Executive Hot Seat

Story from Februs 28.

Executive Hot Seat
by Michael O'Connor

Rachel Chandler was a woman driven by ambition. In her four years at Princemore Enterprises Limited, her single minded determination to succeed had seen her rise from P.A. to Senior Operations Co-ordinator. At thirty-three, she was only one step away from achieving her ultimate ambition – a seat on the board of directors. The afternoon she was summoned to a meeting with the Executive Chairman, she was certain her proudest moment way at hand.

Sir Clement Princemore studied her intently as she seated herself before his high oak desk. Rachel was well aware that the elderly tycoon secretly disapproved of her tendency to conceal her femininity beneath sharply tailored three-piece trouser suits. He was a traditionalist, who believed a woman ought to look like a woman, even if she operated in the cut-throat male environment of big business. The way he sometimes looked at her, she was certain he wan mentally undressing her, imagining her in high heels, silk stockings and seductive lingerie, her hair flowing in waves of ash blonde instead of styled in the boyish fashion she felt was more appropriate to her position. Her entire look was calculated to intimidate rather than seduce and had the desired effect upon most men. If some of them considered her a lesbian, so be it. As long as they did not stand in the way of her ambitions, they were welcome to think whatever they liked.

Sir Clement squandered little time on pleasantries, before getting straight to the point.

'As yon know, Miss Chandler, Mr Dennison retires at the end of next month, leaving a seat on the board to be filled. Your impressive record with this company makes yon the primary candidate. My fellow directors and I would take great pleasure in welcoming the first woman to a position on the board.'

Rachel smiled. 'Thank you, Sir Clement. Your faith in me will not be misplaced, that I can assure you.'

'Don't thank me just yet,' he replied, leaning forward in his chair. 'There's no denying your qualifications for an executive position. However, you have another record with Princemore Enterprises that is less than admirable.' He paused to leaf through a sheaf of papers on the desk. 'You have what can only be called an excessively ruthless streak, Miss Chandler, a quality I personally do not admire. You seem unable to distinguish between strong management and outright intimidation. Two months is the average service term for your personal secretaries. Is that something to be proud of?'

'A large company cannot properly function without maximum efficiency from every cog in the wheel,' Rachel responded.

Sir Clement sighed. 'This company is made up of people, not machines. Your medieval management style is not conductive to good industrial relations and does not, in the long term, serve the good of this company. Unless you can show me you are able to adopt a more progressive attitude, I shall be forced to veto your appointment to the board.'

Rachel sprang to her feet.

'You can't do that!' she cried angrily. 'You know I'm the best person for the job. I've earned it, damn it!'

'What you have earned is an opportunity to make me change my mind,' Sir Clement said calmly. You will not do that by losing your temper. Now, here's what you're going to do…'

* * *

The following Saturday afternoon, Rachel drove to a secluded guest house, deep in the heart of the Kent countryside. She was still seething with resentment. Sir Clement had no right to send her on some weekend retreat, for what he called 'a short, sharp course in self-management'. She had earned her seat on the board and her appointment should have been a formality. What was another stupid certificate going to prove? Nevertheless, she had acceded to his wishes, without much argument. She was not going to allow pride to trip her up on her career ascent.

She parked her silver BMW in the shadow of the large, featureless white house. There were three other cars parked nearby, but no signs of life. The place looked nothing like what she had expected. Sir Clement had given her only the address and directions on how to gel there. All would be revealed upon arrival, he had promised. There was not even a name plate by the front door, to give any indication of what she was letting herself in for.

After she had rung several times, the door was opened by a young, dark haired maid in a black skirt and half open white blouse. Her heavily made-up, slovenly appearance did not offer Rachel a favourable impression of the place. She signed in at the deserted reception desk, then followed the sullen maid upstairs. The girl did not offer to carry her overnight bag, a trivial fact that increased her exasperation.

'Your room,' she said, ushering her into a clean, but charmless double room. 'Hope it's okay.'

The first thing Rachel saw was the unmade bed. Then, she noticed a cigarette stub in the ashtray on the bedside table and a red lipstick stain on one of the glasses. When she turned around, she saw the maid leaning casually against the doorframe, lighting a cigarette.

'This is far from okay!' she rasped, glaring at the unconcerned girl. 'The bed hasn't even been made, for God's sake. What kind of doss house are you running here?'

'I'll get the manager,' the maid replied. 'Wait here.'

'By the time she returned, a few minutes later, accompanied by a tall, black haired man in a dark blue pinstriped suit, Rachel's pique had matured to cold fury. The man introduced himself as Hugh Jensen, manager of the guest house.

'What seems to be the problem?' he demanded.

'Can't you see for yourself?' she snapped. 'This room hasn't been cleaned and that maid of yours, or whatever she is, obviously could not care less. No sooner had she showed me to my room, than she was lighting a cigarette. I've received more courteous service in a car wash.'

The manager looked at the maid. 'Tut, tut, Teresa, you are a naughty girl.' He turned back to Rachel. 'And you, Miss Chandler, are exactly what I was told to expect. You have failed your first test.'

'Test!' she repeated incredulously. 'What are you talking about?' Before answering, he told the maid to leave.

'You know why you're here,' he said, as soon as he and Rachel were alone. 'Your company feels you are somewhat lacking in humility and consideration for others. The reason you find your room in this state is because that's how you were supposed to find it. That, along with Teresa's attitude, was calculated to bring out the worst in you. You are an insufferably arrogant woman and now you must be punished.'

'Is this some kind of joke?' she demanded.

'Far from it,' he assured her. 'You are here to earn a certificate upon which your future career depends. My job is to see that you earn it. That can only be done by accepting your correction, without further argument.'

Rachel laughed nervously. 'This is ridiculous. Say I refuse to accept this punishment. What then?'

'Then, you leave here without your self-management certificate,' he replied. 'I shall be paid, either way, so it's of no consequence to me. Well, what's it to be?'

Rachel paced the room for a few moments, scarcely able to contain her fury. She had never felt so impotent and once again cursed Sir Clement Princemore. How could he seriously expect her to bow to this sleazy guest house manager? She wiped her boots on far better men practically every day of the week. Yet, he did have indisputable power over her. She needed the certificate only he had the power to issue.

'What exactly does this punishment entail?' she finally asked.

With a smile, he walked across to the closet, slid open the door and reached inside. When he turned around again, he was flexing a long, thin cane. Rachel gasped, eyes widening in disbelief.

'A dozen strokes across your bare backside should do for now,' he announced.

Her first reaction was to laugh. When she realised he was serious, she angrily reminded him that she was a respectable businesswoman, not some naughty schoolgirl. Who did he think he was to decide that she should be caned? At the end of her outburst, he informed her that she had upped her punishment from twelve strokes to twenty.

Eventually, realising she could only make matters worse by continuing to resist, Rachel grudgingly agreed to accept her punishment. The man directed her to remove her lower garments and stand facing the closet.

'Remember, you're doing this for yourself, not for me,' he added.

Modesty was not one of her vices, so she felt little discomfort from being watched by him as she removed her shoes, then her black slacks. She threw him a final angry glare before tugging her pink lace panties down over her long, smooth legs. Stepping out of her underwear, she faced the closet and spread her arms and legs wide, pressing herself against the mirror. Looking over her left shoulder, she saw him take up position a few feet behind her, flexing the cane as though tuning a musical instrument. The hem of her cream silk blouse covered scarcely an inch of her buttocks, leaving her milky rear globes perfectly exposed. Though she still boiled with anger, she could not deny an unexpectedly pleasant sensation of anticipation.

The cane carved the air and exploded across the centre of her backside, with a sharp thwhack! Rachel bit her lower lip, in order to deny the man the pleasure of hearing her cry out. He allowed the after-burn to blossom to full fiery redness, before delivering the second stroke, just a fraction above the first.

Rachel valiantly managed to restrain herself from responding vocally, until the fourteenth stroke branded her throbbing cheeks. A small cry issued from between her trembling lips and she pressed against the closet, as though hoping the mirror would swallow her up. Her fists were clenched tightly, fingernails gouging her palms.

By the time the twentieth stroke had fallen, her buttocks felt as if they had been set alight. The manager surveyed his handiwork with obvious satisfaction, then invited her to turn around and take a look in the mirror. She uttered a shocked exclamation. The fiery lines of the cane were criss-crossed on her rear cheeks, strips of pale skin peeking from the inferno. She know she should be outraged, but the thrashing had had the perverse effect of kindling a corresponding liquid fire between her thighs. If the tall man intended the punishment as a preliminary to ravishing her, she no longer intended to offer any resistance. She could think of it as using her body to further her career.

