Tender Buns
by P.N. Dedeaux


As a matter of fact, I'm due at our Conservation Committee meeting in an hour. I was 
wondering... when Cornelius lets me out of these things" she clinked her chains 
merrily "could you drive me in? We have a theater date later."

"Be glad to," he said. "And what was it Cornelius wanted to see me about?"

"Oh, he'll be through in a moment and tell you himself."

"Is it about" he hesitated a second, then finished “is there going to be another... 
evening?"

She gave him a long steady look, as if probing to his soul. She had very large pure pale 
blue eyes.

"What do you think?"

"Madge, it's amazing. I don't know. I can't understand it “

"Don't try to, Dave."

"All I know is that it's the most incredibly thrilling thing. The whole combination. It's poetic.
You have this most beautiful back, and the first time I watched, you were so wonderfully 
frightened “


CHAPTER ONE

"Am I late?"

The strikingly handsome woman who burst into the office breathlessly wore a smile that 
was generous, if uncertain. She also wore a sealskin coat, and even in it she looked 
buxom even for a Canadian clubwoman of thirty-eight.

Her eyes fell on the large modern desk. "I see that I... gulp... am."

The man behind it smiled. At forty-five, Marc Merlin was still lean, dark, and handsome, 
youthful for his years if a little sad around the mouth. By far the best-looking bachelor in 
Elchester, she thought, as with a slight movement of his strong wrists he flexed the supple 
wand between his fingers.

"That looks awfully like a cane," she said.

"That's because it is one." He set it down with a grin, and a distinct rap, and went quickly 
to greet her.

"Janice. It's good to see you again."

As he eased the heavy coat off his guest's shoulders, and tossed it on a sofa, his eyes 
roved over her sumptuous body.

Janice Stapleton had on a very short, fitted cocktail frock of soft brown wool, simple yet 
elegant, and adhering to her back so closely that he could clearly identify the stocking tab on 
the outside of each firmly curving thigh. He placed one hand on the upper slopes of her hips a
moment, and her auburn head fell.

"Nothing on, underneath? Winter is a cold time for Madam to go so lightly clad."

"Not in the south," she said at last, not turning around. "Marc, I simply had to wear a bra."

"Pity! I hoped you were becoming obedient at last. You know my orders when you come 
to see me."

The tawny head sank farther. "Please. I had to go to this meeting. You know my... nipples. 
It was out of the question, really."

"What was it this time? Daughters of the Flying Buttress? The Five-Headed Dildo Club?"

"The PCDA, if you must know."

Marc Merlin raised an ironic graying eyebrow. "And what the hell's that?"

"Conservation Committee. Prevention of Cruelty to Dumb Animals."

He snorted sarcastically.

"Madge Dale is on it, too," she said. "That's why I was late."

"You're always late," he said with genuine affection, "and that's because you like it so."

"Anyway, I'll swear Madge knew I had a bare behind under this glad rag. Also, it was cold."

"Let's see if we can't make it warmer for you, Jan."

A fleshy shudder rippled her body as she faced him then.

"You always were one for the back of a girl's lap, weren't you, Mr. Merlin? You weren't so 
bad at the front, if I recollect correctly. Kiss me, please."

She took a pace. He cupped one sideways-thrusting breast, testing its solidity, and with 
the other hand pulled her head back by the mane of hair behind.

"You tremendous animal," he said.

Janice parted her lips, gazing raptly into that smiling face she had missed so long. She was 
quivering in his grip when he spat forcefully into her face.

She blinked, but said nothing, feeling the sputum sliding slowly down her cheeks.

"Thank you, Marc."

He had returned casually to his seat. "Dave left?"

"Last night."

"You don't waste much time to come running for it, do you?"

"If he did to me what you do to me, I wouldn't have to, dammit."

"You really ought to tell him someday. Save you a lot of trouble. Me, too." He raised a 
warning hand. "Don't wipe your face." She replaced the Kleenex in her purse. Already her 
fingers were trembling as always, in his presence. She could feel cold spittle moving down her
throat. His reference to her husband brought back all her dilemma. David she loved. Marc 
she... needed. It was an old formula for her repression. After all, how could she ever tell that 
upright, clean-looking investment-counselor husband of hers that she had this secret if 
occasional craving? He would think she was crazy, kinky, queer. Maybe he would even want 
to divorce her.

"How long is he out of town this time?" Marc was inquiring idly.

"Ten days at least. He has to go to Vancouver, I think. Bank business again."

"Fine."

"I know what you're thinking. Plenty of time for the marks to disappear."

"Mmm. All in all, I suspect we can manage to make you feel fairly sorry for yourself before 
the evening's over. I really ought to discourage you doing this, Janice. I like Dave far too 
much. You're a good big woman, my dear, and one of these days I'd enjoy seeing you getting 
a sound thrashing. Not the little love pats I dish out."

Again her body shuddered. "Love pats. I like that. Anyway, I can't do anything about it. The
thing's in my nature now. You know that."

He stared at her with the same amused smile across the desk. "I also know that your skirt is
far too long. I thought you were beginning to remember my rules. Six inches above the 
natural knee. If you want to check... "

"Please, Marc. I couldn't. Not at the PCDA. You don't know those women."

"I know this one," he chuckled, "and it seems to me she's racking up quite a score tonight. 
What do you get for being late?"

Her liquid green eyes dropped to that yellow exclamation mark lying on the desktop.

"Six," she said softly, with solemn face.

"Of the best," he added quickly. "Have you done your lines?"

"Oh, yes." She fumbled in her purse and came out with several sheets of lined legal paper 
on which a single sentence had been written, over and over. He accepted them, still gazing 
into her eyes.

"Five hundred times: I must remember to express gratitude for correction.' That was after 
ten, wasn't it?"

"With that ghastly switch."

"With It, you mean." He tore up the sheets and dropped them in his wastebasket.

Her lower lip quivered. "You're not even going to look at them?"

"Useless labor," Marc Merlin said. "The best training for the recalcitrant spirit."

"How do you know mine's recalcitrant? I'm sorry I was late."

"You'll be sorrier shortly."

She looked at him almost inquisitively then. "You're just longing to get at me, aren't you?"

"Frankly, yes. Now lift up your skirt in front and let's see how ready you are."

Frowning, she drew up the soft wool skirt. The tan nylons were taut and high, their tops 
tugged firm by the black straps of the garter belt. The V of rich black hair was clipped close in 
the bar beneath the belly, its lower arm emphasizing a long, full, fatty quim with deeply 
indented lips. Marc took the cane and prodded. The whippy instrument shivered eloquently 
for a moment, then entered easily enough.

He withdrew it and looked at the tip. It was glistening.

"As I thought," he pronounced. "As always, in fact."

"It's the apprehension, darling. Always makes me sopping. I could come as it is."

"Why don't you lick it," he suggested amicably, adding in another tone: "clean."

Janice was doing so when there came a tap on the door. Tugging hastily at her clothing, 
she glanced at him.

"Marc. Who?"

"Must be Kim."

"I thought she'd left."

"I thought so, too." He stood up. "Come in," he called, and when the pretty Oriental 
secretary entered, Janice was combing her hair in a mirror, while Marc was inspecting his right 
forefinger attentively.

"Is there anything... oh, good evening, Mrs. Stapleton," said the girl brightly.

"Hi, Kim. Long time no see."

"I know it. I'm afraid Mr. Merlin really keeps me at that grindstone."

"There's nothing else, Kim," he said. "Simply lock up behind you. Everyone's left, haven't 
they?"

"Yes."

"We'll be doing so shortly."

"I booked that table for you at seven, Mr. Merlin," said the secretary, her eyes shifting. "I 
just thought I'd better remind you."

"It wasn't necessary," he said with a level look.

"Well. Goodnight, Mr. Merlin. Good night, Mrs. Stapleton."

Together they watched the figure, in its ivory sheath slit thigh-high, leave the room. There 
were flashes of creamy skin. The small buttocks, set high and tight, molded the satin 
insistently, and when she had gone, their eyes met. After a moment, they heard the outer door
snap shut.

"What I'd give for that figure!" Janice Stapleton exclaimed. "I can't think of a greater 
contrast to Suana. Darling Marc, you should have married Sue Becker years ago."

"About thirteen, to be precise." He shrugged as he locked the office door, peeling off his 
jacket after having done so. "Right after her husband died in that car crash, actually. Leaving 
one helpless beauty. Is Sue younger than you, Janice?"

"I'm sure she thinks it's because of her cousin," came the answer. Janice Stapleton was 
reaching a point in life when she was touchy about age. "I mean, that you didn't want 
responsibility of a teenager."

"Doreen's a young woman now."

"Darling, you've been dating Sue for years. She's dying to have you stick it up her."

"Do you think she'd like what we like?" he countered quickly, the sadness drawing down 
his smile. "Do you think Elchester would? Why, she'd never speak to me again."

"If she knew how much it could send up her sex threshold, she would. A woman's fear is 
that it'll be uncontrolled. Hey, you don't have to roll your sleeves up for it, do you?"

"For that firm fanny I do."

Her laugh had been brittle. She was on edge already, he knew, and he leaped inwardly. To 
be a master playing on an outstanding violin...

"First, you're going to be punished for Improper Dress."

"Please, I told you “

"I think you also know the penalty for Idle Excuses."

She hung her head. "May I have a drink first?"

"Help yourself."

While she did so, liberally, from a liquor cabinet, he extracted from a desk drawer two 
objects, a common or garden-variety clothespin and a strap. The latter was of heavy leather, 
four inches wide, and at least four feet long, excluding its dark wood handle. The end of the 
strap was rounded.

"Mother!" Janice's eyes were magnetized to the instrument immediately. "God, I'd 
forgotten. How many?

"Twelve," he said bitterly.

"Twelve!"

"Your memory of the tariff seems to be imperfect, my dear. Six for wearing a brassiere, six 
for the skirt length. Moreover, as this sweet strap made so much noise last time on the skin, I'll
ask you for the exigencies of my office to retain your dress, and for an increment of only 
three."

"Fifteen! With that?"

He bowed. "Your addition is impeccable, Jan."

"But... but this frock won't stop a thing."

The strap made a report like a pistol shot when Marc smacked it lazily on the desktop. She 
swallowed her drink nervously and took her stance as he handed her the clothespin 
ceremoniously.

"You don't miss a trick, do you?"

Reaching, she clipped her skirt between the thighs. The clothespin drew the fabric 
perfectly tight. When she bent across the desk, the division of her buttocks was proclaimed 
vividly. She stretched her arms out in front of her, burying her head between them.

"Arch your back. Come on, I want the whole pelvic area thrown up so's there's a good 
spread. Really push it out. That's better. Brace back your knees."

In a muffled tone she asked, "May-May I bite on this eraser, please?"

He thought a second. "All right," he said with a smile. "But let's just flavor it first."

"Beast!"

Taking the cylinder of rubber she had seen, he unclipped her skirt and slipped it up her 
back. In this position, her bottom had bloomed to a wide basin of flesh which he pressed 
apart with finger and thumb of his left hand; inserting the eraser easily enough into the 
reluctant amber bud of his victim's center, Marc turned it thoughtfully once or twice, to her 
unnecessary ohs and ahs, and then he returned it to her.

"Right in your mouth, please," he instructed, readjusting her dress again behind. "And 
don't let it drop out, will you, or I shall have to give you extra."

The snug wool clung lovingly close, even defining now the little vulval fig thrust back by 
the posture and which seemed to tremble in anticipation. The line of garters could be seen, 
together with the indentation of each clasp, but these would not interfere with impact.

"Hollow your back and concentrate on your buttocks, Madam Stapleton."

For a second he let the strap slap lightly, in practice, against the heavy mounds, which 
wobbled as he did so.

"Fifteen strokes."

He drew back, let the strap dangle idly a moment, then whacked it full across the stretched
bottom with a crack. Janice grunted.

Marc waited, hit again. Using the bisection of her legs for aim, he played it knowingly 
across the widest part of her being. The leather thumped the meaty surfaces most 
satisfactorily, and soon she was gasping with each blow.

"Owl" came in a gurgle at the fifth.

At the sixth, one leg shot back.

The seventh made her squirm with pain. "Aieeee... "

"What's wrong? You haven't had half yet."

She turned back a flushed face. "God! It seems to hurt eight times as much today. I'm 
sorry. I guess I'm... I'm... j-j-just out of shape."

"You look in excellent shape from here. What happened to that eraser?"

"I think... I swallowed it."

"Good Lord!" he retorted with a laugh. "You'll have to have an enema. At least, I want it 
back. Watch your stool for a couple of days."

She groaned, hiding her head. The strap welted the wide bottom over which the fabric 
moved at her heavings. Since she was now crawling forward slowly over the desktop he could 
hit down vertically, and did so, with considerable effect. The thirteenth blow belted home, 
seeming to stun the twisting surfaces.

"Christ!!" Suddenly slipping off the desk, she landed sitting on the carpet, her hands 
beneath her as if a horde of hornets had been let loose there. Marc contemplated her, 
grinning.

"You really are out of training, aren't you? What's going to happen later on? If a touch of 
leather like this “

"It's absolute bloody blue murder."

"You have two more. Get into position at once," he instructed sternly, "and don't stand up 
until Permission."

Palpitating all over, she bent back in place. The first stroke thucked in, closely followed by 
the second, at which she squeezed forward speechlessly “Aaaaaargh!"

Marc took his time. He unclipped the clothespin, replaced it in its drawer, peeled up her 
skirt (did it actually feel hot to the touch?) and inspected the punished posteriors.

These were particularly well-wealed on the right, where the tip had caused sulky-looking 
bluish bruises. Dropping his own clothes, he then unleashed his muscular and 
unsated manhood.

For a second he let it bob at anchor there, aimed full at the split fruit offered him in 
increasing abandon as she writhed. The soft center of her body swelled invitingly back, 
bosomy and excited in appearance. He caught her thighs in his hands, thumbs pressing at 
junction of hip and limb, steadied in full control, then half eased in. The sodden sheath let him
slide at once and he thrust to the hilt, jamming her hard against the desk.

"Unh! Ooooooooooooh!"

Her head reared back, torso straining up in her long sexual moan, as her being quivered 
on the great skewer of his desire. He let her stand impaled there a minute, striving for breath, 
conscious of the colossal crescendo of her combined pain and pleasure while she remained 
stiffened in ecstasy, pumping at him, as if protestingly, from within. Then she collapsed slackly 
on the desktop.

"I seem to have timed that right," he said. "By rights, I ought to cane the backside off you 
now."

"God, what heaven!"

He proceeded to ream her from behind, driving in and out silently, watching the slick 
piston of his sex under the striped fat cheeks. Soon she began bucking to his thrusts.

"Signs of life at last."

"God... give it to me... fill... stuff... ram... Marc, I'm ker-ker-ker “ With another hopeless wail,
she juiced over him once more in gushes.

"I believe you could go another," he said, continuing his rhythm placidly.

"I could go about nine hundred tonight, and you know it, damn you. The pain's subsiding 
nicely, and it's just then... it's... aow... for God's sake, you don't have to cram it up my throat... 
ah... eeeee... "

"This time I'll j-j-join you, Janice," he panted.

"Re my guest! " He finished on a stifled cry as his whole meatus seemed enveloped in her 
and at once, like the spittle he had flung into her face (and remnants of which were still moist 
on her perspiring neck), he felt part of himself hurling its clotted wet at the walls of her 
contracting, writhing womb.

"Christ God Almighty!"

Finally he withdrew stickily and handed her a wad of tissues from the desk dispenser. 
Gasping, stranded, she plugged the center of her body gratefully. Marc himself was whistling 
calmly when she staggered dazedly into his private bathroom moments later, holding the 
tissues in place.

"How's the Honorable Treasurer of the Elchester Conservation Committee feeling?" he 
asked.

"Well and truly fucked, in case you didn't know."

With skirt lifted high, Janice looked over her shoulder at her wide reflection in the mirror.

"What you've done to my poor behind, you brute!"

"Dave should do it regularly. Save all this bother."

"Never dared discuss it with him. I'm scared stiff it would sour him off me for good. And he
does poke so well. Ouch! It hurt twice as much tonight."

"But was twice as nice after, eh?" One finger traced the outline of the strap mark. In each 
case, inside the curve of the bruise, tiny darker flecks could be seen. "Minor improvement. My 
favorite friendly carpenter stiffened the tip by driving in some tacks. Small but effective 
alteration, it seems."

"You really are a monster, and the one with the only executive bidet in town, I'll bet." She 
lowered her hot seat across it gingerly. "And ouch again."

"You don't seem to object."

She shook her head wonderingly. "All I know is, Marc, for me it's twice as good after a 
shellacking like that. Just when the pain's receding, I mean. I must have come for a minute in 
there."

"You certainly were copious."

"I fear I always am. 'Specially when I've been made apprehensive beforehand. But just look 
at that great rhinoceros of a hard-on of yours again. Anyone would say “

"Anyone would say I was about to select a nice pliant cane and put it six times across the 
most upstanding pair of female buttocks outside Abyssinia." He kissed her head. "Hurry. 
There's a table reserved at The Hermitage for two lost souls, and we don't want to miss it, do 
we? With ten-second intervals, six will take only a minute."

"I have a feeling... rather a painful minute, on top of what you've just given me."

"I have that feeling, too."

"Absolutely necessary?"

"Absolutely."

She nodded, squatted. "I was afraid so. I was hoping that after that hosing down you gave 
me inside, you might have been slightly less... ferocious."

"Nonsense. Equivalent to a good walk or swim. Moreover, there's the extra to settle."

Janice's plump back straightened. "Extra?"

"For getting up during punishment."

"Getting up! I like that. I fell down, dammit."

He looked at her impatiently. "On your frock or on the bare? The former will be twice as 
many."

"Then I'll take the ratter," she said.

"Three with the strap or two with the cane?"

"I'll take the latter."

"Then it's eight," he said and vanished.

She groaned and rose, dripping. Her body was goose flesh all over. She completed her 
toilet carefully, powdering and perfuming until she was bandbox neat once more. Marc did 
not like her to be untidy. She smoothed her skirt, proud of her ample figure. Under the fabric 
her buttocks felt leaden, surly, as she prepared to lead them to their executioner. They seemed
to have a life of their own. She stared at their strong jut in the mirror. Brrh! She dreaded the 
caning, but knew it was best to get it over with. She also knew she was living intensely, with 
every pore in her being.

A line of anxiety threaded her creamy forehead as she went through to his office and said 
softly, "Ready."

The cane with which he indicated the low leather stool was a glittering yellow. It vibrated 
in the air. She remembered him telling her once that he got these rods from England, where 
they were used in schools. In which case she felt damn sorry for the schoolboys over there, or 
schoolgirls. Though only about one-third of the whippy length actually made contact it did so 
with a springy velocity and hurt horribly. Unspeakably.

"Here?"

She stood in front of the stool, moving awkwardly. She avoided his eyes now.

"You are about to be chastised. What for?"

"Tardiness."

"Have you anything to say?"

"No."

"You will receive six strokes across the naked buttocks. The two extra for insubordination 
under punishment will be administered afterward, immediately before we leave. I trust they 
will teach you self-control in public. Now bend over with your hands on that stool."

He positioned her carefully, in a way she remembered and disliked. Standing a pace away 
from the stool, and resting her palms upon it, her legs made a sloping angle, her bottom 
semirelaxed. In this pose the cane cut up especially bitingly, she found, and when he raised 
her skirt, undid the garter belt, and tucked them up her back, she suffered another profound 
pang of vulnerability.

"You will count the strokes."

The cane felt cold on her skin during the measuring tap, and then she was listening with all
her soul to the gentle, snickering swish as it gathered speed in the air behind, snapping with a 
dry note against her cringing skin thwack!

"One!"

Suddenly she gasped.

Christ! She'd forgotten.

Marc Merlin had not. He swept the cane expertly up under her, letting it bite firmly into 
the flesh. It was an efficient caning that soon took her breath away until she panted out the 
numbers, "Threeee... fooooooh... "

"I didn't hear that number loud and clear."

"FOUR!"

"We'll take it again."

"Plee... uh... fohhur... oh... fiiiiyyyve!"

"Straighten your legs," he said tenderly. "You're looking much better from behind now and
I want to make this last one “ Thwack!

"SIIIXX!"

"All right," he said cheerily. "You can get up."

Janice jumped erect, hissing. She grabbed her beaten bottom and hopped about for a 
moment. The pain, which had seemed bearable at first, was mounting like incredible hellfire.

"Phew!"

He grinned as he donned jacket and coat.

"You don't have to show off, Jan. Pull yourself together and get tidy. We have a date."

"Gee, you know how to cane, don't you."

He studied the stick, which he was still holding, thoughtfully. "These are getting hard to 
find. This model's a fraction too bendy. All sting and no smack."

"It's a brute. Like you."

Still massaging her hips, she stuck her tongue out at him. Gradually she hooked up her 
stockings. She was surprised to see him holding out her fur. Had he forgotten the extra two?

He had not forgotten.

Standing beside her as she faced the door he spoke with emphasis: "Listen. I'm going to 
give you these two quite hard."

"Harder than those?"

"Much. And I want you to walk out of this office at once. Immediately, do you understand?
And ring for the elevator. I'll be right behind you after I've put this little tickler away and 
locked up."

"What if someone's there?" she asked miserably. "That's your problem. One of 
self-discipline. What you came to me to learn."

"The elevators are bound to be full at this time."

"Lift your fur -and your skirt right above your fanny. Now lean forward with your hands 
upon your knees." After a plaintive backward glance, she obeyed. He stood lost in admiration 
for a moment of the ripe hindquarters that rose so sleekly from the tapering thighs, their 
maturity emphasized by the bisecting lines. Then, with a sibilant hiss, completed by a smack, 
he whipped hard into the juicy underflesh just above the groove. He whipped once, and he 
whipped twice.

Janice's cry vanished in a whine as the realization of the pain came to her, just where her 
hips began. She straightened slowly, gasping.

"Move!" he commanded, with angry face. "Get going now. It doesn't matter about your 
skirt."

"Christ please it's twice as bad just there."

"If you don't get going, it'll be six where you felt those last two, and I wouldn't hesitate to 
really hit." Somehow she was walking, somehow she was outside thank God no one was in 
the hallway somehow she had pressed the elevator button there. The last cut seemed to have
swept right through her and she was rubbing her legs with a screwed-up face when she saw 
that a man was watching her there. Marc Merlin was grinning at her.

"Control," he was saying. "Ladylike behavior. Please."

He was holding open the elevator door. People inside. And the pain was blazing worse. 
She went down with fists dug in the pockets of her fur, unable to keep the contorted frown 
from her face, unable to avoid the studied stare of two secretaries.

"That dentist should have used anesthetic," Marc was saying kindly.

Then she was slipping into the bucket seat of his parked Jag. She was still squirming in it 
like a fish when he got in the other side and drove off, grinning worse than ever.

"Christ, that cane can sting!" she got out at last.

"Thanks. We do our best to please."

"Nine strokes, and I can still feel every one. But those last two really sank into me. I loathe 
that halfbending position, in case you didn't know. It seems to hit right under me like that."

"Under the underneath? I wish some of those committee women could have seen you in 
verso just now."

"Madge wouldn't have minded," she said.

"A fine start to the evening, really. You mark beautifully low down."

"And you do so like your meat pretenderized, don't you?"

"I didn't take you on the strap marks, though. Saving those for later."

"How thoughtful of you!" she sneered.

"You must be getting soft, Jan."

"While you are growing hard," she replied, feeling him.

"Also, you forgot to thank me for correction again."

"I'll do the lines."

"Make it a thousand this time, would you."

"Oh all right," she repeated, unzipping him briskly. "Now allow me to show my undying 
gratitude in person. To wow! The Person."

It jumped in her palm like an unleashed hound and she teased it as he drove.

"That caning gave me an appetite. Always does."

"Well, just let go of mine, would you," he quipped, "unless you want an appetizer in your 
right eye."

"Creamy vichyssoise," she murmured, sinking her tawny head, grasping the throbbing root.
Rolling her lips around the corona, her white teeth nibbled the underbelly as she moved her 
head downward expertly.

"What's more," he added, above her brazen head, "you will wear no underclothes for a 
week, hussy. Understand?" The bobbing head bobbed briefly. "Good for you to feel fabric 
close to your person. Your thoroughly-to-be-chastised person. If you break this rule... oh my 
God, Jan, I have a sort of rich idea that someone... not a million miles from here... is going to 
get a mer-mouthful!"

* * *

Ten minutes later the captain of the swank Hermitage restaurant, situated at a prudent 
distance out of town, was conducting them to their table. Marc chose this place because none
of Dave Stapleton's crowd ever came here and because of the wine list.

As he walked behind Janice, between the busy tables, he could not lift his eyes from her 
hips. What a truly superb sit-upon she had. Totally different from, say, Kim's, but individual, 
too. These thick cheeks seemed to churn ponderously against each other as they moved, while
her thin dress appeared tighter than ever on her rump. She carried herself so well, almost 
thrusting back at him for attention! There was a sense of supreme ownership in reflecting that 
this proudly striding, confident clubwoman carried his hardening weals across her back. He 
had time to think: What normal man in this room would refuse if Janice appeared by his bed 
in the dead of night, handed him a stick, turned her splendid back and said, "Cane my arse?" 
Marc felt his gristle stiffen. He would not could not spare her later.

Janice was staring at the chair the headwaiter was holding for her.

"Something wrong, madame?"

"Perhaps if you could procure a cushion a soft one, please."

"But certainly, madame."

Turning, she smiled. "Marc, if you'll excuse me, I'll go powder my nose. Order something 
strong."

"Like a double vodka, maybe?"

"A large double vodka, if you would."

"On the rocks."

"Sure. It's getting kinda warm tonight."





CHAPTER TWO


The couple in the corner of the restaurant appeared a picture of contentment. The man, his 
thick wavy hair graying attractively at the temples, was smoking a cigar. The woman, lushly 
lovely in her cocktail frock, was toying with a pale liqueur, flat bronze hair streaming down her
back.

"And you mean to say he has never so much as even given you a spanking?" Marc Merlin 
asked, tapping off his ash on her elbow.

Janice Stapleton shook her head. "Never."

"Is he aware that you “

"Not a thing."

"And you won't tell him?"

"I daren't risk it. I've told you, Marc, I love Dave. Truly I do. He's my all. You I need."

They paused, their eyes meeting. The waiter cleared some dishes.

"If I told Dave of my my proclivity," she continued when the waiter had left them, "he 
would almost certainly think me odd, twisted, kinky. You know all the epithets, I think."

"By means of which society insulates itself from fantasy," he completed, nodding gloomily. 
"Oh, yes, oh, yes. But it's a shame. A waste. You do have such beatable buttocks, Jan."

She bubbled with laughter and sipped at her Strega.

"What do you mean by that, I wonder?"

"You have round, thrusting, imaginative cheeks, my dear."

"Imaginative? I can tell you they feel about double their normal size at the moment. Nine 
strokes with that stick covers plenty of territory, and I feel thoroughly well-thumped 
underneath. So if by imaginative you mean imagining what they're going to feel like soon... "

"After a taste of It. " The shudder her shoulders made this time stirred her breasts 
together.

"That switch is a horror. I don't think you know how much it hurts, Marc."

"It always makes you cry."

She stared into her glass for a long moment. "Yes. There does always have to be a 
punishment session, doesn't there?"

"Always," he confirmed, waving for the check. "Remember our golden rule. It always has to
be rather worse than expected."

"Will there be... Benjy?"

"That will depend on the respect and submission with which you comport yourself first."

"I hate Benjy, Marc."

"Which is to say you adore it. I know what you don't like. That is, what you love."

"Is it very awful to?"

"Not at all. It's perfectly natural, just so long as it's not destructive to others. Absolute 
power exerted on one hand, embraced on the other as the supreme form of love. It's the 
acme of romanticism. Did you come in the car, by the way? By which I mean, did you come, in 
the car?"

She shook her head as if he had just asked her whether she wanted more coffee. "No. 
Messy without pants. I finished in the ladies' room, actually."

"I thought so." He bent to sign the check and gave it to the waiter. "Pour that liqueur 
down your dress and let's go."

"Marc, it'll stain."

"Use your bra."

After a second's hesitation, she obeyed surreptitiously, with a "Ugh." Then he was leading 
her out. She took his arm in the parking lot. "It's wonderful with David, of course. He has a 
wonderful prick, but it doesn't make me feel fucked in the way you do. This pain bit's 
something else again. That's ecstasy."

"As well as agony?" Marc smiled, and she nodded as he handed her into the Jag. When he 
had settled beside her, she asked with frightened eyes, "It's Is it going to be very severe 
tonight?"

"That depends on you. How it comes. You haven't had any corrective training for two 
months, and I don't want you to start thinking you can fool around with this thing. You're 
playing in the fields of heaven, Jan."

"I know it. Where the stars are so much brighter. Kiss me, Marc," she said with a sob, and 
he did.

"Remember," he murmured in her hair, "when we start, no feeling, no personality in the 
true sense at all. You are nothing. A stock, a stone. You have given all of yourself over. Total 
abandonment, total submission."

"Total bliss." She sighed languorously. Under the fur, her limbs stirred. The liqueur was 
tacky on her tummy now. "And you, poor animal, are in just the same fix. Are you quite sure 
Suana wouldn't “

"You kidding, Jan? You know I've been dating Suana for years. I know her by now, all right. 
I take her out. We go around together."

"You make out?"

"No. I've told you that before."

"It's just that I can't believe it. I'll bet big Sue would give anything to get that ramrod of 
yours up her belly."

"Well, we don't, so there," he all but snarled, grabbing for his keys. "I don't want to get her 
involved in something she may not like. Why should I infect a wholesome woman like her with
my ideas... our ideas. Besides, there's that young Doreen to consider."

"Who knows a thing or two, I'll bet. Sue's said to bring her up real strict." She snuggled 
into her seat as the engine awoke. "The trouble with these bucket seats is that they weren't 
designed for my kind of bucket. You think Kim saw that cane, darling?"

"I doubt it. No, I simply help Suana with her beauty business. Financially, I mean. That's it."

"You have a piece of gorgeous Sue," she spoke dreamily. Marc Merlin ground his teeth.

"Shut up and concentrate on what you've got coming to you. The part of you you're 
sitting on is shortly going to be sore."

"Goody," she said, with stirring thighs.

A half hour later, they confronted each other across Marc's wall-to-wall carpet in his living 
room. Both had drinks. Both were momentarily silent. A stereo throbbed gently somewhere. 
Under his gaze, Janice made an adjustment so that she was sitting on herself rather than her 
skirt.

"Glad you remembered that rule," he said. "You might write that out also."

"Very well."

"A thousand times. Are you ready now?"

"I think so." She nodded gravely. "May I have a last one?"

He stood up. "No. I don't want you anesthetized. For your own sake." He led her to a wall 
mirror, turning her back to it and raising her skirt behind. Her cheeks looked meaty and hot. 
Janice gave a little gasp as she saw how well wealed they were across the center. The cane 
stripes had faded some on the left, but the tip marks were purple and hard.

"They do deserve it, don't they?" he said comfortingly.

She nodded dumbly.

"And they will get it, won't they?"

"Yes, yes. Oh, you will let me see, Marc? I mean, it makes it so fantastic if occasionally I can 
see... them... getting it behind me."

"Put on your things," he ordered roughly.

A vain man, Marc Merlin had a fetish for physical fitness. One room of his vast apartment 
was a bare, well waxed parquet expanse, an exercise room, gleaming with apparatus and bars. 
He was standing in the center of this, dressed in a Russian schoolmaster's uniform of the last 
century, a decoration round his neck, when Janice knocked and entered some minutes later. 
She was transformed.

All trace of makeup had been removed from her face, her hair was held back in a ponytail, 
she wore sky-high heels, and her dress if such it might be called was of pale blue "little-girl" 
gingham, slightly worn-looking and soiled. It consisted of two brief pieces, and on either side 
a wide leather belt secured them with two buckles, a buttoned bolero top out of which her 
breasts were bursting, the nipples prodding like urgent thumbs, and a scant skirt hung to the 
belt in the manner of a curtain, on rings, and barely concealing her pubis.

Her white face was intensely apprehensive as she marched toward him on her stilt shoes 
and dropped to her knees. At once her head was ringing from a cracking slap.

"How many times," he gritted slowly, "do I have to tell you that when you kneel down in 
this room, you do so as if it were your last desire in life. I want to really hear your knees on the
boards, slave. Do it again."

"Sorry, Master."

She dropped again, rapping the woodwork with her kneecaps.

"Once more. Really hard!"

The blow took her breath away and she winced.

"Now stand up straight."

Doing so, she knew that one knee was grazed. Standing like a soldier before him, eyes 
ahead, she was aware of him inspecting her.

The skirt behind hung on the shelf of her hips and he felt under and assessed the weight 
of her buttocks as a butcher might weigh so much steak.

"These bruises are positively poetic," he said, squeezing them.

Then, coming forward, he rolled a nipple between finger and thumb as if she had no 
feeling at all.

Desperately she tried to keep from twisting. There were twin cuffs for her wrists sewn into 
the belt in back, and she knew that at the first sign of independence on the part of her hands, 
they would be secured there. She knew that at the first such sign, also, her bruised bottom 
would be sending up distress signals in no time. When he raised her skirt in front, she could 
see her lush bush in the mirror. Contrasted with her frock, it looked somehow aggressive, 
obscene. Sliding in one finger he played absently with the slick marble of her clitoris a 
moment.

"You're disgusting," he said, wiping his finger on her so-called skirt. "Coming in like that. 
The only thing you understand is a thrashing. Now masturbate. Fast. You have one minute."

