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

On The Couch

Story from Swish Vol.4 No.9

On The Couch

Going to see a lay psychiatrist was only really to find out whether she liked being spanked or not. Suzi felt sure she hadn't made up her mind about it. Well.... not quite.....

* * *

"So tell me your problem," Mervyn said and sat back in his big leather chair while his new patient laid herself on the couch in his consulting room.

Mervyn was a lay psychiatrist – highly-intuitive and well-trained, but without medical qualifications. His clientele included a number of attractive females, but none prettier and more shapely than Suzi whose miniskirt had already drawn up halfway along her thighs. A girl who would remain young-looking until she was thirty at least, Suzi gave the outward impression of being no more than seventeen whereas in fact her nineteenth birthday would fall in two weeks time. Beneath a tightly-fitting fawn jumper her breasts mounded like small melons, the nipples seeking like small bell-pushes to peak into the fine wool. Tightly-girded by her self-supporting nylons, her thighs were richly-fleshed without being fat. Her nose was small, her mouth petal-like.

Mervyn wondered vaguely and unprofessionally if she had been screwed yet. He waited patiently for her reply to his first opening words. Patients were often stubborn or afraid to come out with things. It was one of the reasons for having them in the most relaxed position, lying down.

"It's about..." Suzi began and stopped. A pointed pink tongue sneaked out for a moment between her lips and then retreated. Still Mervyn waited. One must never prompt a patient on, or certainly not in the beginning. You had to make them let their own minds flow. Once the seal of silence was broken it became easier. As for Suzi, the white ceiling seemed to hypnotise her. It reminded her of her own ceiling in her bedroom, the way it seemed to whirl above her sometimes after she had been.....

"Spanked...." she heard herself say suddenly and stopped. A mad desire to giggle almost overcame her. "I mean I've been spanked, or I think I have." Still Mervyn did not speak. He'd heard everything, anyway. A spanking was as nothing to things he'd heard from the couch. The Sunday newspapers weren't in it as far as private confessions went. Was she complaining?

Suzi cleared her throat and wondered crazily why she had come. Maybe she wanted to confess, and to someone safe. He seemed a nice man – about forty-five-ish. She liked older men. They were more masterful than boys of her own age who were mainly just stupid. "I'm not sure whether it's just a fantasy, you see," she heard herself saying now. It was best if she half closed her eyes and didn't stare up into the ceiling. The giggle she had tried to suppress escaped her suddenly. "Sometimes I have a bottle of wine, or more than that, in the evenings after work, you see, and it makes me feel swimmy. I don't mean drunk, or anything, not on white wine. Just nice."

"You get spanked for drinking a whole bottle?" Mervyn asked. It was too soon to ask, but something in her voice told him she was about to break. "Uh-huh," Suzi said cloudily. Perhaps that wasn't fair, though – perhaps that wasn't the real reason. "I'm untidy, too – I leave my room untidy, and sometimes, especially on Saturday nights I don't get in until half-past one or two and if I've forgotten my key, well, that adds to it."

"Yes," Mervyn said. It could take weeks sometimes to separate facts from fantasy in some patients' minds. Patience was all. Sometimes people paid him fees, he thought, just to express their fantasies to someone. The thoughts of her undoubtedly beautiful, tight round bottom which her skirt outlined but otherwise concealed crossed his mind.

"I s'pose I always think I won't get it, but I do. I believe I do, I mean sometimes I think I dream it as well. It's been months now since it started. I don't make a row about it, though, honestly I don't, but he does smack me hard, really hard." A small sigh escaped her. With her lips parted she looked as pretty as an angel. Whether she was as innocent as one Mervyn was beginning to doubt, but even virgins could have the most erotic dreams.

"Sometimes, if I'm let in by the kitchen, it's over the table," Suzi went on. "Other times I manage to get upstairs, but then I'm spanked on the bed..." Her eyes closed tightly. She could hear herself sobbing "WHOO-OOO!" as the palm came down again and again on her defenceless and un-knickered bottom, her panties looped around both ankles like they were tied. "YAH!" she would screech into her pillow, stuffing one corner into her mouth to muffle her cries. It was true she never really made a loud noise. In the beginning when she had done, it made her get even harder smacks until her tight bottom cheeks were fully invaded by a blazing fire that made her stockinged legs stiffen out as if she were trying to stretch the searing sensation away.

"It hurts very much?" Mervyn asked softly. He had a feeling this was going to get nowhere. Could be she would be one of those who came only once, paid their fee on receipt of his bill, and then never reappeared.

"Yes," Suzi breathed. There was a funny tightness in her chest when she thought about it. "It used to be through my skirt at first, but then after a few times he pulled it up and...." And took it off, she thought. Perhaps she didn't ought to say that. Being clasped around her slender waist, she had kicked lightly, feet lifted off the floor as her zip was unfastened. Once her skirt had fluttered to the floor there was nothing she could do about it. Nor about having her knicks peeled down, right down her legs, hands floating over her silky thighs, her stocking tops, and tickling the backs of her knees.

"What I mean to say is, it doesn't hurt for a long time," she heard herself telling the psychiatrist now. "In your fantasies or otherwise?" he asked, doodling on his pad. "B...both, I s'pose. Of course in my fantasies I can't really feel it. I can imagine the scorching sensation but it's not the same...."

Not when he had firm hold on her it wasn't the same. His arm was like a steel clamp around her twenty-one inch waist. She could kick as much as she liked, but it didn't help her get out of it. With her panties down it made her show herself more. Nowadays when he got her panties down on a Saturday night it was like he was staring at her bare bottom for a long time before he gave her the first jelly-bouncing SMACK! which always made her suck in her breath.

Sometimes he would even say to her, in the midst of it – perhaps after the fourth or fifth big burner – "Keep your legs still." And miraculously she would. The funny thing was that it never made her really cry – she didn't know why, because it did sting so deeply. Every smack, layered on top of the next, made it worse. The stinging heat deepened and built up until she knew there was nothing she could do to shake it off. Every time she squeezed her hot bum-cheeks defensively and yelped, he would stop until he could see her relax them and it seemed awful that he could actually see that.

"Are you saying you are trying to escape from your – er – fantasies?" Mervyn asked. In twenty minutes time he had another client. She was far more interesting than this pretty but silly slip of a girl. Her fantasies involved three men at once and were extremely erotic. The only similarity between her and Suzi was that she sometimes liked to be whipped first. Maybe, he pondered, all such women were little girls at heart, knowing they had to be punished for their sins, or wanting to be.

"I s'pose – I don't know. Oh look, I shouldn't have bothered you really," Suzi burst and suddenly sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the couch in a manner that gave him a heart-stopping view of the view of her tiny panties – well-wadded by curls, he saw.

"You're not bothering me – you're paying me for it," Mervyn said dryly. Panic like this was often a symptom that the patient desired to escape from their own would-be confessions. "Let's take it step by step. When did you last fantasise? Yesterday? Today? This morning?"

"L...l...last night," Suzi began and blushed. She wanted to slide off the couch but she seemed stuck. It had begun on the couch. She had finished a bottle of Blue Nun and felt nice. When he came and sat beside her and put an arm round her shoulders just as the Play Of The Week finished on TV she had felt quivery and expectant. With a start she had felt his free hand settle slyly on her thigh. "What are you doing?" she had asked. The last moment of the play faded out but she had gone on staring at the screen. "Feeling if you're warm," he had replied.

"I am."

"Botty nice and warm?"

"Yes. Stop it! Oh, you're not going to spank me tonight – I haven't done anything."

"A whole bottle of wine you've polished off again."

"That's not a reason." The news was coming on. She didn't want to watch the news. His hand was still on her thigh. "Look – I'm going to have a bath," she had quavered suddenly, wondering why her voice sounded funny. "Hey, look! What are you DOING?" Her voice had become a panicky shriek. Sliding one arm under both thighs he had lifted her clear off the settee. "Stop it – NO!" she had squealed. Her arms, legs, had swung as she had felt herself being carried into the hall. Trying in vain to grab at the bannister rail, her alarmed cries had rung through the house.

