cove at bottom was beautiful, and almost deserted. A young couple, presumably from the other car, were at one end of the small beach; Anna and Sarah waved to them, then wandered to the other end, and settled down, hidden away behind low rocks.

They sat without talking for a while. Apart from the splash of wavelets at the edge of the sea and the squawks of the gulls, it was completely silent. The sun was very hot.

Anna slipped off her things, revealing a small white bikini, spread out her towel and lay on her front. Sarah gazed at the girl for a while; her back was very slender, like a dancer's, tapering to a very narrow waist, accentuating the curve of her hips, which tapered again to perfect legs. Sarah felt a stab of mixed envy and desire, sighed, unbuttoned and shrugged off her dress, and spread out her own towel.

They lay next to each other talking quietly. Sarah reached out and touched the girl's arm.

'You are so pretty.'

The girl gazed steadily into Sarah's grey eyes, then lowered her head and gently touched the hand on her arm with her cheek.

* * *

Anna sat up. 'The sun's still really hot.' She put her hand on Sarah's back. 'You'll burn.' She felt in her bag, and got out a small bottle. 'Let me.'

Sarah felt a squirt or two of cold liquid on her shoulders, and then the girl's hands, massaging the lotion in gently but firmly. The hands were expert, soothing and relaxing her muscles. Minutes passed.

'Hmmm. Where do you learn to do that?'

'Shhh. Just enjoy.'

The hands worked their way very slowly downwards. As they worked, the shoulder-straps of Sarah's swimsuit were slipped down, until her back was exposed to the waist. The hands continued stroking and kneading. Sarah had always liked having her back caressed, but this was heavenly. After more long minutes, she suddenly found herself getting aroused and very wet.

'Turn over.'

Sarah hesitated.

'Come on. No-one will see us.' Anna grinned, 'When I last looked, those two down the beach were getting well into each other!'

The older woman lay on her back, and the girl bent over and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth, and their tongues explored each other. Then the gentle hands pulled down the front of Sarah's swimsuit, exposing her breasts, and the girl moved down to suckle the already hard dark nipples, and shocks of pure pleasure stabbed though Sarah's insides. While lips worked on breasts, a caressing hand wandered slowly, so slowly, down towards her stomach, insinuating itself under the swimsuit bunched around her waist. And then... and then the fingers were running through the hair at her groin, until they found her centre, now aflood with her own wetness, and began to circle her throbbing clit.

More kisses, more intense, passionate. Sarah groaned; the girl began to lick again at her nipples and the fingers began to strum more insistently, faster, until (the end came very quickly) she gasped and an intense orgasm washed over her. She wrapped her arms tightly around the girl and held the blonde head against her breasts as she came down. After a while, she felt the girl move away from her, but Sarah continued to lie with her eyes shut feeling little aftershocks of pleasure.

'That was... wonderful.'


Sarah opened her eyes to find Anna kneeling by her head, quite naked, the bikini now by her side. The girl's eyes seemed wide and a darker blue; her small pink nipples hard; she was breathing fast. 'Lick me,' she said, and she shifted one knee across Sarah so that she was kneeling above the woman's face, and then she lowered herself slowly. Sarah lifted her head a little and, tasting another woman for the first time since she too had been a student, she licked the girl's nether lips, and teased out her clit with her tongue. Sarah's hands reached up to caress the girl's firm breasts. And in a few minutes, Anna mewed and moaned and came hard on Sarah's lapping tongue.

* * *

The girl lay on her side, still naked, one knee drawn up slightly. Sarah sat up, hugging her knees, looking down at her. It wasn't at all how she had fantasised it would be, when she had frigged herself thinking of that encounter in the changing room. She had imagined taking charge, being in control, even dominating The Girl. But that girl had been an empty cipher. The real Anna was funny and clever and charming and delightful – and had been the bold and demanding one, taking the sexual lead. Which was surprising and thrilling. But now, as she drifted towards sleep, the girl looked so vulnerable. Sarah was awash with mixed feelings; she wanted to cuddle the girl gently – and to fuck her senseless. She smiled at her own turmoil: she hadn't felt like this for a very long time.

* * *

'Shall we go?'

The sun had lost its heat. They slipped on their clothes, and made their way back to the car, helping each other up the steep path and then holding hands the rest of the way.

'We can get something to eat on the way back, and go to my place. The family are away on holiday, lucky sods, while I'm slaving at the hotel.'

So they stopped at a supermarket and bought pizza, lots of salad, ice-cream, and a couple of bottles of white wine already chilled. Well supplied, they drove on to a neat modern detached house at the far edge of the town.

In the hallway, Sarah pulled Anna into her arms and kissed her hungrily, her hands running down her back and clasping her bottom. The girl responded passionately, and then broke away, laughing.

'OK, look, we can either eat first or fuck first; but quite honestly I'm starving.'

Sarah, amused, went to have a shower, while Anna put the pizza in the oven. The women lingered over the meal in the kitchen, sitting close on the corner bench, with Sarah occasionally stealing caresses; they got quietly drunk, and giggled as they fed each other ice-cream, and kissed sharing mouthfuls of wine.

'Come and see my room.'

They went upstairs to the girl's room, which Sarah was surprised to find very ordered and rather plain, decorated with a few art prints rather than the usual youthful array of pop posters. Anna chatted on for a moment, explaining the photographs of friends and family on the pin-board. Then she threw herself down on the bed and pulled Sarah beside her. Suddenly she asked,

'Do you remember what you said when we were in the changing room?'

It was the first time either woman had actually mentioned the moment again; but it was imprinted on the girl's consciousness too.

'I mean, you said that one day I should try... I should try...'

'Yes, of course I remember that.'

'Will you show me?'

Sarah looked at the girl quizzically.

'Please. You can't imagine how often I've thought about that day, and wondered what it would be like.'

'Oh, I think 1 can imagine; I think I can.'