'That was just the beginning,' he promised. I'm sure I shall have cause to punish you several more times before you leave, tomorrow afternoon. However, you have work to do now. There are appropriate clothes in the closet that should fit you. When you're ready, report to me downstairs.'

Rachel was shocked by how easily she found herself obeying his orders. As soon as he had left, she applied a generous coating of cold cream to her throbbing buttocks, then set about getting dressed. Sir Clement would have undoubtedly approved of the clothing provided by her host. She browsed carefully through the outfits, before selecting a knee length pink skirt slit high at the back. As a favour to her aching backside, she decided not to wear panties.

* * *

When she returned downstairs, Jensen escorted her to a fully equipped office and showed her to her desk. Sitting opposite her was a red haired secretary in her early twenties, who appeared to be shaped from the same mould as the maid. She was dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, a look calculated to annoy Rachel. She vowed she would not rise to the bait a second time.

'This is Susan, your secretary,' the manager said. 'I want you to dictate a letter to Sir Clement Princemore. In it, you will tell him why you feel you should be elected to the board of directors. In short, sell yourself, I'm sure you will have no difficulty with that. If there are no questions, I shall leave you to it.'

There was no cushion on the hard wooden chair behind her desk, so she decided to remain standing. For the next forty minutes, she submerged herself in the pleasing task of detailing her good points, of which she felt there were many. When she was finished, she ordered her secretary to read the two page letter back to her and then type it. For all she knew, it might well be sent to Sir Clement, so it would have to be perfect. When she was presented with the finished draft, however, she was far from impressed.

'You quite obviously don't earn your living as a secretary,' she said icily. 'Miss Chandler, I work for a large agency,' Susan protested. 'I've...'

'Look at the state of this letter!' Rachel exploded, slamming it down on the desk in front of the startled girl. There are at least a dozen spelling mistakes and your punctuation is atrocious. You've even misspelled my name.'

She stopped suddenly, realising she had fallen into a trap. Susan had, of course, been instructed to make a deliberate mess of the letter, in order to test her reaction. She was disgusted with herself for being so predictable. She would not dream of apologising to the girl, but before she could decide what she should do to rectify the situation, the office door opened and the manager entered.

'You do have a way with people, don't you, Miss Chandler!' he smirked.

'And now I suppose I must be punished again?' she retorted.

'You sound as though you're looking forward to it,' he said. 'Your type do have a fondness for the cane, I find.'

'Don't patronise me,' she snapped. 'Let's just get this over with.'

Jensen tutted. 'You don't seem to realise who's in charge here, Miss Chandler. I shall patronise you as I wish and punish you in my own good time. There's more to this course than merely taking down your knickers and having your arse reddened. I have to see an improvement in attitude before I can hand over your certificate.'

'Sorry,' she muttered, blushing.

He smiled. 'I realise how painful it must have been for you to say that. As a reward, I shan't keep you waiting for your punishment.'

He instructed her to remove her skirt. As soon as she had done this, he unbuttoned her blouse and slid it off her shoulders, then unclasped her bra at the front. As the straps slipped down over her arms, her large round breasts bounced free, leaving her in nothing but her high heeled shoes and hold-up flesh toned stockings. In such a state, she would have preferred to be alone with Jensen. She glanced at the red haired girl, who was unlocking a glass cabinet containing a small arsenal of correctional equipment.

'Susan is staying to help me punish you,' the manager said, reading her thoughts. 'Right, let's have you over that chair, facing backwards. Come on! I'm as eager to get on with this as you are.'

It took Rachel several minutes to get the required position exactly right. She perched on the edge of the seat, thrusting back her cane scorched buttocks. Hands gripping her thighs, she leaned forward, her heavy breasts spilling over the back of the chair. Her head was thrown back and she found herself staring into the eyes of the man towering over her. She was already beginning to ache from her uncomfortable position, even before the punishment proper began. Jensen warned her that if she moved or uttered a word, she was liable to find her penalty doubled.

Susan selected from the glass cabinet a wooden handled tawse with three twelve inch strips of brown leather. After careful consideration, her boss settled for a martinet that looked, at least to Rachel, positively terrifying. He took up position behind her, Susan at the front. At a nod from Jensen, they both began simultaneously whacking her.

She was not sure which was worse, the waspish sting of the tawse swishing across her quivering breasts, or the fiery tongues of the martinet licking her buttocks. After only three strokes of the latter, she could not help shifting on the chain in order to escape the scorch of the broad strips of leather. This earned her a further four lashes. Jensen ordered her to raise herself a couple of inches from the seat, so that it would be more difficult for her to move out of range. She obeyed, with only a whimper of protest.

Manager and secretary were perfectly attuned to one another and they thrashed Rachel with a steady rhythm. Susan alternated her strokes of the tawse from left to right, ensuring they were evenly distributed over Rachel's reddening breasts, striking her twice for each of Jensen's lashes. He concentrated the fire of the martinet on the lower half of her buttocks and the backs of her thighs, each cruel kiss eliciting a small shriek of pain.

Two dozen lashes later, he laid down his weapon, by which time tears were brimming in Rachel's blue eyes and she felt as though she had been massaged with nettles. Her breasts throbbed and the freshly thrashed sunburn on her nether cheeks blended with the darker burns of her earlier caning.

'You took that punishment quite well, considering,' Jensen complimented her. 'I think you deserve a few hours rest. Dinner will be at seven. Until then, feel free to occupy yourself as you please.'

* * *

Rachel did not believe for one minute that she could afford to relax. Jensen, or a member of his staff, was liable to spring a nasty surprise upon her, at any moment. As she did not think her bottom capable of withstanding any further punishment, at least for the time being, she decided her safest option would be to relax in a cool bath and then retire to her room. There was little of interest to see around the house or gardens anyway.

She dined with Jensen, who seemed amused by her obvious discomfort as she shuffled continuously on her chair. Despite the soft cushion beneath her, her backside still throbbed. Though the dinner was of a high standard, she could not enjoy it. The soup was too salty and there was a small crack in her dinner plate. More little traps to test her patience, of course, but she refused to react, even when the maid 'accidentally' overturned her coffee cup when refilling it.

After dinner, there were more tests. Rachel was required to interview a prospective secretary, who she recognised as the rude girl who had shown her to her room. Teresa was heavily made-up and wearing a whorish red dress that scarcely covered her hips and left most of her ample cleavage clearly visible. She chewed noisily on gum and appeared completely disinterested in the task at hand. Nevertheless, Rachel gamely persisted with the 'interview'. When it was completed, the girl lit a cigarette. Rachel merely smiled. Now that she was immersed in the game, she did not feel even slightly annoyed.

As soon as Teresa had left the room, Jensen entered. Rachel flashed him a triumphant smile. She knew he had been monitoring the interview from the adjoining room and was certain she had passed her test with flying colours.

'That was an interesting interview technique, Miss Chandler,' he said. 'I presume that isn't how you deal with all prospective employees.'

'You don't sound too pleased,' she observed, wincing as she rose from her chair.

'You wasted almost half an hour with somebody who was patently not right for the job,' he said. 'Would you mind telling me what the point of that was?'

'I was playing your game,' she replied. 'You expected me to bite the girl's head off and I didn't oblige. Of course, in real life, she wouldn't have had time to warm her seat before being shown the door.'

'I expected you to deal with the situation as if it were a bona-fide interview,' he snapped. 'Another test failed and another punishment earned. You're certainly making hard work of gaining this certificate.'

Rachel sighed. 'Why don't we stop this nonsense, Mr Jensen? I need that certificate and you know I'm prepared to do anything to earn it.' She moistened her red glossed lips seductively as she moved around to the front of the desk. 'As I'm going to be spending the night here, perhaps you can think of something better to do with me than keep thrashing my poor backside.' She undid the top button of her blouse. 'I have a few ideas.'

He cleared his throat. 'Are you saying what I think you're saying?'

'What do you think I'm saying?' she purred.

'That you'll have sex with me, in return for that precious certificate.'

She smiled. 'Politely put, that's exactly what I'm saying. Well?'

While he considered his reply, Rachel continued unbuttoning her blouse. His eyes journeyed downwards to her lividly streaked globes, which were unfettered by a bra. She glanced at the unmistakable swelling in the crotch of his trousers and knew she had him exactly where she wanted him. He was practically drooling over her exposed breasts.

'I... er, I have some business to attend to,' he stammered. 'Meet me at midnight, in the back garden.'