Still staring, expressionless, she began to rub her button. She was in a high state of 
excitement, soon flushed and breathing hard, but she couldn't attain orgasm.

"Twenty seconds more," he said. She rubbed feverishly, then gave up, gasping. "What's the
matter?" he asked.

"I... c-can't, Master."

"Why not?"

"Too frightened."

"I thought apprehension made it easier for you."

"It does, Master. But I couldn't... this time."

There was a silence. Finally, from somewhere behind her, he growled, "Christ, you need 
beating! Go and get It" Sick to her soul there was no stopping it now she hesitated but 
fractionally before moving to the closet. Marc spotted it instantly.

"Come here, slave!" he hissed. "When I give a command, you execute it as if there were 
nothing more in the whole wide world that you wanted to do. Got it?" He slapped her face. 
"The penalty for Hesitation, please?"

"Three, sir," she said breathlessly. "Master."

"Your memory needs stimulating, slave. From behind. Three what, please?"

"Of the best, Master."

He shook his head. "Embroider that. Dwell on the idea a moment. Use your imagination. 
Go ahead!"

"Three of the best with the cane across my naked arse.

This time he slapped her face hard. "When I say 'embroider,' I mean it. You can do much 
better than that. It's six if you don't really try this time."

She took a deep breath. When she spoke, it was loudly: "Three juicy strokes with a long 
yellow whippy cane... as hard as possible... nice and slowly... flat across my well-bent fat bare... 
miserable... well-wealed... frightened arsecheeks."

"All right," he grumbled. "Not bad for semantics. The state of your horrible hide in this 
room depends on your cooperation. Go and get It."

But when she returned from the closet with the willowy cane from the racks there, and 
presented the knob of its handle to Marc, he frowned impatiently again.

"That's not It, fool. Have you forgotten what It is already?" She was turning to remedy her 
error when he stopped her with a susurrant quiver of the cane. "It doesn't matter. This will 
hurt, I think you'll find. But first of all let me hear your recitation for the evening."

Concentrating with all her might, knowing that every error would be rewarded by a cut, 
Janice began:

 -

"Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Upon the hours and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend

Nor services to do, till you require... "

 -

She reached the end successfully, without falter or mistake. Marc said, "Not bad. I'll let you
off with six. Followed, of course, by the three for Hesitation. Stand here." He tapped the floor 
some paces in front of a mirrored panel of the wall. "Now bend and touch your toes."

Hectically it was all happening too fast she obeyed.

"Stand up," he said. "Now, when I say 'bend over,' I mean reach right forward as if your life 
depended on it, bitch. Head on your knees. Quick!"

He had placed her as she had feared and of course desired but her First sight in the 
mirror startled her intensely. Who was this mature woman bent double with her bottom 
displayed so blatantly, under the rising flap of skirt, in one of the most defenseless and 
degrading positions imaginable for her sex? The high heels braced her calves. The skirt 
covered only half her strongly divided cheeks and, though her thighs were tight together, she 
could see the shag of her central self, the red lips pushed back. She could see her own hot 
face and open mouth. She could see the ruddy weals across the powerful spread, and she 
could see the tip of the yellow stick prodding elastically at the flooring as if eager anxious to 
attend to her flesh. Oh, heavens, she was going to get it!

"Right down," he coaxed. There were other practical instructions before, with a 
contemptuous twitch of the tip, he flicked the skirt up her back. He prodded ruminatively. 
Janice felt like a cow. Though the position drew up the underfat, there was still resilience in 
her firm behind.

"Six of the best, slave. During the intervals reflect on how worthless you are."

"Yes, Master."

He seemed to move slowly, lethargically. Then she gasped as if thrust in icy water as the 
flash of light licked round her seat. She saw the end bite in, almost digging there, then bounce
back off, leaving its furious weal right across the strap marks. This was twice as bad as in his 
office. Yet now that the pain had started, there was a paradoxical relief: she was reduced to the
mere faculty of fighting her rebel flesh.

Thwaaccck! Two.

She watched her arse lashed with expert vigor and perfect aim. The timing was contrived 
to make her await the fearsome crescendo of pain until it seemed unbearable and then add 
to it grimly, with the next.

"Ow!" she said, though softly.

After the third blow, she emitted a short, shaming fart. She endured the fourth with 
clenched teeth, frowning, trying not to cry out, and possibly incur extra. But the fifth seemed 
to slice right through her, and she yelped.

"Please," he complained, "you know I have these weak ears from the war. Bend right over 
sharply." He tapped her fingers which were, in truth, fretting at her knees.

Tears were squeezing at her eyes. She endured the last belting crack panting, remaining 
bent as he felt the six long weals, each terminating in a lump on the hard flesh of her right hip.

"Not bad. I overhit at the end. Get up."

A flush of pain streamed up her then, as she arched erect. She grabbed her wounded 
flesh only to cry in earnest at the tapping stroke across the back of her knuckles. Whining, she
danced in misery, sucking one skinned knuckle.

"Keep your hands to your side, wretch. Stand still and stop jumping. For the next three I 
want you upright, hands behind your head and inclined forward slightly. Let them go slack. I 
want them relaxed."

Thrice he thrashed her thus, the stick visibly lifting the heavy, beaten buttocks. If anything, 
these cuts were even stiffer and when they were over, she was unable to keep from grabbing 
her bottom again and hopping.

"This might be a good time to tighten that belt," he ordered, smiling.

A hand went over her mouth, pinching her nostrils. Her breathing was held until she 
struggled in his grip. Then, as she sucked for air on release, he jerked the buckles tighter by 
two notches. Janice doubled, gasping. When finally she stood up she was rigid from rib cage 
to pelvis. She could barely breathe at all. Her face was scarlet in the mirrors, her hips spilling 
out from the belt's constriction.

"Now," he instructed, "kick off your shoes like a good girl. And sit down. Stand up. Sit 
down. Stand up."

The exercises began. As usual, they were extremely energetic and punctuated by cuts of 
the air from the cane.

"One, two. One, two. Faster than that."

All Janice knew was the cane. All she could see was its shimmering menace. By now, apart 
from the leathering she had endured, she had had eighteen strokes across the backside with 
the cane, and she didn't want another. She would do anything to avoid another.

Fifty squat-bends were succeeded by as many toe touches. She flung herself into the 
workout with gusto and when it was over, she was sweaty and panting. One breast had 
popped over her bodice and jumped slabbily at her movements while behind her the apron of
skirt had insinuated itself into her peach-cleft. Her hair straggled wetly.

"They do look more virtuous already," he said, examining her buttocks as she stood before
him. "Now put on your shoes."

She hurried to obey. As she rose, her hands rubbed instinctively behind her; the last caning
still hurt.

"Your hands are impertinent, slave. Let me restrain them for you." Her wrists were cuffed 
behind her back, one over the other, bracing her shoulders. "Now go and get It. And by It, I 
mean It."

Janice knew what to do. She went to the closet, opened it with her fingers, facing him, and 
returned with the terrible lean switch between her teeth. A shudder of profound helplessness 
and fear went through her as she knelt, tears on her cheeks, and he accepted It from her.

It was a rapierlike length of heartless whalebone, black as a bird's wing and twice as fast, 
pliant yet hard as stone when it hit into tender hips or thighs. Or even into her breasts 
bobbed Benjy! She could see now the bloblike swelling at the tip, which made It hurt so 
unbearably.

"Do you want to avoid the extreme unction, slave?"

"Yes," she answered fervently, adding quickly, "Master."

He laughed. "I believe you really do. I really know what you don't like, eh? You might say 
it's a specialty of mine. Well, you know I never do a deal, but tonight I'll make an exception. 
Tonight I'll give you a chance to show your loyal submission and control."

When he spat this time, it was on the floor.

"Lick it up, slave."

She crashed down to obey.

He laughed again dryly. When next he came into her vision, he held a luscious downy 
peach.

"Bite."

The overripe fruit filled her mouth. Her strong teeth bit into the soft flesh, holding it there 
as he instructed. The fruit was big and held her jaws wide.

"Now lean forward with your legs together. I'm going to give you a chance. This isn't 
cruelty, it's curiosity. I want to test what progress you have made in your general subservience 
since your last visit."

Raising her skirt, he tucked it into her belt. As he did so, Marc felt the joyous leap of his 
manhood and knew by the continued shuddering of the body in front of him how far down 
the road they were going together. Her punishment was achieving a new level. It was deeply 
psychological. She was so intensely frightened that tears were pouring down her cheeks as 
she desperately held the wet peach in her teeth. Her legs were braced, her face flushed, her 
wrists caught behind her in the cuffs. Above all, her buttocks seemed to claim the room. The 
swollen globes were by now well beaten. Chubby enough at the top not to let her sex peep 
through, her thighs were pressed together; only a wisp of damp hair twined back, bedraggled.
The bruises looked tender and the overhangs shook like jelly as he stepped well to one side. 
They knew what It was, all right.

"I'm going to give you seven," he said. "The magic number, slave. Surely you can take 
seven. All I'm asking is that you hold that peach in your mouth while I do so. Then you will be 
excused from having Benjy for tonight and be rewarded in the usual way. If you drop it, 
however, I fear I shall have to be cruel to be kind. Over a little more."

She threw him an absurdly imploring glance over her left shoulder and then, with a greedy
hiss, the whalebone snicked into her skin.

Zzzzzkkk!

"Unh!" Janice gave a stifled grunt, her head going up, her forehead creased in pain. Her 
bottom clenched, hard. He paused till they relaxed and cut again, the black weal snaking out 
on impact. She danced quickly.

"This is really a most satisfactory instrument," he said. "You've no idea how edifying you 
look."

With tremendous tension, she took the third, then the fourth. She was bending about, her 
thighs rubbing together, making a snoring sound. He administered the fifth and, after the 
resultant contortions, advanced to inspect what looked to be a ruby ooze from where the tip 
had bitten when there came a thump, close followed by a wail. Janice had dropped the peach
and burst into frustrated sobs.

"Please... Master... I t-t-t-tried... so hard."

"Not hard enough," he said curtly. "All right, put it back in the bowl over there."

She dropped to her knees, panting, both breasts now fully on display before him. Her 
whole body was heaving.

"Please... please don't give me Benjy, Master."

"This thing really brings you to your senses, doesn't it?"

"Please... anything... I'll do anything rather than “ A swish of air answered her as, with a 
steady, calculated swipe, the switch seemed to cut through her rump. She yipped and seemed 
to jump from her knees a second, before, speechless with pain, she bent over double. Marc 
took time and aim and lashed her again. "AAAAAAOOOO WWW! "

"Hurry, bitch."

Blinded, out of breath, she fought to find the peach, pick it up in her teeth, replace it in the
bowl, and get back to him, still twisting in her bonds.

Marc was becoming extremely excited and so, he knew, was she. They were both living 
intensely, responding creatively. He bent the length of whalebone across his thighs.

"Maybe after tonight you won't be in such a hurry to come back for more. Or will you, 
slave?" He tucked her skirt up in front, too. The lips of her cunt looked inflamed, their inner 
surfaces craven. "No, Pm afraid it's Benjy for you. But first we'll try a spot of Spanish Step. 
Depending on your performance in that, we'll decide how many you should have."

He went to a wall and returned with a strap of stout leather.

"The Spanish Step wouldn't be any fun without a saddle strap, would it?" he commented 
as he buckled one end to her belt in front, attaching it to one of the rings there. "Legs apart, 
slave!"

"Oh... " He slid it in the furrow, drew it between her legs, up through the cleft of her 
buttocks, and secured it to the belt in back. He gave a final rough tug up, notching it tighter 
by a hole.

"Aaow!" She was on tiptoe.

"There. That ought to make you a little less rambunctious. Count yourself lucky it isn't 
studded inside."

All at once he noticed that her face was scarlet and that she was squeezing her thighs 
together as if for very life. Her breasts heaved violently. He slipped a finger under the strap in 
front. Foam seeped round it patchily. "I believe you came, filth! Did you? Tell me." He took up 
the whalebone rod. She nodded dumbly. "Who gave you permission, slave? I don't remember 
doing so. Four. Lean forward."

"Please... it's ag-agony..." Zzzzlkk!

"Aaaah!"

Zzzzlkkk!

"Mercy!"

Zzzzzlkkkk!

"NO!"

Zzzzllkkkkkkk!

"Haaaaow!"

"Now get going, slave. I want to see your knees high, chin up. Stare at the ceiling as you 
prance. Obliterate yourself completely. You're a beast. Two rounds at normal and then we'll 
speed it up. Go!"

Janice began as if in despair. She had attained a new level of terror and knowledge now. 
The high-stepping march around the room always culminated their sessions, and she could 
think of nothing but the impending pain of Benjy. She had to step high, knees up each step, 
teetering on her heels, panting while he called time from a metronome set ticking on a table.

"Hup, two, three, four... higher than that... keep your head right up."

Eyes tearing, shoulders drawn back cruelly, she forced herself to ignore the pain made at 
each movement by the strap. It seemed to divide her in half. Anything, anything not to have 
more strokes from that appalling switch.

"Faster now!"

She had gone round successfully once, sweating already and her breasts bounding when 
he increased the tempo. Almost at once she stumbled, going over on one heel.

The switch tapped the floor. "Come here, slave."

"Please," she mumbled. "It's... this strap. It's cutting me in two."

He pointed inexorably. Her knees hit the boards before him. The whalebone sang into her 
thrice. At the third cut, she screamed. It was like a razor, and she was sure that he had broken 
the skin in one place behind.

"Get up," he said.

"It's excruciating," she whispered.

"Then avoid it, idiot."

He watched her as she gritted her teeth and tried again, raising each knee with effort, her 
face almost wild. There came into his mind the thought of Suana how incredible it would be 
to have her here, with her bottom wealed like this under that little Grecian tunic she wore to 
work, but he dismissed it at once. Another stumble three more strokes. By now Janice could 
scarcely drag her feet toward the dreaded tail. She yelped like a puppy when they were over.

"Too much noise," he pronounced. "I'll have to bit you, Slave."

She stood where she was, trembling. He went to a closet and came back with something 
clinking in his hand. She held her breath. First he greased the edges of her mouth; then he 
held her jaw open with his left hand; then he told her to raise her tongue. The steel bit was 
cold and hard. It seemed to choke her a second. Then he had secured it behind her head and 
drawn the single strap to which it was attached down her back to join that which went 
between her legs.

"Perhaps that will keep your head up."

It was indeed forced back most cruelly and any effort to alleviate the tension only resulted 
in a tightening of the saddle strap between her legs. It was a hellish position mouth agape 
and slobbering slightly.

"Now get going," she seemed to hear from a distance.

The metronome ticked inexorably. She marched in a sort of panic now. One round 
complete. But the second was judged inadequate. She had to prostrate herself on her belly, a 
small simple wooden frame was fetched, and her ankles secured in it, her legs below the knee 
at right angles. Ten strokes across the soles of her feet. It was always unexpectedly painful. She
squealed. Ten from the other side...

"Now maybe you'll pick up your feet."

It continued. She was almost dazed with the delirium, yet conscious of the complete 
control he held, and was grateful to him, as his subject.

Then it grew very much worse because everything stopped together. Near-naked, panting 
and perspiring, her buttocks beaten and her feet aching, she heard him vaguely behind her. 
She clenched her cheeks against his stroke, but no stroke came, and the saddle strap hurt her 
more than ever. Only by straining could she see in the mirrors, and she didn't like what she 
saw. There was the gleam of the steel seat, the sound of some metallic adjustments. She was 
really feeling very sick.

Hot liquid ran down her throat. Marc was pouring something into her mouth from a flask. 
Scotch. Half-hot. She gulped it avidly.

"A little Dutch courage, my dear. As you may have guessed, it is, I fear, going to be 
necessary to give you the extreme ah unction."

She gargled in reply. But when the saddle strap was taken from between her legs, it was as
if the heat coursing through her veins opened in relief in her sex. Her pussy grew petals, and 
flowered. But there was no relief for her neck; the strap drawing back the bit was tightened to 
a ring at her cuffs.

The funny thing was, the seat was no more than a shiny secretary's stool. Rather low, and 
with adjustments. Nothing about it to make her quiver like jelly all over as he led her to it by 
the bush.

The stool did not swivel and its steel seat was sculpted like a saddle, with a division in the 
central ridge. It felt nice and cold to her scorched bottom as she sat, though it divided her 
hams considerably. He ankles were doubled beneath her, secured at the stanchion under the 
chair, crisscross, parting her knees. The strut behind arched her back prodigiously, especially 
when her shoulders were strapped to its crossbar by thongs under the armpits.

Looking up beseechingly, like a spaniel, she saw Marc appraising the position expertly. She
caught a shocking glimpse in some mirror: a gagged woman with purple face, her back arched
so that her breasts were thrust out horizontally, enormous, the nipples plumlike.

"Please... please... please," her imprisoned tongue was trying to articulate.

There was a brush above her, and her breasts were daubed with oil. Or was it cocoa 
butter? Whatever it was, it stopped the marks being too painful! Trust Marc to know every 
refinement like that. Then the rubber tips over her nipples, in protection.

Please... please... please...

Marc had vanished from view. She felt his fingers. Then the wet rubber dong began to be 
inserted up her vagina. Serrated. God. It stopped there. Almost instantly her hips started 
writhing.

A black line bisected her vision. Marc was standing over her, holding the whalebone. He 
lifted her breasts, letting them bounce back, judderingly.

Please... please...

Anything but...

"I think your committeewomen might appreciate you now," he said. "I'll start with six this 
side. The tip may make you jump a bit, on the left."

PLEASE!

The apprehension was getting out of control. Squirming, her pelvis spasmed; she could 
feel herself starting to come. Marc could see it, too, as she panted like a runner and he drove 
down with a whippy cut of the switch that left its tracery of black lace across her 
bubbies One!





CHAPTER THREE


At that moment, on the far side of town, a door clicked in a darkened hallway. A pert blonde 
shucked off her coat and tiptoed to the stairs.

"Doreen!"

She groaned.

A light clicked on. Her cousin, Suana, had been waiting. A moment later, she was standing,
crestfallen in snug tartan bermudas and scuffed sneaks before a woman deep in a living-room
chair.

Suana Becker still had on the brief jersey tunic dress, belted, she had worn at work. Her 
beauty and massage parlor adjoined her home. Her shirt was white, and she wore heels. Her 
ash-colored hair was drawn off her broad forehead in a heavy braid. Folding the copy of 
House Beautiful in her lap, she crossed one endless leg in darkish pantyhose.

"Well?"

"I s'pose I'm in for it again, Suana."

"Show me your watch."

The young woman extended a bony wrist. Midnight, plus ten. Suana Becker stared at her.

"Dorry, this is the third time you've been out after hours this month. Do you actually like 
being punished?"

"Hell no, Sue. Not the way you do it."

"I've done it that way since you moved in here after your parents died. I was in sole charge
of your upbringing. I was afraid of being soft."

"You needn't be, Sue not with that new cane."

"Don't be sassy, Do. Any excuses this time?"

"No. I just dawdled, I guess." The girl hung her head. One hand rubbed ruefully at her rear.
"Do you want me to go up to my room for it now?"

"I was just thinking," said the tall woman, stretching her elegant arms above her head. 
"Since they aren't acting as deterrent, my methods must be too lenient. Wasn't it only 
Wednesday a week ago you got your last?"

"Yes, Suana. I'd been out with Alec."

"And what did you get?"

"Six beauts."

"Well, miss, you seem to be able to swallow them mighty easily, I must say."

The girl's golden eyes fell to her feet. "They stung like anything, Sue."

"But not enough, it seems. Turn round and drop your britches, Now."

The culprit did as bid. The sturdy little butt that popped out of the bermudas, and then the
lilac panties, showed fading lines from previous attention. Doreen Becker remained bent, 
hands on knees. She had a cute can and knew it. She even drew up further her fawn cashmere 
sweater.

With a sigh, her cousin rose to her six feet and half an inch and gave the heinie a playful 
pat.

"All right, young lady. The time has come to give you something that will stick in your 
mind when you're out with your beaux. This is going to hurt you rather more than me."

"The c-cane, Sue?"

"What do you think?"

The girl tugged up her things in a somber way. "How many?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?!" She tapped her cousin's cheek with a laugh. "Some healthy 
suspense will do no harm to your soul at all, my sweet. However, as an hors d'oeuvre I don't 
mind imparting some of the bad news in your relatively immediate future."

"Such as?"

"Well, for one thing, I regret to have to tell you that starting as of now the regime for your 
cure is going to include six of the best every Monday morning. First thing. As soon as you get 
out of bed, you report to me in your pajamas, take a cold shower, and bend over the tub for 
six stingers. Nice and tight. Don't look so cheerful about it, silly. It's just to start you off on the 
right foot each week from now on."

"But really, Suana... s-s-six... and every Monday, I mean “

"Bare." The tall woman could not restrain a laugh at the quivering lip and forsaken look in 
the face before her; a tear swelled in one bravely blinking eye.

"What's more, you won't date again this month."

"At all?"

"From next month on, each time you go out evenings, you will report to me fully dressed 
just before meeting your date. At that time I shall administer a further six, also tight, to serve 
as a reminder. Though I advise you," she added with a ripple of laughter, "not to date 
Mondays."

"But But next Saturday... I promised Chuck... "

"Since you promised that young moron I'll make an exception. Eight will hold you the 
date. Now let's go up."

Suana moved majestically up the stairs, humming. Doreen miserably followed her cousin. 
Eyes magnetized by the melancholic movement of fabric over the hips ahead, she swallowed 
with fear. On the long, strong back, which tapered to a wasp waist, the flaxen plait lay as if 
painted, coarse as horsehair. The hips flared out sweetly and their motion tossed the skirt so 
that the girl could see up liquid thighs to where the opacity of the pantyhose began. She 
shivered with fear at her cousin's springy step.

And what was happening now? The routine was altering appallingly. She was being 
beckoned into her cousin Suana's bedroom, no less. Always before, she got "it" in her own. 
Good golly! Doreen Becker began to believe she had gone a little too far. The door shut 
behind her.

"I have a sort of feeling you're not going to need much on below the waist."

Still the girl stood watching as a series of arrangements were made in the room, none of 
which boded much good. She pushed at a tear with one knuckle as her cousin moved about 
briskly. A leather pouf was placed in the exact dismal center of the room. From the adjoining 
bathroom were fetched fluffy towel and dripping sponge. Doreen's hands went to her hips. 
Two fingers slowly unzipped. But what was this? Her cousin was returning from the closet with
a length of flat, hard wood...

"W-What! I'm going to be paddled?"

"Alas, you are, Dorry." Suana studied the board's unfeeling surface, painted with an 
insignia. "Dear old sorority' regular. You may make its acquaintance later in life, dear."

"You've never paddled me before, Suana. In fact, I've never been paddled before. That's to 
say, I've never had the paddle."

"Well, you're going to now."

"Couldn't it be the cane?"

Suana's gray eyes held her cousin's then. "It could. And will. You're going to be whacked 
with this first, then well caned after."

"Suana!"

"In your own interest, sweetheart. Six no longer seem to do the trick. Tonight I'm going to 
paddle your sitzplatz, give you fifteen minutes for reflection, then try and see what ten of the 
best with the cane will do for your memory."

"Ten! Well, how many with the paddle then?" the girl asked sickly.

"Oh, let's say twenty-five. Ten on each chub and five jolly ones full across your 
you-know-where to finish with." Raising the bat, Suana brought it down in a punishing slap 
that drew a puff of dust from the leather pouf. Then she draped the towel over it. "Take 'em 
down, you monkey, and lie over here, bottom up."

"But t-twenty-five, Susie, with that... that... "

"Quit stalling, or I'll give you extra."

With trembling fingers, the girl obeyed. In a second her bermudas were in miserable 
wrinkles about her ankles. Her panties followed.

"Grip my ankles when you're well over. And don't let go!"

Frowning, Doreen stood on the opposite side of the pouf from her cousin. Her legs were 
straight and firm, her belly adolescently protuberant, with, at the base of it, a snugly confident 
slit downed with fairish fronds. With visible effort, she placed herself for punishment, her legs 
extended behind her.

Still humming, her athletic cousin stood back, rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, and spat 
on her right hand for grip. The firm cheeks hugged together on the towel in anticipation, the 
grasp on her ankles increased, as she raised high the heartless yard and brought it slapping 
down.

"Ouch!"

Two, three, four, five...

"Suana... auuuu!"

"Stretch out properly, dear. And you should know by now that if you clench up like that, it 
only hurts the more."

She had selected the left cheek first, and whacked it with a will. The paddle made a 
punishing report and the girl's rubbery flesh soon streaked scarlet. Where the end fell, it was 
turning a nice deep blue. Six, seven, eight... the girl's legs parted in a twist of pain and she was
able to land the last two hard inside the cheek. "OWWWW!"

Doreen stretched, racked. Fiery agony flamed up her hip. She turned her head and saw 
above her a pair of tapering, liquid thighs whose sheen beneath the skirt vanished in a 
darkness at their juncture. Her cousin was standing well astride, and for a moment the girl 
could sec the matted strength of the spot where she had first emerged into life.

"Please... it hurts like... ooooh!"

The ten on the right were stiffer, and Doreen danced when they were over. Catching one 
foot in her pants she tripped, sat down with a bump, and looked up pleading.

"Please, Sue... not the five as well... "

"Stand up, hands above your head, and lean forward a little. So. Good. You look very pretty
like that."

She did. Suana had never employed the paddle on her before, preferring, for correctional 
purposes, a stinging cane. But the wood had done its work. The word "tanned" was perfectly 
appropriate since the twin chubs had become well seared with blotchy red. She took her time 
and basted the bare board across the pouting derriere with a full-blooded swipe.

"OUH!"

The four remaining followed in rapid succession, the last two driving their recipient, 
yelping, before them.

"Come here, you!"

The punishment was completed with a supplement. Holding Doreen's wrists behind her 
back in her left hand, bending her forward as she fought for breath, Suana took a 
nylon-bristled brush and, stiff-armed, swung it under each cringing cheek twice.

"Aieee!"

"All right, I think you'll appreciate a good caning after that. Now run along to your room."

When the girl had gone, Suana saw' herself in a mirror, legs parted, bright-eyed and still 
holding the bat.

The movement of her breasts under the white silk shirt attested to her excitement. In fact, 
she got no pleasure out of punishing her offspring, regarding it, rather, as a maternal duty, 
now that her husband had died. It was her next movement that revealed the source of her 
tension.

Turning slightly, Suana raised her tiny tunic skirt and looked at her bottom. In the 
pantyhose it was not wide; rather, it was leggy, but the twin overhangs were surprisingly 
ample and fleshy. She gave them a testing smack with the paddle, and at once felt a faintness 
of ecstasy behind her eyes. If only, if only...

But no. All these years, she had never dared tell Marc what she really wanted him to do to 
her. He would think her at best absurd, at worst a "deviate," or one of those horrible words. 
She bent forward in the mirror, going cold with desire and fear as she imagined him plying the
paddle round those anxious nethercheeks. God, how she needed... The telephone rang.

A small precise woman's voice, like a tiny icicle, asked if she were alone. Of all people! At 
just this moment.

"Hello, Kim," she said cheerfully. "I certainly am, but I won't be for long. As it happens, I'm 
just going in to Doreen to give her a hiding with that lovely new cane you sold me last week."

"The long one, Mrs. Becker?"

"Well, not the longest. That one's practically a whip, isn't it? To be reserved for very special 
occasions, and for someone with extra padding. No, the new Spanish ash, actually."

"I think you'll find it satisfactory."

"I'm sure I shall," Suana Becker said with a chuckle.

"The question is, will she? What moved you to call me up at this late hour, Kim?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Becker, I tried to get you earlier but the line was busy. And there is 
something I wanted you to know right away."

Kim was the inscrutable Orient personified. Come to think of it, she didn't even know her 
second name. Oh, yes, Loh. Kim was indebted to Suana for a slight "terminological 
inexactitude" in support of her immigration papers and all these years had been loyalty 
personified. Suana could not have wished for any other secretary for Marc since she was 
certain Kim never saw him after hours. And then had come the day when the little Oriental girl
had started coming to her for massages. Slapping and "cupping" her back, Suana had heard in
soft accents, "You don't think you could do that a little harder, do you, Mrs. Becker?"

Now roughly once a month Kim came to her for massage and "correctional training." The 
supple figure bent like a hinge for six or eight strokes with a willowy cane, or simply remained 
on the table for a strapping. She got no sexual pleasure out of it, but the endurance of pain 
was evidently a psychological necessity for Kim. She had to suffer at regular intervals, or she 
was not happy.

And she instructed Suana in how to inflict it, too, how to follow through with the cane, use
the tip to best advantage, time each cut for maximum effect. Her stoicism was incredible. She 
could take a stinging six across her compact cheeks almost without flinching and even, on 
occasion, asked Suana in a controlled way for more. There was something in a book she had 
read about T. E. Lawrence of Arabia...

But now the telephone was hot in her hand. Suana was listening to what she had dreaded 
to hear. Kim had told her that over the past two years Marc had taken Janice Stapleton out at 
odd moments when David, her husband, was out of town. The last two meetings had been 
especially surreptitious. This time Kim had followed them from The Hermitage. So Janice was 
after her man, was she! Suana was biting her lip with jealous rage when they finished their 
talk, and hung up. Stayed with him till ten minutes ago...

She looked at her watch, went to a closet, and chose a whippy cane. As she walked down 
the corridor swishing it, thoughts boiled in her brain. She would have to teach Janice a very 
stern lesson. Yes, the time had definitely come. She was grateful to Kim, a loyal friend.

At the same time, she was wondering. Kim had told her once that it was a kind of expiation
for something in her soul. If she went without suffering some physical pain for a long period, 
she became nervous and irritable. Perhaps it was a safety valve. And Suana couldn't help 
thinking of Dorry, whose already-scalded seat was shortly going to be lashed ten times with 
this unfeeling stick. It certainly was odd that she didn't complain more, at her age, about 
being punished this way. It seemed that only a very few of her girlfriends could say the same. 
Odd, too, that she repeatedly came home late on dates like this. There had been that book 
she had hidden once, The Story of 0. Suana would have to take a look at it.

Usually, when her cousin went to her bedroom on occasions of this solemn nature, Doreen
was sitting on the edge of the bed, properly bare from the waist down, contemplating her 
error and her coming fate. Tonight, however, she was sitting in a basin of cold water in her 
bathroom, bare feet on a chair placed before it.

"Come and get it," Suana called. "No, don't bother to dry."

Her backside dripping, the girl came forward looking very apprehensive. She could not 
seem to take her eyes off the cane.

"Please, Suana... not ten."

Suana looked at the fearful chubbies. They were certainly well beaten, and the bristles had 
left tiny black dots all over their lower surfaces. She really felt sorry for the sinful girl, but what 
had to be done had to be done.

"Bend over the end of the bed."

"Suana, please. Really. I don't think I can take as many as ten. Couldn't you give me them 
tomorrow night?"

"I never bargain, Do. You know that by now. If you put it off till tomorrow, it's twelve."

With hung head, the girl thought. "Gee, Sue, you really are strict. Okay, I'll get it over now, 
I guess. Only, you may have to tie my hands."

Suana hesitated, then said, "Very well. Follow me."

With her cousin padding sickly behind her, she led the way down another passage to the 
door which connected into her beauty business. It gave directly on to the massage and 
"keep-fit" room, whose floorboards gleamed as well waxed as those in Marc Merlin's 
apartment.

In a matter of seconds Doreen's wrists were secured behind her back in a rubber thong 
and a cord from a ceiling pulley had pulled them up behind her. The cord was fixed when she 
was on tiptoe, and half-bent. Suana Becker stood well back, Bashing her cane. Janice 
Stapleton, indeed!

"Sue, please. Don't cut me too low. The marks show under my suit, at the pool."

"I'm going to give you ten strokes at half-minute intervals for coming in late. If I see that's 
not hurting you enough, and it's dying down too quickly, I'll step that up a little. In any case, 
you can look forward to three or four minutes of some discomfort, dear."

Jan-ice Bitch!

The first stroke snickered in across the tender puppy-fat at the base of the trembling 
buttocks, and the girl jerked with an "Oh!"

She swung a little, steadied, and Suana struck again. Yes, it was going to be rather severe, 
all in all, but she had to cruel, to be kind. And if ever the day came when that Janice 
Stapleton...





CHAPTER FOUR


Marc Merlin worked through the following morning as if nothing had happened. He felt fit, 
well, and invigorated, and at least half his age.

At about ten-thirty, he gave Janice Stapleton a call. She had not overnighted with 
him they were both too prudent for that and he had driven her to her apartment not long 
after midnight. It was surprising how quickly Janice recovered when she put her mind to it. 
"Jan? This is Marc. How's everything?"

A sleepy voice replied, "How d'you think?"

"I'm asking you."

"Heaven, of course."

"Had any breakfast?"

"Urn. A huge one. Only, on my belly. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

"Use that cream I gave you?"

"Yes. It's not as nice as yours, but it certainly helps. I have your eraser, by the way. It floats."

"Janice!"

They had to be careful on the phone. After a brief exchange, he hung up. Someone was 
knocking on the door. Kim came in.

He looked at his secretary keenly. As everyone remarked, she had a stunning figure, on the
miniature scale, and the tight pale silk sheaths she wore, always slit high, did little to conceal 
it. Her belly was so flat as to be practically on her backbone, her breasts small, high and well 
separated, while her buttocks rose almost imperceptibly from round, glossy thighs. Kim was a 
mystery. He had given her a hand up at Suana's instigation, many years ago, even signed 
some sort of responsibility for her to the immigration officials. And then had come the day, 
already distant now, when she had seen the canes in his closet.