* * *

Anna came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. Sarah was already lying naked on the bed, slim, dark, long-legged. If the girl was extremely pretty, it was a prettiness that might soon fade; Sarah's fine features had a more lasting beauty.

'Come and lie down.'

Anna lay on her front and Sarah straddled her bottom, so that she could massage the girl's back. She shared with the girl a talent for it, and Anna was soon squirming sensuously. Then Sarah moved down and massaged the girl's legs and thighs, and occasionally as she moved from the top of one leg to the other, she teasingly drifted her hands across the girl's increasingly wet core. Then she teased more with little kisses down the girl's back, finishing by parting her buttocks and tonguing her tight rosebud. Anna moaned with pleasure.

'Let's put this under you.'

Sarah put a pillow under the girl's hips to raise her bottom. Then she bent to kiss the girl gently on the lips, and to pick up the belt she had found in Anna's wardrobe – an old, worn leather belt that would sting a lot, but not mark or really hurt the girl. They had agreed that twelve strokes, serious but not heavy, testing but not unbearable, would make a proper initiation.

The girl turned her face into the covers and screwed up her hands. Sarah admired again the shapely back, the soft unblemished curves below; then the belt whistled down and struck hard in the middle of the girl's beautiful buttocks. A moment passed, and again the leather stung her rear.

'Ooh... aaahhhh.'


Sarah raised her arm again, and then the impromptu tawse bit down. She watched the girl's buttocks momentarily flatten, and then blush. A fourth stroke made Anna's legs kick up as if to shake away the sting.

The girl cried out again. There was a long pause as Sarah let the girl absorb the sensations. The next stroke was softer, but struck the back of Anna's thighs, and she yelped with surprise.

'Don't tense up; try to relax into it.'

The leather rushed down, full on the girl's reddened buttocks again. Another pause. Sarah reached out and stroked the hot patches, and her hand strayed between the girl's thighs, stroking the lips near her clit. Anna tried to move so that the teasing fingers would touch her centre, but after a moment, Sarah withdrew her hand and picked up the belt again.

The seventh stroke forced out a deeper moan, and Anna's eyes began to moisten. She raised her head, and for a moment the two women gazed into each other's eyes then the girl submissively bent her head again. An eighth, slightly gentler, stripe followed quickly. Sarah reached down again, and this time didn't tease, but rubbed the gill's wetness. Then she walked round the bed and made a new angle; a ninth time, the belt thwacked down, now at a diagonal across the other strokes causing the girl to yelp with pain.

A tear ran down the girl's cheek, her fists were clasping bunches of the bed covers, her teeth biting down on a corner of a pillow. But she raised her bottom again. Sarah stood by the side of the bed, now intensely aroused; her nipples tingled, her groin throbbing. She struck again, the fiercest blow yet – in her agitation, harder than she intended.

'Aaaaarghhhh... oh, Sarah, no...'

The woman dropped the belt and caressed the girl again, soothing the hot flesh. And between her thighs the girl was wetter yet.

'Turn over.'

Anna looked surprised.

'No,' said Sarah, 'we've not quite finished. But turn over.'

The girl did so, and Sarah climbed onto the bed, and turning toward the girl's feet, lowered herself kneeling over Anna's face. She could feel the girl's wet cheeks pressed against her thighs as Anna began to tongue her clit, mirroring Sarah's love-making on the beach.

'Lift your legs.'

The girl obeyed, raising her legs from her hips and Sarah caught them and held them vertically with one arm. With the other, she took up the belt again and struck out at the exposed buttocks. A muffled groan and sigh; and then the girl continued to lick and suck.

'The last one.'

A long final pause as the girl's tongue shot waves of pleasure through the kneeling woman. Then the belt descended once more. Not hard, but stinging the burning flesh with a band of renewed fire.

Sarah lowered the girl's legs as she continued to be sucked. She then slowly leaned forwarded and caressed the girl's body down towards her groin, and dipped her fingers in the wetness below. Moans in a different tone escaped from the girl, who raised her hands to play with the woman's breasts. Sarah's fingers, soaking from the girl's own moisture, moved on downwards, seeking the rosebud, and rimming round and round it. And then, as she felt her own orgasm mount, she pressed down, her finger penetrated the tight circle, and Sarah came spectacularly.

Later, not yet able to sleep, still aroused, her buttocks hot and throbbing and all the sensations nearby still amplified a hundred times, Anna begged Sarah to make love to her again. And the older woman fulfilled another fantasy about The Girl, gently drawing on Anna to masturbate before her gaze in the candle light until, at the end, she helped the girl come to a release.

* * *

The morning sun streaked across the bed. Sarah had woken first, not used to sharing such a narrow bed, and watched the girl sleep peacefully on, hair a golden halo on the pillow. Then she slipped out, found a wrap hanging on the back of the door, and went to make tea. A newspaper had already been delivered, and she sat in the kitchen reading. She would have to get ready for a business meeting later (Mary would be there, Sarah remembered with mixed feelings, and would be bound to pump her for details of how things went with Anna...). But for now, she had an hour or so to relax.

Sarah poured more tea and took it upstairs. Anna stirred, and looked around sleepily. Slowly she held out her arms to the other woman, and Sarah's heart turned right over and she bent towards the young girl and they hugged each other tight.

'You're a sweetheart.'

'You too.'

Silence. Hands strayed. Sarah's wrap fell open. Breasts touched.

'But what next?'

To be continued…

Episode 3

The Voice at the End of the Line

Story from Janus 44.

The Voice at the End of the Line
by Julie Holmes

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

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

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

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

'What do you want?' I ask again.

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

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

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

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

'I think so,' I manage to mumble.

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

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

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

'My housecoat,' I reply.

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

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

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

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

'What sort of rings?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Does he? Did you tell him?'

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

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

'Which room are you in?'