* * *

As she made her way to her midnight appointment, Rachel silently congratulated herself. She wondered why Jensen had chosen the garden, when he had a huge house at his disposal. Perhaps he just had a fondness for sex al fresco. Whatever his reasons, she was glad to be saving her bottom from further punishment. She could not admit, even to herself, that she actually relished the prospect of a passionate encounter with the masterful guest house manager.

As the night was pleasantly warm, she had dressed for the occasion in sandals, blouse and a semi-transparent ankle length skirt of while silk, through which the moonlight silhouetted her long legs. For comfort as well as convenience, she was wearing no underwear. She had a feeling Jensen would not want to waste much time getting down to business. At least, she hoped so.

He was standing by the huge oak tree at the far end of the garden. Beside him was a swing comprised of two chains and a flat board, suspended from an overhanging branch.

'Bang on time, Miss Chandler,' he greeted.

She smiled. 'Please, call me Rachel.'

'I'd rather we retained the formalities,' he replied. 'I take it you haven't changed your mind.'

'I'm here, aren't I?' she responded.

He nodded. 'Quite. Let's get on with it then, shall we?'

Though somewhat taken aback by his businesslike tone, Rachel was not inclined to argue. He directed her to bend over the swing, stomach on the board, hands tightly gripping the chains. As soon as she was in position, he hitched her skirt up above her hips and pulled it over her head. A light breeze kissed her rear cheeks, cooling the tender flesh. She sighed softly as he began caressing them with both hands.

'Your backside feels hot enough to brown toast on,' he observed. 'It's almost a shame you have to be punished again.'

'What do you mean punished?' she cried, her voice muffled by the skirt over her head.

'You did fail a test earlier,' he replied. 'That in itself was only a minor mailer. Far more serious is your attempt to cheat, in order to gain your certificate. I'd be failing in my duty, if I did not punish that most severely.'

'But we had an agreement!' she protested, vigorously shaking her head in a vain attempt to untangle herself from her skirt. 'You promised...'

'I promised nothing,' he corrected. 'All I did was ask you to meet me here at midnight. It's not my fault you were under the impression I wanted to screw you. Now, are you going to accept your punishment like a real woman, or do we have to have another tiresome argument?'

Rachel was too outraged to meekly concede defeat, but in the end, she had to surrender to the inevitable. From inside his shirt, Jensen produced a long black strap, composed of two thick tongues of leather riveted together at either end. He ordered Rachel to lift her feet off the grass, then set the swing in motion. When she was swinging vigorously back and forth, feet flailing, skirt still bunched over her head, the double strap began biting her buttocks.

The gunshot crack of leather on flesh, accompanied by her sharp cries of pain, sounded throughout the garden. From an upstairs window, Teresa and Susan watched, exchanging smiles. They both disliked the bitchy businesswoman and were only too pleased to see her receive more than her fair share of discipline. Before she left, the following afternoon, they had been promised an opportunity to treat her to a sound spanking. It was something they were looking forward to immensely.

Rachel swung and the strap relentlessly savaged the backs of her legs and every inch of her buttocks. Jensen's arm seemed incapable of tiring. Eventually, when she felt as though she had sat on a hot stove, she heard herself begging him to stop. Reluctantly, he laid down the strap.

The following afternoon, in the wake of a spanking from the two girls that brought tears to her eyes, Rachel stood uncomfortably in his office and accepted a silver embossed sheet of laminated purple paper that certified her as having passed a basic course in self-management. She hoped she could control her blushes when presenting it to Sir Clement Princemore. She could not even think about the seat on the board of directors that was to be her reward. For the next few days, until her bottom ceased to resemble a scorched radish, she could not bear to think about a seat of any kind.

A Model Of Good Behaviour

Story from Janus 78.

A Model Of Good Behaviour
by John Undermeyer

When Amanda Jane was invited to play 'My Little Pony' the game ended with a sting in the tail

'PLEASE keep the change,' said Amanda Jane Weatherstone as she stepped from her London taxi into Eaton Square and handed the driver a £5 note. Then, grateful that the day was over, she flashed him a radiant smite, face fabulously pretty, her ash-blonde hair softly ashine and eyes a vivid blue. Delighted with her magic, the man drove the cab away feeling more than well-paid as the willow-slender vision stepped briskly across the pavement.

There was no name under the door-bell, simply a card depicting the Earth as seen from space: the trademark of World Stars. 'Who's there?' came a voice from the grille in answer to the girl's ring.

'Hi Bobbie, it's me, Mandy,' she announced in tones that sparkled with laughter. 'Let me in, will you? It's cold out here!'

Amanda Jane loved 'entrances', and swept into the reception-room on a cloud of Yves St Laurent, bestowing more of her magic on Bobbie Gifford, the receptionist. 'God, what a day,' the enchanting arrival sighed. 'I'm dead and buried. I need a life-giving bath, something to drink and a fattening meal.'

Normally Amanda Jane would have gone home when the day's photographic work was done but tonight the fashion model had a date with her wealthy agent and his mistress, and it was accepted that she could come straight from work to a guest-suite at their palatial apartment in Eaton Square, and perhaps stay the night if whatever proceedings the couple had in store for her went on too long.

A few minutes later, having warmed Bobbie again with the last of her magic, Amanda was steeping her bodily perfections in perfumed water, a glass of champagne balanced on the bath-edge and Mozart tinkling from a tape-deck in the dressing-room. 'Life,' she mused as she pursed her lips against the neck of the narrow glass, 'has its moments. And tonight, since we're eating, Ziggy obviously has a game planned.'

Amanda Jane had modelled for Clive Forester's World Stars Agency ever since she was 18. Now she was 24. Forester lived at, and ran his business from, Eaton Square. He had moved to the address fifteen years ago with his mistress, Ziggy St Ruth. Ziggy was young when Forester first slept with her (eyebrows had been raised at the time), but the liaison had endured and now the couple were man and wife in all but name.

Ziggy brought games into Forester's life. Games were played at night, with their favourite models; special girls who had joined an 'inner circle' where silence was the codeword. It was taboo to mention a game to anyone unless that person had also taken part in it. Games meant punishment, but it was never administered without the full consent of the recipients. Girls who said 'yes', however, were rewarded with superb modelling jobs in exotic locations. Ergo, games were popular.

Amanda Jane soaped and shampooed herself from the tip of her glamorous head to the backs of her dainty heels; then, stepping from the tub, she engulfed her tall, sleek body in a towel which dried her almost as it touched her. She helped herself to more champagne and fell back naked on the goose-feather bed, which was a genuine antique, with the air-conditioning keeping her sexily warm. Amanda Jane hadn't had a man for some time and was beginning to feel a need 'down there'. In fact she was starting to feel distinctly restless when there was a tap on the door and, without being invited, Ziggy came in.

'Hush, not a word, darling,' said the woman as her guest raised herself on to her elbows, in enquiry. 'I've come to tell you about tonight's game. Just three little words, then I'll be gone.' Ziggy came to the bed and settled on it, the leotard she wore emphasising her voluptuous womanly curves and tiny waist. The intensity of her dark, liquid eyes, the sensuality of her aquiline face framed by long black tresses, spoke of her mystical Byzantine ancestry.

Ziggy knew that this girl was one of Clive's favourites, and needed careful watching. Naked, without make-up and with her hair just washed, Amanda Jane lost the sophisticated chic she brought before the cameras and became a very slim and attractive gamine who could look much younger than her 24 years. This was because of her lissom figure, narrow hips, petite boyish bottom, wasp waist, and the fact that her breasts were shaped like shallow saucers. Forester boasted that his models could never look too slender or too rich – and Amanda Jane was perfect for pencil-slim designs and, especially, swimwear collections. She could pose in the briefest bikini: body languid, legs and arms far-stretched, without looking in the least vulgar or voluptuous. Instead, she was 'squeaky-clean', graceful, pure and innocent, and it was this unique quality of yearning innocence that the design houses were willing to pay for.

It was also what Forester wanted from his favourite model. With her war-paint on Amanda Jane could seduce a camera with her big azure eyes and fluttering lashes, but without the paints and lash-lengtheners those eyes were fringed simply with a few fair wisps, and the girl blinked with timid deference under the continuing keenness of Ziggy's inquisitive stare.