Quite blankly, without batting an eyelid, she had asked him a few days later if he wanted 
to purchase any others; she told him she had contacts with an importer on the coast. There 
were some particularly lovely Chinese specimens that had just come in. In case he might be 
interested, of course.

With his usual sensitivity, Marc had sensed that Kim had no interest in him personally and 
did not want to get involved. Neither did he with her. Nevertheless, his curiosity got the better
of him, and he agreed. One day Kim came to work with a golf bag, and that evening, after 
everyone had gone, he was examining some of the smoothest, snakiest malaccas he had ever 
seen. Their prices were fantastic, but then so was their rarity.

"Should you wish to try one, Mr. Merlin, please feel free to test the sample," he had heard 
suddenly in his ear.

Although they had been over a lemon-yellow sheath (and presumably panties), he had 
never seen three strokes taken so stoically. She hadn't even been blinking when she stood up. 
He bought all four canes she showed him, and ordered a special switch to be made of thin 
black whalebone, with a slight swelling at the tip. He had said nothing to her for ten days. 
Their work had proceeded independently, and together, as if nothing had happened. It was 
plain that Kim wanted to go her way. So be it. He wanted to go his.

At the end of that time, after he had signed some letters and asked her to retype one 
owing to errors, she shook her head at her own clumsiness and said quite nonchalantly, "I 
really am sorry, Mr. Merlin. If I'd made a mistake like this for my mother five years ago, I'd be 
regretting it pretty soon."

"Is that why you sold me the canes, Kim?" he had asked ironically.

She had looked up at him quite openly. "Both my parents are dead, as you know, Mr. 
Merlin. But I should hate to lose the discipline they gave me. If you wish to punish me 
corporally, I hope you will do so. Naturally I would not want this to get any further. But I still 
do need the cane on occasion."

"Then I'll give it you," he had said.

And he had.

Now she was standing expressionlessly in front of him, pencil and pad at the ready.

"You said you wanted to see me as soon as I had a moment free, Mr. Merlin."

"Did I?" Marc ran a hand over his forehead. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what
for. Oh, yes. "It was just that last night, Kim, I thought I told you to go home early."

"Yes, sir. 'There were one or two reports I had to type up, and they kept me later than I 
thought. I'm very sorry if I inconvenienced you in any manner."

"No." Kim knew, of course, that he dated Janice very occasionally but Marc was certain she
never told anyone about it. "It's just that I didn't expect you to be there when I was 
entertaining Mrs. Stapleton."

"I see. It was careless behavior on my part, I agree."

"Thoughtless, let's say."

"Do you wish to correct me for it, sir?"

She had taken him by surprise. It hadn't been in his mind. But all at once he heard himself 
saying, "It might be best." She was moving to the closet when he stopped her. "I'll do it 
tonight, before leaving."

She turned. Was there actually a look of disappointment in her impassive eyes?

"Mr. Merlin, I was very dissatisfied with myself just now about making that excuse about 
the reports. Furthermore, I should really have come in to you and apologized first thing this 
morning. I don't want to grow thoughtless, as you say, and slack, and I'd like to request a 
thorough dressing-down. I wish you would consider giving me some correction now, and 
some more before leaving tonight. In that way, the afternoon will be most profitable to me 
since it will be spent in salutary anticipation."

He looked at her a long moment. "Kim, you're incredible, aren't you. Who's out there 
now?"

"Both girls have gone for lunch, Mr. Merlin. I was holding the fort. If you'd like me to look 
a minute... " She stepped elastically at his nod. A minute later, she was handing him a narrow 
cane in the closed office. It was longer than that he had used on Janice, though just as pliant. 
He thought her eyes altered slightly at sight of it. Marc took off his jacket slowly and slowly 
rolled up his sleeves. At the tap on her bottom with the cane, she reached with her thumbs 
and eased her silky panties off, folding them neatly and placing them on his desk.

The sheath hugged her like a second skin. Kim wore self-supported stockings that ended 
high up her thigh. Again he was surprised how imperceptibly these merged with her buttocks, 
considering their impudent jut from her back.

"You haven't been caned for quite a while, have you, Kim?"

"No, Mr. Merlin. Not for a long time."

"I think I'll just give you six now. Show me your bottom."

She hiked high her dress. She wore no slip. Unlike Janice's, her mound in front was 
strongly curved, the closely cropped hair a triangle. The bottom cheeks were almost boyish, 
firm, sturdy and this time like Janice's made to be beaten.

"Bend over," he said.

She hesitated. "Might I, Mr. Merlin... "

"Oh I'd forgotten. Always has that effect on you, doesn't it? No, you may not use my 
bathroom first. Bend over in the usual position. Tight."

Kim moved briskly. Placing the stool over which Janice had suffered the previous night at 
one end of the room, she too leaned over it in a lissome arch, except that she did so with her 
legs well apart. The cheeks, still roundly curved, were separated by a channel at the base of 
which pouted her freshly cut fig.

But it was not moist and, addressing himself to his task, Marc knew that for Kim this was a 
different experience. In fact, he strongly suspected she was still a virgin, between those neat 
red lips. No, she had one single goal: it was to suffer and thereby to cease being herself. To let 
the Self die. To become empty of everything except pure experience. To conquer the Self. It 
was a mystic's dream, and Marc was not going to deny it to her. He was going to hit her as 
hard as he could. It was like a scientific experiment.

At the same time, he felt hot.

"Down with the small of your back. Get your hips right up. Come on."

He knew just where to hit to hurt at the innocent base of that sturdy little butt, just above 
the juncture with the thighs. There would be more impact higher up, but it would hurt more 
here where there were more nerves. He laid the cane for aim. She was standing with her feet 
astride, toes pointed out, the short black hair falling forward on either side of her face.

Thwaakkk!

He felt the cane sink in, hold there an instant, and knew he had hit really true. Two dark 
lines jumped up, one on each side, low down.

Again he belted the cane across her. Her buttocks jumped. Once more... three pencil-thick 
weals, two of them coinciding on the right.

The telephone rang.

"Answer it," he said.

She rose to obey. Her face was flushed and her breathing quick, otherwise she was 
impassive.

"This is Mr. Merlin's secretary... yes... no, I'm afraid Mr. Merlin's in conference just at this 
moment. May I take a message? Yes. Thank you... " As she jotted down the name and number, 
Marc was looking at her rear. The sheath had stayed tucked up.

"Not bad," he said as she replaced the receiver. "You could almost put a ruler over those 
three. I think we'll start again. I hate interruptions."

"Six more, Mr. Merlin?"

"That's right."

"I see. I do need... to use... if I might... " She was frowning, her legs tight together and 
writhing slightly.

"I'm terribly sorry but it always affects me like this, when... when I'm to be corrected."

"Kim, this time you've got to hold it."

"I can't," she whined, ducking suddenly.

"Really," he tried scornfully, yet with an anxious glance at the rug where she was standing, 
"I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Anyway, my bathroom's locked."

"Please... "

"It'll be three extra, hard."

"Mr. Merlin, it is... extremely... URGENT!"

"Oh damn," said Marc, reaching for a silver bowl, an old handball trophy with his name 
inscribed on the side. "Use that."

The secretary grabbed it with a frantic gasp, got it between her legs, and let fly. With a 
strident ping, a thick, hot jet cascaded down.

"Christ!" Marc bent the cane as he watched. "You don't have to imitate Niagara Falls." In 
fact, he was watching her face; there was indeed a challenge in shaking that self-possession. 
"A good foaming brew," he said, when it was over and Kim was carrying it to the bathroom. 
"Maybe a little dark. I hope you haven't got jaundice."

She returned with the bowl cleaned. He stared at her. She was poker-faced.

"I should have made you drink a glass. As a luncheon aperitif."

"I'm extremely sorry for that exhibition, Mr. Merlin, and hope that you will punish me 
appropriately."

"I will," he said. "Bend over tight. You now have nine to come."

This time she seemed to spread the chunky little butt out for him as widely as possible, as 
if assisting in its punishment. He struck with skill, on the already-scored weals, and even she 
began to react. By the fifth actually, the eighth the lower half of her right cheek was a steady 
bruise, turning from purple to black.

Four more to come. Marc was extremely moved by the manner in which the fleshy cheeks 
were cringing inward in pain. He was made uncomfortably aware of certain telescopic 
properties of the human frame. Kim's stoicism was truly incredible. At the same time, the 
length of the pause, between impact and her half-conscious gasp, was indicative: it meant he 
was hitting really hard.

"Arch your back."

Janice could never have taken eight as hard without... Thwackkk!

"Ah."

Nine.

The new weal leapt up lower.

With her legs straddled in this manner Marc had a remarkable vision: first her fatty quim, 
then her dry black muff resembling, in this foreshortening, the beard of her working chin. Wet 
lips replied to lips.

Suddenly he heard her say in a considered manner, "That hurt intensely, Mr. Merlin."

"Good," he retorted cheerily. "I'm glad it hit the spot. You always did appreciate it low." 
The weal had fallen across the muscled top of her thighs.

"In fact, I'm not certain... I'm not absolutely sure, sir, that I can take three more like that."

"Too bad, since you're going to have to."

"Is there no way I I mean, mightn't I have them added on tonight perhaps?"

"You know I never bargain, Kim. This is doing you all the good in the world."

Pfuilllck! And he cut again.

This time her breath hissed hard, but still she kept her stance. Only her head came up.

After another long wait she said solemnly, "That was rather worse. It hurt... unspeakably."

"Excellent."

"You don't think you could try... a trifle higher?"

"I doubt it," said Marc. His eyes were throbbing, his blood had begun to beat at the base 
of his spine. As always, into his throbbing vision at such instants, there came the idea of Suana
stretching her long sleek backside but no, it would never be.

"Is there no possible way of my getting out of these last two, sir?" came in a very small 
voice that made Mare's manhood fairly jack upright then. It was a physical pain at his groin. 
He had never seen Kim so well whipped before. But on her, ten with the cane he was using 
now covered a certain amount of territory.

He belted the limb across her again.

"Y'eaow!"

With a catlike cry, Kim dropped to her knees in front of him, gripping her fanny.

"Uh... please... I... not another, Mr. Merlin, please."

Marc was in a daze. He scarcely heard the whirr of his zipper. But he saw the rubicund rod 
leap out and meet her face head-on. The Oriental girl appeared to measure it with her eye for 
a moment. Then, one hand at its base (the other still held to her own), she swallowed it 
speedily and began sucking for dear life, the strong head indenting her cheek from time to 
time like a child's lollipop.

"Wait a minute!" Marc protested. "I didn't say “ But he had been thinking of Suana, and 
that was always fatal. He could never let long-stemmed Sue into his dreams without 
consequence. But this had never happened before with Kim and he drew back instinctively, 
only to find her silky black head following, worrying his gristle like a terrier, eventually, it was 
he who was gasping.

Although prepared by the spasm of the monster she was swallowing, Kim's small face was 
driven back by the nature of the assault. Gulp as she might, a last spurt drenched one eye.

But when Marc had returned from his bathroom a moment later, order restored, his 
secretary was standing, pencil poised, pad at the ready, and so he noted pants on again. So 
utterly impassive was her expression that he decided to say nothing about what had passed 
between them. He felt sure she wanted it that way.

"That'll do for the moment, Kim," he said fervently, sitting down behind his desk. "I'll let 
you off that last one."

Her face split in a ready smile. He might have just granted her a week's vacation.

"Oh thank you so much, Mr. Merlin. That really was a most impressive correction. I could 
hardly get my pa my things on afterward. But I hope you'll add it on extra tonight."

"All right."

"Is there anything else you want just now?"

"I don't think so," he said.

Except a very large glass of scotch, he said to himself, as he watched that lithe and supple 
body sidle out. Dear God, if only Suana...





CHAPTER FIVE


Late afternoon of the following day, Suana Becker was bent over a massive tawny mane, the 
proudest head of female hair in Elchester.

Janice had come to her for her usual shampoo, tint, and set. Unusually, however, Suana 
had attended to her personally, and now they were almost through. During the last half hour 
there had been a noticeable exodus of the employees; in fact, Janice noticed, all three girls 
had left by now, and they two were alone.

"What's the time?" she asked sleepily. "Am I keeping you here late?"

"Oh, no," came the answer from behind her. "I let the girls go early today."

Janice returned her eyes to her Vogue. But her mind was a mile away. If Suana only knew...

She herself had on a brown sweater, with pearls, and a pair of hip-hugging bell-bottoms 
made of fawn gabardine, lightly elasticized. Her slacks were always special. True to Marc's 
mandate, however, she wore nothing underneath. True to his knowing prediction, too, she 
sensed the pressure of the fabric in a rare way. Her proud buttocks were still heavily bruised, 
but she examined the marks in the mirror with pride. They would go in a week, by the time 
David returned. She wanted to look her best for him. Dave she loved, Marc she... She moved 
uneasily on the wicker chair.

"Want to sit up higher, dear?"

"No, it's all right, Sue," she answered. "This seat's a bit rough on the... well, the seat, after a 
time."

"Yours is nicely padded, darling."

"All too much of it, I'm afraid."

"I don't know. The right man mightn't think so. I mean... " They had been swapping "girl 
talk" all afternoon, it seemed. Evening was setting in.

"Dave back yet?" Suana inquired mildly.

"Nope. Next week. I'll come in again for another set just before, if I may."

"Sure."

"He likes to find me spanking neat."

"Don't they all?" the handsome widow said behind her. Actually, the first thing Dave 
Stapleton liked to see when he returned from one of his longer business visits was cunt. 
C-u-n-t. It was a joke between them. Janice put hers ready and waiting on open display for 
him as close to the door as possible. Once she had even lain out on the hall table. He had 
chuckled at that, unleashed his ready masculinity' (it was always ready with Dave), and 
rammed her before taking his hat off.

"Give it to me, darling... cram... jam... cream it right into me, Dave, quick “ Her legs 
tightened at the memory. Suana was busy at a drawer.

"All finished?"

Janice stood up and gave a long stretch. Like this her breasts looked practically bare, 
didn't they, just? Her poor breasts...

"Sure you don't want a massage, Jan?"

"No, thanks." She hid her smile. If Suana could see her backside...

"Come in here before you go. I want to show you some improvements I've made in my 
exercise room."

She followed the tapering back, with its flaxen braid, and swirling skirt, out down the 
passage.

"I wish I had your height, Suana."

"I wish I had your chest," she said without turning back.

"Oh that," Janice said, pleased.

She was vaguely surprised to see Suana unlocking the door of the "keep-fit" room. Janice 
had had many grueling sessions inside, and she remarked on the fact now. The place was in 
darkness. She followed the tall woman in, groping.

"Wait. I'll get the light."

Janice heard the door shut and felt herself led forward.

"Give me your other hand."

"Why? This is spooky. What for?"

Suddenly she knew. Something chinked. Something cold on her left wrist. She had no time
to think. What! Suana was a karate instructor. Her hand was pulled behind her back and 
manacled yes in common or garden-variety steel handcuffs to the other wrist there.

"Hey! Sue! Are you kidding? What is this?"

"You'll find out soon enough, Mrs. Stapleton."

"Let me go!"

She kicked, violently, as she was bundled across the floor, but to no avail. Suana was 
bigger and stronger by far.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing to me?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

Janice found herself backed against a wooden post, behind which her wrists were 
manacled. She kicked wildly again, connected with a shin, heard a curse in the dark, and 
Suana's darkly threatening "You'll regret that, my dear."

"Let me go!"

There was a click. A bright light poured down into Janice's face. She blinked and tossed 
back her hair. She was indeed standing with her back against a thick wooden pillar, from 
ceiling to floor, which she vaguely recalled as being used for chin-ups and the like. It was 
furnished with curious straps and staples. But with her hands secured behind it like this there 
was little she could do beyond bending her knees.

Directly in front of her, in a pool of shadow from the overhead spot, Suana sat curled 
comfortably in a deep armchair.

"And now let's have the truth," she demanded.

"What truth?" Janice exploded angrily. "Is this some kind of game you're playing, Sue? If 
so, it's gone on long enough."

"These little dinners with Marc."

Janice sagged visibly. She almost smiled. It was all going to be easier than she thought, so 
long as she kept her head. For a second, she had wondered. "Oh, those," she said 
disparagingly.

"Yes, those. There was another tete-a-tete at The Hermitage the other night."

"And so?"

"Marc happens to be my man, Janice."

"Of course he does," she agreed happily. "Everyone knows that. My evenings with Marc are
perfectly platonic, and I don't happen to appreciate having my personal life pried into like this,
Sue."

"Odd that if they're so platonic, they always occur when David is out of town. Would you 
mind his knowing?"

"Not in the least," Janice bluffed instantly.

"Urn. So you wouldn't mind if I mentioned it to him?"

There was nothing Janice could say to that, so she said nothing. She only hoped the heat 
in her face would be attributed to righteous indignation.

"After The Hermitage, Marc took you back to his apartment."

"I don't know who your snoopers are, but I trust they also told you he drove me to my 
home later."

"There was an interval."

"You idiot, Sue!" Janice snapped, twisting in her bonds, "I haven't any designs on Marc. He 
adores you. You two should have got married years ago. I've always told him so."

Puffing idly at a cigarette, the tall blonde seemed to ponder that.

"I happen to be a very jealous woman, so far as Marc's concerned. Was there... how shall I 
put it?" She appeared to study her fingernails for an instant. "I'm interested to know if 
intromission of the male organ into the female vessel occurred later in other words, did he 
screw you?"

"Of course not!" Janice retorted hotly. But this time a strong flush mounted to her face. 
She fought it, hoping it would seem that of chaste wifehood at the term employed.

"You're lying, of course!" Suana rose.

"You sweet fool! Marc loves you. I don't mean a thing to him. I even encourage him to 
propose!"

"Did he stick his prick in you... anywhere?"

"No."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"I don't know whether to believe you," came the answer after a moment's reflection, "but I 
propose to do my best to make sure he won't in the future. Just in case you might be inclined 
to let him, I'm going to administer some discouragement. I'm going to give you a whipping."

A second passed before the sense of what she said sank in. Then Janice cried 
incredulously, "You're going to... what?"

"I'm going to turn you round, take down your fancy pants, and whip your butt with a 
cane."

"Oh, no!"

It was perhaps lucky that Suana was making to a wall closet as she spoke or she would 
have seen her intended victim's virtual rictus of ironic realization. And she might have 
wondered.

"Unfortunately for you" the masseuse returned with something gleaming in her 
hand “I've practiced recently. Only the other night, I caned my cousin Doreen."

"With that!" Janice said sickly. When the cane came into the light, she realized it was the 
longest she had ever seen.

"No, this angel would hurt too much for the likes of her you're right. But I think it will do 
justice to a tail like yours."

"But it's horrible, so thick, and... and awful. I tell you you're wrong, Suana," she tried in a 
last mournful protest (after all, this was surely the final jest of Fate), "I'm not trying to take 
Marc Merlin from you. I love my husband. He satisfies me entirely."

Or almost, her inner voice added.

"Are you going to let me fix you up quietly?"

"I don't see that I have much to say in the matter, do I? How many were you... thinking of 
administering?" Suana had set the cane across the chair and was busy putting on a pair of 
tennis sneakers. Their white contrasted with the taupe of her nylons, which were 
attached Janice could see with the skirt hiked like this to a whisper-thin power panty girdle 
of red net. "Why are you doing that?" she asked.

"I'm going to take a run." Suana straightened to her full height. "I mean this to be a 
memorable experience, Mrs. Stapleton. Originally I thought that a dozen would do, but after 
you kicked me “

"I didn't mean to, please!"

"I decided that fifteen would be more appropriate. You're big enough behind to stand 
fifteen. Slow ones."

"With that that thing.?' Janice all but squawked. "You must be insane! Why, that's all that a
man could take with a rod like that. It's... positively Siberian!"

She was genuinely frightened. There was no assurance that fifteen with a rod like that 
would leave fugitive marks. Even with Marc's special cream, they might still be visible when 
Dave came back this time.

"A little warmer than that cold corner of the universe, I think you'll find," Suana was saying 
now, taking her rival's wrists, uncuffing them, and securing them high over Janice's head to a 
bolt on the front of the pole.

Janice let herself be turned with her back to the room. The apprehension was getting to 
her again. More especially with the trunk of the pole between her legs in the way she was 
arranged. She wondered vaguely what Suana was doing with a cane like this especially if, as 
she said, she didn't use it on Doreen.

"There!" Suana said at last. "I don't think you'll run away too easily now."

The gymnasium pole had been converted into a whipping post. Janice's wrists were hauled
high overhead, drawing up her breasts which protruded heavily either side. A strong wide 
leather strap at her waist drew her stomach painfully into the pole, which she hugged with her
equally well-strapped and slightly bent knees; her ankles also were secured. Across her spread 
buttocks, the thin material was almost bursting.

"And now let's take these down," she heard.

"Wait," she yipped suddenly. "Please!"

Suana paused, her fingers on the waistband of her victim's slacks. "Such modesty. I've seen
you stark before, my dear, and I know you're not a natural auburn. If that's what's worrying 
you, honey."

"This is different," Janice pleaded, squirming at the pole. "Please... please... please... " 
Suddenly she was scared to death. If Suana stripped her butt, she would see the weal marks. 
The woman was no fool. She would put two and two together. Janice would probably break 
down and confess. In any case, Marc's secret would be out, and she, Janice, would have 
betrayed it, perhaps put Suana off him forever. Her voice achieved a strangulated whine as 
she implored for grace in this regard.

"Please, Sue. Anything. Please don't bare me for this. You can see for yourself they won't 
protect me any."

"They are kind of snug." The woman seemed impressed by the sudden outburst. "Guess 
you have to triple-sew these at the seams." A hand roved over the taut surfaces. "What no 
panties?"

"I haven't... no... you see, I was rather late and I just chucked on the first things I could 
find... after my shower."

"Hm. I'd liked to have seen your ass. The marks, I mean. However, this stuff is like a second 
skin."

"Please, Suana, spare me that!"

"Good Lord, even Dorry doesn't make this fuss about showing a bit of flesh."

"Let me keep them on I implore you."

"All right. But it'll have to be extra strokes, to compensate."

"Yes, yes." She had saved Marc's secret. And her own. Then she felt a sickness at the pit of 
her stomach as Suana announced placidly, "We'll make it twenty in all."

Five extra for clothing! With Marc it had been only three. Everything was always rather 
worse than you “I can't. I can't possibly take twenty with that... tree trunk."

"Too bad you've got to."

Suana was stripping off her shirt. Her ample breasts jumped out, hammocked in a soft bra.
She gave some practice thrashes with the cane and made a last adjustment to her victim's 
pose.

To Janice, strained with arched back, it seemed that a small leather pad or protrusion was 
slid in a groove up the pole from the floor behind her. It was pressed, and fixed home, under 
her pelvic bone, giving a further backward thrust of her hips. She had never been in such a 
posture (except, perhaps, she reflected, when Dave wanted it from the rear); she was sticking 
out her rump like a mare. She awaited the first stroke with quivering quim and jutting nipples. 
There was a gap between her sweater and pants.

She heard the squelchy steps as Suana bounded two paces forward. There was the familiar
ominous whistle, completed now with a fearful slap that drove her into the pad and seemed 
to shake the very pole itself. Her buttocks gave a convulsive movement of their own, as if to 
shake off the stick, and a second later she yelped aloud.

Suana walked back slowly and turned.

Janice panted in something close to panic. Her already-beaten flesh could not stand 
twenty blows like this. The pain seemed to burrow unbearably into her sinews when the stick 
lashed her again.

"Yow!"

T his cane was so heavy that it lifted her cheeks off the pad with its impact. She got to 
four, at which again she cried aloud.

"You have precisely sixteen more," she heard Suana saying behind her. "Really, I expected 
more courage from you. Dorry doesn't make a sound until five or six and she hasn't got nearly
such a fat bottom."

"You told me you don't use this brute of a cane on her."

"That's true," Suana laughed. "It's really satisfactory."

Thwack!

Five... six... seven...

In the intervals, Janice tried to stretch. She heard the creak of her bonds but the only 
movement she seemed able to effect was a contortion of her toes and a shrinking-in of her 
bottom, with a reciprocal contraction of her sphincter muscle. Suana pulled her slacks up 
tight.

After the ninth blow, the punishment seemed to take on a new intensity, her buttocks to 
have a life of their own. Janice was aware of her fingernails scratching frantically at the pole, 
up which her knees might have been trying to climb. And suddenly she realized that the 
cramps and tremors of her whipped thick flesh behind were communicating themselves to her
streaming, swollen, sorry lips in front...

"YEOW!"

"That's a dozen," Suana said comfortingly. "Beginning to feel it a little?"

"Ah... ah... ahhgony... " She was going to...

THWACK!

Yes! She was going to... she was actually...

THWACKKK!

An incredibly prolonged and violent spasm shook her, through the fifteenth, and sixteenth
leaving her a limp and hanging thing, a sheer side of beef, on which Suana lashed the next. 
Janice made scarcely any reaction at all. There was a sense of wetness behind.

"Taking the starch out of you a bit?" A bottle of smelling salts was held to her nose. "I want
you to feel these last three."

They whistled with superb and telling velocity across the lower cheeks and all Janice's 
vitality flared forth in protest again. She had no breath to breathe...

"Let that be a lesson to you."

The room spun. She was sitting in the middle of it on her left hip some minutes or was it 
hours or centuries later? She had a glass of scotch in her right hand while her left supported 
her on the floor. Oh, yes, there were those white sneakers in front of her.

Suana said, "I gather that was fairly well felt."

"It was absolute blue hell," Janice answered after a jolt of scotch; the liquor cut sweetly in 
her throat. "You didn't have to hit me as hard as all that."

"I rather fear I broke the skin in one place, on the right. If you want a good tip on how to 
soak blood out of material “

"How do you know?" Janice interrupted sullenly. She felt the patch tentatively, then shifted
her legs. It was the other, oozy one at her crotch that she didn't want Sue to see. If only David 
had “Next time," said the impressive blonde, from what seemed like miles above her, "I won't 
let you off so lightly. Get this straight, Jan. If ever you date Marc alone again, it'll be this."

Something dark dangled in the region of Janice's vision. Black rubber. A short length of 
hard hose.

"It hurts."

She looked up. She wanted to say, "Where did you get that?" But she was hypnotized by 
the endless, godlike stretch of Suana's perfect legs, in their sheer dark nylon. She was standing
right over Janice with parted legs, and her short skirt showed the panty girdle tucked under 
her buttocks. Beneath a flat belly curled febrile fronds. She was smiling contentedly.

"Before you go, Jan, you can give me the Kiss of Devotion, dear."

"What's that?" she asked dully.

"What do you think? Use your imagination."

Janice stared at her friend, and foe. "You mean... under your skirt?"

"Where else?"

She made a movement forward on her knees. "My tongue?"

"What else?"

She hesitated, rubbing her wrists where the manacles had hurt. "Sue, please. I'm not a les."

To her surprise, there came a rippling laugh.

"That's the Kiss of Love, darling. I want to feel the Kiss of Devotion."

The tall woman made a slight change of stance as she spoke and Janice saw the profile of 
her buttocks. The panty girdle was rolled well under them. She looked up in horror.

"Sue, you don't mean... up your... "

"You're catching on fast."

"I couldn't possibly."

Still smiling sweetly, Suana Becker moved forward rhythmically. She took gentle hold of 
Janice's two wrists in one hand behind her and bent her forward on her knees, much as the 
rope had drawn Dorry over for her the other night. There was little resistance. Janice just said 
"Oh, oh!" and waited for the worst. The hose whacked hard down the inside of her left 
stretched cheek; it ended close to the chubby flesh under the quim. Janice yelped like a hyena.
A much harder whack married it on the right side and she shot out both legs straight behind 
her in pain.

"Eeeeeyyhhhhh!"

Tears streaming down her face, and holding her mined derriere, Janice drew near on her 
knees.

"Dry your face first. Your tongue is all I want to feel. And get it right up, or there's more of 
this in store."

"It's unbelievable!"

"Isn't it, though!"

The red cheeks approached the white, the rose and the lily blended. The color of the panty
girdle was scarlet.

"That's not nearly good enough. The Kiss of Devotion has to be felt deeply. And don't puff 
with your nose. Ye-es, that's decidedly better."

Janice withdrew with a grimace of disgust.

"May I have another shot of scotch?"

"You not only may," said Suana with a giggle, bending over with hands on her knees, "but 
I'd be grateful if you'd introduce an ice cube in that place where your tongue just was. After all
that exercise, I'm feeling rather warm!"





CHAPTER SIX


The house was set high in the hills. Its slate roof and low stone walls were lightly dusted with 
snow as the big Buick nosed up towards it one afternoon a week later. Two large Doberman 
pinschers greeted the man who stepped out of it in the drive, and almost immediately 
wagged their stubs of tails at sight of an old friend. The man was tall, lean, with closely cut fair 
hair. He grinned as he rang the bell of the front door.

After a minute, a well-dressed maid opened it.

"Could I see either Mr. or Mrs. Dale? They're expecting me."

"Mr. Dale's in the studio," the girl said dubiously.

"Then I won't disturb him," the self-confident visitor said promptly. "Just let me have a 
word with his wife."

"Whom should I say, sir?"

He looked at her with an even wider grin. The Dales' staff was really trained for prudence; 
this girl's name was Barbara, and she knew him perfectly well.

"David Stapleton," he said, and strode in past her. He had forgotten. Stretching in front of 
the open fireplace in the long, comfortable living room, he realized how everything here 
exuded such a sense of luxury. More than that luxury in its old sense, with a hint of 
lasciviousness in its connotations. The pile carpet was almost too rich, the curtains worthy of 
some operatic setting, the chairs and sofas deep and heavy. Cornelius did himself proud. 
Although only some fifteen miles from Elchester, this rural retreat might have been in the 
wilds; there was no house in visible sight from the big picture window out of which he was 
staring when Madge Dale came in.

"Dave!"

Madge always dressed well. She was wearing an oatmeal tweed suit, its fairly short skirt 
pleated and swinging over her really perfect legs. A little on the small side, she was in her 
mid-forties, moving a little toward the plump side, but it was a different roundness from 
Janice's. The little shiver of her calves as she advanced reminded him of the liquid maturity of 
the delights above. Reminded him that he had last seen this rather plain, pleasant, 
modest-looking woman naked, strapped to a military triangle and yelling her heart out while a
thin hard rope whistled into her ivory backside. As he went forward with hand outstretched, 
Dave Stapleton tried to keep the memory from his eyes.

"Madge, it's good to see you again."

"I'm so glad you could come. Cornelius did so want to have a word. And, as you know, it's 
not possible over the telephone."

"I came straight from the airport. Thanks for the call."

She smiled at him a trifle apologetically. She had not taken his hand; hers were held 
waist-high in front.

"I'm sorry I can't fix you a drink, Dave, but you see how it is."

Suddenly he realized. The belt that cinched her jacket was not from Chanel or Dior. Its 
leather had a plain, penal look. Through its brass ring in front, Madge Dale's wrists were 
secured with a short chain, perhaps eight inches long. With her left hand drawn tightly to the 
ring, she was able to gesture to the drinks tray at the side, with another weak smile.

"Do just help yourself, won't you, Dave?"

From her wrists, his eyes slid down the dark sheen of her marvelous legs. Madge's 
stockings were always spinnaker taut, and it was as he thought. The mincing gait with which 
she had entered was due to the fact that her ankles were secured by another small gold chain.
Dave Stapleton looked her in the eyes. After a moment, he said gently, "You people really take
this seriously, don't you?"

She shrugged. "It's a way of life."

"It is," he said gravely. "You're right. One that doesn't interfere with anyone else's."

"And which won't come to light," she returned to him equally solemnly, "unless by official 
inquisition."

He held her stare and nodded. So that's what it was about. Frankly he'd thought so, when 
he'd got the call at the airport. Cornelius wanted to see him before he returned home. But 
while fixing his drink, all he could see in his head for a second was the man in Athenian tunic, 
laced sandals running up the calves, smacking the wet rope across the cringing, slightly flaccid
buttocks of his elegant hostess. Every so often and it wasn't so often Cornelius Dale decided 
that his lovely wife was in need of an imperial fustigation. Punishment rather than love 
stimulation. A year ago he had coincidentally learned of Dave's interest in passion for “c.p.," 
or corporal punishment. Although he did not usually allow any single males in such soirees, he
had made an exception with Dave, who had now seen Madge whipped twice. Both occasions 
had been sensational.

She sat down in the chair opposite him across the fireplace. As she did so, her skirt slid to 
her stocking tops. He realized that any woman of her class and kind would normally have 
tugged it down again. Madge caught his eyes and blushed. With a visible effort, she stood up 
and then sat down and tried again. But, if anything, the skirt rose even higher.

"Sorry," she said, "no good."

"Let it lay," he grinned. "The view from here is good. You do have gorgeous legs, Madge."

"Sometimes I'd like to cross them. Now, for instance."

"I see what you mean." He took a deep drink and looked into the bottom of the scotch. 
"How's the average been lately?"

"Dismal. I haven't actually been belabored for a while, but there are other ways of being 
made to feel miserable."

"Such as?"

"Curiosity!" she scoffed. "Well, there's always the bar, if I'm feeling too cheerful."

"What's that?"

"One sits on it, my friend. That is, astride it. And after a minute, one wishes one hadn't. 
After ten, one feels like crawling up the wall. But let's change the subject. How's your fair 
wife?"