All this spilled out from her now – but then she stopped. Her silence this time was final, Mervyn felt. He closed his notebook. "Next time perhaps we can take it further," he said. There seemed more to it than she was telling him. It would all come out in the end – if she came back. "Yes," Suzi lisped doubtfully. It was just a silly, panicky thing that had made her come really. She wasn't ever going to talk about it any more. Not ever again, she told herself firmly as she left the building and went to the tube. Or made to go to it.

A wine bar attracted her as she passed along and she went in. It wasn't very nice to go in on one's own, but there were others of her own age group there and nobody noticed. The first bottle of white wine slid down beautifully. Then she had a half bottle for a chaser. WHOOO... she felt good now – much better. What a stupid thing to go and see that daft psychiatrist. Well – not daft really. He might have spanked her himself if she had gone on any further. The very thought made her bottom cheeks tighten under her panties as she went down an escalator.

Maybe if she'd told him all about that spanking last night, he would have spanked her, too, Suzi pondered. She had wriggled like a fish – like never before. "I've not DONE anything!" she had squealed twice more even as her knickers were being peeled down. It was really awful that he hadn't even answered her. Spun over on to her tummy with her legs slipping to the floor, her bottom had gleamed, exposed. "NO!" she had begun to blubber even as his free hand came down – his other being laid flat in the small of her back. "YES!" the reply had come back to her and, scrabbling with her fingers on the raised pattern of the bedcover, she had felt the first sting her hard.

"No please, no please, no please!" she had sobbed – quite over-dramatically as it turned out because he didn't smack her pert bottom as hard as he sometimes did. Her hips jerked to every downward SPLAT! of his palm and she could feel her cheeks reddening. "NOOOO!" she whined again and again, her legs twisting about. "All right, all right," he had soothed and suddenly the smacks were even gentler, though she jumped still to each one. The burning, the stinging, had come much more slowly, too. Little bubbling cries of "OH!" escaped her with each one, but she kicked less. A swirly, sickly, sweet feeling was building up under the emerging heat in her polished bottom. Surreptitiously as he smacked – sometimes each cheek separately, sometimes across both together – Suzi began to rub her pussy against the ribbed covering. Her small muffled cries grew softer now though a little "OW!" escaped her occasionally. Beneath his other hand her jumper was wrinkling up more and more until her bra showed.

Bubbling softly, her mind in a haze, Suzi had lifted her bottom a little – to escape the smacks higher up, she told herself dizzily as her hips churned, but to her own surprise it was really to feel a couple under the swell of her cheeks. "PMFFFF!" she had gasped as she got it there. I felt different there, as if his palm were coming in deeper. The rich, sweet feeling between her thighs was growing – she was melting. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! "WHOOOO!" – the shuddering whimper burst from her. Her legs straightened. Careless of their spreading she had rubbed herself wildly on the bedcover and then gasped out a real, warning "NO!" as she collapsed and lay quivering.

His hand no longer fell. Squeezing each bottom cheek on the other tightly, Suzi had felt a second exquisite orgasm shimmer through her and then she had gone limp. It was then that he had unclipped her bra and rolled her over....

The wine was sweet on her breath. Maybe she'd have another when she got in. Before supper. Yes. What the hell. He could spank her as often as he liked. If she wanted to do her own thing, she would. And after last night.... No, I must have fantasised that bit, she told herself. Geting home at last, she tossed her handbag on to a chair and went straight to the fridge. There was always a bottle waiting. Leaning against a kitchen unit, she sipped the cool liquid as if it were her first of the day. She could hear his typewriter rattling away upstairs in the study. Another novel that he was working on. She enjoyed reading them. It was flattering when he asked her opinion about them while he was still working on them.

Pouring a second glass, she started as he entered the kitchen unheard. "Working late today?" he asked and picking up the bottle took a quick swig from the neck. Suzi hated him doing that. Trying to look all macho, she thought. She nodded. There was something coming, she knew it. And it came immediately.

"So, how did your visit go, Suzi?"

The question took her aback and she blushed – infuriated with herself that she did so. "What d'you mean?" she flared. "I was passing by near Harley Street – saw you come out. Couldn't stop – I was in the thick of traffic," he told her. Suzi sneered, "Oh yeah?" and made to go past him, but his hand took her arm. "So what did you say?" he asked quietly. Her lips trembled. "I told him everything – every bloody thing, the way you spank me and....."

Nothing seemed to faze him, she thought and leaned back against his grasp on her elbow. "Feel better now that you've said that? And what did it cost?" he asked. Suzi shook her head with quick, embarrassed impatience. "Oh – I dunno – the bill's in my bag." He cocked his head, smiled and said, "Go fetch it."

"Go fetch it yourself!" she almost blared, but as so often to her own surprise she obeyed. She hadn't bothered to unfold it before. "Thirty POUNDS? And who's going to pay it – you?" he asked, eyebrows raising. Suzi stared at the floor. "I can draw it out of my savings," she mumbled. It was stupid. He was making her feel like a schoolgirl or something. His hand lifted her chin, her eyes defiant in his. "You mean I'LL pay – right? You'll borrow from me and I'll never see it again, as usual."

And as usual in what was outwardly a serious situation, Suzi wanted to giggle. It was a nervous habit, she told herself, but inside she felt a funny sense of relief that he knew about it. "Are you going to get supper ready, or are you going to drink wine all night?" he asked. The relief was so great that she laughed. "Yes, sorry, all right." She brushed past him towards the cupboard, trembling inwardly as he went to go. At the door he turned and asked, "I suppose you told him you hated being spanked?"

Suzi hunched her shoulders, her back to him. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. "No – I didn't – oh, I dunno." She couldn't remember if she had said that or not. "Then why did you go?" He had come up behind her again, his hands lightly on her shoulders. His voice was gentle. She could feel her bottom bulbing into his flies. "Don't!" she gritted and tried to resist as he turned her about, making her sag against him. "I don't want you to become a semi-alcoholic, you know," he told her and stroked her hair. Suzi's legs trembled. "I only really have about three bottles a week," she mumbled.

"Or four," he said and lifted her face. A smile came to her lips that she couldn't suppress. "You DO spank me hard, sometimes," she said, but it was only half an accusation, and she knew it. "Yes," he answered quietly and kissed her cheeks. Suzi wriggled away. "Oh go on with you – I want to get the supper ready," she said. He nodded and went out, but despite their making-up, as it seemed to her, there was still a tension that she knew she had created.

After supper, when they had had coffee in the lounge, he took her wrist as she made to pass by him and drew her down into his lap. Suzi gave a little start of resistance and then relaxed. "Thirty quids worth of spanks," he murmured and she giggled. His hand stroked her thighs and her hip where it curved out. Suzi hid her face. "Not if you do it hard," she whispered and couldn't believe she had said it. "You have to pay for your sins, don't you, Suzi?" Her eyes were shut tight. He was lifting her up again, the way he had the night before. Her arms clung to his neck as he carried her upstairs. "I don't want to," she mumbled.

When he laid her down on the bed and raised her skirt she clutched protectively at the pillow and gasped a little "OOOH!" of surprise as he bent and coursed his lips lightly over the half-bared cheeks which bulged out on either side of the backstrap of her panties. Her eyelids closed and tightened as he took the waistband and peeled them down, drawing them off her ankles. "Lift your bottom," he said quietly, and when she did he unzipped her skirt and drew it off in turn.