Nor did Ziggy attempt to conceal the focus of her interest – she was looking straight and hard at Amanda Jane's pubis, which was sweetly clean-shaven. This was essential for very brief costumes, and for those cut high at the thighs. The sight excited Ziggy because she liked to see the models, as she put it, more naked than naked. To her it made them sexually perfect. Most Forester models kept their hair long, and Amanda Jane had her luxuriant ash-blonde locks pulled high off her forehead and hanging in drapes over her shoulders. The rich, silvery strands vibrated spider-web-like in the warm-air slipstream and gave the girl's playful face a silky curtain to hide behind. Amanda Jane's favourite ploy when she lay on a bed with someone else in the room was to act the nymph: demure, honey-tempered and enchanting.

Becoming a little discomforted by the woman's unblinking scrutiny, she stretched her eyes surprise-wide and, after moistening her lips with a tiny tongue-tip, shaped her mouth into a teasing ruby 'O'. Now she pulled up one knee, plonked her heart-shaped chin on it, and swathed her arms round it to hide the place Ziggy was so shamelessly staring at. Then she popped her pinky into her mouth, turning her head at the same time so that her cheek caressed her knee. To Ziggy, the girl looked positively edible.

Her hostess pushed Amanda Jane back on the bed, leaned over and planted a hand on either side of the lean shoulders. The model giggled very softly and lifted her mouth to be kissed, for she knew how Ziggy liked to 'taste' her. Their lips met, and moved together, Ziggy's tongue lapping at the honeyed warmth. Only when her employer's mistress had tasted, smelled and was satisfied that the model was 'as required' did their mouths draw apart and the naked girl was allowed to speak. Ziggy's eyes smouldered as she smiled her approval, sitting upright on the bed to emphasise the ripeness of her body in its brief outfit.

'What a fab leotard, Ziggy,' cooed Amanda Jane. 'The flame-pattern is absolutely right!' And so it was, for orange-coloured flames on the black garment flowed down from the generous breasts to disappear between Ziggy's luscious thighs.

'Ah well,' the mistress replied with a dismissive toss of her head. 'All roads lead to Rome. Now then, you must prepare for the game.'

'What is the game tonight, Ziggy?' ventured the fashion model, feeling slightly daunted by Ziggy's overbearing attitude, with the first stirrings of apprehension at what had been planned for her.

'The game, Amanda, is called "My Little Pony" and that's all I'm going to tell you,' the woman said a little tersely. 'You'll understand more when you see your costume – it's in the top drawer over there – and when you see what Clive and I are going to be wearing. Anyway, rest now; I must dash. Watch the video if you like – it should put you in the right frame of mind for what you've got coming to you.' Then, fixing Amanda Jane with a venomous look, which vanished so fast into a blow-kiss that the model could not decide whether she had seen or simply imagined it, Ziggy slipped from the bedroom leaving a subtle pall of fear behind her.

Dinner wasn't due till eight, so a video seemed to be a good idea. Amanda switched on the machine, then settled back to watch. A title came on the giant-sized television screen: Ice and Fire. This was about championship ice-skating, and Amanda was immediately interested, it being a sport in which she herself had indulged from time to time. The girl in the video was dancing solo, aged about 21, and looked as though she represented an Eastern European country. She was pretty, the model supposed, but in a slightly peasanty way: slim and supple, yes, but the nose was too snubby and the lips thicker than Amanda liked. The best thing about her, though, was her chubby, bobbing little bottom.

For some time the skater dominated the rink, the camera slipping away to shots of the audience, the judging panel and a formidable-looking man whom Amanda Jane guessed was the ice-dancer's trainer, although he was showing no signs of pleasure at his pupil's performance. Suddenly, landing from a sky-high spin, the girl sprawled across the ice, while the audience gasped and the skater gathered while powder under her buttocks as the slid, floundering and dismayed. Her trainer was on his feet, furious. His charge hung her head in shame as she regained her feet on the ice. She danced on, but without conviction, all confidence gone, marks lost, until after another ill-executed leap she stumbled and fell again, and sped from the rink with eyes moist and weak applause from the crowd.

In the dressing-room her trainer, with arms sternly folded, watched her undress to her bra and panties and, when she paused, indicated that she should take everything off. When the unhappy girl was naked, he made her strap the skates back on to her bare feet.

The film then dissolved to a new scene where the skater re-entered the rink – but now the audience, judges and her clothes had all gone. The shivering waif, wringing her hands in entreaty, was to go through her performance again, this time totally nude, for as long as her trainer saw fit.

Close-ups of the skater's prim little breasts, buttocks and tearful face showed how cold she must be as she spun, pirouetted and glided about the ice. Then suddenly, with an ominous rumbling of heavy skates crumping over the wooden flooring to get to the ice, a dozen burly hockey-players ripped on to the rink. In a large, clenched fist each whirled something which moved so fast that Amanda Jane could not make out at first what it was. Then the camera gave a close-up. The men were all wielding long, pliant, triple-tailed leather belts.

Seeing these, the little skater made terrified eyes and danced on, raising a leg straight behind her, bending at the waist and stretching an arm in front. With her upper body over at right-angles and her bobbing bottom thus perfectly presented, she sped towards the first hockey-player, who flipped the belt like a snake-tongue across her rump with a crack that echoed around the empty arena. The report of smacking leather was followed at once by a little shriek from the girl, but none of the men showed any reaction: this was evidently a familiar game, a regular punitive training routine for the naked champion, who must stay strictly within her prescribed programme, perfectly in time with the music which blared discordantly over the loudspeakers.

The ice-dancer's supple glides and weaves took her among the rest of the waiting men, who swung in their belts across the bare rounded bottom in equally perfect time to the music. Again and again the triple tails fell on her defenceless buttocks. After letting her come to them for several bottom-stinging minutes the men then began to pursue the speeding girl, landing frequent hard smacks all over her buttocks and thighs as she snaked, glided, spun and sprang. Close-up shots of her snub peasant face eloquently displayed the girl's discomfort. Whenever a belt swung and struck, her lips opened to yell, tears filled her pleading eyes and she was sorely tempted to move her arms back from the rehearsed dance-position to grasp at her bottom. But each time her sense of discipline told the skater that she must keep to the correct movements, or the punishment would be extended.

She bobbed and bent in and around the bulky hockey-men, who took rapid but accurate aim at their delectable target, positioning themselves to apply the most effective stroke. Back drew the arm, down came the leather, each slap given an extra effect by applying a flick of the wrist an instant before contact. The girl's ice-chilled bottom-cheeks grew more rosy-hued with each strike, and she quickened her speed and broke rhythm with the music in an effort to avoid the larruping – though Amanda Jane, watching in excited fascination, suspected this break in pace to be specifically forbidden. And still the belts splatted down at the dancer's lower back, falling not just across her posterior zones but also on the upper and lower thighs, creating a lively glowing almost down to behind her knees.

Each player was clearly well-practised at this 'game' and it seemed that every one of them was determined to make the skater dance with all the demented fury of the dancer in the fairy-tale of 'The Red Shoes'. The punishment would have been hard enough even if the ice-maiden had been wearing her costume as protection against the freezing cold and the leathers' impacts, but her body was now so chilled as to enhance the smarting several times over. Amanda Jane, wincing herself now at every stroke, could not think of a more extreme way of punishing mistakes. Meanwhile, on the screen the hockey-players continued to dart skilfully around the weeping, whirling girl, flicking their leathers, each splat a jibe against her own skill, a mocking of her talent, and a blazing slap at her naked bottom.

Whap, whap, whap, the triple-tails continued to splay without cease across the girl's nether parts as she flashed through the punitive gauntlet – all her grace gone, style gone; nothing now but a penitent maid exhaustedly seeking mercy. The camera followed the ice-dancer's darting back-view as the last few belt-strokes swept across her disappearing, frozen buttocks, and the girl vanished in a torrent of tears to the dressing-room.

Amanda Jane threw herself back on the bed in awe, shaking her tousled head, certain that this was surely the last she would see of the chastised champion. But there was one more scene. As the girl wobbled into the chilly dressing-room her trainer was waiting with a towel, which he crack-flicked at the hotly-throbbing little behind. His pupil teetered on the tips of her skates in a paroxysm of reignited pain, and the video closed with a caption: How many marks do you think she was awarded? It was the final humiliating jibe.

As the hour was now approaching eight, the model moved off the bed and approached the chest which Ziggy had indicated. Opening the top drawer, she took out the brief but extraordinary costume she found there and, with a mixture of fascination, excitement and a flutter of fear in the pit of her stomach, slipped it on. When the bell summoned her down to the dining-room, Amanda Jane entered to find Forester and his mistress dressed for riding, in scarlet jackets, white satin neckerchiefs, jodhpurs and thigh-length boots. By contrast, the model herself wore only a clingy white, short-sleeved cotton tee-shirt trimmed to leave her midriff bare – and a pony-tail.