"Fine, when I last saw her. Actually I'm three days early; I mean to surprise her."

"I think you may," Madge Dale said with a level look.

"What do you mean by that exactly?"

"Oh, nothing. I last saw Janice at a PCDA meeting. I wonder what she'd have said if she'd 
known that I'd just had ten strokes with a cane across my where-it-hurts-most."

He nodded wryly. "She'd have been horrified, I guess." Dale Stapleton hung his head. 
"Deviate, all the rest of it."

"As a matter of fact, I'm due at our Conservation Committee meeting in an hour. I was 
wondering... when Cornelius lets me out of these things" she clinked her chains 
merrily “could you drive me in? We have a theater date later."

"Be glad to," he said. "And what was it Cornelius wanted to see me about?"

"Oh, he'll be through in a moment and tell you himself."

"Is it about" he hesitated a second, then finished “is there going to be another... 
evening?"

She gave him a long steady look, as if probing to his soul. She had very large pure pale 
blue eyes.

"What do you think?"

"Madge, it's amazing. I don't know I can't understand it “

"Don't try to, Dave."

"All I know is that it's the most incredibly thrilling thing. The whole combination. It's poetic.
You have this most beautiful back, and the first time I watched, you were so wonderfully 
frightened “

"I had reason to be, Dave."

"You sure did. Twenty-five cuts with that riding crop as a starter “

"I can feel every single one of them now."

There was the sound of steps. Cornelius Dale swept into the room, tossing aside a 
paint-stained apron. He was tall, tanned, with a shock of curly gray hair and looked what he 
was: distinguished, rich, and aesthetic in taste. He shook Dave's hand warmly and was soon 
settled with a drink between them.

"It was good of you to stop by, Dave. There is something I wanted to say. And," he added 
with a twinkle, "the kind of thing I prefer not to go into over the phone."

"I was glad to come. Only hope I didn't disturb you painting."

"No. Actually, I was just doing some lettering out there. What I wanted to say was this." 
The older man took a long swallow of his scotch. "As you know, every now and then I find it 
necessary to punish Madge publicly. Keeps her in line. The presence of other people adds to 
the shame, and humiliation, which I don't have to tell you, Dave are essential to the, er, 
happening. Do you wish to come?"

"If I'm invited."

"That's just it. As you know, these evenings are few and far between. They're sufficiently 
unusual here for us all to have to be extremely discreet about the matter."

"Of course."

"They involve only consenting adults, in private. At the same time I'd prefer, for the safety 
of all concerned, to make a rule: only husbands and wives."

"I see. Nonadulterous heterosexual intimacies."

"Exactly." Cornelius smiled. "Your business mind, Dave, is on the ball, as ever. It's not simply
that I don't want to take any risks, but I don't want to break up any happy marriages. I just 
don't know how it is with you and Janice."

David Stapleton looked gloomily at the floor. "Jan would have a fit if I told her. I'm sure 
she hasn't the faintest idea of the thrill this... thing can be."

"And yet you're happily married."

"Sure." He looked up. "Very much so. Why do you ask?"

There was a silence in the room. Madge Dale broke it, with a little clinking of her fetters.

"As you know," she said, "we're not the ones for telling tales out of school. I last saw the 
lovely Jan at our PCDA meeting. I'm certain she hadn't a stitch on underneath."

"Really!" Dave Stapleton grinned.

"We're giving you no names. Simply that she went out to dinner with a single man later. Of
course, you may have known."

"No I didn't." He was startled. "I called her only last night. She said she'd been home every 
evening."

"Well, that's it, Dave," Cornelius said warmly. "We're not snoopers because we don't want 
to be snooped upon. But we're not in the business of coming between husband and wife. We 
have one rule. No one comes who's not entirely independent. We don't want any of those 
nasty little phone calls going to our guests. You know the kind of thing: 'You wouldn't want 
your boss to know about this, and if you do exactly what we say, there'll be no need for us to 
tell him.'"

"Rule number one," Madge Dale said simply.

"Rule number two," her husband added crisply, "from now on it is going to be married 
couples only. I'm sorry, Dave, but it's with Janice or else."

"I see," he answered after a moment.

"Matter of fact, I'll confide this far," Cornelius went on magnanimously. "Only the other day
a good friend in town asked me if he could come to one of our evenings. Someone we both 
know. Admirably qualified, as a matter of fact. Only he isn't married. I said no."

"Do I know this person, Corn?"

"You do. But I keep names private. Well, if you promise not to “

"I promise. Cross my heart."

"Well, it was Marc Merlin, actually. He runs his own business, so he can't be hurt."

"Marc! Yes, I know him a little. Does he like “

"Very much."

"He goes with Sue Becker, you know."

"I know. Probably that's what has made him hold back from proposing all these years."

"Marc is terribly tactful," Madge added.

"Anyway, rules are rules," Cornelius said.

"As I know to my cost," she put in, pouting.

David Stapleton smiled at them frankly. "Of course you're right. It's just that I couldn't 
conceivably tell Jan about this sort of thing. Punishment, ceremony, obedience. I'm convinced 
she wouldn't understand. Probably ask me for a divorce. Pity. I enjoyed seeing Madge 
thrashed."

"Pedro does a good job."

"When is the next... session taking place?"

"In two or three weeks. When I sense she's quite ready for it." Cornelius finished his drink 
and looked about. "Well, that's it, Dave. But it seems a pity to disappoint you entirely “ Madge
Dale said hurriedly, "Dave's going to drive me into town, darling. Isn't that nice of him?"

"It is." He appeared to reflect.

"If you could send for Barbara, dear, and get me out of these things, I could get ready."

"Yes, I'll do that," he said.

But as he rose and moved to the bellpull, Dave saw that Madge was seated on the edge of
the chair, her creamy forehead creased. She looked very worried indeed.

"Barbara," the tall man said with a dandyish gesture as the maid came in, "arrange Mrs. 
Dale. And then get two sets of the pins. Blue and red will do. Also some antiseptic."

"Yes, sir."

The maid approached the seated woman with a gentle, apologetic "Excuse me, madam.

Madge Dale stood up. With expert movements, the maid removed her skirt, her slip, and 
her panties. Below the tweed jacket, cinched at the waist by the belt, there remained only a 
black garter belt, with two straps fore and aft tugging at the nylons of dark brown. Cornelius 
took her vacated chair, saying to the maid, "I haven't too much time for this. Bring a switch 
when you come back, Barbara. A number three. With trainer."

"Yes, sir, very well." She went off hastily leaving the two men facing each other, Madge 
Dale standing in the middle, her legs together, her hands fettered.

It was a superb quiff, Dave reflected at once, as he had before. Not clipped straight across, 
like Janice's, it started thinly high up the belly, becoming very thick and curly lower down. 
With her thighs closed together like this, it protruded strongly over them; her whole quim 
appeared to curve appetizingly forward, like a Cranach Madonna.

Cornelius chuckled as he read his friend's mind.

"Ought to shave off all that shag, eh, publicly! Well, I did once. Only it was so damn prickly 
after. Turn round and show the gentleman your bottom, dear."

Again Dave was surprised by her beauty. The flesh was not sturdy, like his wife's, but yet 
there was a languorous tenderness and limpid vulnerability in these liquid, hanging yes, even 
slightly flabby pears. There were some fading marks, yellow and greenish on the right.

"The last application there, for a little while. I always have her skin unmarked for the big 
night. Bend over properly and let him see your anus."

Her hands tucked at her waist in front, Madge did as ordered.

"Right down, dear, and spread out."

A darkening of shadow in that so-white mass yielded to the definition of the anal opening.
It looked a piquant and appealing little emblem in contrast to the well-fleshed pussy.

Cornelius recited softly: "'Extraordinary that things dissolute and filthy are able to produce 
upon our senses the irritation essential to precipitate their complete delirium; it would be 
better to realize that objects have no value for us save that which our imagination imparts to 
them; it is therefore very possible, bearing this constant truth well in mind, that not only the 
most curious but even the vilest and most appalling things may affect us very appreciably.' 
Good old de Sade. The human imagination. Amazing to think that Pedro gets that big dong of
his up such a tiny aperture. Madge hates being buggered don't you, darling?"

"Yes," came the response. Then she added, "Need I be this time?"

Cornelius chuckled richly. "Entirely depends on how you take your whipping, my dear. 
And, of course, the will of the majority. Pedro has been complaining about all the bacilli 
floating around up there. This time he's going to wear some special condom. Serrated, or 
some such. Got them in Germany, it seems. It may leave you with a pile or two after, dear. 
Now stand up and face the music. Here comes Barbara."

She certainly did, Dave Stapleton reflected, watching. For at that moment the maid came 
in, walking briskly, with interest, and carrying in one hand a small surgical basin of a colorless 
fluid, and in the other what seemed to be a pincushion, which Cornelius took. Dave also saw 
that Barbara had clipped to her belt a long lean switch whose dark tail flicked about her calf. 
Madge Dale's expression of profound melancholy increased.

Her husband took the pincushion and removed from it one of several blue-headed tacks. 
It was a pin of half an inch or more in length and he tested its spike on his palm. Then he got 
up and sat down in front of the fire on a low leather hassock, ordering his wife to stand in 
front of him with her back turned.

"The idea of lettering reminded me, you know," he told Dave Stapleton. "Madge hasn't 
had her bottom initialed for quite a while, have you, dear? You can use a hatpin, but these are 
much more satisfactory. Bend forward, please, and yes part your legs as far as your restraint 
will permit. Lean over more."

Dave saw the maid place the bowl of antiseptic near his host's hand. Her face looked sharp
and lively as she took up position at her mistress's head, first removing the garter belt.

Cornelius approached nearer. In his right hand he held the blue tack; he dipped this in the 
bowl of fluid, then, with his left forefinger and thumb, pressed down a segment of flesh on his 
wife's left buttock. He jabbed the pin home hard. Madge Dale gasped. Cornelius selected 
another.

"DS," he mused, inserting it also. "Hardly any punishment at all. Now an M or, say, an L on 
the right side is much more educative. It's inside the cheek that it counts. There!"

Gradually the line of pins stuck into the capacious bottom began to form a vertical. Then 
began the curve of the D. A pin pushed out, and Cornelius restored it firmly, to the 
accompaniment of a stifled "Oh!" from his spouse. Madge looked back with an expression of 
almost-comical dismay on her face. It was clear that the first individual prick had not been 
unbearable no more, perhaps, than that of a strong hypodermic syringe. But the increase of 
the others was exacerbating. She moved her feet, and her wrist fetters chinked continually. 
Finally, after one or two more replacements, a big D was planted in pins on her left buttock. 
Cornelius turned to the red tacks on the cushion.

"S., S, A," he chuckled. "Let's see, where shall we start exactly? This liquid, besides being an 
antiseptic, Dave, is a caustic, and burns. Relax your cheeks, dear.

That's it. Helps retain the pins. Not that that's really necessary: Barbara will see that a tight 
panty girdle is put on after this and worn for twenty-four hours. That will keep them home 
nicely. There!"

"Ow!"

The operation was somehow deliciously humiliating, and when she stood up with a face as
though she had swallowed something unpleasant, Madge Dale looked irresistible. The 
presence of two tears, at either eye, made Dave conscious of his demanding desire. A D in 
blue, and an S in red. But now the maid was looking questioningly even eagerly at her 
employer. And Madge made a quick step back, naked below the waist but for shoes and 
stockings.

"Please!" she begged suddenly.

Her emphasis itself made Dave's cock leap in his lap.

Still seated on his hassock, Cornelius explained in a kindly tone, "We call these screamers, 
or pussies. I don't think you've seen one administered, have you, Dave?"

"I don't believe I have," he said hoarsely.

"Please!" Madge Dale implored.

"Two will do, Barbara."

The maid had undone the switch and was looking inspectingly at her victim.

"Kneel down, Madge."

"Oh, please, Corny... not that... please... anything... "

"They do hurt rather," Cornelius explained apologetically to Dave, watching beside him. "I 
agree."

"Please... "

"Darling, this is becoming monotonous. Kneel down here and get your knees apart. As far 
as they'll go."

"I beg you, I beseech you." Tears were streaming liberally down her face now. "I'd rather 
anything, anything in the world than... beat me, ber-ber-bugger me. Yes, I'd even rather be 
gut-buggered, Cornelius," she sobbed brokenly.

"Unfortunately, you don't have the option, dear. Unless," he turned in courtly fashion, "you
would do the honors, Dave. Would you care to sodomize this cringing flower?"

"At the moment I could do practically anything to her," he answered thickly, "but let's see 
her get these screamers first."

"Please!" Madge moaned.

"Make it three," her husband said boredly.

"Noooo!" She flung herself on the rug at his feet. "Two, two, two only... please... you 
promised."

"I did nothing of the sort," Cornelius said grandly and nodded to the maid.

She went to work at once. Madge knelt on the floor with her head at her husband's feet. 
Since her hands were fettered, she fell well forward, with her face turned upward to one side. 
Her ankles were freed, her knees parted. She stuck up her naked, parted arse, its quim 
quivering and Dave Stapleton longed to look at it closely. But again Cornelius read his mind.

"The prospect from in front is much more amusing. Her face, my friend, her face. Besides, 
perhaps Barbara would oblige... with a little added stimulation... " The maid grinned broadly 
and, before straddling her victim's head, slipped off her panties and tucked up her skirt 
behind. She stood with feet astride, back to the watching males, the long switch trailing on the
rug beside her. Her deep oval buttocks were lined from some recent whipping. Dave's throat 
went dry. This was really happening.

"Isn't this rather severe?" he ventured.

"Not to worry," Cornelius replied cheerily. "The tail that trainer you see at the tip “

"It looks rather hard."

"Umm. It is. But that will fetch up on her belly. Just above. I admit, it's devilishly tender 
there, but we plan no internal damage."

So saying, he reached down and drew his wife's head up by a handful of ebony hair 
behind. Dave saw her streaming face, saw her body trembling like jelly, with the tail of the 
switch lying, probing, down its middle when suddenly the maid made a little feathering 
motion.

Barbara did not hit hard. The switch snapped down the parted cleft and, with an upward 
draw of the wrist, the tough tail whunked audibly into the stretched woman's lower belly. The 
effect was electric.

Madge Dale's head came back, she uttered a piglike grunt “Unh!" her lips drawn back 
from her teeth. For a second she remained so, then suddenly jacked straight, shooting her 
legs behind her. A second after that she was writhing speechlessly, fettered hands clawing at 
her stomach, legs drawn up and threshing like an insect's. The letters on her buttocks flashed 
and bounded.

"Good shot, Barbara!" Cornelius had lost hold of his wife's head, but regained it now and 
drew her forward on the rug by the hair on the back of her scalp. "Now."

The maid struck again, slicing down the line of the suddenly exposed vagina.

"Yieeee!!"

Madge Dale went into a frenzy, rolling on the floor, doubled in agony. Adroitly the maid 
picked up her left leg and thrashed home once again. A coiling scream sang through the 
house. Dave felt his skin crawl.

They watched her plunge like a landed fish for over a minute. Then she lay gasping and 
disheveled, exposing three fiery brands below the navel and just above the cunt hairs.

"Well. I think you're about ready for that committee now, dear," was her husband's parting
salvo. "Help her get ready, Barbara." As the maid led the still-panting woman off, however, he 
turned apologetically to his guest. "I'm so sorry. Did you want to bugger her? Almost forgot. 
As I believe in happy marriages, my friend, the rest is decidedly mine. That's the only place 
you'll ever have Madge Dale."

"It doesn't matter," Dave replied weakly. "Another time. That switch looked most effective."

"I get 'em at Williamson's. East Avenue. Highly recommended. Have another drink."

"Thanks. I won't say no."

When Madge came down ten minutes later nothing might have happened. She was calm, 
dignified, even a trifle distant. Dave saw her to his car. They drove in silence a while. Her legs 
moved convulsively now and then, but that was all.

He turned once. "You look as if you were sitting on pins and needles." She smiled back 
faintly. "I'm sorry if I let you in for that. It must have hurt like hell."

"Did you get a charge out of it, Dave?" He nodded dumbly. "So did I," she said softly, 
looking ahead. "After, of course."

"Barbara?"

"Uh-hm. And I would have done if you'd buggered me, too. Thank you for not doing so, 
however. Here we are."

He saw her out and watched her walk off into the old colonial building, where her 
committee meeting was. It was sad to think that never again...

Dave Stapleton was whistling to himself, as he drove. He made for his apartment and his 
loving wife. On the way, he stopped at Williamson's.





CHAPTER SEVEN


To be stuck... to be fucked... to be plugged with a purplish prick... to look down between her 
plunging thighs and see its moist piston jamming into her wet black mat... feel the slamming, 
scummy shock as his hips met hers... the swelling wriggle of that internal eel and grab his balls
as the boiling knob shot its creamy...

"Aaaah!"

In under the shower, Janice Stapleton sucked in her breath. She stood naked under the 
warm jet and let the water stream over her sumptuous body, down her strong back and the 
crease of her slightly parted arse, over her colossal chest in front to gather in gleaming 
droplets at the rich bar of hair beneath her belly.

If only Dave were there. But he wasn't due back for another three days, dammit. He had 
fucked her in the shower a month ago, fucked her till she'd grunted like a pig and beat at his 
shoulders begging him to give it to her. Her hips twitched spasmodically at the memory. Her 
breath hissed louder than the water.

She flicked her clit with a finger. As she did, she closed her eyes and saw the long, empty 
corridor of her continual dream, its walls illumined with smoky flares and the man in black at 
the end of it. There was always the man in black. There had to be. He struck terror into her 
soul as she advanced slowly toward him, the matron in swishing robes behind her. He stood 
there with folded arms, clad entirely in black leather, shiny with grease and shit. From his right 
hand dangled a ferocious cat. He was masked.

And a voice belled through her head as she took the last, fatal steps towards him and the 
open door, from which light streamed. The judge's voice was saying: "You shall be taken to the
place from whence you came, your clothes shall be stripped from your back, and your naked 
buttocks will be whipped ten times with the cat-o'-nine-tails; you will then serve two weeks' 
solitary confinement at hard labor, whereupon you will again receive a whipping, this time of 
fifteen strokes, until your buttocks be bloody."

In her dreams, the man in black always gave a slight bow as she entered the lighted stone 
chamber, dewy-eyed, weak of knee. The matron then went up to the thin, bespectacled man 
standing there surely he was some priest or monk and said with a dry smile, "Here's one to 
have her back scratched a bit, sir."

After that, it all happened very quickly. She knelt on a straw-decked ledge, nude as a slug 
and trembling all over. Her calves were chained to the flooring, her knees wide apart. Her 
wrists were secured high above her head and her long titian hair was always carefully drawn 
over her left shoulder.

She was beginning to pant. What came then always made her pant. The man in black 
rested the thongs of his cat against her outspread rump, and she could feel their weight as 
they swung idly from their shiny handle. The thin man was standing on her right, looking 
closely at a kind of slate he was holding up. The executioner gave a nod and (always at this 
point) the matron sloshed a bucket of icy brine over her hips from behind.

"Ten strokes across the buttocks," the thin man announced primly, peering at his slate. 
"Lower quarter, Mr. Overseer."

"Very well, sir," said the whipper, standing back and swishing his instrument. "Maximal 
application?"

"Yes. You can draw from the start. She's to be in blood her second dose. You have here a 
good fat sirloin and rump. Take your time and baste it all properly. Make madam jump a bit, 
so she'll have two weeks of decent fear for the next time."

"You need not worry, sir."

It was at this point that, turning back her piteously apprehensive face, she heard it almost 
before she felt it the hot jet of her urine struck the boards between her knees as her bladder 
emptied uncontrollably.

"A pisser," said the overseer thoughtfully. And then he swung his cat.

"You randy bitch," Janice Stapleton said to herself as she shut off the shower, which had 
ominously associated itself with the flood of her fantasy, and stepped out in front of the 
bathroom mirror. "What you need is a damn good beating. Another."

She stood there slightly spraddled, dripping. The slabs of her breasts ended in wide dark 
areolas from which the stubs of her gristly nipples stuck up, plummy. She lifted one breast and
let it drop back heavily. Christ, how Benjy hurt. All the marks had gone by now; it was that oil 
Marc used beforehand. Amazing, too, how he had never hit a nipple. All the same, he was 
careful to put on the protective rubber nipple-caps.

She looked at her belly. Water dewed her cunthair, which curled in two tufts under her 
twat, where her legs joined her body. The marks had gone from her feet, too. She was all set 
for Dave if only he'd come back.

"Correction, woman," she told the reflection. "You need a cock up your cunt."

Turning her back she saw how all the marks had also gone from her bottom, except for 
that terrific caning Suana had given her. There were lines from that, all right. Fading, but there.
Perhaps in a day or so, and with a little powdering...

Janice Stapleton dried herself, perfumed her heavy body, and put on a light Lycra girdle. To
this she tethered dark size-ten nylons and slipped into a fitting purple velvet suit, the jacket 
double-breasted and frogged at the lapels. Sky-high heels completed the ensemble.

She took a last stance before the mirror. Her breath quickened.

"I could almost fuck you myself," she said, smiling wryly. "And now I come to think of it, I 
believe I will."

She reached for the vibrator on her dressing table. And a man's voice said behind her, 
"Can't wait for it, eh?"

Janice swung.

"Dave!" she cried.

She was about to throw herself in his arms when something in his eyes restrained her.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"So I gathered."

"What do you mean?"

She realized she was flushing, stupidly but furiously, and under the velvet of her top her 
heart was hammering strangely. Dave had never looked at her quite like this before.

She tried with a smile, "If I'd known, I'd have had it ready waiting for you. As always. But 
it's not too late to “ He cut short her movement at her skirt.

"Jan."

"Yes?"

"You do love me, don't you?"

"Tremendously, Dave. You know that."

"And we promised never to tell each other lies."

"Of course."

"So why did you tell me one on the telephone last night?"

"I... who... what?" She thought hectically. Staying home. Yes, yes, lying about The 
Hermitage. Marc, he mustn't know about Marc. Facing him, she was aware that all this showed
in her face. Sickly, dumbly, she dropped her eyes and looked at the bathroom rug. "And say I 
did what would you do about it?"

"It's not what I would do, it's what I'm going to do, Jan. I'm not going to ask who you went
out with while I was away, or why. So far as I'm concerned, the matter's forgotten. Don't let's 
either of us refer to it again. But now I'm going to give you a beating."

The word struck her like a snake. Through the unhappy fog of her mind, a glow started, 
darkly, deeply within her.

"You, you're going to do what?" she cried after him hoarsely, as he turned into the passage
and left her. She felt like giving vent to ceaseless, insane laughter, peal after peal, echoing 
down the years of their marriage together. But already the menace was working its magic 
within her. She felt wet, warm, molten and, above all, extremely curious. It was the curiosity 
about what was going to happen to her that did it, drew her like a magnet after him into the 
living room, where Dave was calmly fixing himself a drink.

"Like one?" he said cheerily. "I can't promise it'll help very much, but it may."

"Thanks." She accepted the inch of scotch he poured over the cube.

He sat down and she stood in silence, sipping.

Finally she said submissively, "Did I hear you right just now, Dave?"

"Afraid so." He wasn't meeting her glance, but otherwise he seemed his usual self.

"Wh-Whip me?"

"Hard," he added.

There was another pronounced silence. Janice could hear her heart beating recklessly. The 
glow had thickened to a heat behind her eyes. She put her hands to them a moment. She 
realized she was slipping more and more into position...

"What with, may I ask?"

"Oh. You'll find it on the hall table."

Yes, her limbs were liquid. She could hardly get herself to move, to walk. She went over on 
one heel as she did so. The moment had come at last the dreamed, the desired and she was 
feeling it in her marrow, through and through, bones and all; this was real and yet... Dave was
going to whip her ass. He would see the marks. He would know; he would find out. Everything
would be lost, she'd have to tell him all. Marks from a cane looked like marks from a cane. 
She stifled a sob, then sucked in her breath.

A long, lean eel lay on the table. A smooth waxed switch with a horrible thonglike tail that 
made her feel faint to look at.

"Where did you get this?" She picked it up. How perfectly made for pain such instruments 
were.

"I should have bought one long ago."

"Long ago?"

He got up and crossed to join her and took it from her fingers.

"Lovely weapon, isn't it? Used for training polo ponies."

"But they don't play polo here," she said wildly.

He grinned. "Here. It's the lash. This tough leather at the tip is what hurts. It wasn't quite 
what I wanted, but “

"What did you have in mind then, Dave?"

"Three thongs. Thin cord. Knots. Weals less and stings more."

"How very thoughtful of you," she said in a daze of heat and excitement. "And am I 
destined to have to bare my person for this marital chastisement?"

David Stapleton laughed shortly. "How nice it would be if you didn't have to feel it at all, 
eh? It'll be on the skin, stretched tight."

It is over, she thought, it is ending. It is all coming to a horrible, ghastly...

"Though come to think of it I'll bet this dandy would sting nicely through clothing, too. 
Turn round a bit, darling, would you?"

The air snickered and the air sang. Janice's drink went flying as she heard 
someone herself gasping. The switch bit across her unready backside, clawing its kiss into 
her right cheek, deeply dimpling the velvet there. She staggered, speechless, and then the true
strength of the pain reached her as she half-fell over the sofa.

"Christ!" She lay sprawled on her belly there, panting. This time the whispering switch 
sliced like a knife across the material, so hard it drew a puff of dust.

"Pleeeeeyyyyy !"

She jerked out, grabbing her buttocks behind, then rolled on her back with her knees up, 
her face contorted. This was fantastic! The switch seemed to cut her in two. She lay back, 
writhing weakly, and looked at him as he flexed it.

"Gee, it really does seem to do a good job," he said reflectively. "That's if you're not 
faking."

"What do you think?"

"I was intending to give you a couple of dozen, but I guess that twenty may do."

"I can't take twenty with that," she said brokenly. (Twenty, something within her was crying
hysterically, I'm always getting twenty!) "Please don't ask me to."

"Well, since you seem to have finished your drink, what say we go and get it over with?"

She stood before him, tears welling at her eyes.

"Dave. Fuck me. Please. Fuck my cunt."

"I'll fuck you when you're ready," he said and she couldn't give the answer she'd have liked
to that. Her dream was coming true, but it was also coming to an end. In a second, he would 
strip her ass and see the marks. She would have to tell him all.

But now he was leading her out and down the side stairs. The Stapletons' apartment was 
part of an old carriage house, and this stairway, of wood, led them directly to the garage. It 
was locked and empty. To Janice it looked very, very bare.

"Take off your jacket," he instructed coolly and busied himself at a worktable. "What, no 
bra?" he grinned when she had done as bid. "Well, it wouldn't have helped you much anyway. 
Stand there on that grating."

Janice stood astride the drain-off, rubbing her wrists. Already the apprehension was 
reaching her, so that her body was trembling in little spasms. Her hair felt moist in front. 
Perhaps she hadn't dried herself properly from the shower. Well, he would know in a moment, 
because Dave was going to make her take off her skirt and take down her girdle and he would
see her wealed behind and she had no answer to that. Her house of cards would come 
tumbling down. She was a "deviate," a queer, a pervert, the rest. But all she could see at the 
moment was that tough lash dangling off the worktable and smiling at her in anticipation, 
laughing. And Dave had taken off his coat. It was all happening. In a second He came back to 
her, smiling and rolling up his sleeves, two lengths of cord hanging from one hand.

"Spread your legs, Jan."

He bent over. She noticed that there seemed to be two ringbolts in the flooring here, one 
on each side of the grating. She hadn't noticed them before and as he roped her ankles apart 
to each of them, she wondered for a moment at how carefully he had worked this out.

"Ouch! I'd forgotten you were in the navy. What are these knots? Triple bowline, or 
something?"

"I think you'll find those'll hold you steady."

"You needn't have tied them that hard."

"Don't run away," he quipped as he returned to his workbench for more cord. "Should you
want to relieve yourself, go ahead. It'll all go down the grating."

"I don't, thanks," she said dryly. But how did David know that apprehension provoked 
urination? She was growing curiouser and curiouser. "Just get it over with as soon as you can."

He roped her wrists together in front and, standing on a stool, drew them up high above 
her head by running the cord through a ceiling hook. The place, she reflected as she strained 
in this inverted Y, might have been made for it. Then a sickness scooped out her stomach. He 
was standing in front of her flexing that switch.

He looked at her heavy thighs, widely parted so that the skirt hiked over the stocking tops.
In an instant he would lift that skirt behind, she was thinking miserably, take down her girdle 
and... one more holy union would be ended. What was the current score? Three out of five 
marriages ended in divorce...

"You do have these tremendous breasts, Janice." He fondled one. "I'd forgotten."

"I'm glad you like them, dear," she heard herself reply stupidly.

"You been putting on a little weight?"

"Do you know, I really couldn't say."

"Do you go over one-forty now?"

"No idea."

"Shall I get a tape? In this position... "

"I should have thought the question basically academic... in this position... " What a 
conversation, she thought. One loving wife strung from the ceiling and starting to quake and 
shake and slobber in the center of her being.

"Come to think of it," he said, "I don't know when I've ever seen your nipples so erect, Jan."

"Come to that, I can't remember when I've ever felt so erect myself."

"That goes for two of us, then."

Startled, she saw his mouth approach and felt his teeth tug on her bursting right nipple. 
She moaned in joy, head back, face flushed. But when he began to chew on it, using his side 
teeth, it was too much; she would never be able to hide the bursting volcano in her belly.

"Dave, please, please," she whimpered at him. If you're not careful, I'll “ He stood back, 
staring at her crimsoned face.

"Janice. It wasn't all that exciting."

"Get on with it, please," she urged him. (As soon as she received the first cut, it would drive
back her ecstasy.) With tears at her eyes, she added, "Whip me if you must. Just 
remember I'm not a polo pony."

"Yes, I do think I must," he said thoughtfully, and vanished to the left from her vision. "Let's
try a couple for length."

She sucked in her breath at the wicked whistle of air behind. Then the switch plucked at 
the taut rose velvet of her parted arse “Hhhuink!"

She jerked in her bonds, only to find she couldn't move. She clenched in agony, then 
relaxed, panting. He gave her one more. The tip hit her hipbone, and she squealed.

With fisted fingers, as if she were trying to climb the very rope she was hauled up by, she 
hung aghast, heaving and sweating. The pain had driven down the desire, all right. Perhaps he
would be satisfied by whipping her over her clothes, and so would not see but no, here he 
was approaching her, and there was also what he had promised upstairs. The skin stretched 
tight. As in a dream (as in her dreams) she felt her tawny hair drawn over her left shoulder, in 
front. She quivered as he felt her.

"I have an idea this is going to be a most salutary lesson, Jan. Did you feel those two?"

"Intensely."

"Hm."

He went to his workbench and came back with an opened can. Green. What was this? 
Janice felt desire flare up once more.

Trying to speak steadily she said, "You're not going to be able to get my girdle down far, I 
fear, Dave. I'll be better if “

"But I'm going to thrash your back," he said in surprise.

"That's what I mean," she replied weakly.

"Here" he prodded the flesh of her straining shoulders, pinching the muscle just under 
her right armpit “this is where it hurts most for the polo quirt, my pretty. No, Jan, you have a 
lovely deep long back and I'm going to lace it as it deserves. But as I don't want to cut the skin
I'm just going to anoint it first."

She began sobbing as the oil started trickling out down her spine. He placed the can at 
her nape and let the viscous stuff ooze all over her. She cried dementedly, frantically.

"The best Castrol," he said. "There."

"It'll ruin my dress!" she whimpered hysterically.

"We'll buy you another one," he said with a chuckle. "What you're going to need is another
back!"

As she felt the heavy motor oil squirm its way intolerably, humiliatingly, as if into her very 
being, she wept soundless spasms of tears. It was creeping under her skirt, into her girdle, 
over her intimate and exhausted inner flesh.

She was crying because she had been whipped on the buttocks, on the feet, on the 
breasts, and on the hands. And now it was the turn of her back!

She was saved, she was saved! The irony overcame her as she hung for her punishment. 
Dave would not see the marks. Moreover, he had now given her enough there himself for her 
to be able to pass off her weals as his...

Zzzzzsch!

"Uink! God!"

He started high up, and the tip ate into the mossy hollow of her armpit. It was 
unbelievable pain but her whole being was now a unified sob of sensation. A single swelling 
core of pure ela Zzzzzsch!

Two.

She grunted again. Breathlessly, she said, "You... don't... think... you could give me slightly 
longer intervals?"

"I'm giving you half minutes, as it is."

Thirty seconds? Ten whole minutes of “OW! That hurt!" she cried, at the third.

The pain at her wrists was enormous. She hung like a side of beef and he sliced her, 
moving downward. The stripes that caught her oily ribs were bad, but the worst were the 
couple just above the waist. She lunged, gasping.

Pure ecsta “Christ, you look lovely!" he said in a low voice.

Then something blazed in her being. Dave was enjoying this! She could barely believe it. 
But she knew him, she sensed it. She sensed it with every fiber of her being, which replied 
minutely to his. The quaking lava at her cunt was mounting with every convulsion of her torso;
even the strokes were not sufficing to hold it back now.

"Feeling warm, Jan?"

"Yes, ye-es... "

"Well, so am I."

Then in a strange whimper she heard a woman imploring, "Please... whip... cut... give it to 
me, Dave, please... don't wait because I'm “ His breath was in her ear. "Janice! What... are you 
serious?"

"Yes, yes!" she moaned, moving her head from side to side. "Oh, can't you see? I'm on the 
verge of orgasm. You have to help me, Dave. Hit me again, to stop it. Quick, don't wait. Hard, 
the arse across the arse, my love."