'The living room.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Take your knickers off.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And what do you deserve?' he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

'Here we go.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alice by Julia Marlowe

Story from Privilege Club 10.

Alice
by Julia Marlowe

I can't get Alice out of my mind. I'm like a man possessed, a hopeless, burnt-out case, I know, but what can I do? I shall probably eventually go mad, but it's my fate. I'm finished. The funny thing is that it never would have happened if I hadn't lost my glasses on the Underground. I would probably have finished up marrying some nice girl and my life would have proceeded smoothly. But it's no use, once you've tasted the fruit of paradise, nothing else will do. On such trivial events do our destinies hang.

For me, though, it really began with the phone call. I live alone in my flat in a small Midlands town. Even as I picked up the phone I was still cursing my stupidity for losing the glasses. After I'd given my number a woman's voice came through. It was soft, warm, mellifluous, musical even. I liked it immediately. You can mostly tell a person's character over the phone. "Excuse me, have I the right person? Is that Mr Broderick?"

"Speaking."

"Ah... Well, you're in luck, Mr Broderick, for I have your glasses here in my hand."

"No! ... God! You have? Wonderful! Where did you find them?"

"On the Northern Line between Chalk Farm and Belsize Park."

"Oh, that's absolutely great. I can't thank you enough. You're an angel."

"Well, I don't know about that. You were wise to have your name and phone number inside the case, but unfortunately no address. Would you like me to send them?"

"Yes, of... Er, no, wait a minute. Look, I'm visiting London again this weekend on business, so why don't I meet you and I can reward you? You at least deserve something for your trouble."

"That's very kind of you, but that isn't necessary. I don't -"

"Look, I insist. Please let me meet you. You've no idea how grateful I am. It's the least I can do to buy you a drink, or even a meal."

There was a long pause. Finally she said, "Very well, Mr Broderick. Yes, that would be lovely."

That's what started it all and sure enough that Saturday I met her as prearranged at Chalk Farm station which was near where she lived. I should have known from the voice that she would look a bit special, I suppose. But I wasn't prepared for what I saw. She was an absolute stunner. Her name was Lauren Masters. She was as tall as me and had a figure to die for. Her pale skin was flawless, the corners of her very generous mouth turned upwards. She wore those extremely large glasses that make a woman look even more attractive, that enhance her looks. I must have been staring like an idiot. I couldn't believe my luck. She took my hand in greeting and felt in her bag, bringing out my specs.

"Here," she said. "Look after them this time and don't lose them again."

As we walked off she told me she knew a really good Italian restaurant just up the road which she frequently used. It only took us about ten minutes to get there and we had an excellent meal with a couple of glasses of wine. She wanted to go Dutch, but I wouldn't hear of it, saying yet again I wanted to thank her for finding and returning the glasses. She told me that she owned her own business, a beauty consultancy, which I didn't find in the least hard to believe. She was a wonderful role model for her clients. After lunch we got a bus and she showed me a few of the city's sights I'd never managed to get round to before.

It must have been around four o'clock when I realised that the parting of the ways had probably arrived. I was just about to ask her if I could see her the following day when she asked me if I would like to go back to her place for tea. I needed no second bidding and in less than another fifteen minutes we were entering her flat just off Primrose Hill.

Inviting me to sit down, she disappeared for a few minutes and when she returned she had changed into an ankle-length sleeveless print dress buttoned down the front only as far as her upper thighs, so that her gorgeous slim legs were revealed by the split effect. She produced a couple of glasses and we relaxed to talk some more. Later, after a light afternoon snack, we sat chatting amiably, when suddenly the door opened and a girl entered. She was in school uniform, white blouse and loosely knotted tie, her navy skirt rather startlingly short, halfway up her thighs. I blinked, for she couldn't possibly have been a schoolgirl, they would never have allowed her to dress like that anyway, in such a provocative manner. She must have been at least eighteen. She glanced at me, then looked down at the floor as she began to walk across the room to the far door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Lauren snapped. "Where are your manners, girl? What do you say when we have visitors?"

I was startled by Lauren's tone. The warmth and softness had suddenly disappeared. I couldn't believe it. The girl turned to look at me. She was above average height, very slim. Her dark hair was cut short like a boy's. She was very pretty, but her whole demeanour was diffident in the extreme. She blushed and looked as if she wanted to disappear from my gaze. She quickly looked at the floor again.

"This is Mr Broderick," Lauren said peremptorily. "Say hello to him."

"Hello," the girl whispered.

"This is Alice, Mr Broderick. She's my protégée. I'm grooming her to take over the business at a later date. She lives here too. She belongs to me."

Lauren looked amused at my surprised expression. "Oh, she'll do anything I ask. You can have her if you want her. Any way you like. She won't mind. Come over here, you silly girl."

Alice walked over towards us and stood, her eyes still cast down.

"Don't you think she's exceedingly pretty, Mr Broderick?"

Though now quite dumb-founded, I nodded.

"Very," I said, and meant it, for she was.

"Nevertheless, she has to be punished for her gross ill manners." I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but Lauren went on, addressing the girl, "Get across my knee. Now!"

To my utter amazement, the girl turned to the older woman and bent her body across her lap, supporting her arms on the sofa. As she did so the short skirt rucked up to the very top of her thighs, displaying a pair of beautiful firm, rounded bottom-cheeks. They were completely naked, something else I was totally unprepared for. In spite of myself, I could feel the incipient stirring of an erection, which I hoped wasn't obvious.

Lauren didn't mess about. She proceeded to deliver a series of heavy slaps to the girl's gorgeous behind. I winced, for they must have stung sharply. After Lauren had finished giving her at least thirty blows the girl's buttocks had reddened considerably. "There. The only trouble, Mr Broderick, is that she likes it. But I think that since you're the one she's insulted, you too should punish her, don't you?"

I opened my mouth to decline, when she added, "Only I think you should use your belt."