The tail had been carefully designed, joining long black strands of human hair to an intricate system of elastic belts, one of which fitted snugly around the model's trim waist, with two others encircling high on each of Amanda's thighs. The complex arrangement ensured that the tail was held close to the base of the spine when at rest, covering the buttocks as does a real pony's tail – but had been specially permed to perk up when it left the body, then hang down in fronds, revealing them.

' "My Little Pony" has arrived, Horsemaster,' said Ziggy to her lover, whose eyes gleamed with pleasure at the sight of his favourite model dressed, or undressed, so. 'We shall feed her before we commence training.' The trio moved to the table. Three of the places had been set with cutlery, but it was the fourth that made Amanda Jane's tummy muscles tighten. For, instead of table-silver as elsewhere, there was laid a long leather strap and a wire-slim riding-crop.

Forester ate nervously. He was a short man in his late fifties, with greying hair and a trim moustache which gave him a Gallic look. The tensions of his profession had kept him thin, maybe even gaunt if one judged by the shadows in the sallow cheeks. His bleach-white hands with the long sensitive fingers seemed to crackle with an electricity that was enhanced by his fastidious manners. He sipped wine as if it were a liqueur, dabbed his hairline-thin lips more often than was necessary, and gave off an air of being exactly what he was: a rich, reclusive businessman who had fought for everything he had in life and gave nothing away.

Ziggy had grown like him, losing her youthful innocence soon after they had begun to live together. Over the years she had taken on his ruthlessness and it could be seen in her features, especially her steely eyes. She could, when necessary, assume a gracious charm, but Amanda Jane could also sense the shrew beneath the surface, as physically tough as she was mentally because Ziggy exercised regularly; with manners that told everyone that she was not prepared to be crossed.

During the meal Amanda Jane several times tried to join in the conversation, but the couple ignored her. Her role, clearly, was to remain silent. The 'game' had begun. As they finished coffee Ziggy came up behind Amanda Jane's chair and fastened round her neck a black velvet band with a long loop of ribbon attached. These were precisely what they seemed to be: the reins. As soon as this was done, the agent cleared his voice softly and, looking directly at Amanda Jane, said, 'I hear Quentin de Witt has been asked to do the Southern Lights Swimwear Collection in Fiji next month. Would you like to go with him as lead model? The trip will be three to four weeks; you'd be wearing about a hundred and fifty garments with two other girls.'

Quentin de Witt was one of the best fashion photographers in Europe and Southern Lights costumes were always in the fashion vanguard. Amanda Jane's pictures from such an assignment could be sure of reaching Vogue, Harpers and most of the upmarket national and Sunday papers. She at once blazed her magic at the agent and enthused, 'Oh Clive, what a lovely job! Please let me do it, please.'

At this, Ziggy cut in with, 'You are happy to be "My Little Pony" tonight, darling?'

'Very happy, Ziggy,' the girl exulted, her fears for the moment fled. 'Yes please, I want to be trained.'

Forester spoke again, 'Bobbie will have the contract ready to sign before you leave tomorrow.' Then, turning to his partner, he went on, 'Business is over, let the game begin. Lead your pony to the lounge and let me see you both promenade.'

He stood, picked up the broad leather belt from the table and strode from the dining-room, thigh-boots thrusting together around the well-cut jodhpurs, every inch the Horsemaster. Ziggy, too, got up from her seat, her bosom jutting under the scarlet jacket, riding-breeches tight. With a creaking of boot-leather she came up behind Amanda Jane's chair and took in both hands the loop of ribbon which hung down the girl's back.

'Hup!' she said. 'Come up there, Little Pony!'

Amanda Jane rose to her feet, which were as bare as her graceful legs and smooth young haunches. The thick black pony-tail flopped down behind her. Up came her head as Ziggy jerked the reins. Then, lifting bent arms in front or her scantily-clad bosom, for all the world like a beautiful pony risen on its hind legs, she responded to her Mistress's command, 'Walk on!'

Forester's impressive drawing-room had high windows velvet-curtained to close out the night, a wonderful Adam fireplace bright with flames, a deep-pile, madly expensive white carpet, and was flooded with light from a glittering, multi-layered chandelier. The furniture was softest leather triple-seated sofas in pale cream, with matching armchairs. Ziggy led Amanda Jane in by the ribbon that symbolised her reins. Forester, carrying the belt, flopped into an armchair and prepared to be entertained. In the room-centre the two sofas had been placed parallel and facing away from each other, with an armchair backed up against one end to form an enclosure of sorts: the stable.

Ziggy cracked the crop against the side of her boot and stood in the middle of the room, making Amanda Jane promenade in a wide circle with shoulders back and chin high. 'Up with those knees, darling,' she called peremptorily. 'Show yourself off; let's see those coltish legs, that long graceful neck – and especially that silky tail. Up! Up! Up!' She tapped the crop in her hands as she spoke, fixing the strutting model with a dominant glare as Amanda Jane high-stepped prettily. 'We want your tail up, darling,' Ziggy commanded. 'Make it sweep; make it stream away from you. Wiggle the botty, bend your legs; toss your hair – I mean your mane. Stamp your pretty feet, tremble at your Mistress's command! Now, knees really high, we want to see everything!'

As the girl responded with little gasps of effort, the tail flapped and lifted with each upthrust knee to disclose taunting glimpses of naked buttocks, sweetly curved – before the long black tail-hair flopped down to cover them again.

'Has your Little Pony ever been ridden, Ziggy?' asked Forester, relishing the word so that it took on a sexual connotation. There was a glitter in his eyes and his sallow cheeks had the hint of a flush. Ziggy took her cue, and their talk became spiced with innuendoes.

'Why, no, Horsemaster,' she answered in simulated surprise. 'She must learn obedience, she must learn to bear, to be mounted, to gambol, and...' Here Ziggy cracked the crop fiercely across the back of a sofa with a report that gave Amanda Jane a terrible flutter of butterflies in her tummy. 'She has so much to learn!' Those last few words were filled with menace, and the model quailed.

'Make her trot faster,' insisted Forester, and Ziggy tugged impatiently at the ribbon. When the 'Pony' started to breathe harder through her exertions as her high-trotting and cavortings increased, the agent continued, 'It's time I took a hand; let's begin breaking her in,' and hauled himself eagerly from the chair. 'Lead her to the stable, Ziggy!' he said, a catch in his voice betraying his excitement. Another tug on the rein-ribbon brought Amanda Jane between the parallel sofas, and with more coaxing she was urged to the end where the chair had been backed up. Ziggy undid the velvet collar and pushed the girl forward over the back of the leather seat so that her naked bottom, still largely concealed by the tail, rose to a pert tumulus draped with long black hair.

'Let's have her head right down,' instructed Forester. 'And those hind-quarters carefully spread across the chair-back so I may stroke her haunches.' He synchronised these last three words with caressive strokes of the broad leather strap along the smoothness where the girl's hips and flanks began to round out backwards into the swell of her buttocks.

'The breaking-in process,' he now said to Ziggy, but expressly for Amanda Jane's benefit, 'can be prolonged and painful. It begins with the hind-parts fully presented for the required treatment – treatment which, naturally enough, is apt to cause a certain amount of whinnying and bucking; which is why Pony must be stabled.'

'Yes, Horsemaster,' said Ziggy, toying gently with the silky tail and feeling the soft flesh just beneath.

'Breaking-in,' Forester continued, 'means thorough attention to the hinder-parts, which continues until Pony is utterly resolved to submit completely to Horsemaster and Mistress. Desperate little kicks do not provide enough evidence of willingness to learn – not even flailing legs will do that. We have one way only of signalling the end of the breaking-in process, and that is when we see tears.'

The agent squared his shoulders and strode into the 'stable' where the girl lay sprawled across the chair-back, pushing the sofas until he had complete freedom to move. He was pulling on tight gloves of the thinnest black leather, which felt cold to the squirming girl as he began to stroke her defenceless bottom through its silky layer of hair, giving each caress a menacing feel, and murmuring appreciatively as he explored the pliant bareness just beneath the pony-tail, which he also pulled and fingered in delight.