Feverishly he ripped up her skirt and whipped the jouncy rounds so that they cringed in 
agony. Janice hissed as if scalded, tensing.

"Yes, yes “ He said, "Oh my darling, all these years."

"I know, I know. But that's how it is with me."

"And that's how it is with me," he said, grasping her from in front and kissing her dry, 
pain-bitten lips and perspiring face. "Oh my angel, my love."

"And we never knew." She laughed hysterically once more. "Dave, you have to hit me 
again. Real hard. Quick. As of this instant I'm about to explode, and if you don't “

"Like that?"

"AAAIEEE!"

"If I don't stick you soon, I'll go mad." He fumbled with her bonds.

"Dave. Listen. You don't have to... untie me. Take me like this. I can move my hips enough 
to be interesting to you, I guess. Stick it into me from behind. Only... only... give me, quick, two
more low down across the fanny and don't mind if I yell like a stuck pig the neighbors won't 
hear and come to that," she said with another despairing gurgle of hysteria, "a stuck... pig's 
just what I want to be-eeeeeyyyyyah!"

The switch bit twice into the rumpy buttocks, paused, then sliced twice more against the 
stretched white spandex through which the weals showed darkly now.

Janice jerked like a puppet, her cry ending hoarsely. "I said only two, you brute."

"How do I get this thing down?" he groaned, wrestling with the girdle.

"There's a detachable crotch, quick. You'll find all well lubed “

"How in hell?"

"The convenience button, dear. The convenience button."

"I'll say," he said as, with a satisfactory sluicing thrust, he impaled this bound woman, his 
successively spasming wife, from whom he had been a stranger all too long.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Doreen Becker got up and sat down. It was a quarter to seven, and Chuck would be along any 
minute now. Eight would keep her the date, indeed! She glanced timidly across the Beckers' 
chintz living room at Marc Merlin. He had come for one of his regular evenings, she guessed. 
Strange that he and her cousin never seemed to make out, but Doreen could bet her last pair 
of panties they didn't. Gosh, for heaven's sake, the man doted on Suana. They should have 
been married years ago. Something stirred in her blonde head. Perhaps there was a way that...

Doreen pirouetted prettily in front of the fireplace. Her cousin would be along in a minute.
She had to work fast.

"The lass with the delicate air," said Marc Merlin, looking at her with a kindly smile.

She called it her "shepherdess" dress. It was a short cotton lilac-print voile, severely cut, 
with a prim high neck (Chuck was serious, for gosh sake): There were crisp sleeves terminating 
in roundelays of fresh lace. She really looked sexy, and she knew it.

"You look ethereal," said Marc Merlin, who had been observing her many movements. 
Suana was upstairs changing from her work clothes; they were planning to make this a 
pleasant domestic evening here, after Dorry had gone out on her long-awaited date.

"I assure you I d-don't feel the-ereal."

"Ethereal," he corrected.

"Ethereal here." She patted a well-padded sit-upon.

Marc Merlin's eyebrows rose. He had long known that Suana chastised her cousin 
corporally, but he had sensitively stayed away from the subject and scene. Unusual interest of
the kind was all too apparent, he knew. He did not want to give himself away to this wonderful
woman. And spoil everything.

At the same time, his curiosity was aroused. "By which you mean, Dorry?"

"Unh-huh," she singsonged, glancing at her watch. "In just three minutes I'm going to be 
caned again."

After a second, Marc said, "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened this time?"

"Oh, gee, I was late again, I guess."

"You always seem to be," he said.

"Well, this time it was truly murder," came the answer, to a delicate swirl of her flared skirt. 
"Do you want to see the marks?" She reached behind her, but stayed... reaching.

Marc Merlin said thickly, "I don't think that will be necessary, Do, all things considered. I'll 
take your word for it. Let's assume we've settled the why. So how are you going to get it this 
time?"

The girl looked genuinely puzzled. "How do you mean how? Across the rump, of course." 
Marc said nothing. The girl prattled on, "Oh, that new cane she's got is a beast. I promise you. 
I used to be able to take six okay; I mean, it hurt and all that, but it didn't exactly send me up 
the wall. Now with this new long one, I start wishing I'd never had a tail after three or four. It's 
horrible."

"Why don't you avoid it, then?" he said.

"I try. Somehow it just doesn't work. Sue always seems to find something to cane me for. 
Gee, there are times when I almost think she enjoys whipping me, y'know?"

Marc sat on the edge of his chair. He said nothing. The girl shot him a sly glance and went 
on, "Yeah. I mean. How would she like to have to bend over for a juicy eighter?" She tossed 
him a pleased smile. "Say. If by how, you meant in what position, like, it's usually this."

There were pink satin bows on Doreen's shoes and she bent down and touched them like 
a hinge. The solid hem of her pantyhose came into view.

A hidden drummer was beating in Marc Merlin's mind. He had no head for heights. There 
was a malicious complicity about the snub buttocks outlined under the "shepherdess" dress. 
His bowstring stretched. He murmured some growling assent, fascinated by his new 
philosophy. Doreen was still demurely doubled up. It was as though there were no bone at all 
behind that protuberant meat, he yearned to give it all a solid smack.

"Of course, I'm bared," Doreen said, still bent. "Oh, heavens, yes. Up goes my skirt and 
down comes, well, everything else," (she gave an apologetic laugh), "and I assure you it's most
unpleasant. I'd like to see Susie with her pants down and six red lines blazing up behind."

"That's enough!" Marc said decisively and decidedly. "Stand up and put yourself straight."

Someone was coming. Suana burst into the room in a snug pair of corduroy slacks and a 
shirt. She greeted Marc with a platonic peck. Her eyes strayed absently.

"Dear, I wonder if you'd mind. I do have something to settle with Dorry first."

The young blonde said, "Yes, I've told him about that, Suana."

"What have you told Mr. Merlin, pray?"

Doreen Becker took a deep breath. Standing with her feet together, she faced but looked 
over Marc's chair.

"That in order to have this date with Chuck, I have to bend over, bare my bottom, and take
eight sharp cuts of the cane across my naked skin."

"Dorry! You didn't have to be so explicit!" Suana Becker's face flamed.

"Sue, could you give me them high, do you think? They do hurt so down on the, the... 
bottom."

"If you're not careful, miss, I'll give you them in front of Mr. Merlin, too."

She shrugged playfully. "Oh, I wouldn't mind, Suana, honest."

With a surprised start, her cousin retorted, "And I suppose you wouldn't care, you hussy, if 
I asked him to give them to you. I've a good mind to."

"Very well, Suana. Anything you say."

"Get the cane," Suana Becker snapped darkly. "Chuck's car is outside, in case you didn't 
know." The girl went off at a run. Marc stood up and confronted Suana. "On this, I think I 
should pass," he said carefully.

"It might do her good."

The two stood staring at each other, uncertain, slightly afraid.

"You really want me to?"

The question was answered by a slender golden wand inserted between them.

"The cane, Mr. Merlin," Doreen Becker said in a bravely frightened voice.

He accepted it as if mesmerized. It was a lovely long malacca, very reminiscent no, almost 
exactly the same...

"Where did you find this?" he asked involuntarily.

"Oh. I don't know. Locally," Suana answered in a confused way. "It's been sized."

"Sized?"

"For stiffness."

He stared at her wonderingly. Perhaps she too Suana turned away. "Ask for correction 
politely, then," she instructed her cousin in a businesslike way.

The girl took a deep breath and said, "I request you, sir, to administer to me of your good 
and free will eight hard strokes of this young cane across my naked arse “

"Doreen!"

"Sorry, Sue. Bottom."

"Buttocks," Suana emended vigorously.

"Across my naked buttocks, bent tight so that it may hurt more and at good intervals for 
me to feel all the pain, and also “

"That's enough. Come here and bend over."

Marc watched bemused. Suana took her cousin's ear and led her to a low leather 
footstool, vaguely Moroccan.

"Hands on this."

Looking considerably less courageous now, the girl leaned forward.

"Like this," said her enflamed cousin. "Your legs back, please."

Marc cut the air with the cane and Doreen glanced back fearfully.

Suana positioned her. "I said like this."

She demonstrated and for a moment, holding the swaying cane, Marc had before him a 
vision of completion. Suana's fawn corduroy hips broadened taut, expectant. He closed his 
eyes.

"I hope you don't mind doing this," said a voice. And he was looking into his beloved's 
eyes. Doreen's "shepherdess" skirt had been turned up, and Sue had slipped two fingers into 
either side of the pantyhose at the girl's waist.

"It won't be necessary to strip her," he said.

"Oh, yes it will," said her inexorable cousin.

"Eight of the best, please," Suana said, stepping to one side.

Marc was bursting. He had taken off his coat and was aware of his doting staff pressing 
fully, like a bruise, at the center of his trousers. With luck Suana would not see it...

"Do you want me to hit her hard?" he asked dreamily.

"Very. Here." The older woman indicated. A pale nail drew a line above the tremulous 
bottom. "That's where she likes it least. I think you'll find this position excellent, if you cut 
under."

"I agree it's a good one," said Marc, thinking, "How does she know so much?"

He gave three ringing strokes into the fatted fold. The girl reacted at once, oohing and 
aaahing and swinging her bottom.

Hands dug into the pockets of her slacks, Suana looked on, bright-eyed. "Perhaps this will 
act as a small reminder of tonight's date, dear."

Marc paused and cut again, the cane bluntly belting up under the fat. Doreen yipped and 
grabbed behind. She gave a long, frightened fart.

"Get over," said her cousin. "Quick!"

With a fearful glance back, Doreen obeyed. The cane whirred, and she cried out again. She
seemed to be putting more and more of herself on display, lifting first one leg then the other, 
reaching down and rubbing lustily. She was well wealed in the crease, and Marc aimed the 
next cut slightly higher.

"Auuuu “

"Don't be immodest, dear."

"I'd like, I'd like, I'd just like to see you bend over, Sue, and take six as tight as these 
fer-from Mr. Merlin. Truly I would. You don't know how horribly... it hurts." came the angry 
retort.

"Don't be sassy, dear, or I'll order you extra," Suana said, but she said it with flaming 
cheeks, and eyes averted from Marc Merlin's bulging front. Her own breath was not coming 
easily, either.

The last two whunked home solidly, and the girl hopped and danced in earnest.

"Now pull up your pants," her cousin said sternly. "And walk out that door this instant, Do. 
Let this be a lesson to you."

With writhing face and folded arms the girl obeyed. There was an exultant honk on a 
jalopy's horn outside. The two adults eyed each other uneasily. They were both panting and 
Marc, for one, felt that he was burning alive at the core of his being. Never had he had such a 
hard-on.

But it intensified when Suana, chewing her lower lip, said, "Shameless. She ought to have 
had ten. But you know, there's one thing. I've never asked anything of my cousin I wouldn't be
prepared to do myself.

"Meaning, Sue?"

"When Dorry said just now she'd like to see if I could take what I order her. I mean... it was 
a challenge. Marc, I have a favor to ask of you," she said determinedly.

"A favor?" he echoed dully.

"I mean it. I'm going to bend over and ask you to give me eight... of the best... just like 
that."

He stood with trembling hands, flexing the cane.

"She was bare," he said faintly, at last.

"Very well." Busy fingers began undoing her slacks. They were fly-fronted, and Suana's 
motions showed signs of strain, too. "All I know is... I want to try. We've known each other 
long enough."

"Suana. You want me to... " Marc's mind reeled. He could not get his breath. "This cane 
hurts a very great deal."

Clad only in her shirt she said solemnly, "There's nothing in the world I want more."

He shut his eyes. This could not be happening! He was exploding in two. His vision 
seemed to be immersed in intolerable sunlight.

For when he opened his eyes it was to a connoisseur's gem, something that occurred only 
once in any thinking man's lifetime. Contemplating those rear divisions, Marc heard celestial 
music. He was a fastidious man and asked only the best in life. He had it here.

With braced back, she had bent over in the manner of her cousin. There was the same 
cuticle of flesh and then the more plumpish, widening thighs, slightly flaccid at their tops. 
Suana had herself turned up her shirttail and her nether hemispheres were on most gluteal 
display. Marc had never seen anything like it in his life before and hoped sedulously never to 
repeat the experience again. Yes, once in a lifetime was enough.

There was a resilient tensing of her thighs which quivered the skin above. He was 
extremely excited and in a most manly condition. Janice had been beautiful. He could see 
Suana only through a ruddy fog.

"Brace back your knees," he heard himself enunciate thickly, and she made a decisive 
thrust back, as at some ringmaster's command. The pearlike curves lay perfectly exposed for 
the perfection of this sweet and clean and living cane, so akin to those Kim sold him!

"Cane my can."

"After I have done so, there is a small favor I have to ask of you, Sue," he replied to the 
unbelievable command.

"Ask on," said the voice.

"Marry me."

"Will do," she returned politely, "only make me really feel it first."

He drew back his Merlin's wand and struck.

In the battered Chevy that drew in to the accustomed place under the trees of the distant 
park, crew-cut Chuck grinned broadly. It had not passed unobserved to him that his lovely 
young date had spent most of the trip on her right side, massaging her buns under the lilac 
skirt.

"Lover's Lane once again," Doreen said, still rubbing ruefully. "What do you know?"

"Gee, she must have hit awful hard this time, to have made that impression. Can l see?" the
boy said with a grin.

"No," she said, then, at his glance, "Oh, well, I s'pose."

Doreen Becker knelt on the seat and leaned over its back. Get it over with, was her motto. 
Chuck doused his lights. In the darkness she heard him scuffling behind her.

"You can't see the weals with the lights off, stupid," she protested. "Hey, I'm showing you." 
She had already eased down her panties. "Oh for Pete's sake, what have you got back there, 
you moron, a crowbar or sumpin'? No, no," the young voice assumed a protesting timbre, "I 
do not want it up me there. Chuck! You know perfectly well!"

"Spread," he grunted unfeelingly.

"Please. Chuck. I said. Not up my... NO! That's the wrong... oh!" she exclaimed with a curse 
and a wriggle, "you Elchester boys are all the same. So backward!"





CHAPTER NINE


"'Extreme remedies, are very appropriate for extreme diseases,'" Cornelius quoted with an 
indulgent smile.

"Who said that?" laughed a pretty blonde beside him. "Plato?"

"Hippocrates."

"Is it true that you were able to get Pedro again, Corny?"

"Jesus Christ, but that man's fantastic, isn't he just?" said the blonde's husband, a tall man 
with horn-rims. "I swear he could cut a fly off your nose from ten yards with that whip of his."

"Where is Madge at this moment?" the blonde asked.

"In Contemplation," Cornelius pronounced gravely.

She took a sip of her champagne. "You mean lying up there in her room practically peeing 
in her pants with terror at what's to happen to her. By the way, are you going to gag her? Tom
has a theory about the pear." '"Slaves are generally expected to sing as well as work.' I really 
forget who said that, Clarissa, but it was undoubtedly somebody edifying."

The blonde laughed and turned with a clinking sound. She had come in a short tunic of 
chain mail. The links were circular and larger at the skirt, which was seductively see-through 
above the black stockings. The dark muff in front was an emphatic triangle, while behind, her 
peach cleft was very evident as she bent over the buffet table to replenish her plate. Both men
watched the metal tunic move over the soft cheeks, which were crisscrossed with thin blue 
lines.

"I see that Clarry has been in the wars once more," Cornelius said sententiously.

"Yes, I gave her those just before leaving, as a matter of fact."

"Hm. Rather high, don't you think?"

"Clarissa hates them high. I make her squat down on a low stool and bend forward. Then I 
cut in from above."

"How many can she get to now?"

"She reached nine the other night. But, provided my timing's on, anything over six begins 
to be a problem. I'd really like to see her get a sound thrashing in public, but she may not be 
ready for that yet." The younger man looked his distinguished host in the eyes. "I do want you
to know we are most grateful for being asked. It is very magnanimous of you to let us see 
Madge, er, getting it like this. Clarry ought to, too."

"Is that an offer?" Cornelius chuckled.

"But me no butts," said a purring voice between them as the good-looking blonde 
returned with a foie gras sandwich, "but I have a feeling you two were discussing me... as it 
were... behind my back."

The young man said, "If we're going to come here like this we ought to cooperate. I'd like 
to see you caned on the bench before the... other thing starts."

"As an overture, Tom?" The blonde smiled sweetly. "She could go a dozen with a thin 
cane," Cornelius said. The blonde paled.

But at that moment they were interrupted. A maid in black satin dropped the tanned host 
a curtsy.

"Shall I give her the enema now, sir?"

"Yes, Barbara. Two high colonics and a good flushing." He chuckled richly as the maid went
off. "Poor Madge. She docs so hate her enemas before it all begins. Barbara rinses her out 
inside till she's quite, quite clean and could drink the last pints put up her. And, to tell the 
truth, I sometimes think she does!"

The party at the low stone house in the hills was progressing smoothly. As always, it was 
extremely select; some five couples, and a visiting schoolmistress from England, the Dales' 
house guest and a well set-up woman of fifty. The Californian Korbel was circulating freely.

The Stapletons had come early and stood alone in a corner. It was Janice's first visit, and 
she needed to relax. Dave was explaining it all to her.

"But poor Madge," she said with a shuddery shiver that stirred her body in its brief cocktail
sheath. "Doesn't she ever come down beforehand? I mean, isn't she even allowed one drink, a 
small one?"

"The suspense is so lovely," Dave Stapleton said, letting one hand roam over his wife's 
well-jutting can, "as I think you know quite well."

"Oh, dear, yes. But still. Madge Dale. All those committees we've been on."

"Including the Prevention of Cruelty to Dumb Animals!" Dave laughed and slapped her 
side. "She has to contemplate at the moment. It's very important that she should be in the 
right frame of mind. Cornelius is careful about that. All her senses have to be involved. I rather
think she has to kneel down upstairs somewhere for an hour, just looking at a birch hanging 
on the wall in front of her. There's the sound of her being whipped on stereo tape and a 
strong smell of carbolic, or something."

"How diabolic!" Janice shuddered again.

Dave glanced at his watch. "Which reminds me. If the normal schedule holds, the birches 
have been taken down by now, I guess. Care to take a look at the... scene of operations, dear? 
We're allowed to. In fact, we're encouraged to."

"What do you think, monster?" Janice squeezed his hand and then his root and followed 
him across the room.

As she went, she heard flashes of conversation.

"Warren. Is it true she's going to get four dozen, and the Master's strokes after?" This from
a winsome thing in riding gear.

"I dunno," the man replied thoughtfully. "All I know is that after three the last time, her 
right side looked like uncooked liver, if you remember."

"Brrrh!" said his wife, her smile fading.

"Cheer up, Erika," he said. "I asked Barbara to put a couple of rods in the Blue Room for 
after. Cornelius said I could have it again."

A cheerful-looking woman in tweeds, eyes bright behind a flashing pince-nez and her 
brown hair drawn back in a bun, approached them with a drink.

"I'm Marjorie Watson-Taylor, I don't think we've met. Well, I can tell you, a century ago, 
boarding-school girls in England were getting up to six dozen. Six dozen. And kneeling down 
to kiss the rod after. The birch has a surface sting. You can go a lot with it."

"Not on my surface you can't," said Erika.

Janice, who had been delayed by the trio, asked, "Do you still... correct your girls corporally
in England, Miss Watson-Taylor?"

"Frequently and well," came the smiling reply.

Dave was tugging her hand. Suddenly she heard him saying, "Marc. Congratulations, old 
boy. So you two finally got spliced. About time, too."

Marc Merlin's handsome dark head bowed briefly before her. With genuine and 
spontaneous emotion, Janice said, "Oh, Marc. I'm so glad. That it worked out between you, I 
mean."

"Thank you," he said. "It did. Very well. We were married a week ago."

As she looked at him she found strange tears pricking behind her lids. He had been a 
good friend and a great Master. But she no longer needed him, nor he her. A chapter in her 
life had been concluded. A new one was opening, gloriously, before her. This path into the 
unknown woods rippled with the joys and fears of beauty, too. She loved Dave... she now 
needed Dave.

Waiting while Dave and Marc talked earnestly together, Janice felt a gentle pull turn her. 
She confronted a resplendent Suana.

"Good evening, Mrs. Merlin," she said. "How pleasant to meet you here."

Sue had come in a plain garment. Perhaps it was a leotard top of fitting black, beneath 
which was something that could, these days, be called a skirt, also of black, though it really 
was not much more than an extended cummerbund. Her head was held very high.

"Jan," she said in a begging tone. "I had to see you. Could you come upstairs with me for 
five minutes? Cornelius lends us all rooms, you know."

"Thanks, but I'm not planning to give you another chance to take the skin off my southern 
sectors, Sue."

"That's not it."

"You really hit me, you know."

"Please, Jan," she whispered urgently. "You don't understand. I owe you an apology."

Janice paused. "What's wrong with you? I seem to be talking to your chin."

Suana turned with a sigh. Suddenly Janice saw. The heavy flaxen plait held the proud head 
back under pressure. Its end vanished under the skirt. On raising it, she saw that it had been 
threaded with a leather thong, and that this ran through between the stately legs to fasten to 
a buckle in front. Janice smiled grimly. Suana was welcome to the "saddle." She only hoped 
that Dave would not learn more of Marc's devices.

"I see," she said sympathetically.

"No. I want you to beat me," Suana gestured imperatively. "Please, Jan. I deserve it. I gave 
you the mother and father of a shellacking and it wasn't really fair what I did, after, I mean. 
Please take me upstairs and cane me." Her moist eyes rolled ceilingward. "Please, Jan, please. 
Whip my butt. Marc won't mind."

Janice Stapleton smiled, but shook her head. "Sorry, Sue, but no dice. I just don't get my 
kicks that way. I like taking it, but not dishing it out. I'm happy it finally worked out between 
you two. Remember what I said."

"Thanks. And between you and Dave, too."

"Umm."

"It is so lovely afterward."

"Isn't it, though." On impulse, she asked, "By the way, who snitched? No, I won't ask you. I 
know. Kim saw the cane, right?"

"Also all those lines you had to write. In his wastebasket," Suana answered after a moment.
"Alas, it's me that has to do those now."

Janice frankly grinned. "Grin and bear it, eh, Sue. Spelled b-a-r-e." She gave a playful 
upward yank at the braid behind.

Suana said, "Ouch!"

Marjorie Watson-Tayior was still booming away. "And it must be boiling brine, too, y'know.
I do hope he has them soaking in hot water. Ha, ha, ha! The birch is a wood that absorbs 
water, y'see, and retains it ah, unlike some girls I've seen under punishment." She burst into 
her ridiculous chortle again. "You can get birch twigs tough as leather, and just as pliant, with 
some good hot pickling, I always say."

Dave led his wife down the winding stair, out of the living room, and along an 
underground passage. (Was it her imagination, or were the walls illumined with flaming 
torches?) They entered a long, softly lit chamber, its walls apparently hung with red bunting. 
Janice stopped instinctively on the threshold.

"Cornelius's playroom," she said at last.

"It has a pleasant sense of doom, I think you'll find. But come on and take a look."

They entered the place from the back. To either side had been arranged large curlicued 
love seats more like small enclosed beds, she saw as they slowly advanced.

Each assured privacy by its overhung top and latticed sides. Each faced forward to the 
focus of the room a raised dais empty at that moment but for a black block of what seemed 
to be stone, and surrounded on either side by receding walls on which hung shining 
instruments. Janice's heart gave a profound, hesitant flutter. The place struck a resonant chord
within her.

"Yes, they're here, all right."

Leading her forward Dave pointed to three steaming buckets placed to one side of the 
stage. Long birches lagged out of them wetly. He picked one up and hung it dripping before 
her.

"Mother!" Janice said sickly.

"I know how you feel."

"And I know how you feel, you brute. I'd always thought a birch... "

"Exactly. These are well chosen. Notice the buds at the tips. They harden in the pickle. Get 
really tough. Here, feel."

"They're more like whips."

They were. She had always associated a birch with a broom, but these instruments 
consisted of but four or five whippy limbs of the tree, extremely long and active-looking.

"More like five switches, come to that."

"You bet. Take a look at the block. A real museum piece. I think it's Hungarian, actually."

Janice mounted the dais with appropriate misgiving. Her whole being was responding to 
this scene, this mood. The black block confronted her. It seemed as if she had seen it all her 
life. There was a low ledge or shelf in front, and sure enough, it was sprinkled with sawdust. 
Cornelius knew, all right. Then the front part sloped sharply downward, like a European 
washerwoman's bench. Janice stepped toward it as if hypnotized.

She did not have to be told. The grooves were for the knees, set nicely wide apart. Then, of
course, you knelt over, right over, with "the part to be chastised" high in the air, on display to 
all, and oh, yes straps at the sides for elbows and wrists. It was a posture that spelt 
punishment, and nothing else.

"Gee, you really have to embrace this thing, don't Suddenly she realized that Dave was 
standing behind her parted arse, smiling. He still carried the birch.

"No!"

She was getting up when the wet whistle met her. The twigs lapped round her 
still-stretched seat like blades. She gasped and grabbed and stood up squirming.

"Christ, that stings."

"That was only one." Dave grinned.

"Trying it on for size?" said a voice, and a couple approached, smiling. They were tanned 
and young, the girl slim and wearing a halter-top over tight red satin shorts. "One good cut 
deserves another. Come on, Beth."

Dave Stapleton handed him the birch.

The girl said, "Tom, please!"

"I don't recommend it," Janice said, still rubbing.

"Over you go," her husband said happily. "If you two don't mind, she won't strip. Beth is 
rather shy."

"I don't recommend it," Janice said and she was still rubbing.

The girl bent slowly over the block. Her shorts stretched to bursting point. Suddenly she 
said "Ow!" and stood up.

"What's that?"

Dave said, "Haven't you two seen this before? I just turned the lever with my foot. See if it 
was working." He explained that there were serrations in the forward slope of the washboard 
and, with the lever turned, a series of short but strategically placed sharp pins appeared. "They
were especially designed for women. Maybe it was the Austro-Hungarian Empire I can't be 
sure. But if you drop your chest, like Beth did there “

"It hurts," she supplied.

"Precisely. Makes her keep her upper half up. The arching effect actually widens the, er, 
pelvic exposure, and thrust."

"I'll say." Tom took aim with the birch.

Beth took a slice across her small, well-packed shorts and stood up, frowning, but not 
rubbing.

"I see what you mean," she said.

The lights at the back of the room dimmed gradually.

"Proceedings are getting under way, I guess." Tom replaced the birch. "What an 
instrument."

"Let's get a ringside seat," Dave said to his wife, and they took possession of a love seat to 
one side. The room was in almost total darkness now, and couples could be heard coming in 
and feeling forward for unoccupied places.

"If you've got nothing else to do," Dave added, nuzzling into his wife's hair, "you might 
melt this down while we wait, would you."

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer... normal channels? They're all only too ready to oblige."

"If you insist, my dear, if you insist."

The large room was totally dark. Suddenly the stage was lit in blazing light. From a door in 
back of it Cornelius approached, smiling confidently. He held out a gracious hand to the 
applause which greeted him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began solemnly, "we are here to witness an important event. 
Physically, it is the correction of an offender. But you all know that what we do here is 
symbolic. Strongly so. Consciousness entails suffering. Yet man prefers suffering to inertia. 
Suffering is the token of his individuality." As his voice rolled on, a real attention was evident 
in the room.

"Cornelius is the mastermind, isn't he just?" Dave whispered to his wife.

"He knows." She raised her head, and the assent arose like a mermaid from her deepest 
depths.

"What is to be enacted here tonight is something that has to he done" Cornelius 
concluded and then, rather grandly, he added, "The war against death is always a beautiful, 
noble and honorable truth." With an apologetic cough, he turned. "And now I shall introduce 
you to the Whipmaster of the evening."

He gestured briefly and from the back of the dais appeared a figure that made Janice sit 
up straight and gasp.

"That's Pedro," Dave whispered in her ear.

"Good God, it's exactly “ The man was not clad in leather though his strapped codpiece 
was of that material but he was entirely in black. He was short, burly, squat, with immense 
thighs bulging in his black stockinette tights; wiry hair protruded from his chest above the top
of his inky singlet and from his bare brawny arms. His whole head was encased in a black 
mask, giving him the appearance of a bald horror from which the eyes winked beadily. In a roll
on his left shoulder he carried a gleaming whip. He was, she had to confess, totally 
terrifying and he was met with prolonged applause.

"He's an expert with a whip."

"I'm sure he is," she whispered back.

The horror stood to the left of the stage.

Cornelius went on: "In concordance with our usual practice there will be Preparation, 
Humiliation, Flagellation, and finally should your wishes so incline Degradation." He lowered 
his eyes. "That will be up to the company. As you know, we are democratic here. But I have 
decided to request Pedro to make this a very significant event for Mrs. Dale. It has been usual 
to administer birchings in the traditional dozens. Tonight you will see the first two applications
in fifteens, and I think we shall find the lack of conventional relief after the twelfth will be an 
extremely trying test. The third dose will be of twenty “ His voice was drowned in applause. 
He held up a hand to still it.

"What is more, the last twenty making fifty strokes in all will be inflicted with birches 
prepared by Pedro in a special manner. Each limb has been bound in wire, and this unknown 
to the recipient... " This time there were literal cheers.

"Please. It is Pedro who is to be congratulated on his use of imagination, not I." The black 
brute bowed. "And then it will be up to you good people to decide whether or not her 
conduct under chastisement merits the so-called Master's strokes. Are there are questions 
from the house?"

There was silence for a second. Then a man's voice: "I'd like to recommend Urtication. Like 
last time."

"Urtication," Janice whispered on the bed beside her husband. "What's that?"

"Nettles," he replied. "Makes it much worse."

"Whipmaster," Cornelius inquired in a kindly voice, "can we manage Urtication?"

For answer, the burly Pedro reached behind him and lofted another bucket, this one 
containing a mass of heavy green foliage. There was more applause.

Cornelius hesitated, smiling. "One final proposal. There have been some suggestions just 
now. One of our members of the fair sex who shall of course be nameless to you believes 
herself guilty of injustice to another. She offered to accept a correction with the cane as a 
preliminary to this evening's event. She should be congratulated on her spirit."

There was applause.

I forgave Suana long ago, Janice thought with a pang. "However, other offers followed. In 
short, it was suggested to propose a small contest. It would serve to warm Pedro up for his 
work admirably. It is as follows: All the ladies present to receive the cane, the winner being she
who can take the most, the loser the least. After the main event is concluded, the winner may 
choose a small delectation for the loser. May I have your vote. Those in favor?"

In the silence there was a sudden clicking of fingers. Janice saw Dave snap his together 
several times.

"Those against?"

She made a motion, but he took her hands, whispering, "You don't have a vote."

"But I thought this was democratic!" she protested.

"It is!"

"Carried. Very well. We might as well get on with that first. It might facilitate matters if 
clothing beneath the waist was, ah, removed. Caning will take place on the bench. Offenders 
will be left with their hands free to knock when they can take no more."

"Offenders!" Janice snorted, reaching under her skirt and hearing, by various creakings, her
colleagues doing likewise. "I like that. Damn Suana!"

"Let's see if you can win," Dave urged her with a smile.

Cornelius had stepped to one side of the stage. The auditorium was now completely 
darkened. The stage, however, seemed more brilliantly bathed in light. And when Janice next 
looked, it was with another leap of fear inside her.

The whipping bench, rolled out and now secured below the dais in front of them, was a 
simple, if scarred slab of heavy wood. Apart from the fact that it was supplied with straps and 
that there was a small hump in the center, it looked innocent enough. The real trouble was 
that the man in black was standing astride in front of it flexing the longest, lithest cane she 
had ever seen.

"I believe that bench is Mexican," Dave said.

"Which century?" Janice scoffed. "It's so important for me to know before “ But the silence
was broken by the padding of feminine feet. In the darkness someone brushed by them in the
aisle, a woman's head bent over Janice's, a kiss was placed behind her ear “This is for you, 
darling."

"Good luck!" she had time to whisper back.

Standing under the spotlight in front of the bench without her shoes, Suana looked much 
smaller. The light poured on her perfect parted head and strong braid, which had now been 
released from its thong. She had on her skirt but had removed her stockings.

Pedro felt her buttocks under it like a butcher handling meat, then thrust her down 
roughly on the bench and strapped her there as if he were in a momentous hurry. She was 
strapped very solidly, indeed.

"It's as if he never wanted her to get up again," Janice murmured, to her husband.

"He knows she'll want to, all right, after the first."

The bench was placed perpendicular to the dais. The watchers saw Suana from her shapely
feet forward and even so, she seemed all buttock by the time Pedro had finished with her. 
Her ankles were strapped; her knees were strapped; her waist was strapped. Her hips were 
pushed up. A saddle strap was brought up, dividing her cheeks, and fastened so roughly that 
she gasped in pain, pressing up her torso with her hands. Two thin straps secured the tops of 
her thighs. Suana's gentle cheeks were bunched up as if bursting for the cane. Then her wrists 
were handcuffed in front.

"I thought her hands were left free," Janice said.

"To knock with, yes. But she might reach behind and rub otherwise."

"And get some relief, of course," Janice added sarcastically.

The executioner stood well back. There was a flicker of yellow in the hush, and the spasm 
of anguish seemed to contort the cheeks almost before the cane lashed down and clutched.

"Aaaah!"

"One," Cornelius said comfortably, from the side.