"But -" I began.

"Oh come, don't be reticent. She deserves it. She always does. She's dying for you to beat her."

Lauren pulled her off her lap. As Alice stood, the older woman looked across at me and said, "If you don't believe me, come and feel this."

I got up and walked across and she took my hand and placed my palm between the girl's legs. Her beautiful cunt was wet through, the juice running over my fingers.

"Jesus," I said. My hard-on was now becoming unbearable. I didn't care any more, realising I would have to fuck one of these two, if not both.

"See what I mean? It's all right, you can touch her. Any time, anywhere. She's all yours. I know you find it hard to believe, but she's a complete slut. There's nothing she won't do for you."

Turning to Alice, she said, "Bend over the table."

As Alice compliantly leaned over the table her arms spread wide, giving me an even lovelier view of her delicious behind, I knew there was no way I could resist the offer. Her rounded, dimpled cheeks curved in towards the valley below which formed their junction, her plump split peach pertly and enticingly exposed in that darker area.

I undid my belt and stepping forward, delivered a cracking, stinging blow over both already flushed buttocks. I'd never done this in my life before, but I was beside myself, the girl's extreme compliance and stance were too much for me. I thwacked her another with the belt and another and continued like a maniac, the marks making a crisscross pattern over that vulnerable rump. I don't know how long I continued or how many lashes I gave her. Once, I glanced over at Lauren and my jaw dropped to see that the split skirt had fallen off her thighs, her legs were open wide and she was vigorously masturbating, her long slim fingers circulating and rubbing over her clit with abandon.

That was it. That was enough. I dropped the belt and unzipped my fly, dragged out my cock as fast as I could, and buried the purple end deep within Alice's glorious cunt. Within moments I was fucking her as if the world was about to end and she was about to be taken from me. I was helpless.

"That's right, Mr Broderick. Fuck her hard. She can never get enough, you know."

I was a bit out of practice and Alice was so unbelievably and magnificently tight that I couldn't hold out any longer.

"I'm coming!" I cried, withdrawing as my cock began jerking out of control.

Alice quickly turned and dropped to her knees. She took my cock in her hand and clamped her sweet full lips over the end as I shot the load deep into her mouth. I was astonished to see her lick and suck it like an expert. She'd certainly done this before. Some of the cream spurted over her face as she withdrew her lips, but she used her fingers to scoop up and lick the rest and clean the end of my cock completely.

Lauren too cried out as she also came. Both their faces were flushed, and I suppose mine was too as I sank back into the armchair.

"God," I said. "That was unbelievable. You two are something else."

"Alice, go to your room now," Lauren said. "And don't forget that work you have to do for me."

As the girl left, Lauren said, "Well, what do you think?"

"What do I think? I've never seen anything like it. I'm amazed."

"Will you stay over tonight?"

"Well, thanks." Naturally, I envisaged more of the same before the weekend was over, so I was hardly going to refuse.

No more reference was made to the event which had just taken place. For the rest of the afternoon and evening it was just as if it hadn't happened. Lauren said there was an excellent play on in the West End if I wished to go, but I was tired and settled for staying in. When I was shown my room at the end of the evening, if I expected I was going to sleep with either of them, I mistaken. I was shown a guestroom and that's where I slept - alone.

The following day, Sunday, Lauren took me to see more of the city. We ate at a different restaurant this time for lunch before returning to the flat later in the afternoon. There was yet another surprise in store for me, for as we entered this time Alice was dressed in a maid's uniform and was busy dusting the furniture and vacuuming. The difference was that this time she was wearing silk stockings and a suspender belt, but the black skirt was as minuscule as ever. Her bare bottom-cheeks looked absolutely lush when she bent over to dust the coffee table.

"Oh, my God," Lauren said. "You should have finished this by now, you stupid little bitch. Put the machine away and go to your room, I'll deal with you later."

When she had gone, Lauren turned to me and said, "Sorry about this, Mr Broderick. It's so embarrassing. The little trollop is determined to spoil our weekend."

I didn't think so, she certainly wasn't spoiling mine, but I wasn't going to voice that sentiment. We settled down and she fetched out some more wine. We sat and talked at length about our respective jobs. I sell computer software and she seemed very interested in my varied anecdotes. After a while she said, "Excuse me, we must see what Alice is up to. I can't trust her."

She went to the door and called the girl's name. After a moment or two, Alice appeared, her gaze, as always, avoiding my eyes.

Lauren said, "The cleaning should have been finished before we arrived and you know it. So you know what that means, don't you?"

"Yes, Lauren."

"Now apologise to Mr Broderick."

"I'm sorry, Mr Broderick," Alice almost whispered.

"Now, bend over the edge of that armchair, you little slut."

Alice bent over just as she had done yesterday and once more her black pleated maid's skirt rucked up to show those wonderful curves of her bottom-checks. I gulped. Again, I could feel my cock quickly rising in anticipation. My throat was dry and I licked my lips. Lauren went over to a chest of drawers and, opening one, produced a wicked-looking thin cane, which she began to flex and a moment later gave the girl a resounding thwack across the left buttock, producing a prominent red weal. She then gave her another on the right one, forming a crisscross.

The effect on me was immediate. I had a hard-on fit to burst out of my pants and I began rubbing it through my trouser pocket. This hadn't gone unnoticed by Lauren, who smiled.

Alice wriggled her bum lasciviously, which was too much for me and I had to finally free my cock so that I could wank it more easily. Meanwhile Lauren gave the girl a series of further cuts with the cane until at last I could hear Alice whimpering.

Lauren handed me the cane and I gave the girl a further six, at which I was almost on the verge of coming, but fortunately I managed to just keep in control. A bead of pre-come had formed on my tingling glans. Bending over, Lauren prised the girl's fiery red bottom-cheeks well apart, revealing her dimpled little anus.