'Horsemaster,' said Ziggy coyly, 'I know you love her tail, but it may get in the way of her treatment. Let me lift it.' So saying, she gathered the hanging fronds and raised them clear of the model's buttocks so that the tail fanned out across her downward-sloping back. 'We must hold it clear,' she continued, unexpectedly looping the ribbon-rein beneath Amanda Jane's tummy and out the other side. Then, in a trice, Ziggy had tied the tail to keep it from falling back to cover the upward-tilted posterior. The girl's white haunches lay fully exposed at last, two beautifully rounded semi-globes framed by the elastic straps which secured the pony-tail at waist and thighs curving upwards across the back of the leather armchair.

Ziggy's nostrils flared as Amanda Jane involuntarily squeezed her nether-cheeks together, knowing what Forester was about to do. Sure enough, the black-gloved hand came splatting down – once, twice, three times – and the bent girl felt her legs splay a little and her body sink more deeply on the top of the chair-back as the leather-clad palm struck heat deep into her buttocks. Forester continued with slightly harder slaps until a stinging glow suffused Amanda Jane's bottom-flesh, which wobbled and pinkened at every spank. Then, with each new smack of his hand, little huffy cries began to escape Amanda Jane's lips. Forester described them as whinnies, but they soon became yelps which he mockingly called neighs.

'No good saying "nay", Little Pony,' laughed Ziggy, her eyes brilliant. 'Smack harder, Horsemaster, you can be sterner than that. Smack really hard! Be angry with her. She's a very naughty pony, and deserves your discipline. Needs it, wants it!'

Suddenly the smacks felt different to the girl sprawled across the chair-back, whose entire focus of sensation had become centred on her burning, up-bent bottom. For Ziggy had joined in the punishment. Wearing her own thin black gloves she laid in with a flurry of hearty smacks on that girlish posterior until Amanda Jane's ankles and legs began to kick and jerk. She bunched her fists and pummelled the inside back of the arm-chair, drew deep breaths and yelled as loudly as she could – all to no avail as the smarting slaps continued to sizzle against her bottom.

Forester and his mistress continued to belabour both of Amanda Jane's innocent buttocks until each quivering mound was blushing, pausing only when their arms began to ache. The almost naked girl, in nothing but the pony-tail and abbreviated white tee-shirt, doubled over the chair-back with her feet on the carpet and her face burrowing down in the leather-scented softness of the seat-cushion, wrenched her head from side to side, clasping and unclasping her hands and sucking in her haunches against the bottom-smacking she was receiving. She kicked her legs and drummed her feet on the deep white pile, but it did no good.

After almost five minutes of this, as the scarlet-coated, jodhpured pair had expected and worked for, Amanda Jane burst into a flood of weeping. Brine rolled down her upturned face as she craned her head round in the chair-seat to look imploringly up at her punishers, the tears trickling across her forehead to splash on to the soft leather. She drew in breath and let forth lamentations that filled the room where ancient walls and heavy curtains absorbed every sound. Ziggy looked at her man, and their glowing faces showed their satisfaction. They ceased the spanking, and the sound of the model's sobs faded slowly to whimpers and sniffs.

Finally, Forester spoke. 'I think Pony is broken-in,' he said. 'It sounds as though she recognises who is Master.'

'And Mistress,' put in Ziggy.

The agent smiled, nodding acknowledgement. 'Well pause before lesson two,' he went on, 'which is obedience training. For this we will need something more telling than hands to smack with.' His stern gaze met Ziggy's. 'I mean the strap.'

As the woman assisted the sniffling girl from across the back of the chair, Forester picked up a foot-stool and positioned it in mid-floor. 'Bring her from the stable,' he now instructed. 'Loosen her tail and let it hang.'

Ziggy did so, freeing the tail-fronds to that they again hung down over Amanda Jane's buttocks and thighs to the backs of her quivering knees. 'Now, Little Pony,' Forester resumed. 'Bend over and rest your hands on this foot-stool.' Miserably, the girl did, leaning steeply from the waist till her palms were flat on the white-padded stool-top. 'Keep the back graciously curved and your legs straight,' he demanded. 'Tut tut, much straighter than that. Push the knees back... further... ramrod-straight! The last movement is up on tip-toes. Higher, heels up off the carpet. Push your botty well out and press your toes down as hard as you can so you stay nice and high. Good!'

And 'good' the girl looked, strained tautly over on the balls of her feet, back dipped and bottom high, the pony-tail dangling a little to one side where it spread over her buttocks and half-obscured a leg. 'Tap your crop under Pony's tummy, Ziggy,' cried Forester. 'I'm sure she can stretch half-an-inch higher. Every muscle straining, Pony? Feel as though you're giving everything? Now, with the tip-toes position maintained perfectly, and when you're balanced to look quite delectable, we do this!'

And, as he shouted the word, Forester swung his leather belt to make loud contact with the high-point of Amanda Jane's up-raised haunches, letting it slap smartly against the taut skin, noting with satisfaction how it snapped round to slap the hips as well as leave a pinker swathe across the already blushing cushions of her bottom. Amanda Jane's knees wobbled, but Ziggy held the riding-crop under her tummy, helping the model to keep her trim behind pointed upwards and her legs meticulously straight so that she had no option but to dance a lively jig on her toes, which pummelled the deep-pile carpet like sticks on a drum-skin.

The pony-tail, sticking out behind, jigged and flicked to the girl's dance of pain, the long fronds tickling her upper thighs – although Amanda Jane was stinging rather too much to notice such niceties. Not Forester, however, who was visibly delighted at the response his strap had triggered, and could hardly wait to repeat it.

'Very good, Pony,' he said. 'The Horsemaster likes that position, please assume it again. Pull in the tummy, head well down...' Here Ziggy, in attendance at the girl's head, rested her hand on Amanda Jane's neck to ensure that she was bent over as completely as was possible, the riding-crop pushed upwards against her belly. The scanty tee-shirt meanwhile had slipped further towards her shoulders, gathering beneath two small breasts which were almost, but not quite, exposed. Her delicious face, draped in the downfall of pale hair, was contorted with effort and anticipation of the next stroke.

'Up on tip-toe again!' called Forester. 'And remember, fingers stretched too where they rest on the stool. Can we raise the hips a little more? Of course! Now stay poised, Little Pony, that's correct presentation. Hold it still and receive... this!'

Once more Forester aimed down with his strap at the delightful target, making the broad leather fall just below the previous stripe on her buttocks to add a second roseate swathe to denote his handiwork. The noise it made was lost in the cry Amanda Jane let out. She jumped upwards on her toes and threw back her head, the long tail flapping and swishing.

'Oh! Oh! Oooooh!' The shrill complaints became one long keening cry. Apart from the sight of her bottom bobbing and swaying, vanishing then reappearing beneath the threshing tail, it was the jig the girl was dancing which pleased Forester the most, running on the spot at a pace that only a lively strapping could create, drumming the floor with the pads beneath her toes – up and down, up and down, making the agent feel all-powerful as he stood drinking in the scene. And, as his senses sparkled with this heady pleasure, he knew he must remember to buy Ziggy something very special indeed for devising such a game.

When Forester made Amanda Jane go through the tip-toe process for a third time, striking her bottom with the belt again as she teetered on fingers and toes to stretch her haunches towards the ceiling, she thought she would tell him that she did not wish to go to Fiji at all, could not care less about Quentin de Witt's pictures – and that he must stop. By the sixth splatting impact, with her eyes wet and the sizzling in her buttocks like a purgatorial fire, Amanda vowed that she would hate him forever, and that if he made her repeat the high-poise one more time she would surely say so!

But Forester had played games with scores of girls, and was an expert in judging how far he could take them before they finally rebelled. He knew that Amanda Jane would not dance for him a seventh time, and that the obedience training was therefore over. 'Pony knows how to present herself now,' he remarked, turning to Ziggy and laying down the strap. He was puffing just a little, his cheeks had a higher colour and his eyes shone. 'It's time to return her to the stable. Make her trot, dear. We haven't kept her up on her toes for so long just to let her pad unprettily home.'

The model was allowed a minute or so to stand and try to compose herself, readjusting her crumpled scrap of tee-shirt and pulling the tumbled hair back from her tear-swollen face. Ziggy even took out a fine lace handkerchief and dabbed at Amanda Jane's eyes, but it was more in mockery than mercy that the act was done.

'We now come to the third lesson: response training,' said Forester crisply, taking off his scarlet jacket and loosening his satin neck-scarf. He was perspiring gently, partly from the heat of the log fire but mostly from his exertions with the strap. 'Pony responds to Horsemaster's discipline by counting out loud,' he told the girl in clear, distinct tones. 'She counts the strokes of the crop each time it lands on her buttocks.'