A little whimper escaped her, but he drew her hips higher, making her knees draw in towards her waist. "Oh, PLEASE!" she hissed as his hand came between her stockinged knees and levered them apart. Then a sharp, short squeal escaped her as a single hard smack landed on her bared cheeks. "OW!" she jerked and he laughed. "Well – you deserve it – don't you, Suzi?" She couldn't answer – she couldn't. Her silence with her face buried in the pillow said it for her. "Suzi – I want you to ask me to," she heard. I can't, I can't, she told herself and buried herself deeper in her self-imposed darkness, hips jolting as another hard, unexpected SMACK! caught her on her exposed cheeks.

"Yes! Yes – SPANK ME!" she screeched. Her shoulders hunched more, her bottom a naked bulb of desire that she could no longer hide. Knees wider apart, the pursed lips of her quim visible in their nest of curls beneath the split cheeks, Suzi jolted and surged her hips to every incoming SPLAT! of his palm. "YEEE-AAAARGH! YEEE-OOOH!" she screeched and gritted on and on, knowing now that her cries were an outward part of her desire to yield to it – to yield as never before to the burning and the stinging.

"Go on – oh, go on!" she heard herself crying out madly. She hated it, wanted it – oh God, it stung! The heat was burning his palm almost as much as it blazed within her. The redness of her cheeks shone above the pallor of her thighs where the tops of her self-supporting nylons bit tight. Sixteen... seventeen.... she had lost count. And he wasn't stopping. Starshells burst in her tummy, her bottom rotating as if on ballbearings. "No, no, NO!" she heard herself screeching, but unheld as she was Suzi made no attempt to escape the relentless SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! that came in again and again until – arching her back and with a long whimper moan – she fell flat on her tummy, wriggling her belly madly on the coverlet until her jerking sobs and moans died away and her bottom cheeks tightened against the awful exquisite, dual sensations she was enduring.

Stroking her hair, he waited long and patiently until only her soft whimpers were heard, her lipstick and mascara smeared on the pillow with her tears.

"That's better – that's better now," he said softly and rolled her gently over. The contact of her hot bottom on the coverlet made her jerk. "I c...can't... I can't lie st...still," she sobbed and rolled over on her hip away from him, facing the wall. "You're not going to spank me again – not ever – you're not!"

"I know," he soothed. They both knew it wasn't true. Biting her lip and closing her eyes again, Suzi squeezed her raging bottom cheeks tight together. Riding through these first minutes afterwards was almost the worst part – waiting for the stinging to die away within her pert cheeks and the greater, flooding warmth to invade her. Then she could relax into the throbbing. Relax.

His lips kissed her ear and it tickled. "You've been on the couch and now you're on the bed – which d'you like best?" he whispered. Holding herself tight, Suzi felt his hands slip up under her top and unclip her bra, freeing the firm, jellied mounds. The stiff thorns of her nipples quivered.

She wasn't going to tell him. Not ever. She wasn't going to tell anyone....

Playing Games

Story from Janus 39.

Playing Games
by R.T. Mason

A pleasant tree-lined suburban street in a quiet southern counties town. It is five o'clock on a warm sunny April afternoon and one or two residents are to be seen in their gardens. Indoors most housewives are starting preparations for the evening meal. At Number 27, though, neat and well-kept like all its neighbours, there is no one in the garden and equally no sign of culinary activity inside. Instead the sole occupant is sitting inactive on a sofa in the sitting room. She has a nervous expectant look on her pretty face. Quite frequently she glances at her wristwatch.

She is wearing schoolgirl uniform. A dark blue blazer with red piping and a red badge, a red-and-blue striped tie, a short pleated blue skirt. Below the bare knees are neat white knee-socks over shapely calves, and sensible brown strap-over shoes. When standing she is of medium height with a trim but well filled out figure. Her hair is blonde, short cut with a fringe, which sets off that pretty face with its at present rather tense expression. Another glance at her watch shows it to be now exactly 5.05.

Outside at exactly 5.05 a car is turning into our pleasant tree-shrouded street. It stops outside Number 27 with something of a jolt – a sign of nervousness or excitement perhaps on the part of the driver? He gets out, glances up and down the street, and then briefcase in hand walks quickly to the gate at Number 27.

Inside, the girl gives a start at the sudden strident ring of the doorbell. She jumps up and smooths down her skirt. By the time she gets to the door it is ringing a second time. The man's face is pinkish and his voice has an excited edge.

'Linda Beckford?'

'Yes... Yes Sir.' Her hand nervously fiddles with a blazer button.

'Truancy Officer. I believe you are expecting me.'

'Yes Sir. C..Come in, Sir.'

She stands aside to let him pass, as she does so pulling back her shoulders so that the firm thrust of her breasts is evident. She closes the door.

'My... my parents are out, Sir. I haven't told them and I was hoping they... they wouldn't have to be told, Sir.''

She leads the way into the sitting room, short skirt swaying above pretty knees and bare thighs. In the sitting room she stands uncertainly, one hand on the back of the sofa.

The man puts his briefcase down. 'Informing your parents is routine procedure, Miss Beckford.'

'I... I know, Sir. But my friend... Her parents weren't told, Sir. She had something else.'

His eyes hold hers. 'What did she have, Linda?'

A nervous lick at the full soft lips. 'A spanking, Sir. She had her bottom spanked.'

The man's heart is thumping. His eyes flick up and down the trim delectable shape. 'And is that what you want, Linda? A spanking?' A pause and then, his voice thick, 'With your knickers down?'

Flush-faced she tosses her head. 'I... I haven't got any on, Sir. No knickers. I took them off.'

The man's face goes bright red. His eyes focus on the short blue skirt. His voice is tight with excitement.

'Show me.'

A moment's hesitation and then her hands go down to the skirt's hem and slowly pull it up. Up the slim bare thighs. On up to finally reveal that there are indeed no knickers. Just a neat bush of brown hair at the centre of quite bare rounded hips. Her eyes fixed on him, she continues to raise the skirt until it reaches her blazer.

He blinks, and coughs. 'Some of you girls nowadays need the cane, not just a spanking. You're all too bold by half.'

Her voice is a half whisper. 'Oh no Sir, not the cane. My friend just got a spanking.' The skirt remains held high.

'I shouldn't do it, I could get into serious trouble.' His eyes remain glued to what she is showing. 'But... are you sure your parents aren't coming back?'

She lets the skirt fall back into place. 'Yes Sir. They're going to my Gran's.'

He moves suddenly, decisively forward, past the pretty blonde girl to sit on the sofa. He beckons her and she comes round and gets down over his lap. He grabs up the short skirt, up round her waist and then arranges her so that the firm, quite plump bottom is squarely over his lap. His hand fondles and she gives a squeal. Then the hand starts coming down. A measured rhythmic action of hard crisp smacks, splatting the pale cheeks which rapidly become a bright rosy red. The girl bucks and squirms, like a landed fish, yelping and gasping. The sounds are those of pain, but also of sexual arousal.

* * *

The spanking continued for some time – until Michael Adamson's arm was feeling exhausted. He stopped spanking to fondle his wife's glowing bottom. 'Did you come?'

Linda made a gurgling sound. 'Mmm... Ooh it was really heavenly!'

Michael made to push her off his lap but she stayed on. Then he asked: 'Are you going to come again?'

'Oh God! I expect so. That was really fabulous!'

Half an hour later Linda Adamson (nee Beckford) was, like all the other domesticated wives in the street, serving her husband's supper. She had prepared it earlier and left it in the oven before putting on the schoolgirl uniform. She and Michael had only got the outfit at the weekend, from another town where Linda had said it was for her niece. Before that for their schoolgirl fantasies they had simply used a blouse and skirt and one of Michael's old ties. Having the real thing made a big difference, especially for Michael who was particularly keen on the schoolgirl scenarios. Today was only the second time they had used the uniform and it had been a fantastic turn-on for both of them.

'Will Linda Beckford be wearing her uniform tomorrow?' Michael asked across the table. Linda had non-removed the blazer but was still in school blouse and tie.

She smiled. 'Perhaps. It is really super. But I still like the housewife scenes of course.'