"Now there's a little treasure for you, Mr Broderick. I can assure you, she loves that best of all."

I was more than ready. I positioned myself against the backs of Alice's beautiful soft thighs and rubbed her enticing little arsehole a few times with the tip of my cock before finally pushing it into the tiny aperture. It was difficult, naturally, but it was soon obvious that the experience wasn't new to the girl, for the rectal muscles soon slackened and I was able to enter with ease. It was even better than yesterday, if that were possible. It was heaven. As I fucked away, the girl actually started moaning with obvious pleasure. Meanwhile Lauren had come behind me, loosened my belt and dropped my pants to the ground. I then felt her fingers inserted into my own rear hole and the intense pleasure was even doubled.

It's no use, I can't describe the joy of that afternoon, that whole weekend. These two had led me to pleasures I could only previously dream of. They were quite weird, both of them, totally far out, but I loved it. I wouldn't have wanted them any different.

Lauren allowed me to sleep with Alice that night, though she never came to join in. Naturally, I wondered what Lauren would be like, but I never got to find out. Alice though was sensational. This incredibly innocent-looking creature was in fact a sensual volcano. Her appearance and demeanour belied her intense sexuality. I couldn't begin to list the things she did to me, things I never even knew existed. She hardly spoke a word. Alice believed one act was worth a thousand words.

And that was the first weekend just over a year ago. I visited them every weekend after that for about six months. I could never get enough, I was like an addict, a man possessed. During the week I couldn't get Alice's pert little bottom, her plump little quim and beautiful small breasts out of my mind. I was sick with sex and Saturday could never come fast enough. I never once had sex with Lauren though, yet I would dearly have loved to. I tried to approach her once, but she drew away, making it clear that she wasn't available.

Then six months ago I visited the flat one Saturday only to find it vacant. On enquiry with the landlord, who lived on the premises, I discovered that they had left early that week. He had no idea where. I was devastated.

The following weeks I was like a drug addict in cold turkey. I couldn't eat, I lost weight and was off ill from work on several occasions.

As I said before, I'm finished. I'm a man possessed. The constant vision of Alice, her spectre, haunts me, and I'm going under. I know now that suicide is only a breath away, there's no way I can last out...

I wrote the above a few days ago. Then this morning my doorbell rang and when I opened it, Lauren stood there, looking as radiant and composed as ever. I was almost delirious and simply fell into her arms. I immediately asked her where Alice was, of course. She asked me to let her in and when settled she would tell me.

Once inside, she told me that she was on her way to see some friends in Leeds and thought she would drop in to see me en route. I told her she had done the right thing, but that she was very remiss in leaving and not giving me her address.

"Yes, I was very naughty, and I hope you can forgive me. I really should be chastised for that."

When we were sitting having a drink later she said, "Alice left and went abroad to live in Spain. She met this bikey, a real slob I can tell you. I wouldn't have touched him with the proverbial bargepole - he never washed, he stank even. But that's Alice for you. Unpredictable. It won't last. I give her a few months and she'll be back. But you never know. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe we'll never see her again."

Lauren smiled, and continued. "That's life. He can't give her what we gave her, he hasn't the imagination. She doesn't know what she's missing, does she Mr Broderick? Silly girl."

I asked her if she wanted to stay overnight before proceeding on her journey and she happily agreed.

Which just about brings my story up to date. It's evening now and Lauren is lying face down naked on my bed. Her wrists are tied to the bedpost, her legs spread wide. Her bright blue eyes are sparkling behind those huge glasses. I have in my hand a riding-crop that I got out of the wardrobe.

"You're now going to know how Alice felt," I say, smoothing my palm across her delightful firm bottom, which I'd previously oiled at her request. It's the first time I've ever seen it and it's lovely and I kiss it. My cock has already risen, hard and quivering, with the excitement of what I'm about to do.

"Oh, rest assured I know all about that, Mr Broderick. Alice and I often reversed our roles, but you never saw that. Alice only showed you the side she wanted. As did I."

She smiles. "Go on, Mr Broderick. Give me the whip, and then fuck me silly." Oh, yes, Lauren. That's what I've wanted to do since I first laid eyes on you. I'm happy again at last. My saviour has arrived. I've finally come home.

"Certainly, Miss Masters." As I draw back the crop to deliver, I say, "This is for Alice, God bless her."

To be honest, to be kind

Story from Februs 13.

To be honest, to be kind
by James Hoffman

LIFE CAN BE HARD IN A VILLAGE, particularly for a devotee of beautiful female bottoms. Or, more precisely, a devotee of spanking such beautiful bottoms. Indeed, out there in the sticks, the relatively simple matter of getting laid can be a hardship. Finding a juicy little tart who likes having her rump soundly tanned, and who will not broadcast one's tastes to the entire community, can be fraught with difficulty.

Consequently, I seek an outlet for my passions by occasionally treating myself to a well-made spanking video. A poor substitute for hands-on experience, but it is better than nothing and, in fact, can be quite inspirational. From one film, for example, I picked up the trick of liberally smearing baby-oil over the girl's buttocks before the spanking commences, which had a number of effects. Firstly, it seems the female bottom is capable of enduring a longer punishment when it is done. It also appears to slow the reddening of the cheeks. And, not least, an oiled bottom makes a truly lascivious noise when slapped.

The company I use most often for my videos produces films of excellent quality. Their girls are always very attractive, and their lovely round, teenage bums always get treated in the sternest fashion. Although I stress that this is only a substitute for the real thing, I admit that once an order is placed I await the arrival of the video with mounting excitement. When a week has passed, I open my door each evening in hope of finding a package awaiting me on the doormat; my disappointment on finding only bills and circulars is palpable.

* * *

So it was, in an arid period of punishment misses, that I made an order for "The Shoplifter". The photographs in the catalogue showed a willowy young brunette, her hair severely tied back, a few stray locks clinging damply to her anguished face as her wonderfully pert and reddened bottom was subjected to the cane. A truly delightful sight.