Amanda Jane almost shouted 'No!' – yet the girl had enough sense to know that a refusal, even at this stage of the 'game', would mean not only no Fiji trip, but exclusion from Forester's 'inner circle' for ever afterwards – and she did not want to end a relationship which had major benefits, including a guest-suite at Eaton Square which she could use whenever she asked; and delightful summer parties and autumn trips to the ballet and opera when Forester was feeling expansive.

Ziggy loved it when Forester used the crop, for she knew from her own experience of receiving its kisses just how intensely a girl must be feeling the stinging as he zipped it down on her upraised buttocks. Tonight she had a special position in which she wished to see Amanda Jane. She led the quaking model by the wrist out of the 'stable', and positioned her to watch while she pushed the two sofas together, back to back, their now-adjacent ends square on to the backed-up armchair.

'Pony,' Ziggy curtly instructed. 'Mount the sofas with a leg either side, and lie along the top with your head down in the chair.' The model flinched at the indignity of the posture she was expected to adopt. She began to shake her head, blue eyes entreating. 'Don't keep me waiting,' insisted Ziggy sharply. 'Mount now. Keep your legs wide, tummy resting flat along the leather backs, chin off the end so you look into the seat of the armchair, this side.' Ziggy whacked the crop against her boots to punctuate her instructions, and Amanda Jane could do nothing but obey. The girl climbed up and lay forward against the sofa-backs, widely straddling, her pale-blonde head dipped towards the armchair seat, elevating her already painful hind-quarters. The tail-hairs spread across each pert mound, tickling the highly sensitive skin. And, as the lovely model squeezed the yielding sofa-leather between her thighs, she shrank at the humiliatingly exposed nature of her position.

'There, Horsemaster,' cried Ziggy triumphantly. 'Does the way Pony's legs are parted please you? Take the crop now, while I hold up her pretty tail.' This she did, gathering the black fronds in one hand and lifting them clear of Amanda Jane's glowing buttocks, which twitched and clenched in renewed apprehension – and, just a little, with a frisson of excitement she could not explain. 'And Pony,' Ziggy sang out, 'remember your responses – except...' Here an idea struck Ziggy, which she knew would excite Forester. She whispered it in his ear, and he nodded and smiled.

'...Except, Pony,' Ziggy repeated, 'you will not respond with counting the stripes, you will whinny like a real little horse!'

Ziggy's emotions seemed to undergo a form of climax as, bright-eyed, she finished her remark.

And that was how Amanda Jane went through the third and final part of the game called 'My Little Pony'. She did not dare to disobey her instructions, and when the crop landed smartly on her bottom for the first time, she remembered not to yell out – but to whinny in a screeching girlish voice, which was as near to the sound of a pony protesting as she could get. This shrill braying not only amused Forester but goaded him into using the crop rather more energetically than he normally did, a little carried away by the novelty of the game and by the power he was wielding over one of his favourite models, who usually looked so pretty and innocent that he could almost have stood her on top of a Christmas tree – but who was now squirming in hurt and shame astride his sofas, utterly exposed, her beautiful head burrowing into the armchair seat.

Indeed, because of her straddling position Amanda Jane could hide nothing of those parts of herself she would normally have kept covered, for the punishment was causing her to buck, writhe and rear up her bottom-cheeks, and her legs jerked in uncontrollable reactions to the thwack of the horse-switch as her thighs 'rode' the sofa-backs, squeezing inwards with frantic energy to keep herself from toppling.

Three shrieking whinnies had already rent the air, and Forester determined that a further three were to come before he let Amanda Jane rest. He determined to relish each one, and take his time administering the strokes. Licking his lips, therefore, and planting his feet more firmly astride, he noted with considerable satisfaction the appealing vulnerability of his gorgeous plaything; then slammed home stripe number four with a groan not only of effort, but delight.

'Well done, Horsemaster! Well done!' encouraged Ziggy, her eyes aglow. 'Doesn't she look lovely spread for you like that? Don't you want to keep cropping her sweet little bottom forever? Doesn't she deserve every second of your discipline? Isn't it the only way to make her yours?' Ziggy was panting with eagerness. 'Again, Horsemaster – again!'

His mistress's urgings took Forester to even greater heights of pleasure, and his fifth stroke was so determined that it was beyond Amanda Jane to whinny or play any more games. Instead, she let rip the most angry roar-cry and slammed both thighs against the sofas as if she were riding a runaway stallion.

Blubbering loudly, the model began to plead for the cropping to stop. 'Ahhh... ahhhh... plea... plea... pplease,' was all she could manage, but it was not enough to stop Forester delivering, with much bravura and style, his sixth and final stroke of the malicious instrument of correction.

When it was done, and when he had drunk in the tossing and flinching of Amanda Jane's bottom-cheeks as they wobbled and shuddered then settled to rest, he cast aside the horse-whip and Ziggy flung herself into his arms, pressing her lips against his, stroking his temples, hot and exhilarated after watching the enjoyable chastisement. 'Lovely game... fabulous game,' she declared huskily. 'My best so far. Amanda Jane thinks so too, don't you darling?'

But the girl had no words to give, for weeping took all of her breath for the moment.

Forester let his mistress compliment him on his exertions, pleased that they had aroused her so, and very much looking forward to the rest of the evening with Ziggy showing such ardour. She left him for a moment, and the agent stood raptly watching while his favourite model continued her lamentations astride the sofa-tops.

In a few moments Ziggy returned with a full glass of wine, which she pressed into his hand while sipping at a second glass herself. Then, thrusting her hand into his, she began to pull her man from the room. She had seen his expression, and did not want him to gaze any longer at Amanda Jane's perfections in case his all-too-evident desire was directed away from herself. That was certainly not the game plan, and no part of the evening – for Amanda Jane was plaything not playmate. When they reached the drawing-room door Ziggy twisted the dimmer switch and the chandelier faded almost to dark, though there was still enough light from the burning logs to allow Amanda Jane to see. She was a strong, healthy girl and would be all right.

'Come dearest, come away,' Ziggy beseeched Forester. 'Leave her now, she will find her own way back to the guest-suite.' Then she put her full red lips close to his ear and murmured, 'And you and I have other games to play.'

It was twenty minutes before Amanda Jane felt ready to return to her room where, lying face down on the goose-feather bed, she found that the elastic belts which held the pony-tail were now too tight to slip over her tender buttocks. She found it amusing, even sensuous, to feel its silken caress on her tingling bottom, and in time began to wriggle and squirm in a very different kind of way...

Hours later, when the other two occupants of the house were finally asleep after much tumultuous and satisfying activity, Amanda Jane's mind began to turn dreamily towards other kinds of mounting and riding. But that is another story.

Owing Owen - photo story

Photo story from Roue 58.


Owing Owen


This is the tale of a particularly eventful day that I spent at the home of my boss, Mr Owen. You can just make him out in the mirror – he's the one with the beard! The reason for my being at my boss's house was a very strange one; one that I would never have believed possible had anyone told me it was to happen. You see, a girl I know, Linda, works for our strongest competitor, an up-and-coming clothes designer. I had heard through the office grapevine that Mr Owen had come up with a design which was considered by all to be a potential money-spinner. I mentioned this to Linda in passing, and together we hatched a plan which would involve me stealing the design, passing it on to her, then being rewarded by her own employer. I work in an adjoining office to Mr Owen and, as he is often out – and I have the keys to his safe – the idea seemed brilliant in its simplicity. At 3.20 on Friday – just when he should have been heading towards the clubhouse with his golfing chums – he entered his office to find the safe open and me, red-faced, clutching said design. He was outraged, of course, and I was threatened with dismissal instantly. "Unless," he said to me, "you agree to accept an alternative form of punishment." Now, I've known for ages that Mr Owen not only fancies me but that he has a 'thing' for girls' bottoms. It therefore came as no great surprise when he qualified that statement with the words: "A bloody good hiding, young lady." Faced with the sack, what would you have done? The fact of the matter is that I quite fancy him and, while the idea of a bloody good hiding didn't actually appeal, I was somewhat intrigued at the prospect. It was agreed that I call upon him at his house the next day at 11 am. "Bring your night things," he told me. I didn't ask him why; I didn't want him thinking me naive. Bring my night things, eh? Things were looking up...


The spanking starts in earnest. It's not at all unpleasant being held firmly over his strong, manly thighs. Owch! That one hurt! Still, I suppose I'm not here to enjoy myself, am I? Not till later at any rate.