Michael and Linda were both 23 and had been married for two years. The acted-out CP fantasies had been going on for six month now. Michael had always had an interest in that direction but previously it had been confined to magazines. Then, a bit hesitantly, he had mentioned it to Linda and showed her a couple of the magazines. She laughed and said it was silly – but at the same time looked through them with obvious interest.

'People do it for fun,' Michael told her. 'And it can be a big turn-on.'

Linda again said it was ridiculous and when Michael suggested she let him spank her said it was silly. But she did allow it. Her skirt up over his lap and Michael's hand smacking down across her tight knickers. Afterwards she just laughed but later that night, in bed, she admitted it had been 'very exciting'.

The next time, Michael took her knickers down. 'Imagine I'm your Headmaster at school and you've been sent to him for smoking or something. He's a pompous old chap, seems very straight-laced, but what he really likes is to get a pretty Sixth Former over his lap and get his hand on her bare bum.'

Yes, that really was a turn-on, Linda admitted. And after that she became an enthusiastic partner in the games which more and more became a major part of their love life. Michael liked the schoolgirl fantasies best but Linda, apart from the special excitement of the new schoolgirl outfit, tended usually to prefer scenes which could, in fantasy, relate to her present everyday life. 'Housewife scenes' they called them.

A 'housewife scene', might be a housewife caught shoplifting and being forced to take a spanking or the cane. Or having a minor accident with the car and taking a caning rather than lose a No Claims Bonus. A lot of them were naturally set in the house. The man who came to repair the washing machine offering to take his payment on the pretty housewife's bottom. Or the CP-addicted landlord.

All of these had a great sense of immediacy for Linda because she was a housewife who could have an accident in the car or might be tempted to walk out of the shop with some little item. She could imagine it actually happening. And when they were playing the game and Michael was spanking her or giving her six with that cane he had bought, she could imagine it was not Michael doing it but some other unknown man. That was really quite a thought.

Did that mean she would actually like someone else doing it? Early on in their games when that thought came she had dismissed it out of hand. But it was a big turn-on in the fantasies and those fantasies could be very real at times. And Linda began to wonder what it would be like for it to really happen. Just thinking that, when she was going about her household work for instance, could get her feeling hot and randy.

She had talked about it with Michael. What would he feel if it actually happened? Some other man caning her. Michael was excited by the thought, Linda could see that, but he wouldn't really answer. He just laughed and asked if she was planning to do some shoplifting. But all the same she knew he was excited by the idea. In a way it was the ultimate. But does one want the ultimate? It might be just too much, too exciting and scary to take.

Two weeks after getting the school outfit Linda saw the magazine. Not a CP magazine but a straightforward men's magazine. Her friend Julie showed it to her, apparently Julie's husband had brought it home. Linda had looked through, all those girls with their legs wide apart, but then at the end she saw the contact section. Her heart started pounding as she began to read the entries. One said: Company director would like to give light CP to inexperienced ladies. And there was another: Ladies, would you like massage and a friendly spanking in the privacy of your own home?

There were others too in which women and couples were advertising, but not for CP. Linda had never imagined you could get that sort of advert. Controlling her excitement she asked Julie if she could take the magazine to show Michael.

Julie said, 'Of course; I bet they pass them round at work anyway.'

After supper that evening she showed Michael the magazine and pointed out the two ads. 'Horny buggers,' he observed, then asked, 'What's this?'

Feeling almost as great a sense of excitement as in any of their CP scenes, Linda had handed him a folded piece of paper. Inside she had written: Young husband would like his attractive wife instructed in the pleasures of CP.

'What's this?' Michael repeated.

Linda smiled. Her heart was going at some fantastic rate. 'It's an advert. Wouldn't it make a super one! Just think of all those men out there reading it and really, you know, growling with excitement.'

Michael laughed, his face pink. 'I might even answer it myself!' He grabbed her. 'And just for thinking of it I think you deserve a good spanking right now.'

Michael took her over his lap, pulling up her skirt and yanking down the flimsy knickers. He started cracking his hand down and Linda was almost immediately gasping and groaning with overwhelming excitement. The turn-on was inevitably the thought of the advertisement. That message going out and being read by presumably thousands of unknown men. But of course sending in the ad was only a fantasy. Wasn't it?

* * *

Two days later Michael came home to find Linda in a clearly agitated state. He asked if she wanted to play a game but she shook her head. He poured them gin-and-tonics and they sat on the sofa. He could see her hand was shaking.

He asked what was up. Linda said 'Nothing'. She bit her lip and then started chewing her thumb.

'What's up?' he repeated.

She shook her head, then put it down in his lap. He heard a faint whisper,

'What?'

This time, though still a whisper, it was quite clear. 'I. Sent. In. That. Ad.'

'You what?' he gasped, pulling her upright.

Linda's voice was still a whisper. 'I didn't mean to. It was... it just happened.'

As she haltingly explained it, it had been like living a fantasy out. To amuse herself Linda had written out the ad, following all the instructions and enclosing a postal order. She had sealed it up and had taken it to the post office. She hadn't intended to post it but had simply wanted to savour the feeling of doing so. And then somehow, as if in a dream – or a fantasy, the letter had dropped in the post box.

'My Lord!' breathed Michael.

'It... it's not that bad. It'll have a box number. They won't print our address.'

'But you gave our address? My address, to be correct?'

'Yes,' said Linda in a tiny voice.

What Linda had told Michael was true, it had just happened without her really meaning to post it, but at the same time she had wanted to do it. And now that it was done, although she had to bear Michael's anger there was inside her a hot glow of excitement. To think of that letter winging its way to the magazine's office, its content being read and then printed. And then... It was almost too exciting to contemplate.

When Michael had got over the initial shock he suggested getting in touch with the magazine and telling them to send it back, but Linda quickly argued against that.

'I shouldn't bother,' she told him. 'Anyway I don't know if you can once it's been sent. Just let it go. No one's going to see our name, remember.'

He gave her a hard look. 'You don't want it stopped because you're glad you sent it, aren't you? It'll be a real thrill for you; that'll go out and you'll be able to imagine all those men wanting to get at you. Won't you?'

Linda put her arms round him. It was true of course; even as he spoke she could feel the thrill surging through her. She kissed Michael, a hot sexy kiss; then breathed 'Yes'.

Her hand slid down to his crotch and there was a stiff bulge there. Massaging it, she asked, 'Won't it be a turn-on for you too?'

Michael pursed his lips. It was true, the thought of it was exciting. A scary frightening sort of excitement but a very powerful one nonetheless.

Linda put her mouth to his ear. Shivering, she said, 'I bet we get lots of replies.'

Michael didn't answer but instead pulled his wife over his lap. Linda's skirt came up and her brief knickers went down and he began the now familiar but ever-arousing splatting of his hand down on her saucily plump bottom. This time, though, it was extra special, better even than that first time with the school uniform, or any of their various housewife scenes. Because for both there was the feeling that though Michael was doing it, it could be someone else. Any one of those waiting men out there. Unknowing at this moment, but who in a few weeks' time would buy a copy of the magazine.

The heady excitement continued unabated as they waited for the next issue. Linda even rang the magazine office to find out when it was due out. Michael finally saw it one Thursday lunch-time. With fumbling fingers he took it off the rack and leafed through. He felt himself sweating: there it was all right. No typographical errors or anything, just as Linda had sent it in. There was a box number but his eyes seemed to see instead his own address printed there. And a picture of Linda. Standing in her uniform, her skirt raised to her waist.

At home he wordlessly handed it to Linda. She scrabbled frantically to the ads section. Her eyes scanned, focused – then looked up to meet Michael's. She dropped the magazine and hugged him. They were both thinking the same thing: how long before the letters were popping through the door?

They agreed it could be something like a week as the replies would have to be re-addressed and sent on. But if the office waited until there was a batch of replies it could be longer. The post in the week always came after Michael had gone off to work but Linda said she would phone him as soon as there was an answer.