"Good God Almighty!" Janice cried in awe. The stroke had been incredibly fierce. Her quim 
was weeping within her. She writhed on the love seat, holding Dave to her, feeling his 
hardening answer to the scene, dosing her eyes. When she opened them again, there were 
three black bars across Suana's backside, and her upper body was twisting like a belly dancer's
on the bench.

"Aaaaiyeeeh!"

She took six. Then Pedro paused.

"Come on, you can go another," came a man's voice out of the darkness. Janice knew it 
was Marc's.

The face that was thrown back was stretched like a child's. With immense effort, she 
steeled herself. The cane thrashed down again, and she was pummeling the bench with her 
bound hands. There was loud applause as she was let down by the Whipmaster.

"Mrs. Merlin, seven," said Cornelius's authoritative voice from the side, and Suana was 
hobbling back out of the lights, holding herself and moaning.

As she went by, Janice was able to whisper, "Well done, Sue." She turned to Dave. "Dear, I 
can't possibly go six like that, let alone seven."

"You'll have to try', or else."

"Or else what?" she asked suspiciously.

But the next victim was coming forward. Beth had taken off her colorful shorts, to expose a
small liquid little ass that jounced as she was bound to the bench.

"Just above the tan line, Pedro," her husband encouraged with a laugh.

These hips looked hopelessly vulnerable, showing the soft slot of twat between 
contracting in anticipation. Pedro's first slash brought a gushing cry, but though she showed a
lot of pain, rubbing her manacled hands on the boards, she, too, reached a blistering seven 
that sent her staggering, stiff-legged back to her couch and what bliss her husband might 
give her there.

"What happens in the event of a draw. Cornelius?" asked a voice.

"We might have a playoff," their host replied cordially.

Erika was next, excusing herself for not stripping since she wore riding boots. She took 
down her breeches, exposing a surprisingly full behind, widening outward at the base. Pedro 
placed his strokes perfectly across this jellyish mass, extracting a dark dew of blood from the 
tip splotch at the fourth. For a second it looked as if the girl had had too much, then 
controlling herself she reached nine, to a long round of applause. Janice was feeling sicker and
sicker.

But the blonde Clarissa was next and took only six.

Dave was prodding her forward. She walked to the lights on melting legs.

The man smelled of sweat. He fondled her hips with his fingers. His leather codpiece 
creaked with the enormity of his desire. Together with Clarissa, her bottom was already 
marked and it seemed no excuses were in order there. Against her hair in front, the bend felt
warm from the other sufferers.

Whhhhh-llccck!

"One," said Cornelius from the side.

It was ghastly; it was unbelievable. Her body went into convulsions at once. She splintered 
her fingers on the bench. She beat at her forehead with her fists after the third to keep from 
knocking. The cane was a... seven, seven, she had to get to seven, she kept telling herself.

The fourth was a ripping lash across the broadest part of her hips. Although unable to 
move much in her straps, she wriggled breathlessly, tightening the saddle strap, wetted with 
her juices and Dave's, until she yelled soundlessly. The compensatory jerk backward and 
outward exposed herself totally, and the cane bit deeply, without mercy. She hammered on 
the bench with her hands.

"Mrs. Stapleton, five strokes," she heard in laconic accents, to extraordinary, ringing 
applause until she realized that the clapping was for Pedro, not herself. She limped back in a 
red haze, weeping, thinking Erika she won't demand that again of me as winner. Erika's a 
sweet... She was aware of excitement, chucklings, movement then, as she threw herself beside
Dave of the tapping of heels down the aisle.

Cornelius was saying, "Marj. It really won't be necessary for you. I mean, as house guest... "

"Nonsense!" said a woman's bossy voice. "A sound beating never did anyone any harm."

Miss Watson-Taylor, still tweeded, stood under the lights, her pince-nez flashing. In a 
second, she had stripped below the waist and stood for an instant confronting the sweating 
Pedro. She slapped her full if flabby butt. "There you are. Do your duty, Mr. Whipmaster. It's 
some years since I've had it, but you look to me as if you could warm a woman pretty 
thoroughly."

"This is fantastic!" Dave whispered as he consoled his wife. "They tell me she's over fifty."

Pedro positioned her respectfully. Despite the thick thighs the bottom was shapely, 
long what more than one man present called "Victorian." Abundant hair thrust back between 
her thighs as the executioner tightened the saddle, and Miss Watson-Taylor carried on a 
chatty monologue.

"I say, you do believe in strapping 'em down, don't you. Ouh! That does hurt. Um. You 
don't have to tie my wrists, I won't grab back. Oh, very well, if you wish to... " She leaned on 
her elbows, gazing forward thoughtfully.

Pedro thrashed as if trying to flatten the flesh there.

"Heavens, that's hard," said the schoolmistress, shaking her head, but showing no other 
visible symptom of dismay.

And as the correction continued, she proceeded simply to comment on its quality, 
occasionally sucking in her breath, or yielding a hissing "Yesss... yess!" but otherwise in full 
charge of her faculties. It was an impressive display, and the silence in the chamber paid her 
tribute.

"Yessss... there... Good Lord, you certainly hit hard, my man... you must have bruised me 
dashed badly back there... Owl... that was a beauty. Well done. Good shot!"

"Seven," Cornelius said wonderingly. "Eight... nine... ten."

There was more clapping and cheering.

Cornelius said gently, "Congratulations, Marjorie. You are easily the winner. I don't think 
it's necessary, er, to add any more."

"Oh I don't know." The woman's bespectacled face was very red, but controlled. "I think I 
can go a few more. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say."

"As you wish, my dear."

Pedro clearly felt himself challenged. Stepping back a pace, he took aim again. This time 
he slashed her left cheek only. The tip whunked round its massive contour and clawed inside, 
close to the strap across the woman's arsehole. The cut galvanized Miss Watson-Taylor, and 
she emitted her first, piercing cry.

"That's enough," she said, knocking. The applause this time was for Pedro; released, the 
woman knelt a moment, massaging her wounded buttock. Then she rose, dressed, shot a 
reproachful look at the executioner. "You damn near cut off my bum with that last one, didn't 
you!" Now the applause was for her.

As she passed Janice and David, she was heard to say, "I think I need a very large drink."

"You deserve one," Dave murmured to her in the dark.

"And what do you think she will order for me?" Janice asked him, fondling his prick.

"Oh, I don't know. Something unpleasant."

"Nothing cruel?"

He moved away from her, shocked.

"Jan! This has nothing to do with cruelty."

"It felt to me damn like it."

"No, no. Tenderness. But wait... look... " For in the sudden hush that had enveloped the 
room, the door had opened at the back of the stage. Madge Dale walked forward to the front 
of the dais, led by Barbara, the maid in black. Madge wore an evening dress of ivory silk and 
walked with chest out, arms pulled tight behind her. Her face was deathly pale and rather 
drawn, but determined. Suddenly Janice saw that her dark hair had been cut short almost to a
boy's length and slicked to her skull. There was scattered applause as she took her place, 
starring straight ahead like an actress. Barbara undipped the switch that hung from her own 
belt and stood behind her.

Cornelius spoke. He did so in an even more resonant boom, so that Janice realized he was 
using some kind of speaker system, or perhaps a bullhorn. At any rate, it was far louder than 
the distance merited.

"Madge Dale. You stand accused before the Court of Impertinence, Insolence, and Ideas 
Above Your Station."

"Nothing to say, Your Honor."

She spoke in a weak voice, yet resolutely, still staring ahead. Janice shuddered at the 
rhetoric, widening her legs to Dave's insinuating fingers.

"Do you wish to make appeal?"

"No, Your Honor."

"No appeal at all before you are sentenced?"

She hesitated this time. "None save my person."

"Appeal denied."

Barbara, the maid, moved back a pace. With all her strength she cut her switch across the 
sheath behind. There was a pause, then another stroke. Madge Dale gasped, her head jerked 
up, but she did not move. The maid gave her one more biting stripe. Three.

"Do you wish to make any more appeals?"

"No, Your Honor."

"That's unfair!" Janice whispered to her husband.

"Very well. I am afraid we shall have to proceed to sentencing. Madge Dale, your 
correction will be corporal. Your buttocks will be duly bared, you will be secured for your own 
good to the block, and you will receive with the birch rod: for Impertinence, fifteen strokes; for
Insolence, fifteen strokes; for Ideas Above Your Station, twenty strokes."

At each indictment, Madge's head dropped a fraction.

"Request correction."

With sunken face, she intoned, "I humbly request fifty strokes with the birch rod across my 
naked buttocks."

"All right, Mr. Whipmaster, you may proceed."

The maid turned the woman round gently, so that her back was to the watchers. Her arms 
were secured behind, with each wrist cuffed to its opposite elbow. A short stain of red high up
at the back announced that Barbara's switch had broken skin.

"See if he can do it in three," Dave said softly, with interest. "He usually does."

"What?" Janice asked, alarmed.

Pedro was standing on the floor below the dais, hiding his whip in his right hand. 
Uncoiled, it was an oiled and plaited affair, braided at the tip.

"Preparation," Cornelius commanded.

The whip moved lazily off the floor, stirred through the air and made a report like a pistol 
shot as it cracked behind Madge's rump. Janice at first thought it had struck her, but Madge 
made no sign and it was evident that Pedro had simply popped the lash inches off the flesh. 
Her vagina gave a gulp.

"Lovely," said Dave.

The weight of the instrument was told to all, then, as it flashed out through the air and 
flecked at the hem of the elegant robe. It did not strike it, it gathered the material visibly in its 
plucking lash and the strength with which it tore it off Madge's back sent her staggering with 
a cry of terror. When she stood up again, she shuddered, her face averted, her body stripped 
to the top of the hips. Pedro lunged, and with one more blow, tore the fabric from her body. 
Madge had nothing on beneath, and her well-powdered cheeks showed the vivid 
brownish-red of Barbara's ritual cuts. The Whipmaster swept the thin stuff over the dais as 
they applauded him.

There was even more applause, however, as the now-quailing Madge was turned. Naked 
but for her shoes, there was no more than a shadow above the gash at her center. She had 
been completely shaved. She mouthed something inaudible.

The maid, who had gone to the back of the stage, returned, wearing a rubber glove on her
right hand, in which she held a glistening object. Evidently parting Madge's buttocks, she 
made a goosing motion that made Madge rise to her toes with a grimace. The maid held her 
there, pushing upward hard.

"What's that?" Janice asked, feeling the dismay in her own skin.

"Barbara figged her."

"What's that?" she repeated.

"Ginger suppository up the rectum. Most uncomfortable. It prevents her or, rather, it 
dissuades her from wanting to clench behind."

"Barbarous."

"Beautiful."

"Humiliation," Cornelius intoned simply.

The executioner threw Madge forward on her knees beneath the stage. Then, standing 
astride behind her, he grasped the scruff of hair at her nape and held up her head to the 
withering lights. His beady eyes winked; he almost supported her upper body by her hair. It 
was a perfect contrast of white against black. Mouth open, eyes wide, Madge was the picture 
of despair.

"She's beginning to feel it now," said Dave. "In a moment she'll be dripping."

"Dripping?"

"You watch."

"Why?"

The first man to go onstage was the horn-rimmed Tom. He had taken off his shirt. He spat 
on Madge's upturned face and on her bowstringed breast. Each man followed suit. The spittle 
shone in the light.

"Dave, you're not going to... " By the time Dave Stapleton went forward, Madge's right 
breast at least was indeed running with slime. Pedro braced back her aching head. Madge 
Dale's teeth were chattering. Dave Stapleton aimed at and scored in each eye in turn. Janice 
said nothing to him when he returned.

Then, Madge Dale was dragged to the block. Again Pedro worked fast, as if against some 
invisible deadline. Her knees were spread and strapped apart on the sawdust shelving of the 
stony mass. The waist strap was drawn tight. Finally, after a check on the lever, her arms were 
released, to be fastened either side, at wrist and elbow. As Janice had observed, it was indeed 
an unholy hug, of sorts. Madge leaned forward on the sloping portion, only to recoil with a 
sharp cry. She flung back her face in a last piteous appeal. But Barbara was mounting the 
block, standing over the tense white body locked there.

"What's she going to do?"

"Ssh, dear. Cornelius hasn't ended Humiliation, yet."

"I'll say," Janice said grimly as, with a thoughtful frown, the maid raised her skirt slightly 
and emptied her bladder on her victim's back. Madge Dale shuddered and lowered her head 
as the hot liquid hit her.

"Well aimed," Dave said, watching the stream course both sides of the body, as if the maid 
held a veritable hose to it there.

"Execution," said Cornelius, and Barbara stepped down to applause. "You have a plump 
buttock before you, Whipmaster. Birch it with a will. Fifteen strokes for Impertinence."

Pedro took a birch from the bucket. There was a pregnant hush as he stood well to the left
of the block. Janice watched hypnotized as any rabbit by its snake only here the serpent was 
the birch. She was gripped. Some dreadful consummation was upon her. It was all so perfectly
related, the metaphors allied. The white arse with its three marks was pitifully parted, the 
shudderings now that the limbs were stoutly secured conveying themselves in little fatty 
shiverings to the buttock's base. The sphincter seemed to dilate like some ghastly Cyclops eye,
and then retract. The lean leathery twigs appeared to draw back in derision at such signs of 
fear.

They bit with a firm wet smack, echoed by a startled gasp, another cry as the lunge of pain 
made Madge drop her chest on the pins, and a slowly enunciated "One" from Cornelius, who 
inscribed the stroke on a slate at the side.

The man in black swept the second up, streaking the unready, limpened flesh with another
row of raw red lines.

"Hieee!"

Madge's buttocks tried to spasm, twist off their right side. Pedro watched his moment. He 
did not seem to strike violently; in fact, it was a lazy, rippling movement that gathered great 
strength and at the fifth there was applause.

"What's that for?" Janice asked sickly.

"He's drawn. And at only the fifth."

"Drawn?" It was the word from her dreams.

"Blood. On the right."

"The birch has only a surface sting," she cited mockingly.

"Right. The buds break the skin. Little blisters and scratches. Oh, good cut!"

By eight Madge's whole bottom had been covered, and she was crying out regularly. 
Pedro changed his birch. He flogged lower with the new instrument, off which chips and buds 
were also soon flying. The blood had not yet started to roll down her thighs, but the last three 
strokes of the first installment seemed to smack into a wet mass of bruised skin on the right.

"And fifteen," said Cornelius. The maid came forward. Madge Dale was assisted, moaning, 
doubled, off the dais and out. Pedro was applauded lustily.

Janice turned to her husband. "I thought you said this wasn't cruel. I've never seen 
anything so. Oh, Heavens! And look it's excited you!"

"She's taken off and washed down and generally restored now," he explained. "Turn over 
and let me try to see your marks. I'm getting used to this light by now. Bend over “

"You don't have to “

"And you're trying to tell me you're not excited yourself? Here, take this!"

"Ouch. Not so deep. Yes, yes... give it to me, Dave... deeper... please... " After an interval, in 
which some of the guests went upstairs to "freshen their glasses," Madge Dale was brought 
forward for her second chastisement. There was an increase of solemnity in the chamber as 
Cornelius warned her that her conduct under the rod would be judged afterward by the 
"assembled public" and extra strokes awarded accordingly.

Madge struggled to control her reactions, but the birch's briny bit was too much; her 
thighs thudded at the block after each cut, her cheeks cringed, her sphincter opened and shut.
Blood oozed on both sides now as Pedro drove her to a new level of suffering. Janice had not 
seen its like before. More than once the maid held what Dave told Janice were smelling salts 
to Madge's nose.

"Mercy... please... pleaaaaase!... "

"Courage," Cornelius said reprovingly, from over his slate at the side. "Pull yourself 
together, woman. Whipmaster, whip on."

Again she gritted her teeth till the jaw muscles stood out, enduring two savage slices low 
down. But again the seeking twigs undid her.

"Noooooohhh!" she wailed with all her breath.

"Jesus, you'd say she was trying to shit, wouldn't you just... "

"Whipmaster, make these last two especially painful, please."

The slashes that succeeded seemed to drive the flesh up visibly. Released, Madge 
crouched on the floor, moaning, her heaving flesh bedewed with moisture urine, sweat, 
phlegm, it was hard to tell which. She held her hands beneath her and when she took them 
away, they were bloody.

Barbara stood over her. The maid was smiling. She yanked at an ear, but nothing 
happened. Madge Dale remained there, sobbing, broken. The maid bent and clipped her 
mistress's wrists behind her back and affixed a dog collar round her throat, attaching this to a 
leash. She tugged on the leash. Madge sat up, revealing, as she did so, that her breasts in 
front had been wounded by the pins on the slab. Then Barbara raised her switch gently and 
cut. Madge Dale yelped and crawled off the stage like a dog, her streaked buttocks jerking.

She was still panting and crying when she was brought back to her third correction some 
ten minutes later, in the same way. Janice saw suddenly, and with an inner flame of pure 
terror, that the woman had been transformed she did not exist. Madge Dale had become a 
thing, an object, an "it" that flung itself on the floor of the dais sobbing and imploring. 
"Please, no more... dear God, let me off this time... I cah-can't, Cornelius... not anymore, I beg 
you, please... "

"A disgusting exhibition," her husband pronounced at the spectacle. "A mere schoolboy 
could do better than this."

"I can't... please... I'll f-f-faint... "

"You won't faint and you won't die. But you will receive twenty strokes with a specially 
prepared rod and if you're not careful, I'll order the pimentade first." Madge looked around 
wildly. "Oh, no! Please... you don't know how it hurts... he's cutting me in two!... "

"Don't insult our Whipmaster, dear."

"Anything... I'll do anything. I swear I'll “

"These interpolations are unnecessary and tedious. Give her the pear."

The maid turned; she came back with a steel object which she inserted into Madge's 
mouth.

"This one really is medieval," Dave said to Janice. The gag was activated on some inner 
spring, for it held the jaws wide open. At the fount of her haired flesh, Janice felt the ecstasy 
coursing once more. Such terror was infectious. She remembered Marc's bit between her own 
oiled lips. She shuddered and shook, wondering whether the throb of her quim was actually 
shaking their couch.

Madge Dale was bent over for her final whipping.

"Might as well give her the pimentade," Cornelius was saying laconically. "Make her nice 
and lively behind, since we omitted Urtication."

The maid sponged the sore buttocks and they clenched to the accompaniment of a 
gargling protest of pain.

"Some sort of vinegar solution," Dave was saying in Janice's ear. "It gets driven in deeper 
by the birch, too."

And now the new, wire-bound twigs were ripping into flesh almost raw at the right. 
Made's starts practically lifted the block. Her face turned away, eyes starting out of her head, 
she seemed now to be pushing herself out offering herself for the frightful fangs. Her calves 
were speckled with blood. She squirmed as in some furious ecstasy, her hands scratching at 
the sides of the stone, her feet pummeling the ground.

Pfuittt!

"Nnnngh!"

"Sixteen."

Pfuittttt!

"Seventeen... " It was unbelievable. Janice shut her eyes. She could not... Suddenly she 
knew the last cut had been given, was aware that Cornelius was saying something, standing at
the foot of the dais holding a mean thong in one hand “Rhino hide," Dave explained, as if 
answering her mind asking them all about whether there should be extra, the so-called 
Master's strokes administered by himself, and the audience was snapping their fingers 
enthusiastically while poor Madge lay limp and bloodied And suddenly the world went red 
and she was on her knees, shouting, "Stop, stop! She can't take any more!"

And that was all she did say, as Dave grabbed and hauled her down, a hand thrust over 
her mouth.

"Disgraceful," came his furious hiss, as he wrestled her onto the couch, "monstrous... 
etiquette... " She just caught sight of the smiling, curiously peering face of their benign host, 
and heard his inquiry: "Is that the lady who lost our little wager, our dubbin?"

And Dave said loudly, "I recommend that the person who objected should get the 
Master's cuts herself."

"Well, we can deal with her in a moment."

Five sickening thuds. Five whimpers. Applause. Janice heard but did not see. She was 
struggling on the couch.

"If you're not damn careful!" Dave whispered angrily.

"Degradation," announced Cornelius's distant voice. And all went very silent.

Silent except for one ringing slap. It went clear through her skull and nearly knocked her 
off the bed. She sat up, dazed yet somehow totally conscious, nursing her jaw. And slowly, her
mouth widening, she heard herself saying, "G-good God! What's that?"

Pedro stood on the dais beside his writhing victim, and he had dropped his leather 
codpiece. His huge, distended cock throbbed out, belly-high.

"But it's black" Janice gasped with the whisper of a wail in her husband's ear.

"Of course it is," he chuckled. "There's still the caustic from that suppository up there."

The horror advanced, holding his rubbery tube. Even through the jet condom, it looked 
gnarled and tough. It pained her to look at it. Evidently it was greased, and Madge's bursting 
eyes strained to see its every inch as the man positioned himself behind her. Pressing thumbs 
to the bud, he stretched it to a white ring. It was as if he meant to turn her rectum inside out. 
The small body tensed furiously. A shocking stifled screech went out of the gulping throat as 
the head entered. Then, in an undulation of his powerful thighs and hips, Pedro skewered the 
bowels of the woman he had tamed with the whippy birches and Janice could look no more. 
She buried her head in a pillow, closing her ears, too, to the squishy agony of the 
"Degradation."

After a minute, Dave tapped her back.

"What?" She looked up. Voices. Footsteps. The dais had been cleared. The horror had 
gone. It was over. And then she knew it was not. It was just beginning...

Cornelius' cheerful voice was asking, "And since you were truly the winner, Marj, I 
wondered if you might have some sophisticated little suggestion for our excitable friend at 
the back just to close the evening on a tuneful note."

And in her jolly British voice the woman boomed back, "Quite. Well, I must say I was damn 
impressed just now at the way in which Pedro used that whip. Would like to see more of it, 
y'know. So I suggest, this time, a reverse strip. What I mean is, y'know, she should stand out 
there on the stage and strip. Let him see if he can stop her. With the whip. The strokes finish 
when she's naked."





CHAPTER TEN


The well-fleshed Canadian clubwoman of thirty-eight stood trembling on the aching expanse 
of brightly lit dais, flecked with blood and sprinkled with broken twigs. She was fully dressed 
in the brief, fitted cocktail frock, stockings, and heels. Her feet were together, her hands by her
sides. Her head was held high, but her eyes were on the coiled whip held by the monster in 
black who stood below her.

"The signal to start is the first stroke."

There was a whimper in the air overhead or was it only her own? the air quivered darkly 
before her, and instinctively she put out her hands to ward off the impending whiplash. But it 
seemed to hesitate in the air, then wrapped itself round her waist.

For a second, she felt relief. Only that, she thought. It was like the caress of a lover, some 
youth asking her to dance. Then, with a sickening thuck! that drove through her being, the 
thick tip bit. It bit into her hunched belly. Before the true enormity of the pain came to her, 
she stared down, as if marveling for a moment, at where a warm wet patch had appeared on 
her lap, through the elegant frock.

And then she screamed!

As she did so, there was a jerk on the whip which sent her spinning in its unwinding. 
Doubled on the far side of the dais, her back to the applauding audience, she felt another 
shocking thrust behind, a new searing of red-hot iron this time at her seat. With another 
murderous flick, the whip cut her right cheek behind. She jerked erect, clutching, and it clawed
her left side.

Suddenly panic overtook her. She saw the door. The door out. She had to get out, get 
away, anywhere so long as it was far from this hellhole. She started to run for the door. She 
had all but reached it, when there was another positive whirring behind her. The whip 
wrapped round her left ankle, jerked back, and sent her crashing to the floor.

With an almost insane energy, Janice started clutching, tearing at her dress, ripping her 
clothes off. She did so in a huddle, her back protectively toward the horror, stiffening 
speechlessly as the tail clipped across her buttocks twice more. Then, gushing from her throat,
came the cry "Help! Someone! Help, help!"

* * *

"This is getting respectably rococo." Marc Merlin drew Suana, his new bride, after him. "I 
suggest we can leave at this point."

He followed her out on tiptoe and up the winding stair. Her hips looked even more 
heavenly than ever to him as he mounted.

"Corn said we could have the Yellow Room, I think." When they reached it, Suana paused 
at the door. She was trembling all over.

"Poor Janice," she said. "Poor all of us. Especially poor Madge."

"She was let off too lightly. They forgot Urtication." He opened the door. The room was a 
bedroom, furnished in Louis XVI.

"But what's this?" she cried, advancing to one wall. An iron bar had been inserted in this, 
some four feet up. At this moment the bar was between the thighs of a supple Oriental girl, 
quite naked, who bestrode it with hanging legs, her face to the wall and her arms tied behind 
her.

"Kim!" Suana exclaimed.

"She's promised to be our slave," Marc said, advancing quietly. "As you see, she's been 
attended to, er, behind."

"So I see. Oh poor, poor Kim!"

The girl was sobbing. "Please, Mr. Merlin, how much longer do I have on this? It's hurting 
quite a lot."

"Let's see. Oh, only ten minutes or less. And then I'll cane you properly."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. And now', my dear" he turned to Suana “let me show you how' much I 
love you."

She came to him with open arms. "Kiss me, darling."

Marc Merlin bowed. "Anything to oblige."

From behind his back, he drew a long black whalebone switch. Suana's mouth fell when 
she saw it.

"But I've already been beaten," she protested, somewhat halfheartedly.

"And I was proud of you, Sue. Now you can show me how much you love me again. Turn 
round and bend over. So." There was a whippy whistle, and Mare Merlin said softly, "This is my
kiss of love."

THE END### MB-3961 ###

Tender Buns

by P.N. Dedeaux

As a matter of fact, I'm due at our Conservation Committee meeting in an hour. I was 
wondering... when Cornelius lets me out of these things" she clinked her chains 
merrily “could you drive me in? We have a theater date later."

"Be glad to," he said. "And what was it Cornelius wanted to see me about?"

"Oh, he'll be through in a moment and tell you himself."

"Is it about" he hesitated a second, then finished “is there going to be another... 
evening?"

She gave him a long steady look, as if probing to his soul. She had very large pure pale 
blue eyes.

"What do you think?"

"Madge, it's amazing. I don't know I can't understand it “

"Don't try to, Dave."

"All I know is that it's the most incredibly thrilling thing. The whole combination. It's poetic.
You have this most beautiful back, and the first time I watched, you were so wonderfully 
frightened “





CHAPTER ONE


"Am I late?"

The strikingly handsome woman who burst into the office breathlessly wore a smile that 
was generous, if uncertain. She also wore a sealskin coat, and even in it she looked 
buxom even for a Canadian clubwoman of thirty-eight.

Her eyes fell on the large modern desk. "I see that I... gulp... am."

The man behind it smiled. At forty-five, Marc Merlin was still lean, dark, and handsome, 
youthful for his years if a little sad around the mouth. By far the best-looking bachelor in 
Elchester, she thought, as with a slight movement of his strong wrists he flexed the supple 
wand between his fingers.

"That looks awfully like a cane," she said.

"That's because it is one." He set it down with a grin, and a distinct rap, and went quickly 
to greet her.

"Janice. It's good to see you again."

As he eased the heavy coat off his guest's shoulders, and tossed it on a sofa, his eyes 
roved over her sumptuous body.

Janice Stapleton had on a very short, fitted cocktail frock of soft brown wool, simple yet 
elegant, and adhering to her back so closely that he could clearly identify the stocking tab on 
the outside of each firmly curving thigh. He placed one hand on the upper slopes of her hips a
moment, and her auburn head fell.

"Nothing on, underneath? Winter is a cold time for Madam to go so lightly clad."

"Not in the south," she said at last, not turning around. "Marc, I simply had to wear a bra."

"Pity! I hoped you were becoming obedient at last. You know my orders when you come 
to see me."

The tawny head sank farther. "Please. I had to go to this meeting. You know my... nipples. 
It was out of the question, really."

"What was it this time? Daughters of the Flying Buttress? The Five-Headed Dildo Club?"

"The PCDA, if you must know."

Marc Merlin raised an ironic graying eyebrow. "And what the hell's that?"

"Conservation Committee. Prevention of Cruelty to Dumb Animals."

He snorted sarcastically.

"Madge Dale is on it, too," she said. "That's why I was late."

"You're always late," he said with genuine affection, "and that's because you like it so."

"Anyway, I'll swear Madge knew I had a bare behind under this glad rag. Also, it was cold."

"Let's see if we can't make it warmer for you, Jan."

A fleshy shudder rippled her body as she faced him then.

"You always were one for the back of a girl's lap, weren't you, Mr. Merlin? You weren't so 
bad at the front, if I recollect correctly. Kiss me, please."

She took a pace. He cupped one sideways-thrusting breast, testing its solidity, and with 
the other hand pulled her head back by the mane of hair behind.

"You tremendous animal," he said.

Janice parted her lips, gazing raptly into that smiling face she had missed so long. She was 
quivering in his grip when he spat forcefully into her face.

She blinked, but said nothing, feeling the sputum sliding slowly down her cheeks.

"Thank you, Marc."

He had returned casually to his seat. "Dave left?"

"Last night."

"You don't waste much time to come running for it, do you?"

"If he did to me what you do to me, I wouldn't have to, dammit."

"You really ought to tell him someday. Save you a lot of trouble. Me, too." He raised a 
warning hand. "Don't wipe your face." She replaced the Kleenex in her purse. Already her 
fingers were trembling as always, in his presence. She could feel cold spittle moving down her
throat. His reference to her husband brought back all her dilemma. David she loved. Marc 
she... needed. It was an old formula for her repression. After all, how could she ever tell that 
upright, clean-looking investment-counselor husband of hers that she had this secret if 
occasional craving? He would think she was crazy, kinky, queer. Maybe he would even want 
to divorce her.

"How long is he out of town this time?" Marc was inquiring idly.

"Ten days at least. He has to go to Vancouver, I think. Bank business again."

"Fine."

"I know what you're thinking. Plenty of time for the marks to disappear."

"Mmm. All in all, I suspect we can manage to make you feel fairly sorry for yourself before 
the evening's over. I really ought to discourage you doing this, Janice. I like Dave far too 
much. You're a good big woman, my dear, and one of these days I'd enjoy seeing you getting 
a sound thrashing. Not the little love pats I dish out."

Again her body shuddered. "Love pats. I like that. Anyway, I can't do anything about it. The
thing's in my nature now. You know that."

He stared at her with the same amused smile across the desk. "I also know that your skirt is
far too long. I thought you were beginning to remember my rules. Six inches above the 
natural knee. If you want to check... "

"Please, Marc. I couldn't. Not at the PCDA. You don't know those women."

"I know this one," he chuckled, "and it seems to me she's racking up quite a score tonight. 
What do you get for being late?"

Her liquid green eyes dropped to that yellow exclamation mark lying on the desktop.

"Six," she said softly, with solemn face.

"Of the best," he added quickly. "Have you done your lines?"

"Oh, yes." She fumbled in her purse and came out with several sheets of lined legal paper 
on which a single sentence had been written, over and over. He accepted them, still gazing 
into her eyes.

"Five hundred times: I must remember to express gratitude for correction.' That was after 
ten, wasn't it?"

"With that ghastly switch."

"With It, you mean." He tore up the sheets and dropped them in his wastebasket.

Her lower lip quivered. "You're not even going to look at them?"

"Useless labor," Marc Merlin said. "The best training for the recalcitrant spirit."

"How do you know mine's recalcitrant? I'm sorry I was late."

"You'll be sorrier shortly."

She looked at him almost inquisitively then. "You're just longing to get at me, aren't you?"

"Frankly, yes. Now lift up your skirt in front and let's see how ready you are."

Frowning, she drew up the soft wool skirt. The tan nylons were taut and high, their tops 
tugged firm by the black straps of the garter belt. The V of rich black hair was clipped close in 
the bar beneath the belly, its lower arm emphasizing a long, full, fatty quim with deeply 
indented lips. Marc took the cane and prodded. The whippy instrument shivered eloquently 
for a moment, then entered easily enough.

He withdrew it and looked at the tip. It was glistening.

"As I thought," he pronounced. "As always, in fact."

"It's the apprehension, darling. Always makes me sopping. I could come as it is."

"Why don't you lick it," he suggested amicably, adding in another tone: "clean."

Janice was doing so when there came a tap on the door. Tugging hastily at her clothing, 
she glanced at him.

"Marc. Who?"

"Must be Kim."

"I thought she'd left."

"I thought so, too." He stood up. "Come in," he called, and when the pretty Oriental 
secretary entered, Janice was combing her hair in a mirror, while Marc was inspecting his right 
forefinger attentively.

"Is there anything... oh, good evening, Mrs. Stapleton," said the girl brightly.

"Hi, Kim. Long time no see."

"I know it. I'm afraid Mr. Merlin really keeps me at that grindstone."

"There's nothing else, Kim," he said. "Simply lock up behind you. Everyone's left, haven't 
they?"

"Yes."

"We'll be doing so shortly."

"I booked that table for you at seven, Mr. Merlin," said the secretary, her eyes shifting. "I 
just thought I'd better remind you."

"It wasn't necessary," he said with a level look.

"Well. Goodnight, Mr. Merlin. Good night, Mrs. Stapleton."

Together they watched the figure, in its ivory sheath slit thigh-high, leave the room. There 
were flashes of creamy skin. The small buttocks, set high and tight, molded the satin 
insistently, and when she had gone, their eyes met. After a moment, they heard the outer door
snap shut.

"What I'd give for that figure!" Janice Stapleton exclaimed. "I can't think of a greater 
contrast to Suana. Darling Marc, you should have married Sue Becker years ago."

"About thirteen, to be precise." He shrugged as he locked the office door, peeling off his 
jacket after having done so. "Right after her husband died in that car crash, actually. Leaving 
one helpless beauty. Is Sue younger than you, Janice?"