I decided to wear my tightest trousers because I thought he'd appreciate seeing my bum in them. I'm now glad of them as protection. Oooh! Not that they are keeping much of the sting out.


Hmmm. Something told me that it wouldn't he long before my trousers were down. He's forever flicking up the back of my skirt in the office and saying: "Oh! Pink ones today, Cheryl." Bit of a knickers man too, Mr Owen.


I bet he's having the time of his life, the randy sod. Now, I wonder what it's going to be like over the knickers. Owch! That was on the bare flesh! Why oh why didn't I put on a fuller pair?


Wait for it. Here comes another. I tense up my bottom. Will it be on the left one or the right? Perhaps in the centre? Ooooch! At least it was over my knickers. Still bloody hurt though.


Boy! That hand of his sure can sting. I start to doubt my idea of accepting this alternative punishment of his. But who want to be on the dole in Britain these days. Anyway, tonight should compensate.


Gosh – if he pulls them up any tighter they'll cut me in half. To all intents and purposes I'm bare-bummed now. I'd guessed he'd probably want to see my botty, and he sure hasn't wasted any time.


Owch! I can't remember it hurting as much as this when mum spanked me. Down they come. He's certainly a fast worker. I just hope that he likes what he sees (I'm sure he does). Get him in the mood for later.


What would the girls at work think if they could see me now? Laying over Mr Owen's lap with my bottom all bare. Cripes! That one really stung. When's all this going to stop? Pretty soon, I hope.


This is getting beyond a joke. I like the feel of my tummy pressing down into his lap and the feel of his strong arm holding me firmly, but these smacks! Oww-Oooh! It's really getting to me now.


Please stop. Oooof! Ah, that's more like it – a nice bit of rubbing. Ummm – he can keep that up for as long as he likes. Scrummy! Oh! No – not another one. Owww! He's doing it harder. That's not fair.


I begin to cry a little... just tiny whimpers. Will that soften his heart? Not likely! Oooch! Right in the middle. Perhaps if I parted my cheeks a bit. Owww! That didn't work. What was that? I can get up and change into my night things? At last!


It's explained to me why I was told to bring my night things with me. "More appropriate attire," he says. Appropriate for what? A glance over at the mirror gives me my answer. A nasty-looking cane hangs there. "But I haven't had the cane since..." I blurt out, stopping myself in mid-sentence. "Since when?" he asks. "Since daddy caned me for calling the vicar a... er... naughty word," I tell him. He's interested and asks me to tell him all about it. "I was just turned eighteen at the time," I began. "I called the Reverend Inkpen a stupid fart." A smile comes to Mr Owen's face. I give a little grin myself. "Go on," he says. Daddy fetched this cane from the garden shed. It hadn't seen light of day since he used to use it on my older brother. Long and swishy it was. Well, I had to go to my room and... er..." I get embarrassed. "Out with it, girl!" I do like him when he gets masterful. "I got the cane – that's all." He's not impressed. Question-and-answer time ensues. "How many strokes?" "Six." "Over your clothes?" "No." "What then?" "On the... the bare." "Hurt, did it?" "Yes, it bloody well did." "And it's going to hurt this time as well." I plead with him not to use it on me, but to no avail. I'm told to hand him the horrid thing.


I reach for it. It feels very bendy – a bit like daddy's. I hand it to him. I'm told to turn and face the mirror and grab hold of some contraption on the floor. "Knees together and legs straight," he says.


He taps it gently against the seat of my knickers. "Keep still!" his masterful tones tell me. I straighten my legs and await the first stroke. Swish!-Thwick! It lands. Like my mum's spankings, I had forgotten how much a cane can hurt.


I'm kneeling on the sofa now – but it still hurts the same. Knickers or no knickers, my bum really stings. Although my thin pants can't be protecting anything other than my pride, I do hope he doesn't take them down.


Owww!! It sure does bite. How many more of these is a girl expected to take? It slices through the air again... my bottom twitches... then it lands – right across the middle of both cheeks.


I flop over and have a little cry. "That'll do," I hear him say. Thank God for that. My bum aches like mad! I can feel him standing over me with that cane still in his hands. He whips it through the air a couple of times, smacking it into his palm. I wince. Wait till Linda hears about this little lot – she won't believe a word of it. A tear plops down onto the cushion. I sniff. Surely he thinks I've had enough. Doesn't the sight of poor little me all tears and sniffles... doesn't that make him feel sorry for me? I keep my head buried, not wanting my eyes to meet his, thinking that if they do he'll speak to me – and that what he has to say won't be in the least bit pleasant. God, how my bottom hurts – though it is cooling down a bit now. Another tear runs down my nose. I sniff but it drops onto the sofa. I feel so very sorry for myself; repentant; penitent. I feel just like a naughty little girl who has been punished – which is true when I come to think about it. I wipe my brow. I'm feeling a little better now; the real hurt in my bottom is subsiding, leaving a sort of... well, a sort of glow. It's not unpleasant, actually. I can feel his eyes leering at me; that strong, handsome man mentally undressing me. How unlike all those whimps at the office he is. Okay, he's just whacked my poor little bottom, and it hurt like hell, but I know of a few girls who wouldn't say no to being half-naked on his sofa. Oh, I so want him to take me in his arms and hug me; to pull me to his masculine chest and comfort me. But it doesn't look as if he's going to. I just hope that my punishment's over. The glow in my bottom is growing and spreading through my body. I'm starting to get damp between my legs. I want to touch myself there – or, more to the point, have him touch me there. This never happened to me when daddy caned me... mind you, Mr Owen isn't daddy, is he? I wonder if it's normal to feel this way. Who cares? I'm feeling this way... and it's lovely. Oh, order me about, Mr Owen; humiliate me; make me obey your every whim. I think this but cannot speak the words. The silence is broken. His dark-brown tones reach my ears. "You will now strip off, Cheryl," he says. Anything you say, I think to myself. I stand. What next? I wonder.


Standing behind me, he looks on as I first remove my shoes, then my nightie, then... I turn to face him. "Everything?" I ask. "Everything," he replies. I insert my fingers in the waistband of my skimpy pants and notice what he is holding in his hands.


Being ordered to strip has made me feel all funny inside. But I don't like the look of that leather strap. Still, I peel off my knickers. I'm sure he's noticed that my nipples are erect... and I'm sure that he knows why.


In mock shyness, I turn my back to him, my left arm covering my boobs, my right you-know-where. "Hands in front!" he barks. I obey. He can't see my boobs anyway, but I know what he is looking at – my bum. "Bend over," he says.


"No," he tells me, "I'm not going to strap you – unless, that is, you would prefer it to something you've been wanting me to do all day." I stand and pretend not to understand; as if I was deciding what course of action I'd favour. No contest!


I've been told to wait whilst he has a freshen-up. Time to relax for yours truly. Yes, I am looking forward to what is to come. But what he said to me as he left the room has got me feeling that I might have been better advised to take my P45 and run. "I propose three weekly sessions with you, young lady," he told me, "in addition, that is, to today's. For the next three Saturdays you will report here for further punishment. You will be caned, you will be slippered, you will be spanked, and you will be strapped. Only after this period of correction will you have learned properly the error of your ways. What you have received today is merely a foretaste of what is to come... a mild expression of my anger at your misbehaviour. You will throughout this time be afforded fully-paid holiday. As well you know, you've been treated extremely leniently today – I'm sure that your mother spanked you harder than I did, and I'm certain that dear daddy used his cane on you to greater effect than was the case today. You will learn that spanking and caning – indeed all forms of discipline are meant to hurt. The effect it has had on you today was as a little turn-on. We both know how we feel about each other; you know I fancy you, and I know that you want to have you-know-what with me. That's fine. But punishment is what you were meant to be here for, and I feel most strongly that today's little session has not so much served as punishment but more as pleasure. I do not blame you for this, Cheryl – there are many ways that a person's body can be excited sexually; aroused, and corporal punishment is but one of them. We both seem to have found today's session arousing, and we both feel a need to do something about that arousal. But starting next week I will begin to show you just how punishment should be carried out... and precisely what effect it should have on naughty young ladies. If you do not agree to this – indeed if you don't wish to join me upstairs after I've had my bath, then all you have to say is 'No'. I am not forcing or coercing you in any way. What have you to say?" Well, dear reader, what would you say? All those females out there – how would you react? I said: "Whatever you say, Mr Owen," again pretending that I wasn't over-keen on the fun that was to follow – for I am keen; keen as mustard! And, who knows? – the next three Saturdays could end up the same way. Oh, I do hope so, my masterful Mr Owen...