* * *

The first ones came after six days; a fat envelope falling heavily on the hall carpet. Linda ripped it open to find it contained three letters. Heart thudding, she opened one and unfolded the sheet of notepaper. She was so excited that at first she had trouble putting the words together.

Dear Sir,

I am writing in answer to your advertisement. I am sure I could help if there is not a catch, I mean I would not want to get involved in any threesomes as I am purely heterosexual. But if you would merely like to watch that would be alright. I would do exactly as you wanted with her, the cane, tawse, etc. I am well experienced with all of these, not vicious but strict.

I am aged 60 and I assure you, highly respectable. I look forward to hearing from you to arrange a meeting. Perhaps you could send a photograph of your good lady.

Linda read it again, feeling slightly sick with the intense excitement. She pictured the man, silver-haired perhaps with a military moustache. Formally shaking hands with her – and then telling her to take her skirt and knickers off. She went on to the second envelope. It contained a photo of a smiling youngish man, not bad-looking. She read the letter.

Dear Sir,

I am replying to your ad regarding wife discipline. I am aged 30, a bachelor, interested in the arts and music etc, but also with experience of CP discipline. I attended Public School! I should love to meet you and your wife with a view to assisting disciplining her.

Obviously gay, Linda told herself – and then wondered what it would be like anyway to be over his lap with her knickers down. She tore open the last letter.

Dear Sir,

I am pleased to answer your advert and you are quite right to want to get your wife properly trained and disciplined. Young women these days can so easily go off the rails and get involved in all sorts of adultery and suchlike goings on. A good sharp caning is what they need and I should be more than pleased to assist you. I am very experienced in such matters as I used to be a schoolmaster. Can we arrange an early meeting? Everything would naturally be in the strictest confidence.

Her head in a spin Linda went to make herself a cup of coffee, then sat down to re-read the letters. She looked again at the photo, and pictured the other two. Three unknown men who were offering their services – to cane and spank her. And there were their addresses, real live addresses: London, Birmingham and Banfield in Essex. Two of them had telephone numbers. Linda suddenly thought, I could hide one of the letters, not show it to Michael. Even get on the phone right now and arrange a meeting. Take the train, to London or Birmingham... And then...

The excitement was too much. Linda lay back on the sofa letting the letters fall to the floor and her dress rise up her elegant legs. She just had to let off some of the pressure. Only when she finished, in about two minutes flat, did she remember her promise to phone Michael if any letters arrived.

She called him, a breathless voice telling him they'd had some answers. Michael asked how many. A pause and then she heard herself say 'Two'. It just came out on the spur of the moment.

'One from Birmingham and one from somewhere in Essex. The Birmingham one sounds as if he's gay.'

It was like that business with posting the letter all over again. Linda didn't really mean to lie to Michael and there was no real reason to – except a sudden urge to keep part of it secret. She didn't plan to do anything about it, but the thought of having a special secret was irresistible. A private fantasy that she could keep all to herself.

She had picked the first one, from London. Was it just chance? Or the thought that she could at least fantasize about going there; it would only be half an hour on the train. When Michael got home he was really turned-on as well – at least by the schoolmaster one – and they acted out a fantasy of Linda going to visit him. It was really great for both of them.

Two days later there was another batch – ten this time. They were mostly similar to the first ones except two were a bit obscene. It was great reading them, including the randy ones, but once she had Linda took out that special London one again. She had looked at it perhaps 20 times since it came – and yesterday she had gone out and bought a London A-Z to see exactly where the address was on the map. It continued to constantly excite her – the thought of that particular oldish man and Michael didn't know about. And more and more Linda was feeling the urge to do something else – to call that phone number at the top of his letter.

One half of her said it was stupid to even consider it – while the other half said it couldn't do any harm just to phone. He would have no way of contacting her so she was quite safe, and anyway he would possibly be out. She kept telling herself it was quite quite stupid – but half an hour after finishing reading that second batch of letters Linda picked up the phone.

A man's voice said, 'Stanley Appleton'. That was the name on the letter. Linda's heart almost stopped.

'Uh... hello,' she said weakly.

He repeated the name. 'Who is that, please?' It was an ordinary educated man's voice, well-spoken with no real accent. She forced herself to speak.

'My... my name's Linda. You... you answered an ad my husband put... in a magazine.'

A pause and then, 'Yes!' The voice was eager now. 'Yes I certainly did. Well, how do you do, uh, Linda. This is a marvellous surprise.'

'My... my husband asked me to call.' Linda felt slightly more in control now, although her feelings were still in a wild lurch. She reminded herself that she was anonymous. There was no way he could find out who she was.

His voice sounded excited. 'I'm so glad you called. I was half afraid... well, a lot of those ads are simply jokes of course. Can we arrange a meeting?'

Linda felt her blood pounding. A meeting so that he could take her knickers down. She didn't really know what to say. 'It... it's very difficult. It was partly a joke but also partly, you know, serious. The trouble is, I mean, with an absolute stranger we, that is I, wouldn't know... what I was getting into. You hear... such awful things nowadays.'

He started eagerly assuring Linda of his credentials, she and her husband need have absolutely no fear, he would do simply what she wanted, what her husband wanted. Sitting listening to all this was a heady turn-on, knowing what this stranger was talking about. Spanking her; caning her. But clearly a meeting was out of the question. He sounded all right but he could easily do something awful. Murder her?

She told him that and said her husband had had second thoughts about the whole thing. Mr Appleton got very persuasive, telling her she had absolutely nothing to fear. He would simply like to meet her; she had such a lovely voice. Finally he suggested meeting in a restaurant, in public, so that if she wanted she would simply leave afterwards.

There was a longish pause. At the end of it Linda heard herself say, 'All right'. It was another of those moments when she seemed to have no real control over what she was doing.

When Michael came home and asked if there had been any more letters Linda realised with a shock that she had virtually forgotten about them. All day her mind had been concentrated on that phone call and what she had agreed – to meet Mr Appleton tomorrow in London. After she had rung off it had seemed like a dream. Could she really have rung him up? And agreed to a meeting? How could she be so utterly idiotic, Linda asked herself 100 times afterwards. But at least there was the let-out that she didn't have to turn up. She hadn't told him her name or address.

Michael began reading all the letters through and was obviously getting a big kick out of them. Linda tried to sound equally interested but the fact was she had now gone beyond those mere fantasies. She was contemplating the prospect of the real thing. It was an entirely different feeling – like the thought of parachuting out of an aircraft for the first time. An empty queasy feeling in her stomach.

Linda kept telling herself she didn't have to turn up – but she knew she would.

* * *

In the morning Linda's head felt as if it was going to split. 'Why don't you take the day off?' she asked Michael as she got his breakfast.

He looked up in surprise. 'Why?'

'Oh I don't know,' she said forlornly. 'We could go out somewhere. All those letters – they're a bit much really.'

He grinned. 'You shouldn't have sent that ad off then, should you? I bet there'll be a lot more yet. Anyway I can't take today off, I've got a lot to do.'

Why Linda had suggested it, of course, was that it would prevent her keeping the appointment. Without that to stop her she knew she would go. She kissed Michael goodbye and ran a bath. She felt awful – all excited and scared at the same time. Linda had her bath and then, rather like a condemned person who has no control over his life, she began to get dressed.

A rather sexy set of mauve underwear: bra, French knickers and a lacy suspender belt; not that he was going to see it. Was he? Trying to keep calm she drew on a pair of shimmery grey nylons and fastened them. A white blouse and then her blue-grey suit. It had a quite short but tight skirt, too tight to be pulled up. But she wasn't going to get into that, was she? She was only going to the restaurant. If she even did that. Linda put on some make-up; not much, a little pink lipstick, some eye-shadow. She slipped on her high-heeled court shoes and her light coat. She felt awful.