"I'm sure she thinks it's because of her cousin," came the answer. Janice Stapleton was 
reaching a point in life when she was touchy about age. "I mean, that you didn't want 
responsibility of a teenager."

"Doreen's a young woman now."

"Darling, you've been dating Sue for years. She's dying to have you stick it up her."

"Do you think she'd like what we like?" he countered quickly, the sadness drawing down 
his smile. "Do you think Elchester would? Why, she'd never speak to me again."

"If she knew how much it could send up her sex threshold, she would. A woman's fear is 
that it'll be uncontrolled. Hey, you don't have to roll your sleeves up for it, do you?"

"For that firm fanny I do."

Her laugh had been brittle. She was on edge already, he knew, and he leaped inwardly. To 
be a master playing on an outstanding violin...

"First, you're going to be punished for Improper Dress."

"Please, I told you “

"I think you also know the penalty for Idle Excuses."

She hung her head. "May I have a drink first?"

"Help yourself."

While she did so, liberally, from a liquor cabinet, he extracted from a desk drawer two 
objects, a common or garden-variety clothespin and a strap. The latter was of heavy leather, 
four inches wide, and at least four feet long, excluding its dark wood handle. The end of the 
strap was rounded.

"Mother!" Janice's eyes were magnetized to the instrument immediately. "God, I'd 
forgotten. How many?

"Twelve," he said bitterly.

"Twelve!"

"Your memory of the tariff seems to be imperfect, my dear. Six for wearing a brassiere, six 
for the skirt length. Moreover, as this sweet strap made so much noise last time on the skin, I'll
ask you for the exigencies of my office to retain your dress, and for an increment of only 
three."

"Fifteen! With that?"

He bowed. "Your addition is impeccable, Jan."

"But... but this frock won't stop a thing."

The strap made a report like a pistol shot when Marc smacked it lazily on the desktop. She 
swallowed her drink nervously and took her stance as he handed her the clothespin 
ceremoniously.

"You don't miss a trick, do you?"

Reaching, she clipped her skirt between the thighs. The clothespin drew the fabric 
perfectly tight. When she bent across the desk, the division of her buttocks was proclaimed 
vividly. She stretched her arms out in front of her, burying her head between them.

"Arch your back. Come on, I want the whole pelvic area thrown up so's there's a good 
spread. Really push it out. That's better. Brace back your knees."

In a muffled tone she asked, "May-May I bite on this eraser, please?"

He thought a second. "All right," he said with a smile. "But let's just flavor it first."

"Beast!"

Taking the cylinder of rubber she had seen, he unclipped her skirt and slipped it up her 
back. In this position, her bottom had bloomed to a wide basin of flesh which he pressed 
apart with finger and thumb of his left hand; inserting the eraser easily enough into the 
reluctant amber bud of his victim's center, Marc turned it thoughtfully once or twice, to her 
unnecessary ohs and ahs, and then he returned it to her.

"Right in your mouth, please," he instructed, readjusting her dress again behind. "And 
don't let it drop out, will you, or I shall have to give you extra."

The snug wool clung lovingly close, even defining now the little vulval fig thrust back by 
the posture and which seemed to tremble in anticipation. The line of garters could be seen, 
together with the indentation of each clasp, but these would not interfere with impact.

"Hollow your back and concentrate on your buttocks, Madam Stapleton."

For a second he let the strap slap lightly, in practice, against the heavy mounds, which 
wobbled as he did so.

"Fifteen strokes."

He drew back, let the strap dangle idly a moment, then whacked it full across the stretched
bottom with a crack. Janice grunted.

Marc waited, hit again. Using the bisection of her legs for aim, he played it knowingly 
across the widest part of her being. The leather thumped the meaty surfaces most 
satisfactorily, and soon she was gasping with each blow.

"Owl" came in a gurgle at the fifth.

At the sixth, one leg shot back.

The seventh made her squirm with pain. "Aieeee... "

"What's wrong? You haven't had half yet."

She turned back a flushed face. "God! It seems to hurt eight times as much today. I'm 
sorry. I guess I'm... I'm... j-j-just out of shape."

"You look in excellent shape from here. What happened to that eraser?"

"I think... I swallowed it."

"Good Lord!" he retorted with a laugh. "You'll have to have an enema. At least, I want it 
back. Watch your stool for a couple of days."

She groaned, hiding her head. The strap welted the wide bottom over which the fabric 
moved at her heavings. Since she was now crawling forward slowly over the desktop he could 
hit down vertically, and did so, with considerable effect. The thirteenth blow belted home, 
seeming to stun the twisting surfaces.

"Christ!!" Suddenly slipping off the desk, she landed sitting on the carpet, her hands 
beneath her as if a horde of hornets had been let loose there. Marc contemplated her, 
grinning.

"You really are out of training, aren't you? What's going to happen later on? If a touch of 
leather like this “

"It's absolute bloody blue murder."

"You have two more. Get into position at once," he instructed sternly, "and don't stand up 
until Permission."

Palpitating all over, she bent back in place. The first stroke thucked in, closely followed by 
the second, at which she squeezed forward speechlessly “Aaaaaargh!"

Marc took his time. He unclipped the clothespin, replaced it in its drawer, peeled up her 
skirt (did it actually feel hot to the touch?) and inspected the punished posteriors.

These were particularly well-wealed on the right, where the tip had caused sulky-looking 
bluish bruises. Dropping his own clothes, he then unleashed his muscular and 
unsated manhood.

For a second he let it bob at anchor there, aimed full at the split fruit offered him in 
increasing abandon as she writhed. The soft center of her body swelled invitingly back, 
bosomy and excited in appearance. He caught her thighs in his hands, thumbs pressing at 
junction of hip and limb, steadied in full control, then half eased in. The sodden sheath let him
slide at once and he thrust to the hilt, jamming her hard against the desk.

"Unh! Ooooooooooooh!"

Her head reared back, torso straining up in her long sexual moan, as her being quivered 
on the great skewer of his desire. He let her stand impaled there a minute, striving for breath, 
conscious of the colossal crescendo of her combined pain and pleasure while she remained 
stiffened in ecstasy, pumping at him, as if protestingly, from within. Then she collapsed slackly 
on the desktop.

"I seem to have timed that right," he said. "By rights, I ought to cane the backside off you 
now."

"God, what heaven!"

He proceeded to ream her from behind, driving in and out silently, watching the slick 
piston of his sex under the striped fat cheeks. Soon she began bucking to his thrusts.

"Signs of life at last."

"God... give it to me... fill... stuff... ram... Marc, I'm ker-ker-ker “ With another hopeless wail,
she juiced over him once more in gushes.

"I believe you could go another," he said, continuing his rhythm placidly.

"I could go about nine hundred tonight, and you know it, damn you. The pain's subsiding 
nicely, and it's just then... it's... aow... for God's sake, you don't have to cram it up my throat... 
ah... eeeee... "

"This time I'll j-j-join you, Janice," he panted.

"Re my guest! " He finished on a stifled cry as his whole meatus seemed enveloped in her 
and at once, like the spittle he had flung into her face (and remnants of which were still moist 
on her perspiring neck), he felt part of himself hurling its clotted wet at the walls of her 
contracting, writhing womb.

"Christ God Almighty!"

Finally he withdrew stickily and handed her a wad of tissues from the desk dispenser. 
Gasping, stranded, she plugged the center of her body gratefully. Marc himself was whistling 
calmly when she staggered dazedly into his private bathroom moments later, holding the 
tissues in place.

"How's the Honorable Treasurer of the Elchester Conservation Committee feeling?" he 
asked.

"Well and truly fucked, in case you didn't know."

With skirt lifted high, Janice looked over her shoulder at her wide reflection in the mirror.

"What you've done to my poor behind, you brute!"

"Dave should do it regularly. Save all this bother."

"Never dared discuss it with him. I'm scared stiff it would sour him off me for good. And he
does poke so well. Ouch! It hurt twice as much tonight."

"But was twice as nice after, eh?" One finger traced the outline of the strap mark. In each 
case, inside the curve of the bruise, tiny darker flecks could be seen. "Minor improvement. My 
favorite friendly carpenter stiffened the tip by driving in some tacks. Small but effective 
alteration, it seems."

"You really are a monster, and the one with the only executive bidet in town, I'll bet." She 
lowered her hot seat across it gingerly. "And ouch again."

"You don't seem to object."

She shook her head wonderingly. "All I know is, Marc, for me it's twice as good after a 
shellacking like that. Just when the pain's receding, I mean. I must have come for a minute in 
there."

"You certainly were copious."

"I fear I always am. 'Specially when I've been made apprehensive beforehand. But just look 
at that great rhinoceros of a hard-on of yours again. Anyone would say “

"Anyone would say I was about to select a nice pliant cane and put it six times across the 
most upstanding pair of female buttocks outside Abyssinia." He kissed her head. "Hurry. 
There's a table reserved at The Hermitage for two lost souls, and we don't want to miss it, do 
we? With ten-second intervals, six will take only a minute."

"I have a feeling... rather a painful minute, on top of what you've just given me."

"I have that feeling, too."

"Absolutely necessary?"

"Absolutely."

She nodded, squatted. "I was afraid so. I was hoping that after that hosing down you gave 
me inside, you might have been slightly less... ferocious."

"Nonsense. Equivalent to a good walk or swim. Moreover, there's the extra to settle."

Janice's plump back straightened. "Extra?"

"For getting up during punishment."

"Getting up! I like that. I fell down, dammit."

He looked at her impatiently. "On your frock or on the bare? The former will be twice as 
many."

"Then I'll take the ratter," she said.

"Three with the strap or two with the cane?"

"I'll take the latter."

"Then it's eight," he said and vanished.

She groaned and rose, dripping. Her body was goose flesh all over. She completed her 
toilet carefully, powdering and perfuming until she was bandbox neat once more. Marc did 
not like her to be untidy. She smoothed her skirt, proud of her ample figure. Under the fabric 
her buttocks felt leaden, surly, as she prepared to lead them to their executioner. They seemed
to have a life of their own. She stared at their strong jut in the mirror. Brrh! She dreaded the 
caning, but knew it was best to get it over with. She also knew she was living intensely, with 
every pore in her being.

A line of anxiety threaded her creamy forehead as she went through to his office and said 
softly, "Ready."

The cane with which he indicated the low leather stool was a glittering yellow. It vibrated 
in the air. She remembered him telling her once that he got these rods from England, where 
they were used in schools. In which case she felt damn sorry for the schoolboys over there, or 
schoolgirls. Though only about one-third of the whippy length actually made contact it did so 
with a springy velocity and hurt horribly. Unspeakably.

"Here?"

She stood in front of the stool, moving awkwardly. She avoided his eyes now.

"You are about to be chastised. What for?"

"Tardiness."

"Have you anything to say?"

"No."

"You will receive six strokes across the naked buttocks. The two extra for insubordination 
under punishment will be administered afterward, immediately before we leave. I trust they 
will teach you self-control in public. Now bend over with your hands on that stool."

He positioned her carefully, in a way she remembered and disliked. Standing a pace away 
from the stool, and resting her palms upon it, her legs made a sloping angle, her bottom 
semirelaxed. In this pose the cane cut up especially bitingly, she found, and when he raised 
her skirt, undid the garter belt, and tucked them up her back, she suffered another profound 
pang of vulnerability.

"You will count the strokes."

The cane felt cold on her skin during the measuring tap, and then she was listening with all
her soul to the gentle, snickering swish as it gathered speed in the air behind, snapping with a 
dry note against her cringing skin thwack!

"One!"

Suddenly she gasped.

Christ! She'd forgotten.

Marc Merlin had not. He swept the cane expertly up under her, letting it bite firmly into 
the flesh. It was an efficient caning that soon took her breath away until she panted out the 
numbers, "Threeee... fooooooh... "

"I didn't hear that number loud and clear."

"FOUR!"

"We'll take it again."

"Plee... uh... fohhur... oh... fiiiiyyyve!"

"Straighten your legs," he said tenderly. "You're looking much better from behind now and
I want to make this last one “ Thwack!

"SIIIXX!"

"All right," he said cheerily. "You can get up."

Janice jumped erect, hissing. She grabbed her beaten bottom and hopped about for a 
moment. The pain, which had seemed bearable at first, was mounting like incredible hellfire.

"Phew!"

He grinned as he donned jacket and coat.

"You don't have to show off, Jan. Pull yourself together and get tidy. We have a date."

"Gee, you know how to cane, don't you."

He studied the stick, which he was still holding, thoughtfully. "These are getting hard to 
find. This model's a fraction too bendy. All sting and no smack."

"It's a brute. Like you."

Still massaging her hips, she stuck her tongue out at him. Gradually she hooked up her 
stockings. She was surprised to see him holding out her fur. Had he forgotten the extra two?

He had not forgotten.

Standing beside her as she faced the door he spoke with emphasis: "Listen. I'm going to 
give you these two quite hard."

"Harder than those?"

"Much. And I want you to walk out of this office at once. Immediately, do you understand?
And ring for the elevator. I'll be right behind you after I've put this little tickler away and 
locked up."

"What if someone's there?" she asked miserably. "That's your problem. One of 
self-discipline. What you came to me to learn."

"The elevators are bound to be full at this time."

"Lift your fur -and your skirt right above your fanny. Now lean forward with your hands 
upon your knees." After a plaintive backward glance, she obeyed. He stood lost in admiration 
for a moment of the ripe hindquarters that rose so sleekly from the tapering thighs, their 
maturity emphasized by the bisecting lines. Then, with a sibilant hiss, completed by a smack, 
he whipped hard into the juicy underflesh just above the groove. He whipped once, and he 
whipped twice.

Janice's cry vanished in a whine as the realization of the pain came to her, just where her 
hips began. She straightened slowly, gasping.

"Move!" he commanded, with angry face. "Get going now. It doesn't matter about your 
skirt."

"Christ please it's twice as bad just there."

"If you don't get going, it'll be six where you felt those last two, and I wouldn't hesitate to 
really hit." Somehow she was walking, somehow she was outside thank God no one was in 
the hallway somehow she had pressed the elevator button there. The last cut seemed to have
swept right through her and she was rubbing her legs with a screwed-up face when she saw 
that a man was watching her there. Marc Merlin was grinning at her.

"Control," he was saying. "Ladylike behavior. Please."

He was holding open the elevator door. People inside. And the pain was blazing worse. 
She went down with fists dug in the pockets of her fur, unable to keep the contorted frown 
from her face, unable to avoid the studied stare of two secretaries.

"That dentist should have used anesthetic," Marc was saying kindly.

Then she was slipping into the bucket seat of his parked Jag. She was still squirming in it 
like a fish when he got in the other side and drove off, grinning worse than ever.

"Christ, that cane can sting!" she got out at last.

"Thanks. We do our best to please."

"Nine strokes, and I can still feel every one. But those last two really sank into me. I loathe 
that halfbending position, in case you didn't know. It seems to hit right under me like that."

"Under the underneath? I wish some of those committee women could have seen you in 
verso just now."

"Madge wouldn't have minded," she said.

"A fine start to the evening, really. You mark beautifully low down."

"And you do so like your meat pretenderized, don't you?"

"I didn't take you on the strap marks, though. Saving those for later."

"How thoughtful of you!" she sneered.

"You must be getting soft, Jan."

"While you are growing hard," she replied, feeling him.

"Also, you forgot to thank me for correction again."

"I'll do the lines."

"Make it a thousand this time, would you."

"Oh all right," she repeated, unzipping him briskly. "Now allow me to show my undying 
gratitude in person. To wow! The Person."

It jumped in her palm like an unleashed hound and she teased it as he drove.

"That caning gave me an appetite. Always does."

"Well, just let go of mine, would you," he quipped, "unless you want an appetizer in your 
right eye."

"Creamy vichyssoise," she murmured, sinking her tawny head, grasping the throbbing root.
Rolling her lips around the corona, her white teeth nibbled the underbelly as she moved her 
head downward expertly.

"What's more," he added, above her brazen head, "you will wear no underclothes for a 
week, hussy. Understand?" The bobbing head bobbed briefly. "Good for you to feel fabric 
close to your person. Your thoroughly-to-be-chastised person. If you break this rule... oh my 
God, Jan, I have a sort of rich idea that someone... not a million miles from here... is going to 
get a mer-mouthful!"

* * *

Ten minutes later the captain of the swank Hermitage restaurant, situated at a prudent 
distance out of town, was conducting them to their table. Marc chose this place because none
of Dave Stapleton's crowd ever came here and because of the wine list.

As he walked behind Janice, between the busy tables, he could not lift his eyes from her 
hips. What a truly superb sit-upon she had. Totally different from, say, Kim's, but individual, 
too. These thick cheeks seemed to churn ponderously against each other as they moved, while
her thin dress appeared tighter than ever on her rump. She carried herself so well, almost 
thrusting back at him for attention! There was a sense of supreme ownership in reflecting that 
this proudly striding, confident clubwoman carried his hardening weals across her back. He 
had time to think: What normal man in this room would refuse if Janice appeared by his bed 
in the dead of night, handed him a stick, turned her splendid back and said, "Cane my arse?" 
Marc felt his gristle stiffen. He would not could not spare her later.

Janice was staring at the chair the headwaiter was holding for her.

"Something wrong, madame?"

"Perhaps if you could procure a cushion a soft one, please."

"But certainly, madame."

Turning, she smiled. "Marc, if you'll excuse me, I'll go powder my nose. Order something 
strong."

"Like a double vodka, maybe?"

"A large double vodka, if you would."

"On the rocks."

"Sure. It's getting kinda warm tonight."





CHAPTER TWO


The couple in the corner of the restaurant appeared a picture of contentment. The man, his 
thick wavy hair graying attractively at the temples, was smoking a cigar. The woman, lushly 
lovely in her cocktail frock, was toying with a pale liqueur, flat bronze hair streaming down her
back.

"And you mean to say he has never so much as even given you a spanking?" Marc Merlin 
asked, tapping off his ash on her elbow.

Janice Stapleton shook her head. "Never."

"Is he aware that you “

"Not a thing."

"And you won't tell him?"

"I daren't risk it. I've told you, Marc, I love Dave. Truly I do. He's my all. You I need."

They paused, their eyes meeting. The waiter cleared some dishes.

"If I told Dave of my my proclivity," she continued when the waiter had left them, "he 
would almost certainly think me odd, twisted, kinky. You know all the epithets, I think."

"By means of which society insulates itself from fantasy," he completed, nodding gloomily. 
"Oh, yes, oh, yes. But it's a shame. A waste. You do have such beatable buttocks, Jan."

She bubbled with laughter and sipped at her Strega.

"What do you mean by that, I wonder?"

"You have round, thrusting, imaginative cheeks, my dear."

"Imaginative? I can tell you they feel about double their normal size at the moment. Nine 
strokes with that stick covers plenty of territory, and I feel thoroughly well-thumped 
underneath. So if by imaginative you mean imagining what they're going to feel like soon... "

"After a taste of It. " The shudder her shoulders made this time stirred her breasts 
together.

"That switch is a horror. I don't think you know how much it hurts, Marc."

"It always makes you cry."

She stared into her glass for a long moment. "Yes. There does always have to be a 
punishment session, doesn't there?"

"Always," he confirmed, waving for the check. "Remember our golden rule. It always has to
be rather worse than expected."

"Will there be... Benjy?"

"That will depend on the respect and submission with which you comport yourself first."

"I hate Benjy, Marc."

"Which is to say you adore it. I know what you don't like. That is, what you love."

"Is it very awful to?"

"Not at all. It's perfectly natural, just so long as it's not destructive to others. Absolute 
power exerted on one hand, embraced on the other as the supreme form of love. It's the 
acme of romanticism. Did you come in the car, by the way? By which I mean, did you come, in 
the car?"

She shook her head as if he had just asked her whether she wanted more coffee. "No. 
Messy without pants. I finished in the ladies' room, actually."

"I thought so." He bent to sign the check and gave it to the waiter. "Pour that liqueur 
down your dress and let's go."

"Marc, it'll stain."

"Use your bra."

After a second's hesitation, she obeyed surreptitiously, with a "Ugh." Then he was leading 
her out. She took his arm in the parking lot. "It's wonderful with David, of course. He has a 
wonderful prick, but it doesn't make me feel fucked in the way you do. This pain bit's 
something else again. That's ecstasy."

"As well as agony?" Marc smiled, and she nodded as he handed her into the Jag. When he 
had settled beside her, she asked with frightened eyes, "It's Is it going to be very severe 
tonight?"

"That depends on you. How it comes. You haven't had any corrective training for two 
months, and I don't want you to start thinking you can fool around with this thing. You're 
playing in the fields of heaven, Jan."

"I know it. Where the stars are so much brighter. Kiss me, Marc," she said with a sob, and 
he did.

"Remember," he murmured in her hair, "when we start, no feeling, no personality in the 
true sense at all. You are nothing. A stock, a stone. You have given all of yourself over. Total 
abandonment, total submission."

"Total bliss." She sighed languorously. Under the fur, her limbs stirred. The liqueur was 
tacky on her tummy now. "And you, poor animal, are in just the same fix. Are you quite sure 
Suana wouldn't “

"You kidding, Jan? You know I've been dating Suana for years. I know her by now, all right. 
I take her out. We go around together."

"You make out?"

"No. I've told you that before."

"It's just that I can't believe it. I'll bet big Sue would give anything to get that ramrod of 
yours up her belly."

"Well, we don't, so there," he all but snarled, grabbing for his keys. "I don't want to get her 
involved in something she may not like. Why should I infect a wholesome woman like her with
my ideas... our ideas. Besides, there's that young Doreen to consider."

"Who knows a thing or two, I'll bet. Sue's said to bring her up real strict." She snuggled 
into her seat as the engine awoke. "The trouble with these bucket seats is that they weren't 
designed for my kind of bucket. You think Kim saw that cane, darling?"

"I doubt it. No, I simply help Suana with her beauty business. Financially, I mean. That's it."

"You have a piece of gorgeous Sue," she spoke dreamily. Marc Merlin ground his teeth.

"Shut up and concentrate on what you've got coming to you. The part of you you're 
sitting on is shortly going to be sore."

"Goody," she said, with stirring thighs.

A half hour later, they confronted each other across Marc's wall-to-wall carpet in his living 
room. Both had drinks. Both were momentarily silent. A stereo throbbed gently somewhere. 
Under his gaze, Janice made an adjustment so that she was sitting on herself rather than her 
skirt.

"Glad you remembered that rule," he said. "You might write that out also."

"Very well."

"A thousand times. Are you ready now?"

"I think so." She nodded gravely. "May I have a last one?"

He stood up. "No. I don't want you anesthetized. For your own sake." He led her to a wall 
mirror, turning her back to it and raising her skirt behind. Her cheeks looked meaty and hot. 
Janice gave a little gasp as she saw how well wealed they were across the center. The cane 
stripes had faded some on the left, but the tip marks were purple and hard.

"They do deserve it, don't they?" he said comfortingly.

She nodded dumbly.

"And they will get it, won't they?"

"Yes, yes. Oh, you will let me see, Marc? I mean, it makes it so fantastic if occasionally I can 
see... them... getting it behind me."

"Put on your things," he ordered roughly.

A vain man, Marc Merlin had a fetish for physical fitness. One room of his vast apartment 
was a bare, well waxed parquet expanse, an exercise room, gleaming with apparatus and bars. 
He was standing in the center of this, dressed in a Russian schoolmaster's uniform of the last 
century, a decoration round his neck, when Janice knocked and entered some minutes later. 
She was transformed.

All trace of makeup had been removed from her face, her hair was held back in a ponytail, 
she wore sky-high heels, and her dress if such it might be called was of pale blue "little-girl" 
gingham, slightly worn-looking and soiled. It consisted of two brief pieces, and on either side 
a wide leather belt secured them with two buckles, a buttoned bolero top out of which her 
breasts were bursting, the nipples prodding like urgent thumbs, and a scant skirt hung to the 
belt in the manner of a curtain, on rings, and barely concealing her pubis.

Her white face was intensely apprehensive as she marched toward him on her stilt shoes 
and dropped to her knees. At once her head was ringing from a cracking slap.

"How many times," he gritted slowly, "do I have to tell you that when you kneel down in 
this room, you do so as if it were your last desire in life. I want to really hear your knees on the
boards, slave. Do it again."

"Sorry, Master."

She dropped again, rapping the woodwork with her kneecaps.

"Once more. Really hard!"

The blow took her breath away and she winced.

"Now stand up straight."

Doing so, she knew that one knee was grazed. Standing like a soldier before him, eyes 
ahead, she was aware of him inspecting her.

The skirt behind hung on the shelf of her hips and he felt under and assessed the weight 
of her buttocks as a butcher might weigh so much steak.

"These bruises are positively poetic," he said, squeezing them.

Then, coming forward, he rolled a nipple between finger and thumb as if she had no 
feeling at all.

Desperately she tried to keep from twisting. There were twin cuffs for her wrists sewn into 
the belt in back, and she knew that at the first sign of independence on the part of her hands, 
they would be secured there. She knew that at the first such sign, also, her bruised bottom 
would be sending up distress signals in no time. When he raised her skirt in front, she could 
see her lush bush in the mirror. Contrasted with her frock, it looked somehow aggressive, 
obscene. Sliding in one finger he played absently with the slick marble of her clitoris a 
moment.

"You're disgusting," he said, wiping his finger on her so-called skirt. "Coming in like that. 
The only thing you understand is a thrashing. Now masturbate. Fast. You have one minute."

Still staring, expressionless, she began to rub her button. She was in a high state of 
excitement, soon flushed and breathing hard, but she couldn't attain orgasm.

"Twenty seconds more," he said. She rubbed feverishly, then gave up, gasping. "What's the
matter?" he asked.

"I... c-can't, Master."

"Why not?"

"Too frightened."

"I thought apprehension made it easier for you."

"It does, Master. But I couldn't... this time."

There was a silence. Finally, from somewhere behind her, he growled, "Christ, you need 
beating! Go and get It" Sick to her soul there was no stopping it now she hesitated but 
fractionally before moving to the closet. Marc spotted it instantly.

"Come here, slave!" he hissed. "When I give a command, you execute it as if there were 
nothing more in the whole wide world that you wanted to do. Got it?" He slapped her face. 
"The penalty for Hesitation, please?"

"Three, sir," she said breathlessly. "Master."

"Your memory needs stimulating, slave. From behind. Three what, please?"

"Of the best, Master."

He shook his head. "Embroider that. Dwell on the idea a moment. Use your imagination. 
Go ahead!"

"Three of the best with the cane across my naked arse.

This time he slapped her face hard. "When I say 'embroider,' I mean it. You can do much 
better than that. It's six if you don't really try this time."

She took a deep breath. When she spoke, it was loudly: "Three juicy strokes with a long 
yellow whippy cane... as hard as possible... nice and slowly... flat across my well-bent fat bare... 
miserable... well-wealed... frightened arsecheeks."

"All right," he grumbled. "Not bad for semantics. The state of your horrible hide in this 
room depends on your cooperation. Go and get It."

But when she returned from the closet with the willowy cane from the racks there, and 
presented the knob of its handle to Marc, he frowned impatiently again.

"That's not It, fool. Have you forgotten what It is already?" She was turning to remedy her 
error when he stopped her with a susurrant quiver of the cane. "It doesn't matter. This will 
hurt, I think you'll find. But first of all let me hear your recitation for the evening."

Concentrating with all her might, knowing that every error would be rewarded by a cut, 
Janice began:

 -

"Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Upon the hours and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend

Nor services to do, till you require... "

 -

She reached the end successfully, without falter or mistake. Marc said, "Not bad. I'll let you
off with six. Followed, of course, by the three for Hesitation. Stand here." He tapped the floor 
some paces in front of a mirrored panel of the wall. "Now bend and touch your toes."

Hectically it was all happening too fast she obeyed.

"Stand up," he said. "Now, when I say 'bend over,' I mean reach right forward as if your life 
depended on it, bitch. Head on your knees. Quick!"

He had placed her as she had feared and of course desired but her First sight in the 
mirror startled her intensely. Who was this mature woman bent double with her bottom 
displayed so blatantly, under the rising flap of skirt, in one of the most defenseless and 
degrading positions imaginable for her sex? The high heels braced her calves. The skirt 
covered only half her strongly divided cheeks and, though her thighs were tight together, she 
could see the shag of her central self, the red lips pushed back. She could see her own hot 
face and open mouth. She could see the ruddy weals across the powerful spread, and she 
could see the tip of the yellow stick prodding elastically at the flooring as if eager anxious to 
attend to her flesh. Oh, heavens, she was going to get it!

"Right down," he coaxed. There were other practical instructions before, with a 
contemptuous twitch of the tip, he flicked the skirt up her back. He prodded ruminatively. 
Janice felt like a cow. Though the position drew up the underfat, there was still resilience in 
her firm behind.

"Six of the best, slave. During the intervals reflect on how worthless you are."

"Yes, Master."

He seemed to move slowly, lethargically. Then she gasped as if thrust in icy water as the 
flash of light licked round her seat. She saw the end bite in, almost digging there, then bounce
back off, leaving its furious weal right across the strap marks. This was twice as bad as in his 
office. Yet now that the pain had started, there was a paradoxical relief: she was reduced to the
mere faculty of fighting her rebel flesh.

Thwaaccck! Two.

She watched her arse lashed with expert vigor and perfect aim. The timing was contrived 
to make her await the fearsome crescendo of pain until it seemed unbearable and then add 
to it grimly, with the next.

"Ow!" she said, though softly.

After the third blow, she emitted a short, shaming fart. She endured the fourth with 
clenched teeth, frowning, trying not to cry out, and possibly incur extra. But the fifth seemed 
to slice right through her, and she yelped.

"Please," he complained, "you know I have these weak ears from the war. Bend right over 
sharply." He tapped her fingers which were, in truth, fretting at her knees.

Tears were squeezing at her eyes. She endured the last belting crack panting, remaining 
bent as he felt the six long weals, each terminating in a lump on the hard flesh of her right hip.

"Not bad. I overhit at the end. Get up."

A flush of pain streamed up her then, as she arched erect. She grabbed her wounded 
flesh only to cry in earnest at the tapping stroke across the back of her knuckles. Whining, she
danced in misery, sucking one skinned knuckle.

"Keep your hands to your side, wretch. Stand still and stop jumping. For the next three I 
want you upright, hands behind your head and inclined forward slightly. Let them go slack. I 
want them relaxed."

Thrice he thrashed her thus, the stick visibly lifting the heavy, beaten buttocks. If anything, 
these cuts were even stiffer and when they were over, she was unable to keep from grabbing 
her bottom again and hopping.

"This might be a good time to tighten that belt," he ordered, smiling.

A hand went over her mouth, pinching her nostrils. Her breathing was held until she 
struggled in his grip. Then, as she sucked for air on release, he jerked the buckles tighter by 
two notches. Janice doubled, gasping. When finally she stood up she was rigid from rib cage 
to pelvis. She could barely breathe at all. Her face was scarlet in the mirrors, her hips spilling 
out from the belt's constriction.

"Now," he instructed, "kick off your shoes like a good girl. And sit down. Stand up. Sit 
down. Stand up."

The exercises began. As usual, they were extremely energetic and punctuated by cuts of 
the air from the cane.

"One, two. One, two. Faster than that."

All Janice knew was the cane. All she could see was its shimmering menace. By now, apart 
from the leathering she had endured, she had had eighteen strokes across the backside with 
the cane, and she didn't want another. She would do anything to avoid another.

Fifty squat-bends were succeeded by as many toe touches. She flung herself into the 
workout with gusto and when it was over, she was sweaty and panting. One breast had 
popped over her bodice and jumped slabbily at her movements while behind her the apron of
skirt had insinuated itself into her peach-cleft. Her hair straggled wetly.

"They do look more virtuous already," he said, examining her buttocks as she stood before
him. "Now put on your shoes."

She hurried to obey. As she rose, her hands rubbed instinctively behind her; the last caning
still hurt.

"Your hands are impertinent, slave. Let me restrain them for you." Her wrists were cuffed 
behind her back, one over the other, bracing her shoulders. "Now go and get It. And by It, I 
mean It."

Janice knew what to do. She went to the closet, opened it with her fingers, facing him, and 
returned with the terrible lean switch between her teeth. A shudder of profound helplessness 
and fear went through her as she knelt, tears on her cheeks, and he accepted It from her.

It was a rapierlike length of heartless whalebone, black as a bird's wing and twice as fast, 
pliant yet hard as stone when it hit into tender hips or thighs. Or even into her breasts 
bobbed Benjy! She could see now the bloblike swelling at the tip, which made It hurt so 
unbearably.

"Do you want to avoid the extreme unction, slave?"

"Yes," she answered fervently, adding quickly, "Master."

He laughed. "I believe you really do. I really know what you don't like, eh? You might say 
it's a specialty of mine. Well, you know I never do a deal, but tonight I'll make an exception. 
Tonight I'll give you a chance to show your loyal submission and control."

When he spat this time, it was on the floor.

"Lick it up, slave."

She crashed down to obey.

He laughed again dryly. When next he came into her vision, he held a luscious downy 
peach.

"Bite."

The overripe fruit filled her mouth. Her strong teeth bit into the soft flesh, holding it there 
as he instructed. The fruit was big and held her jaws wide.

"Now lean forward with your legs together. I'm going to give you a chance. This isn't 
cruelty, it's curiosity. I want to test what progress you have made in your general subservience 
since your last visit."