On the ninth day I arrived home, and was disappointed. Tomorrow, I thought, my tear-streaked shoplifter will surely arrive.

After changing, I went into my second bedroom, which I use as an office. It had been a hot day, humid and oppressive, and I decided to open the window for what little breeze there was before starting my work. In doing this, of course, I looked out of the window. My house stands on one side of a driveway that leads from the street to parking spaces at the back of the houses. Opposite me are two similar houses, one occupied by an elderly couple, the other by Sue.

I knew little about her other than her name. When I first moved here she had a partner, but they had split up last summer and she had been alone since then, as far as I knew. Girlfriends visited her on occasion, but I never saw a man. Not that I was particularly looking, but it did strike me as interesting. She was a very attractive young woman. In recent weeks there had been many opportunities to see just how attractive, for in the warm weather she habitually wore nothing but a tee-shirt (which clearly showed that her full breasts had no need of a brassiere), khaki or denim shorts, and hiking boots. Between shorts and boots, she displayed one of the finest pair of legs I have ever seen, smooth and tanned, long and supple.

Now, looking from my office, those legs caught my eye. I was gazing diagonally down through her kitchen window and, thanks to the open-plan layout, could see the lower half of her torso and those beautiful limbs stretched along the length of her sofa. The flickering light of her TV showed through the nets of the adjacent window.

Sue was wearing a pair of very short, and very tight, cut-offs. I spent some moments admiring the elegant expanse of leg that she inadvertently displayed to me. Just as I was about to turn away, she uncrossed her legs and let one foot slide to the floor. Her thighs now formed a honey-coloured vee and, at their apex, the material of her shorts was stretched tightly across her mound. A moment later, her hand slid into view and to my astonished delight, cupped her denim-clad sex, pressing and relaxing in a slow rhythm. And then, with uncharacteristic diplomacy, I left Sue to pleasure herself in private.

* * *

Some twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door. 'The Postman left this for you,' said Sue, offering up a familiar-looking package. This happens regularly, a neighbour taking delivery of something for another, and so was nothing unusual. Normally, however, Sue – or whichever neighbour it happens to be – smiles pleasantly and scoots back home before I have time to thank them. This evening, things were different.

'Anything interesting?' she asked, her chin in the direction of the package on my hands. I looked at the thick, padded envelope, and realised something was not right. One end of the envelope had been stapled shut, and it looked suspiciously as if the staples had been prised open and then re-closed. Moreover, a narrow strip of the envelope's top-layer of paper had been damaged, suggesting that the staples had once been covered by sticky tape. A curious idea firmed in my mind.

'Yes,' I replied, 'I'm hoping it will be – it's a film.'

'Not a mucky film, I hope?' she asked, in exaggerated tones of adolescent naughtiness.

'As a matter of fact, yes,' I said evenly. As if you didn't already know. Momentarily she looked taken aback by my frankness, and then a glint of mischeviousness appeared, and I believed my gamble had been correct.

'Could I...' she began, and paused, changed back. 'I'd like to see it... sometime... perhaps?'

'You can watch it now, if you like,' I said, and stepped aside to let her enter. Again there was a brief hesitation, during which she looked at me almost quizzically. I smiled encouragement, made a sweeping, welcoming gesture, and she stepped inside.

'Nice place you have,' she said in a breezy tone that belied a touch of nervousness as if she were now unsure of the wisdom of her actions. I invited her to make herself comfortable and fetched wine from the kitchen. Whilst I took care of the TV and cassette, Sue arranged herself somewhat primly at one end of my settee, nursing her glass to her breast.

'You enjoy adult films?' I asked, joining her on the settee but leaving a tactful gap between us. 'Or is this to be a first for you?'

'Oh no, I've seen a few,' she said with unconvincing worldliness. 'I think the're quite exciting – and always best in company.'

'Yes,' I agreed, 'Quite so. All the same, I think you might find this a little different to others you've seen.'

'Try me,' she said, a brave attempt at a challenge in her eyes. I clicked the remote and settled back in my seat, deliberately positioning myself so that I could keep a surrupticious eye on Sue.

The film started slowly, setting the scene by showing the young brunette browsing in a clothes shop, then furtively and amateurishly cramming items into her large shoulder bag. She was caught, naturally, and the proprietor took her to his office and there, after some strong words and the threat of the police, he took matters into his own hands. He obliged the girl to remove her tight skirt and arrange herself across his knee, submitting herself to a mild spanking on her white-knickered bottom. A fine bottom it was too, each cheek round and firm as a crisp apple.

During this preliminary spanking I glanced sideways at Sue several times, and was pleased to see that she appeared enthralled. One hand was balled to a fist and pressed against her full lips, the other, wineglass set aside, rested uneasily against the swell of her upper thigh, the fingers slowly flexing.

'Rather good, don't you think?' I asked casually. Sue looked at me with an expression that suggested she had almost forgotten my presence, and hurriedly clasped her hands together on her lap.

'Yes,' she replied, her voice toneless. 'If s quite sexy.' Sexiness was not really the point, as the girl on the film was beginning to learn. The proprietor's slaps onto her cheeks were becoming harder, turning her pale little bum a charming deep shade of rose. With a final resounding crescendo of stinging whacks, the preliminary part of the girl's punishment came to an end. She stood shamefaced, slim hands protecting her heated buttocks while the man berated her anew, then sternly instructed her to lean across his desk, her bottom raised and legs straight, slightly apart.

The scene now cut ahead, and the manager held a weighty-looking paddle in his hand. (I wondered, superfluously, if all clothes shops stock such things). Ordering the girl to hold perfectly still, he informed her that this part of her chastisement was to be taken on the bare, a prospect which elicited squeals of outraged shame from the girl. But the proprietor was having none of it.