Linda found the restaurant without trouble, in a busyish West London street. Looking at her watch she saw she was right on time as she entered. Short blonde hair, she had told him, grey coat, blue shoes and handbag. He came up to her immediately.

'Hello... uh, Linda? We forgot your surname on the phone. But I think I'm meeting you?'

He looked all right. There was silver hair but no moustache. Tallish, average build, a sort of ordinary face, quite pleasant. Not the face of a rapist or murderer – but could you tell? Linda heard herself say Hello. He directed her over to a corner table. His hand on her arm was firm, masculine, masterful. Linda shivered.

She sat down. 'Really I can't stay long. It... It's all been very foolish, the whole thing. I don't know what got into me posting that ad.'

'So you posted it, not your husband?'

The waitress fortunately arrived at that point but as soon as she had left he repeated the question. Linda heard herself mumble a Yes.

'Spanking?' He had rather nice biue-grey eyes but they had a way of seeming to look right into you.

'Look...' she pleaded.

'Spanking? And caning?' His voice had a precise quality, the voice of someone used to being in charge. In charge of what, though? Silly-minded young females? His eyes were looking right into her again and there seemed no way she could deny it. 'Had it from anyone besides your husband?'

'No!'

He smiled: a look of pleased anticipation. 'You really are a very pretty girl, Linda. And I must certainly be a very fortunate man.'

* * *

A good meal and a taxi ride later Linda was entering Mr Appleton's flat. She didn't know how she had let herself be persuaded, but she had. Here she was, her heart in her mouth, her head spinning. Mr Appleton closed the door and took her coat. She was led into a room, an attractively furnished lounge, but Linda's eyes hardly saw it. Her mind was incapable of taking in anything beyond the central fact that somehow she was here alone with Mr Appleton.

By the very act of coming here of course it now had to be accepted that something would happen. Mr Appleton himself clearly accepted that. He had done all the persuading that needed doing and now he was in control. He did not invite Linda to sit down because he didn't want her sitting down. Instead as she stood on shaky legs he put a possessive arm round her waist. And then slid his hand down to cup the cheeks of her bottom.

Linda gave a jump like a scalded cat. Mr Appleton laughed: a confident masculine laugh.

'No need to be jumpy, my dear. You know that's the part of you that has to be attended to. Now then, this charming skirt does seem rather tight. I think you'd better take it off, don't you?'

'Look...' she began.

'No, you look, Linda. You've come here for something even though you may not like to admit it. A little adventure? Well I'm going to give you the adventure. All you have to do is exactly as I say.' His hand came up to Linda's chin forcing her to look at him. 'Take off your skirt. And then your knickers.'

The full mouth started trembling, the eyes filled with tears. Now the crunch had come she only felt sick and scared.

Mr Appleton laughed again. 'What pretty tears. But if you won't take them off I'll do it for you.'

His hands moved to her waist. Linda stumbled away, hesitated, and then scarcely knowing what she was doing began fumbling at her skirt. She stepped out of it and stood forlornly in her sexy underwear: the mauve French knickers, the slim straps of the suspender belt tautly fastening the grey nylons.

'Lovely,' observed Mr Appleton. 'And now the panties, my dear.'

Linda gave another despairing look. This couldn't be happening, could it? Please let it be a dream, a fantasy, one of those lovely games. But somehow she knew it wasn't. This was real. She had taken the parachute jump. She was in the hands of Mr Appleton, for him to do with as he wanted. Feeling faint and very shaky she fumbled her knickers down. Down the nyloned legs and off over her blue court shoes. Mr Appleton took her arm.

Linda was over his lap. His hand was fondling her bare buttocks. Not a fantasy hand but a flesh-and-blood stranger's hand. Fondling and then abruptly spanking. Hard jolting smacks on her quivering bare bottom. The panicky thought came that she was actually going to be sick.

Somehow she wasn't. She simply yielded herself up to him for discipline and let him do what he wanted. Some time later Mr Appleton was hauling her to her feet. Linda's legs didn't want to support her, they felt like jelly and she had to hang on to him. Her bottom was glowing red hot. Her face was wet with tears.

'Did you enjoy that?' Mr Appleton asked.

Linda shook her head. It meant she didn't know, couldn't answer, rather than simply No. She was utterly devastated.

'Now the cane,' he said crisply.

In the state she was in it took some seconds for it to register. When it did Linda again shook her head, this time violently.

'NO... NO! It... It'll mark me. Michael... my husband... He'll see...'

Mr Appleton, sharp eyes glinting, considered this. 'All right. Certainly we don't want unnecessary problems at this very start of our relationship. I'll strap you instead. Strap marks don't last.'

From somewhere he produced a strap. A frightening-looking two-tongued brown leather tawse. Linda's eyes fixed on it, mesmerised. Michael had never used a strap.

'Lie over the arm of the sofa. And get your bottom well up.'

For a few moments the world stopped. She had her face in the cushion of the sofa and it felt cosy and reassuring. You could forget that your bare bottom was arched up. Waiting.

SPLATT!..

It was as if she had been slashed in two. Linda let out a banshee-like yell. The pain was of quite a different order of magnitude from anything she had ever experienced before. Nothing at all like Michael's canings which did no more than produce a moderate sting. Linda was still gasping in shock and disbelief when: SPLATT!.. the strap landed again.

'NO!' she heard herself gasp. 'No. I can't take it!'

But the strap simply splatted down again.

And again. And again.

* * *

6.15pm. Michael's car turned into the street to pull up outside Number 27. Inside, Linda was silently waiting, trying to keep calm, to act normal. But how could you? After that. She glanced again in her compact mirror, sure that something of what had happened must show on her face. Her bottom would certainly be showing it for the next 24 hours at least – but hopefully she could keep that out of sight, say she didn't feel well. That would be no more than the truth. She felt shattered, flattened, as if a steam-roller had run over her.

Perhaps if I can get through this evening I can sort things out, she thought. After a good night's sleep, if she could get to sleep, she could try to think it all through with a clear head. If only it had all been in her mind, one of those delicious games. But Linda knew it wasn't: it wasn't a game, a fantasy. Mr Appleton was very very real. And now he had her name and address and phone number – and anything else you cared to mention.

She heard Michael's key in the door.

Bell, Book and Candle

Story from Blushes 04.

Bell, Book and Candle

The pretty blonde girl lies on her back on the bed in the luxurious bedroom. Her long slim legs slope down to the floor unsupported. Her ankles are crossed neatly, one heel sank into the thick carpet. Her arms are tacked beneath the small of her back; both her hands are out of sight. She has an expression of mild alarm, blue eyes big and wide.

* * *

The bedside clock-radio shows the time as 9:20 p.m.

She lies there relaxed, but quite rigidly; not daring to move. Her shapely breasts move slightly as she breathes shallowly and rapidly, displaced fluidly sideways by her position, nipples uptilted pertly.

She has a marvellous figure; slim and shapely, with a narrow waist that flares out to full hips. Apart from her very brief lacy knickers she is quite naked, though she wears a heavy gold chain round her neck. Her toenails are neatly painted deep red, and brightly varnished.

She lies there in the warm, dim room with only a subdued bedside light on. The curtains of thick velvet are drawn together. There is no sound but the tick of the clock and her soft breathing. The soft light throws exciting, deep shadows on her softly curved body. She rolls her head slowly, until she can look to her left...

The man she stares at stands in front of her dressing table with his back to her. He looks down at the things he has there, considering them carefully, smiling coldly. He takes no notice of the blonde girl, beyond giving her a quick glance in the mirror to see that she stays still, as he has arranged her. He knows she dare not move very much, if she dares to move at all! He will hear her merest wriggle, it is so quiet – and she knows it. Such obedience is a fine character builder!

Finally, he turns and strides silently over to look down at her. She is so tense now that her full lower lip is clenched tight between her teeth to force herself to keep quiet. She is not allowed to make any noise either. And she knows this well! Any noise or movement means she'll have to take more punishment. She stares up in silence, pleading eloquently with her eyes alone. This is all she can do!

The man smiles, but takes no notice. He extends his hand away from his side, but doesn't speak. She knows what she has to do now, but for a long moment she refuses, then she raises her feet and lets him grip her crossed ankles, closing her eyes hopelessly as he does so.

Now she has no chance at all! She shudders knowing she is about to be spanked into total submission. This is to soften her up for a caning later. After this she's not sure what may happen, though from the mood her husband is in, and the way she feels already it will probably be frantically sexual and terribly exciting for them both. It often is!

She feels him grip her ankles more firmly as he raises her legs until her feet point helplessly toward the ornate ceiling. She daren't bend her knees now. Seconds, and her legs are vertical, her feet pointing now to the wall above the bed headboard. Her hips are beginning to rise a little now, but still he moves her legs slowly, further exposing more and more of her attractive bottom. She lies quite still and allows him to do this to her. Paying for her small sins, as he tells her.

Finally, he tucks her ankles under his arm and sits down on the bed with on foot under him. Now she is forced to stare up at her own legs and feet. Sudden hot internal reactions start her long legs quivering even before he begins to spank her. He puts his hand across the backs of her knees to make sure he has a firm hold on her legs.

She sighs softly in anticipation as he raises his hand high, pauses, then slaps it down to connect with her defenceless buttocks making them bounce attractively. She refuses to make a sound. Her breath makes a sharp hiss as she breathes between her clenched teeth in a single sharp gasp of pain and surprise. This is allowed, fortunately for her. He begins to spank her defenceless bum steadily, smiling.

This goes on for some time, during which her pale shapely bum-cheeks change from their normal pale satiny sheen, through a blotchy pink and red, to a much deeper pink with bright red fingermarks, to an almost uniformly angry crimson colour. Her eyes are closed tight as she fights to keep still and quiet, to keep her spanking as short as possible. Again her full sensual lower lip is firmly between her teeth.

Deep in her mind she is pleased he hasn't put the main bedroom lights on. She knows she must be pouting down there already now; her hot pussy aches and galvanic impulses run from her punished bottom through the whole of her pretty body. Luckily, the low light makes a deep shadow there.

He stops spanking her before she makes herself too obvious. One tangy whiff of hot arousal from her and he'll spank her to a conclusion – until she's forced to her peak and climaxes hotly. This is the final humiliation she hopes to avoid. Later, probably – but not yet!

She feels him submit her to the next shameful indignity as her tiny knickers are tugged gently back over her hot bum-cheeks. They cling moistly at the top of her thighs. She tries to hold them there, but he pulls them down almost to her knees, as far as he can. This reduces her almost to a naughty little girl having her knickers taken down for a spanking. But little girls are not spanked as she is being spanked. Or for the same reasons; none of which she can help.

"Now, you little witch," he growls, "have you had enough?"

"Mmmm!" she replies instantly. "MMM-mmmm!"

"You can think about that now, for a while."

She nods warily, says, "Mmm," very softly. Tonight she's got off much better than she usually does; either that, or she's getting used to being spanked – probably a bit of both. She still lies there, with her pants round her knees and her feet pointing toward the headboard of her bed. Her hands are still trapped beneath her back with almost all her weight on them. Apart from rolling her head and waggling her feet she still cannot move at all. Nor does she try!

He shakes his hand quickly. He's spanked her so hard it's stinging. He grins, trying to guess what her curvaceous bum must feel like. He is a big well-built, rangy person; wide shoulders a deep chest. And very big powerful hands, as she knows only too well.

He sighs deeply, stands up and eases her legs back until they can see each other and they are resting on his shoulder, still pointing up to the ceiling. Again his hand rests on her knees, forcing her to keep her long legs straight. Bending her knees isn't allowed her.

"I think you're about ready now," he says softly, smiling coolly down at her. "Will you do as you're told?"

"MMM!" she agrees quickly, nodding rapidly.

He lowers her feet, still holding her ankles in one hand. His other hand pulls the panties further down. She uncrosses her ankles and takes one foot out. He slips the whispy garment free of her other foot and lets her go. She lowers her legs and recrosses her ankles, one heel again deeply sunk into the soft carpet.

He stands there above her now, with her panties dangling from his fingers, thinking about something. Nothing to her advantage, of course.

"Kneel up on there." He points to the long narrow bedding chest at the foot of his bed, then strides to it and pulls it out into the centre of the room. She gets up from the bed and meekly kneels up on its upholstered top without a word, though she hates the undignified pose.

She takes up the required crouched pose carefully. There isn't too much space on the narrow chest for this, but she does it; feet hanging off one end, her forehead barely on the other, and her sleek back nicely arched so that her bottom is presented perfectly for his attention with the cane later. Her hands are at each side of her head, with her arms bent at her elbows. She takes her weight evenly on her hands, elbows and her knees. Now she is naked apart from her heavy golden chain which is not visible having slid down under her curly blonde hair.

He stands by her side, positioning her as he wants her, noticing how her firm, full breasts swing and jiggle as they hang freely suspended now. Her nipples barely clear the top of the chest when he's finally satisfied. She sighs softly again. Now she'll have to hold her wickedly exposed crouch until he chooses to cane her, later. She's in no discomfort, apart from her blazing bottom, but the thought that she is displaying all her secrets, no longer in the shadow cast by the bedside lamp, but in his full view now, makes her madly indignant.

He loves to put her into these very humiliating positions and make her hold them, any movement meaning she collects further strokes later.

"Comfortable there?" he asks his usual ridiculous question.

"Mmmm," she says, wondering how he can expect her to be comfortable after the spanking he's just given her.

"Anything to say?" he asks in a soft concerned tone.

"Handkerchief, please," she says in a pleading tone.

He walks away opens a drawer and comes back with a clean handkerchief. A big one of his, she sees from the corner of her eye. He folds this into a thick short cylinder and holds it down for her, by her head. She raises her head, opens her mouth and he slips it between her nice, big even teeth. She clamps her teeth on it firmly and subsides again. Tonight she's very lucky. The handkerchief makes it much easier for her to keep quiet. Often he refuses to allow her to have one.

"Just to make sure you don't move," he says softly, and places something cool on her back in the centre of the flat area at the base of her spine, above the swell of her buttocks. This is something new; he hasn't done this to her before. She feels its weight but has no idea what it may be. She crouches, silent and apprehensive, waiting...

"Wriggle!" he says sharply. "Go on, let me see you squirm."

She does, waggles her bum slowly from side to side; all she can do in that position. Her nipples brush the upholstery lightly and a small silvery bell begins to tinkle to surprise her. This is a new trick!

"Stop!" he says, and chuckles icily. "Now I'll hear you move!"

She stops wriggling. He's put a bell on her and she daren't take it off. Nor can she move without ringing the damned thing! A hot flush of shame runs through her. And now she can't even complain, or she'll lose the handkerchief he's allowed her to have.

"Head up, now."

Slowly she raises her head; stops staring down at the carpet and sees the skirting board, then the wall, finally her dressing table. And feels another small weight on the back of her head! When he moves away she sees in the mirror she is balancing a thin book on her head! She fumes in silent anguish.

"One extra, if you ring the bell. Three more if you lose the book. Okay?" He chuckles softly, knowing she can't even nod now, to agree, or even say her usual, Mmm – not that this matters – he's got her and there's nothing she can do about it now.

"Waggle your feet" he tells her, trying to keep amusement out of his voice. "Left for yes, right for no," he adds drily.

Stubbornly she refuses; keeps both feet still.

"That's mutiny!" he says, surprised. "You know what you'll get for that, don't you!"