'Looks like she's in for it now,' I commented. Sue glanced at me again, and her eyes unmistakably glittering. I smiled slightly and she looked back at the screen, shifting her position a little and clearing her throat.

'Yes,' she said in a dry voice. 'I think you're right.'

The girl's paddling was an excellent display of the disciplinarian art. Her buttocks leapt under each impact while she squirmed, cried out and pleaded for leniency. No mercy was shown to the little thief, however, and the cracking blows continued to rain down on her delectable rear. When the proprietor finally decided that she had taken enough of the paddle, her buttocks were a uniform flaming scarlet, and the wretched miscreant was sniffling remorseful tears.

* * *

I snapped off the video. 'Oh!' cried Sue, 'Don't stop it now! The best bit's coming up!' She froze suddenly, and as I held her gaze the look on her face turned from prurient excitement to shamed guilt.

'Sue,' I said after a lengthy silence. 'I think you have a confession to make, don't you?'

'I don't know what you mean,' she said, without any conviction.

'Of course you do,' I contradicted her. 'You opened up my parcel earlier and watched the film on your own. Didn't you?' She averted her eyes, but nodded an admission. 'And then you realised that you liked what you were watching. You found it arousing. But you also felt bad about what you'd done, you knew you deserved to be punished too. So you came over to the house of someone who's practically a stranger; you succeeded in getting invited in, and now you've let the cat out of the bag. All because you wanted to.'

'Yes,' she whispered, and suddenly looked up again, her face troubled. 'But now I'm not sure...' I raised a finger to my lips and she was silent.

'You haven't been punished before, have you Sue?'

'No,' she admitted weakly, hanging her head. I leaned forward, cupping the point of her chin in my hand and held her eyes with mine, intent, serious.

'That's OK,' I assured her quietly. 'You don't have to worry. But you do deserve a punishment for your behaviour, wouldn't you agree?'

She nodded very slightly, and a courageous little smile curved her sweet mouth.

'Good,' I said. Then you're ready to do as I say. I want you to go upstairs into the bedroom, and kneel at the end of the bed. Rest your shoulders on the quilt and arch your back, so your bottom is up high like the girl in the film. You understand?' She nodded again, obedient, and I tilted my head toward the staircase to indicate she should go now.

As she walked slowly up the stairs I followed her rump with my eyes, admiring the strip of rounded cheek that protruded from her shorts where thighs and buttocks met.

The sight that greeted me when I entered the bedroom was a glory to behold. Sue had positioned herself just as I had instructed, and the full globes of her bottom were thrust upwards, the denim of her shorts stretched light across their fullness and into the deep valley between. Her long, tanned legs were pressed together, the firmness of her musculature evident beneath the smooth, bronzed skin.

I stood to her side, my back to her torso, and traced the edge of her shorts with my fingertips, lightly brushing the silky, plump cheek. She flinched but held herself steady. In the darkness between her legs I thought I could see a darker stain, coupled with a hint of musky scent in my nostrils, but my attention was not drawn to this for more than a few moments.

'Now,' I said in a calm, quiet voice. 'We're going to start nice and slow, just like the film, OK?'

'OK,' she whispered. I spent a few moments more stroking her curves, enjoying the coolness of her flesh, contemplating the heat that would soon be radiating from her. Her buttocks were tense, doubtless a reflection of her solicitude, her mixed feelings towards this first-time experience.

Respectful of this, I kept my word and began her spanking with the lightest smacks, the merest tease of pain. The sound of the impact was almost wholly muffled by the material of her shorts, and where my fingertips extended onto the naked swells, her skin formed tiny ripples and the touch of my skin on hers made a faint kissing sound.

Under this considerate treatment, Sue began to relax. The shape of her bottom filled out as she let her muscles unclench and, glancing over my shoulder, I saw her sinking herself deeper into the comfort of my quilt. Gradually I increased the force of my smacks, although they remained at a level that could have been taken for playfulness. After a dozen or so of these slaps her buttocks were bouncing nicely at each contact of my hand, and I heard a muffled sigh.

'You're doing very well, Sue,' I assured her, halting my blows and again stroking the sweeping curve of her now supple rump. 'I think you're ready now for something a little more corrective.'

'Alright,' she said, and I was satisfied to note that the timidity was gone from her voice, replaced by a definite touch of eagerness. I cupped one cheek with my full hand and, keeping my hand in that shape, raised my arm to shoulder height.

The fearsome thwack on Sue's arse caused her to leap under my hand, her body jolting forward and the flesh of her bottom swelling within the confines of her shorts. A pained 'Ooooh!' escaped from her lips and I waited patiently for the tension to leave her body once again.

'Six of these,' I told her.

'Six,' she agreed.

'On each cheek,' I added, and expected a refusal. Instead she echoed my words. With the girl pliant and perfectly positioned, I took my time with the execution of the smacks, enjoying each powerful cuff and the delightful movement of her bottom. Equally delightful were Sue's throaty little cries, her stifled moans and gasps as the stinging intensified in her flesh.

'Good,' I said curtly as I finished the dozen. 'Now, stand up, Sue.' She stood slowly, straightening from her hips, as if in discomfort. Still at her side, I turned her face to mine. The heat of excitation coloured her cheeks, her eyes were filled and swimming with smarting tears.

'Are you sorry for what you've done?' I asked her quietly.

'Yes,' said Sue, her lips delicately trembling.

'How sorry?'

'I wish I hadn't done it,' she said after a moment's thought.

That's not really the answer I want,' I said regretfully. 'Clearly I haven't punished you enough.'

'Oh no! No more! I've said I'm sorry haven't I?' She faced me, stepped close. Her eyes were hooded, her lips moist and pouting. Tentatively, she placed her hands on my chest, trailed them downwards until she found my nipples with her fingertips. 'Couldn't we... you know. You've really turned me on with that spanking. I'm so juicy, you wouldn't believe it.'

Her voice was smoky, tempting. For long moments we stared into each other's eyes, her fingers continually provoking the hard pips of flesh under my skirt. Then I took hold of her wrists, lowered her hands to her side.

'You don't get it, do you Sue?' I said. This isn't about sex – I intend to chastise you, not lay you. If I wanted that, I'd take it. And your regret isn't enough, either. I want something from the heart.'

I watched her closely, awaiting her reaction, knowing that this was the moment at which she had to make a choice. She let her gaze fall and I studied her face, trying to gauge her emotions. Tiny furrows appeared on her forehead and between her brows, her lips were compressed, her nostrils dilated.

'What... what do you want me to do?' she murmured. Inwardly elated, outwardly ice-cool, I again tilted her face to mine, delighted to find melting submission in her glistening eyes.

'Strip.'

Sue crossed her arms, gathered the hem of her tee-shirt in her hands and slowly pulled the garment upwards. The material hid her face as her heavy breasts were exposed to me, two beautiful globes, milk-white against surrounding tan. Her nipples were thickly aroused, suffused with blood. The tee discarded, I saw that her cheeks were tinged a deeper shade of red-desire, or shame?

'And the shorts, Sue,' I prompted her. Her blush intensified yet further.

'I – I don't have any knickers on,' she confessed. I laughed at the coyness: a moment ago she had wanted me to take her, now she was a shy maiden.

'I wouldn't let you keep them on anyway,' I told her. 'So just get on with it.'

As her shorts hit the floor I noticed that the gusset was indeed darkened with moisture. I surveyed her legs leisurely, admiring the smoothness of her skin, her dimpled knees and the pliant meatiness of her thighs. Pinkly aroused flesh peeked from beneath a short-cropped patch of crisp hair, while her lower belly tremored expectantly.

'Now,' I said pleasantly, 'Face the bed again. Spread your legs – wider, that's right. Lean forward from your hips and place your hands flat on the bed, shoulder-width apart.'

She obeyed my instructions perfectly, and when she was positioned as I wanted her I allowed myself the small pleasure of fondling her brown, tight-stretched thighs and the elastic curve of each rosy-pink buttock. She was fragrant with readiness, and when I traced my forefinger along her opening her slick petals clung to me, leaving me shining with her juice. She mewled softly, a supplication to be touched again.

'You really are in need, aren't you?' I mused. 'Perhaps I'll have you after all... or maybe not.'

She mumbled an expletive.

'Say again?' I snapped. Sues body jerked, tensing.

'I didn't mean it,' she said hurriedly.

'But you said it, nonetheless,' I said frostily, and landed a weighty smack on one silky cheek, causing her to tilt a little forward and let out a gasp. Her skin rapidly darkened where the blow had landed.

'I think something a little more severe than spanking is called for,' I told her. Leaving Sue in her humbling position I went to the wardrobe where, hanging on the inside of the door, was a collection of belts. I selected my favourite for corrective purposes, an unadorned black strip of thin, supple Italian leather. Holding the buckle in my palm I wrapped the leather twice about my hand, then flicked my wrist with a practised motion. The belt cracked satisfyingly in thin air.

An apprehensive moan returned my attention to Sue, uncertainly awaiting my attentions. My eyes drank in her full, womanly curves, the lush expanse of tender flesh offered up to my mercy. I heard her shallow, panting breath and could see, between the splay of her magnificent thighs, the rise and fall of her dangling breasts.

'How many?' she asked meekly when I resumed my position at her side.

'Enough to elicit true contrition,' I replied, and drew back my arm.

The whippy leather landed with a sharp report on the fullest curve of her near bottom-cheek, the tip licking into her split crevice. An anguished wail tore from Sue's throat and she began to raise her hand to her abused buttock.

'Hold still!' I rapped, and at the sound of my displeasure her hand shot back to its correct place. I tanned her cheek methodically, clinically, laying each stripe a little higher until I reached the point where her buttocks tapered into the small of her back. Returning to the mid-point, the lashes descending the quivering globe, my aim carefully avoiding her plump, out-thrust sex, onto her upper thigh, where I allowed a greater length to sear her skin, curling around and onto the front of her leg.

Each lash elicited a barking cry of anguish from Sue, and when I stepped to her other side and began to work backhanded on her other pale cheek she began to sob piteously.

'Oh please I'm sorry! I'm really, truly sorry!' I ignored her, continued to thrash her buttocks to a scarlet that matched the first-beaten cheek.

'Oh God, stop it! I'm sorry!' she wailed. 'I wish I'd never seen your fucking parcel!'

'Language,' I chided her, and let her have the full length of the belt across her wide arse, the flesh jolting deliciously under the impact.

'Aiee! I don't know what you want! What to I say?'

I paused in her beating, raised her sweaty face by her hair.

'Think,' I told her. 'Just think.' Changing position, I stood directly behind her, laying alternate vertical stripes on her quivering, scorched bottom, latticing her with heat and colour. A deep, primal moan came from Sue's lips, and her arms buckled. Her face and shoulders came to rest on the quilt, and her tortured arse was laid yet more open to its punishment.

'Do whatever you want with me,' she sniffled tearfully. 'God knows I deserve it.'

'Good girl!' I said. 'That's what I wanted to hear.'

Having received a true confession of her wickedness, I brought Sue's punishment to an end with four full-blooded lashes, arranged as a double "X". The belt uncoiled and fell from my hand, and I noticed that I was bathed in sweat. Sue, still gently sobbing, eased herself forward and lay spread-eagled, luscious, wantonly available.

'Perhaps I do feel horny after all,' I whispered in her ear. Undressing quickly, I sat on my pillows, my legs either side of her head. Sue glanced up at me, reddened eyes burning with new desire, and I caught her hair in my hands.

'Eat,' I growled, and tugged her face towards the humid swamp of my own aching, hungry pussy.