Reluctantly she waggles her left foot, feeling absolutely ridiculous with a book balanced on her head. At least, when he's gone she'll be able to settle down carefully into a more relaxed position. He always leaves her to think over her small misdemeanours, convinced this turns her on.

"That's better-r-r," he says, chuckling. "You don't mind me calling you my little witch, do you?"

She waggles her right foot, wondering what he's driving at now. "Good! We'll fix you up like one, then."

Now what? she wonders.

He goes back to the dressing table. She hears the flick of his lighter and sees a small yellow glow a few seconds later. He comes back holding a tall candle in an antique-looking brass candlestick. The candle is lit! She tried to imagine what he can possibly do with that!

"Knees further apart." She sees him in the mirror, behind her. And feels instantly very vulnerable indeed. "Come on!"

She eases her knees apart reluctantly.

"More!" he snaps. "Don't be so modest; it doesn't become you!"

She gives up and moves her knees much wider apart, hopelessly.

He stoops quickly and puts the candle down out of her sight. She can't see where in the mirror, but she knows it won't be to her advantage. She waggles her right foot furiously, but he doesn't even notice. He brings another book from the dressing table and stoops to balance this one across her legs just above her heels. This is a much thicker, heavier book. The weight stops her from raising her feet.

"There you are! A real witch." Again he chuckles wickedly. "Bell books, and candle – it suits you marvellously. "Move now, witch!"

She stays quite still, not that she can move very much in any case.

"Go on – try!" he urges her in an amused tone.

Slowly she waggles her bottom. And feels the small heat of the candle at the tops of her thighs! The candle is right behind her! The bell rings softly. A warning!

"Settle down a little. Make yourself comfortable; you may be there for a short while. I think I've earned a coffee, now."

She has no alternative but to do as she's told. She allows her knees to bend slowly. And feels the low heat building up – ON HER PUSSY!! She jerks up again, tinkling the bell. Another soft warning! She seeths silently, heightened by the way he stands by her side looking very smug and clever, chuckling that wicked chuckle of his.

To add insult to injury he stoops and runs a slow fingernail down her spine, until she sets the bell tinkling helplessly. Luckily the bell itself stops him from going further; running his finger on down her cleft and to her hot aching pussy as he often does when she can't do a thing to stop him. She groans deep in her throat, very softly.

Suddenly the doorbell rings!

"I'd better go and answer that," he says, adding blithely, "I wonder who it is."

He goes out, but leaves the door open. With her facing away from it!

She crouches there helpless. Afraid to move! So tense her curls are quivering and slipping down over her face. She moves her hands cautiously; one to steady the book on her head, the other behind her to keep that bell quiet. Increasing heat on the underside of her hot, sensitive bum warns her to keep it up high. She raises it higher, fuming.

Downstairs she hears him open the door, talking to someone. A light FEMALE voice answers him. No, it's not her Mother, thank heaven! Who can it be, at this time? She has no idea of the time, now, but knows it must be fairly late. She hears voices, but not their words. He laughs lightly. She joins in!

She gasps as rapid feet come up the stairs softly. The door opens and he's caught her! Her hands should be flat, by her head!

"That's cheating!" he says softly. "Good thing I came up."

She puts her hands back where they should be as quickly as she can.

He leaves her. Water runs in the bathroom. In no time he's back. She can't see him! Where is he?

Suddenly he grips her wrist, says, "Give me your hand," in that odd sharp tone he uses. She does!

He straightens her arm, so that it points behind her, then slips something cool and fairly heavy and smoothly round into her hand, saying, "Hold that, and don't spill it. Two more if you do!" He very quickly does the same thing with her other arm, leaving her clutching, she realises, two glasses of water.

The only thing she can do is to move her arms so that they rest against her hips, to steady them. He's gone back downstairs before she's done this. Now she is truly helpless and dare not move at all in any way! She is reminded in the midst of her self-pity and humiliation, by the mounting warmth on her bottom, to stick it up higher.

She hears him coming upstairs again quickly, she is still in the same humiliating helpless position, bottom very high now. He opens the door and she feels the cool air on her hot bum which is facing it.

"Helen's here." He says, teasing. "She wants to see you." She waggles her right foot frantically. He says nothing. In shear desperation she spits out his handkerchief and gasps, "No! No! I don't want her to see me like this!"

"Okay, lady-witch," he says, "please yourself – but I can't see why. You look terrific from here. So calm and obedient. And so damned sexy!"

He goes back downstairs and Kath feels sweat trickling into her eyes. More low conversation downstairs. Helen calls up, '"Bye, Kath."

The door is closed, and locked. His feet come up the stairs again, slowly. He comes into the bedroom, and says, "She's gone."

He gazes at the object of his fondest interest, softly lit by the golden light of the candle below it. Kath's exciting curves appeal to him strongly, as does the hint of moisture in the attractive golden hair below her shapely cleft. He's never known her look so damned enticing. She looks ready to take her caning now, quivering and sighing softly, both glasses of water still full, with not a trace on the carpet below her unsteady hands. A few strokes of the cane will provoke her into hot arousal – especially if she takes it as she is now. Helpless she always responds furiously.

"Please?" she asks mildly.

He perches on the edge of the dressing table she faces. "Pardon?"

"Hanky!" She gazes up at him wide-eyed, pleading, not wanting to have to take any more than the three strokes they agreed on. He often agrees to three, knowing she'll make it double, or more, by yelping. Tonight he's been so successful, she'll only need three. He picks up the hanky, refolds it and puts it between her teeth.

She waggles her hands carefully, so as not to spill her water. He knows she wants to be rid of them, and why not? He takes both glasses from her and puts them on the dressing table. Obediently she puts her hands by the sides of her head.

"Ready?" He chuckles wickedly. "That's four now, for talking."

The book rocks precariously as she tries to nod, accepting this calmly.

He takes out the cane and swishes it to and fro, slashing the air. The sound it makes seems to agitate her nicely. He chooses his spot on her fascinating bum that is offered so nicely still, and lays the cool cane to her hotly sensitive skin.

She clenches her cheeks instantly, until she's quivering slightly.

Just for fun he stoops and moves her candle a bit closer and her bum rises a little. He moves it back a little, only teasing.

'Shwit' – and the pale line appears instantly. Her hips squirm slowly as she lowers her bottom instinctively, only to raise it as she feels the mild heat of her candle. She makes a low husky sound, deep in her throat. Her fingers twitch tensely. She doesn't need to hold the two glasses of water now. The bell on her back tinkles softly, but doesn't ring, amazingly. Nor when he gives her another fiery stripe!

He waits for her to calm down, then 'Shwittt!' and another instant fine line appears across her full, bouncy cheeks, and she claws her fingernails into the material she's crouched on, using her thumbs to keep her head steady so that she doesn't lose her thin book.

Small beads of sweat are showing on her back before he reluctantly raises the cane again. He waits until she crouches quite still, now looking much more moist as she reacts hopelessly, her golden-blonde pubic fleece much darker and less crisply curly.

"One to go!" he says, making her cringe, waiting for it.

'Shwit!' – another thin pale line glows across her offered cheeks, and again she dips her bum by instinct, only to raise it yet again. He drops the cane and stands behind her, watches her last line turn bright red to match her others.

She spits out the hanky and pleads "Oh, please!" She wails huskily, "Ple-e-e-ease!"

She is exactly the right height and in the perfect position. He takes the bell from her back, throws it on the bed. The two books hit the carpet with dull thuds, and he gets rid of the candle. She spreads, ready for him; wet and musky, writhing desperately.

He steadies her hips. She is so beautifully warm and wet he enters with no drama.

She squeals softly, giving herself unreservedly.

He leans over her, panting, matching her urgent breathing. His hands find her firm breasts. Her nipples are as hard as small ripe berries. One gentle touch and a little friendly squeeze is enough to start her off again. He pays no attention to her soft squeal.

He whispers innocently. "Let's see if I can do that again?" In due course, she finds that he can do just that.