Raising her skirt, he tucked it into her belt. As he did so, Marc felt the joyous leap of his 
manhood and knew by the continued shuddering of the body in front of him how far down 
the road they were going together. Her punishment was achieving a new level. It was deeply 
psychological. She was so intensely frightened that tears were pouring down her cheeks as 
she desperately held the wet peach in her teeth. Her legs were braced, her face flushed, her 
wrists caught behind her in the cuffs. Above all, her buttocks seemed to claim the room. The 
swollen globes were by now well beaten. Chubby enough at the top not to let her sex peep 
through, her thighs were pressed together; only a wisp of damp hair twined back, bedraggled.
The bruises looked tender and the overhangs shook like jelly as he stepped well to one side. 
They knew what It was, all right.

"I'm going to give you seven," he said. "The magic number, slave. Surely you can take 
seven. All I'm asking is that you hold that peach in your mouth while I do so. Then you will be 
excused from having Benjy for tonight and be rewarded in the usual way. If you drop it, 
however, I fear I shall have to be cruel to be kind. Over a little more."

She threw him an absurdly imploring glance over her left shoulder and then, with a greedy
hiss, the whalebone snicked into her skin.

Zzzzzkkk!

"Unh!" Janice gave a stifled grunt, her head going up, her forehead creased in pain. Her 
bottom clenched, hard. He paused till they relaxed and cut again, the black weal snaking out 
on impact. She danced quickly.

"This is really a most satisfactory instrument," he said. "You've no idea how edifying you 
look."

With tremendous tension, she took the third, then the fourth. She was bending about, her 
thighs rubbing together, making a snoring sound. He administered the fifth and, after the 
resultant contortions, advanced to inspect what looked to be a ruby ooze from where the tip 
had bitten when there came a thump, close followed by a wail. Janice had dropped the peach
and burst into frustrated sobs.

"Please... Master... I t-t-t-tried... so hard."

"Not hard enough," he said curtly. "All right, put it back in the bowl over there."

She dropped to her knees, panting, both breasts now fully on display before him. Her 
whole body was heaving.

"Please... please don't give me Benjy, Master."

"This thing really brings you to your senses, doesn't it?"

"Please... anything... I'll do anything rather than “ A swish of air answered her as, with a 
steady, calculated swipe, the switch seemed to cut through her rump. She yipped and seemed 
to jump from her knees a second, before, speechless with pain, she bent over double. Marc 
took time and aim and lashed her again. "AAAAAAOOOO WWW! "

"Hurry, bitch."

Blinded, out of breath, she fought to find the peach, pick it up in her teeth, replace it in the
bowl, and get back to him, still twisting in her bonds.

Marc was becoming extremely excited and so, he knew, was she. They were both living 
intensely, responding creatively. He bent the length of whalebone across his thighs.

"Maybe after tonight you won't be in such a hurry to come back for more. Or will you, 
slave?" He tucked her skirt up in front, too. The lips of her cunt looked inflamed, their inner 
surfaces craven. "No, Pm afraid it's Benjy for you. But first we'll try a spot of Spanish Step. 
Depending on your performance in that, we'll decide how many you should have."

He went to a wall and returned with a strap of stout leather.

"The Spanish Step wouldn't be any fun without a saddle strap, would it?" he commented 
as he buckled one end to her belt in front, attaching it to one of the rings there. "Legs apart, 
slave!"

"Oh... " He slid it in the furrow, drew it between her legs, up through the cleft of her 
buttocks, and secured it to the belt in back. He gave a final rough tug up, notching it tighter 
by a hole.

"Aaow!" She was on tiptoe.

"There. That ought to make you a little less rambunctious. Count yourself lucky it isn't 
studded inside."

All at once he noticed that her face was scarlet and that she was squeezing her thighs 
together as if for very life. Her breasts heaved violently. He slipped a finger under the strap in 
front. Foam seeped round it patchily. "I believe you came, filth! Did you? Tell me." He took up 
the whalebone rod. She nodded dumbly. "Who gave you permission, slave? I don't remember 
doing so. Four. Lean forward."

"Please... it's ag-agony..." Zzzzlkk!

"Aaaah!"

Zzzzlkkk!

"Mercy!"

Zzzzzlkkkk!

"NO!"

Zzzzllkkkkkkk!

"Haaaaow!"

"Now get going, slave. I want to see your knees high, chin up. Stare at the ceiling as you 
prance. Obliterate yourself completely. You're a beast. Two rounds at normal and then we'll 
speed it up. Go!"

Janice began as if in despair. She had attained a new level of terror and knowledge now. 
The high-stepping march around the room always culminated their sessions, and she could 
think of nothing but the impending pain of Benjy. She had to step high, knees up each step, 
teetering on her heels, panting while he called time from a metronome set ticking on a table.

"Hup, two, three, four... higher than that... keep your head right up."

Eyes tearing, shoulders drawn back cruelly, she forced herself to ignore the pain made at 
each movement by the strap. It seemed to divide her in half. Anything, anything not to have 
more strokes from that appalling switch.

"Faster now!"

She had gone round successfully once, sweating already and her breasts bounding when 
he increased the tempo. Almost at once she stumbled, going over on one heel.

The switch tapped the floor. "Come here, slave."

"Please," she mumbled. "It's... this strap. It's cutting me in two."

He pointed inexorably. Her knees hit the boards before him. The whalebone sang into her 
thrice. At the third cut, she screamed. It was like a razor, and she was sure that he had broken 
the skin in one place behind.

"Get up," he said.

"It's excruciating," she whispered.

"Then avoid it, idiot."

He watched her as she gritted her teeth and tried again, raising each knee with effort, her 
face almost wild. There came into his mind the thought of Suana how incredible it would be 
to have her here, with her bottom wealed like this under that little Grecian tunic she wore to 
work, but he dismissed it at once. Another stumble three more strokes. By now Janice could 
scarcely drag her feet toward the dreaded tail. She yelped like a puppy when they were over.

"Too much noise," he pronounced. "I'll have to bit you, Slave."

She stood where she was, trembling. He went to a closet and came back with something 
clinking in his hand. She held her breath. First he greased the edges of her mouth; then he 
held her jaw open with his left hand; then he told her to raise her tongue. The steel bit was 
cold and hard. It seemed to choke her a second. Then he had secured it behind her head and 
drawn the single strap to which it was attached down her back to join that which went 
between her legs.

"Perhaps that will keep your head up."

It was indeed forced back most cruelly and any effort to alleviate the tension only resulted 
in a tightening of the saddle strap between her legs. It was a hellish position mouth agape 
and slobbering slightly.

"Now get going," she seemed to hear from a distance.

The metronome ticked inexorably. She marched in a sort of panic now. One round 
complete. But the second was judged inadequate. She had to prostrate herself on her belly, a 
small simple wooden frame was fetched, and her ankles secured in it, her legs below the knee 
at right angles. Ten strokes across the soles of her feet. It was always unexpectedly painful. She
squealed. Ten from the other side...

"Now maybe you'll pick up your feet."

It continued. She was almost dazed with the delirium, yet conscious of the complete 
control he held, and was grateful to him, as his subject.

Then it grew very much worse because everything stopped together. Near-naked, panting 
and perspiring, her buttocks beaten and her feet aching, she heard him vaguely behind her. 
She clenched her cheeks against his stroke, but no stroke came, and the saddle strap hurt her 
more than ever. Only by straining could she see in the mirrors, and she didn't like what she 
saw. There was the gleam of the steel seat, the sound of some metallic adjustments. She was 
really feeling very sick.

Hot liquid ran down her throat. Marc was pouring something into her mouth from a flask. 
Scotch. Half-hot. She gulped it avidly.

"A little Dutch courage, my dear. As you may have guessed, it is, I fear, going to be 
necessary to give you the extreme ah unction."

She gargled in reply. But when the saddle strap was taken from between her legs, it was as
if the heat coursing through her veins opened in relief in her sex. Her pussy grew petals, and 
flowered. But there was no relief for her neck; the strap drawing back the bit was tightened to 
a ring at her cuffs.

The funny thing was, the seat was no more than a shiny secretary's stool. Rather low, and 
with adjustments. Nothing about it to make her quiver like jelly all over as he led her to it by 
the bush.

The stool did not swivel and its steel seat was sculpted like a saddle, with a division in the 
central ridge. It felt nice and cold to her scorched bottom as she sat, though it divided her 
hams considerably. He ankles were doubled beneath her, secured at the stanchion under the 
chair, crisscross, parting her knees. The strut behind arched her back prodigiously, especially 
when her shoulders were strapped to its crossbar by thongs under the armpits.

Looking up beseechingly, like a spaniel, she saw Marc appraising the position expertly. She
caught a shocking glimpse in some mirror: a gagged woman with purple face, her back arched
so that her breasts were thrust out horizontally, enormous, the nipples plumlike.

"Please... please... please," her imprisoned tongue was trying to articulate.

There was a brush above her, and her breasts were daubed with oil. Or was it cocoa 
butter? Whatever it was, it stopped the marks being too painful! Trust Marc to know every 
refinement like that. Then the rubber tips over her nipples, in protection.

Please... please... please...

Marc had vanished from view. She felt his fingers. Then the wet rubber dong began to be 
inserted up her vagina. Serrated. God. It stopped there. Almost instantly her hips started 
writhing.

A black line bisected her vision. Marc was standing over her, holding the whalebone. He 
lifted her breasts, letting them bounce back, judderingly.

Please... please...

Anything but...

"I think your committeewomen might appreciate you now," he said. "I'll start with six this 
side. The tip may make you jump a bit, on the left."

PLEASE!

The apprehension was getting out of control. Squirming, her pelvis spasmed; she could 
feel herself starting to come. Marc could see it, too, as she panted like a runner and he drove 
down with a whippy cut of the switch that left its tracery of black lace across her 
bubbies One!





CHAPTER THREE


At that moment, on the far side of town, a door clicked in a darkened hallway. A pert blonde 
shucked off her coat and tiptoed to the stairs.

"Doreen!"

She groaned.

A light clicked on. Her cousin, Suana, had been waiting. A moment later, she was standing,
crestfallen in snug tartan bermudas and scuffed sneaks before a woman deep in a living-room
chair.

Suana Becker still had on the brief jersey tunic dress, belted, she had worn at work. Her 
beauty and massage parlor adjoined her home. Her shirt was white, and she wore heels. Her 
ash-colored hair was drawn off her broad forehead in a heavy braid. Folding the copy of 
House Beautiful in her lap, she crossed one endless leg in darkish pantyhose.

"Well?"

"I s'pose I'm in for it again, Suana."

"Show me your watch."

The young woman extended a bony wrist. Midnight, plus ten. Suana Becker stared at her.

"Dorry, this is the third time you've been out after hours this month. Do you actually like 
being punished?"

"Hell no, Sue. Not the way you do it."

"I've done it that way since you moved in here after your parents died. I was in sole charge
of your upbringing. I was afraid of being soft."

"You needn't be, Sue not with that new cane."

"Don't be sassy, Do. Any excuses this time?"

"No. I just dawdled, I guess." The girl hung her head. One hand rubbed ruefully at her rear.
"Do you want me to go up to my room for it now?"

"I was just thinking," said the tall woman, stretching her elegant arms above her head. 
"Since they aren't acting as deterrent, my methods must be too lenient. Wasn't it only 
Wednesday a week ago you got your last?"

"Yes, Suana. I'd been out with Alec."

"And what did you get?"

"Six beauts."

"Well, miss, you seem to be able to swallow them mighty easily, I must say."

The girl's golden eyes fell to her feet. "They stung like anything, Sue."

"But not enough, it seems. Turn round and drop your britches, Now."

The culprit did as bid. The sturdy little butt that popped out of the bermudas, and then the
lilac panties, showed fading lines from previous attention. Doreen Becker remained bent, 
hands on knees. She had a cute can and knew it. She even drew up further her fawn cashmere 
sweater.

With a sigh, her cousin rose to her six feet and half an inch and gave the heinie a playful 
pat.

"All right, young lady. The time has come to give you something that will stick in your 
mind when you're out with your beaux. This is going to hurt you rather more than me."

"The c-cane, Sue?"

"What do you think?"

The girl tugged up her things in a somber way. "How many?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?!" She tapped her cousin's cheek with a laugh. "Some healthy 
suspense will do no harm to your soul at all, my sweet. However, as an hors d'oeuvre I don't 
mind imparting some of the bad news in your relatively immediate future."

"Such as?"

"Well, for one thing, I regret to have to tell you that starting as of now the regime for your 
cure is going to include six of the best every Monday morning. First thing. As soon as you get 
out of bed, you report to me in your pajamas, take a cold shower, and bend over the tub for 
six stingers. Nice and tight. Don't look so cheerful about it, silly. It's just to start you off on the 
right foot each week from now on."

"But really, Suana... s-s-six... and every Monday, I mean “

"Bare." The tall woman could not restrain a laugh at the quivering lip and forsaken look in 
the face before her; a tear swelled in one bravely blinking eye.

"What's more, you won't date again this month."

"At all?"

"From next month on, each time you go out evenings, you will report to me fully dressed 
just before meeting your date. At that time I shall administer a further six, also tight, to serve 
as a reminder. Though I advise you," she added with a ripple of laughter, "not to date 
Mondays."

"But But next Saturday... I promised Chuck... "

"Since you promised that young moron I'll make an exception. Eight will hold you the 
date. Now let's go up."

Suana moved majestically up the stairs, humming. Doreen miserably followed her cousin. 
Eyes magnetized by the melancholic movement of fabric over the hips ahead, she swallowed 
with fear. On the long, strong back, which tapered to a wasp waist, the flaxen plait lay as if 
painted, coarse as horsehair. The hips flared out sweetly and their motion tossed the skirt so 
that the girl could see up liquid thighs to where the opacity of the pantyhose began. She 
shivered with fear at her cousin's springy step.

And what was happening now? The routine was altering appallingly. She was being 
beckoned into her cousin Suana's bedroom, no less. Always before, she got "it" in her own. 
Good golly! Doreen Becker began to believe she had gone a little too far. The door shut 
behind her.

"I have a sort of feeling you're not going to need much on below the waist."

Still the girl stood watching as a series of arrangements were made in the room, none of 
which boded much good. She pushed at a tear with one knuckle as her cousin moved about 
briskly. A leather pouf was placed in the exact dismal center of the room. From the adjoining 
bathroom were fetched fluffy towel and dripping sponge. Doreen's hands went to her hips. 
Two fingers slowly unzipped. But what was this? Her cousin was returning from the closet with
a length of flat, hard wood...

"W-What! I'm going to be paddled?"

"Alas, you are, Dorry." Suana studied the board's unfeeling surface, painted with an 
insignia. "Dear old sorority' regular. You may make its acquaintance later in life, dear."

"You've never paddled me before, Suana. In fact, I've never been paddled before. That's to 
say, I've never had the paddle."

"Well, you're going to now."

"Couldn't it be the cane?"

Suana's gray eyes held her cousin's then. "It could. And will. You're going to be whacked 
with this first, then well caned after."

"Suana!"

"In your own interest, sweetheart. Six no longer seem to do the trick. Tonight I'm going to 
paddle your sitzplatz, give you fifteen minutes for reflection, then try and see what ten of the 
best with the cane will do for your memory."

"Ten! Well, how many with the paddle then?" the girl asked sickly.

"Oh, let's say twenty-five. Ten on each chub and five jolly ones full across your 
you-know-where to finish with." Raising the bat, Suana brought it down in a punishing slap 
that drew a puff of dust from the leather pouf. Then she draped the towel over it. "Take 'em 
down, you monkey, and lie over here, bottom up."

"But t-twenty-five, Susie, with that... that... "

"Quit stalling, or I'll give you extra."

With trembling fingers, the girl obeyed. In a second her bermudas were in miserable 
wrinkles about her ankles. Her panties followed.

"Grip my ankles when you're well over. And don't let go!"

Frowning, Doreen stood on the opposite side of the pouf from her cousin. Her legs were 
straight and firm, her belly adolescently protuberant, with, at the base of it, a snugly confident 
slit downed with fairish fronds. With visible effort, she placed herself for punishment, her legs 
extended behind her.

Still humming, her athletic cousin stood back, rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, and spat 
on her right hand for grip. The firm cheeks hugged together on the towel in anticipation, the 
grasp on her ankles increased, as she raised high the heartless yard and brought it slapping 
down.

"Ouch!"

Two, three, four, five...

"Suana... auuuu!"

"Stretch out properly, dear. And you should know by now that if you clench up like that, it 
only hurts the more."

She had selected the left cheek first, and whacked it with a will. The paddle made a 
punishing report and the girl's rubbery flesh soon streaked scarlet. Where the end fell, it was 
turning a nice deep blue. Six, seven, eight... the girl's legs parted in a twist of pain and she was
able to land the last two hard inside the cheek. "OWWWW!"

Doreen stretched, racked. Fiery agony flamed up her hip. She turned her head and saw 
above her a pair of tapering, liquid thighs whose sheen beneath the skirt vanished in a 
darkness at their juncture. Her cousin was standing well astride, and for a moment the girl 
could sec the matted strength of the spot where she had first emerged into life.

"Please... it hurts like... ooooh!"

The ten on the right were stiffer, and Doreen danced when they were over. Catching one 
foot in her pants she tripped, sat down with a bump, and looked up pleading.

"Please, Sue... not the five as well... "

"Stand up, hands above your head, and lean forward a little. So. Good. You look very pretty
like that."

She did. Suana had never employed the paddle on her before, preferring, for correctional 
purposes, a stinging cane. But the wood had done its work. The word "tanned" was perfectly 
appropriate since the twin chubs had become well seared with blotchy red. She took her time 
and basted the bare board across the pouting derriere with a full-blooded swipe.

"OUH!"

The four remaining followed in rapid succession, the last two driving their recipient, 
yelping, before them.

"Come here, you!"

The punishment was completed with a supplement. Holding Doreen's wrists behind her 
back in her left hand, bending her forward as she fought for breath, Suana took a 
nylon-bristled brush and, stiff-armed, swung it under each cringing cheek twice.

"Aieee!"

"All right, I think you'll appreciate a good caning after that. Now run along to your room."

When the girl had gone, Suana saw' herself in a mirror, legs parted, bright-eyed and still 
holding the bat.

The movement of her breasts under the white silk shirt attested to her excitement. In fact, 
she got no pleasure out of punishing her offspring, regarding it, rather, as a maternal duty, 
now that her husband had died. It was her next movement that revealed the source of her 
tension.

Turning slightly, Suana raised her tiny tunic skirt and looked at her bottom. In the 
pantyhose it was not wide; rather, it was leggy, but the twin overhangs were surprisingly 
ample and fleshy. She gave them a testing smack with the paddle, and at once felt a faintness 
of ecstasy behind her eyes. If only, if only...

But no. All these years, she had never dared tell Marc what she really wanted him to do to 
her. He would think her at best absurd, at worst a "deviate," or one of those horrible words. 
She bent forward in the mirror, going cold with desire and fear as she imagined him plying the
paddle round those anxious nethercheeks. God, how she needed... The telephone rang.

A small precise woman's voice, like a tiny icicle, asked if she were alone. Of all people! At 
just this moment.

"Hello, Kim," she said cheerfully. "I certainly am, but I won't be for long. As it happens, I'm 
just going in to Doreen to give her a hiding with that lovely new cane you sold me last week."

"The long one, Mrs. Becker?"

"Well, not the longest. That one's practically a whip, isn't it? To be reserved for very special 
occasions, and for someone with extra padding. No, the new Spanish ash, actually."

"I think you'll find it satisfactory."

"I'm sure I shall," Suana Becker said with a chuckle.

"The question is, will she? What moved you to call me up at this late hour, Kim?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Becker, I tried to get you earlier but the line was busy. And there is 
something I wanted you to know right away."

Kim was the inscrutable Orient personified. Come to think of it, she didn't even know her 
second name. Oh, yes, Loh. Kim was indebted to Suana for a slight "terminological 
inexactitude" in support of her immigration papers and all these years had been loyalty 
personified. Suana could not have wished for any other secretary for Marc since she was 
certain Kim never saw him after hours. And then had come the day when the little Oriental girl
had started coming to her for massages. Slapping and "cupping" her back, Suana had heard in
soft accents, "You don't think you could do that a little harder, do you, Mrs. Becker?"

Now roughly once a month Kim came to her for massage and "correctional training." The 
supple figure bent like a hinge for six or eight strokes with a willowy cane, or simply remained 
on the table for a strapping. She got no sexual pleasure out of it, but the endurance of pain 
was evidently a psychological necessity for Kim. She had to suffer at regular intervals, or she 
was not happy.

And she instructed Suana in how to inflict it, too, how to follow through with the cane, use
the tip to best advantage, time each cut for maximum effect. Her stoicism was incredible. She 
could take a stinging six across her compact cheeks almost without flinching and even, on 
occasion, asked Suana in a controlled way for more. There was something in a book she had 
read about T. E. Lawrence of Arabia...

But now the telephone was hot in her hand. Suana was listening to what she had dreaded 
to hear. Kim had told her that over the past two years Marc had taken Janice Stapleton out at 
odd moments when David, her husband, was out of town. The last two meetings had been 
especially surreptitious. This time Kim had followed them from The Hermitage. So Janice was 
after her man, was she! Suana was biting her lip with jealous rage when they finished their 
talk, and hung up. Stayed with him till ten minutes ago...

She looked at her watch, went to a closet, and chose a whippy cane. As she walked down 
the corridor swishing it, thoughts boiled in her brain. She would have to teach Janice a very 
stern lesson. Yes, the time had definitely come. She was grateful to Kim, a loyal friend.

At the same time, she was wondering. Kim had told her once that it was a kind of expiation
for something in her soul. If she went without suffering some physical pain for a long period, 
she became nervous and irritable. Perhaps it was a safety valve. And Suana couldn't help 
thinking of Dorry, whose already-scalded seat was shortly going to be lashed ten times with 
this unfeeling stick. It certainly was odd that she didn't complain more, at her age, about 
being punished this way. It seemed that only a very few of her girlfriends could say the same. 
Odd, too, that she repeatedly came home late on dates like this. There had been that book 
she had hidden once, The Story of 0. Suana would have to take a look at it.

Usually, when her cousin went to her bedroom on occasions of this solemn nature, Doreen
was sitting on the edge of the bed, properly bare from the waist down, contemplating her 
error and her coming fate. Tonight, however, she was sitting in a basin of cold water in her 
bathroom, bare feet on a chair placed before it.

"Come and get it," Suana called. "No, don't bother to dry."

Her backside dripping, the girl came forward looking very apprehensive. She could not 
seem to take her eyes off the cane.

"Please, Suana... not ten."

Suana looked at the fearful chubbies. They were certainly well beaten, and the bristles had 
left tiny black dots all over their lower surfaces. She really felt sorry for the sinful girl, but what 
had to be done had to be done.

"Bend over the end of the bed."

"Suana, please. Really. I don't think I can take as many as ten. Couldn't you give me them 
tomorrow night?"

"I never bargain, Do. You know that by now. If you put it off till tomorrow, it's twelve."

With hung head, the girl thought. "Gee, Sue, you really are strict. Okay, I'll get it over now, 
I guess. Only, you may have to tie my hands."

Suana hesitated, then said, "Very well. Follow me."

With her cousin padding sickly behind her, she led the way down another passage to the 
door which connected into her beauty business. It gave directly on to the massage and 
"keep-fit" room, whose floorboards gleamed as well waxed as those in Marc Merlin's 
apartment.

In a matter of seconds Doreen's wrists were secured behind her back in a rubber thong 
and a cord from a ceiling pulley had pulled them up behind her. The cord was fixed when she 
was on tiptoe, and half-bent. Suana Becker stood well back, Bashing her cane. Janice 
Stapleton, indeed!

"Sue, please. Don't cut me too low. The marks show under my suit, at the pool."

"I'm going to give you ten strokes at half-minute intervals for coming in late. If I see that's 
not hurting you enough, and it's dying down too quickly, I'll step that up a little. In any case, 
you can look forward to three or four minutes of some discomfort, dear."

Jan-ice Bitch!

The first stroke snickered in across the tender puppy-fat at the base of the trembling 
buttocks, and the girl jerked with an "Oh!"

She swung a little, steadied, and Suana struck again. Yes, it was going to be rather severe, 
all in all, but she had to cruel, to be kind. And if ever the day came when that Janice 
Stapleton...





CHAPTER FOUR


Marc Merlin worked through the following morning as if nothing had happened. He felt fit, 
well, and invigorated, and at least half his age.

At about ten-thirty, he gave Janice Stapleton a call. She had not overnighted with 
him they were both too prudent for that and he had driven her to her apartment not long 
after midnight. It was surprising how quickly Janice recovered when she put her mind to it. 
"Jan? This is Marc. How's everything?"

A sleepy voice replied, "How d'you think?"

"I'm asking you."

"Heaven, of course."

"Had any breakfast?"

"Urn. A huge one. Only, on my belly. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

"Use that cream I gave you?"

"Yes. It's not as nice as yours, but it certainly helps. I have your eraser, by the way. It floats."

"Janice!"

They had to be careful on the phone. After a brief exchange, he hung up. Someone was 
knocking on the door. Kim came in.

He looked at his secretary keenly. As everyone remarked, she had a stunning figure, on the
miniature scale, and the tight pale silk sheaths she wore, always slit high, did little to conceal 
it. Her belly was so flat as to be practically on her backbone, her breasts small, high and well 
separated, while her buttocks rose almost imperceptibly from round, glossy thighs. Kim was a 
mystery. He had given her a hand up at Suana's instigation, many years ago, even signed 
some sort of responsibility for her to the immigration officials. And then had come the day, 
already distant now, when she had seen the canes in his closet.

Quite blankly, without batting an eyelid, she had asked him a few days later if he wanted 
to purchase any others; she told him she had contacts with an importer on the coast. There 
were some particularly lovely Chinese specimens that had just come in. In case he might be 
interested, of course.

With his usual sensitivity, Marc had sensed that Kim had no interest in him personally and 
did not want to get involved. Neither did he with her. Nevertheless, his curiosity got the better
of him, and he agreed. One day Kim came to work with a golf bag, and that evening, after 
everyone had gone, he was examining some of the smoothest, snakiest malaccas he had ever 
seen. Their prices were fantastic, but then so was their rarity.

"Should you wish to try one, Mr. Merlin, please feel free to test the sample," he had heard 
suddenly in his ear.

Although they had been over a lemon-yellow sheath (and presumably panties), he had 
never seen three strokes taken so stoically. She hadn't even been blinking when she stood up. 
He bought all four canes she showed him, and ordered a special switch to be made of thin 
black whalebone, with a slight swelling at the tip. He had said nothing to her for ten days. 
Their work had proceeded independently, and together, as if nothing had happened. It was 
plain that Kim wanted to go her way. So be it. He wanted to go his.

At the end of that time, after he had signed some letters and asked her to retype one 
owing to errors, she shook her head at her own clumsiness and said quite nonchalantly, "I 
really am sorry, Mr. Merlin. If I'd made a mistake like this for my mother five years ago, I'd be 
regretting it pretty soon."

"Is that why you sold me the canes, Kim?" he had asked ironically.

She had looked up at him quite openly. "Both my parents are dead, as you know, Mr. 
Merlin. But I should hate to lose the discipline they gave me. If you wish to punish me 
corporally, I hope you will do so. Naturally I would not want this to get any further. But I still 
do need the cane on occasion."

"Then I'll give it you," he had said.

And he had.

Now she was standing expressionlessly in front of him, pencil and pad at the ready.

"You said you wanted to see me as soon as I had a moment free, Mr. Merlin."

"Did I?" Marc ran a hand over his forehead. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what
for. Oh, yes. "It was just that last night, Kim, I thought I told you to go home early."

"Yes, sir. 'There were one or two reports I had to type up, and they kept me later than I 
thought. I'm very sorry if I inconvenienced you in any manner."

"No." Kim knew, of course, that he dated Janice very occasionally but Marc was certain she
never told anyone about it. "It's just that I didn't expect you to be there when I was 
entertaining Mrs. Stapleton."

"I see. It was careless behavior on my part, I agree."

"Thoughtless, let's say."

"Do you wish to correct me for it, sir?"

She had taken him by surprise. It hadn't been in his mind. But all at once he heard himself 
saying, "It might be best." She was moving to the closet when he stopped her. "I'll do it 
tonight, before leaving."

She turned. Was there actually a look of disappointment in her impassive eyes?

"Mr. Merlin, I was very dissatisfied with myself just now about making that excuse about 
the reports. Furthermore, I should really have come in to you and apologized first thing this 
morning. I don't want to grow thoughtless, as you say, and slack, and I'd like to request a 
thorough dressing-down. I wish you would consider giving me some correction now, and 
some more before leaving tonight. In that way, the afternoon will be most profitable to me 
since it will be spent in salutary anticipation."

He looked at her a long moment. "Kim, you're incredible, aren't you. Who's out there 
now?"

"Both girls have gone for lunch, Mr. Merlin. I was holding the fort. If you'd like me to look 
a minute... " She stepped elastically at his nod. A minute later, she was handing him a narrow 
cane in the closed office. It was longer than that he had used on Janice, though just as pliant. 
He thought her eyes altered slightly at sight of it. Marc took off his jacket slowly and slowly 
rolled up his sleeves. At the tap on her bottom with the cane, she reached with her thumbs 
and eased her silky panties off, folding them neatly and placing them on his desk.

The sheath hugged her like a second skin. Kim wore self-supported stockings that ended 
high up her thigh. Again he was surprised how imperceptibly these merged with her buttocks, 
considering their impudent jut from her back.

"You haven't been caned for quite a while, have you, Kim?"

"No, Mr. Merlin. Not for a long time."

"I think I'll just give you six now. Show me your bottom."

She hiked high her dress. She wore no slip. Unlike Janice's, her mound in front was 
strongly curved, the closely cropped hair a triangle. The bottom cheeks were almost boyish, 
firm, sturdy and this time like Janice's made to be beaten.

"Bend over," he said.

She hesitated. "Might I, Mr. Merlin... "

"Oh I'd forgotten. Always has that effect on you, doesn't it? No, you may not use my 
bathroom first. Bend over in the usual position. Tight."

Kim moved briskly. Placing the stool over which Janice had suffered the previous night at 
one end of the room, she too leaned over it in a lissome arch, except that she did so with her 
legs well apart. The cheeks, still roundly curved, were separated by a channel at the base of 
which pouted her freshly cut fig.

But it was not moist and, addressing himself to his task, Marc knew that for Kim this was a 
different experience. In fact, he strongly suspected she was still a virgin, between those neat 
red lips. No, she had one single goal: it was to suffer and thereby to cease being herself. To let 
the Self die. To become empty of everything except pure experience. To conquer the Self. It 
was a mystic's dream, and Marc was not going to deny it to her. He was going to hit her as 
hard as he could. It was like a scientific experiment.

At the same time, he felt hot.

"Down with the small of your back. Get your hips right up. Come on."

He knew just where to hit to hurt at the innocent base of that sturdy little butt, just above 
the juncture with the thighs. There would be more impact higher up, but it would hurt more 
here where there were more nerves. He laid the cane for aim. She was standing with her feet 
astride, toes pointed out, the short black hair falling forward on either side of her face.

Thwaakkk!

He felt the cane sink in, hold there an instant, and knew he had hit really true. Two dark 
lines jumped up, one on each side, low down.

Again he belted the cane across her. Her buttocks jumped. Once more... three pencil-thick 
weals, two of them coinciding on the right.

The telephone rang.

"Answer it," he said.

She rose to obey. Her face was flushed and her breathing quick, otherwise she was 
impassive.

"This is Mr. Merlin's secretary... yes... no, I'm afraid Mr. Merlin's in conference just at this 
moment. May I take a message? Yes. Thank you... " As she jotted down the name and number, 
Marc was looking at her rear. The sheath had stayed tucked up.

"Not bad," he said as she replaced the receiver. "You could almost put a ruler over those 
three. I think we'll start again. I hate interruptions."

"Six more, Mr. Merlin?"

"That's right."

"I see. I do need... to use... if I might... " She was frowning, her legs tight together and 
writhing slightly.

"I'm terribly sorry but it always affects me like this, when... when I'm to be corrected."

"Kim, this time you've got to hold it."

"I can't," she whined, ducking suddenly.

"Really," he tried scornfully, yet with an anxious glance at the rug where she was standing, 
"I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Anyway, my bathroom's locked."

"Please... "

"It'll be three extra, hard."

"Mr. Merlin, it is... extremely... URGENT!"

"Oh damn," said Marc, reaching for a silver bowl, an old handball trophy with his name 
inscribed on the side. "Use that."

The secretary grabbed it with a frantic gasp, got it between her legs, and let fly. With a 
strident ping, a thick, hot jet cascaded down.

"Christ!" Marc bent the cane as he watched. "You don't have to imitate Niagara Falls." In 
fact, he was watching her face; there was indeed a challenge in shaking that self-possession. 
"A good foaming brew," he said, when it was over and Kim was carrying it to the bathroom. 
"Maybe a little dark. I hope you haven't got jaundice."

She returned with the bowl cleaned. He stared at her. She was poker-faced.

"I should have made you drink a glass. As a luncheon aperitif."

"I'm extremely sorry for that exhibition, Mr. Merlin, and hope that you will punish me 
appropriately."

"I will," he said. "Bend over tight. You now have nine to come."

This time she seemed to spread the chunky little butt out for him as widely as possible, as 
if assisting in its punishment. He struck with skill, on the already-scored weals, and even she 
began to react. By the fifth actually, the eighth the lower half of her right cheek was a steady 
bruise, turning from purple to black.

Four more to come. Marc was extremely moved by the manner in which the fleshy cheeks 
were cringing inward in pain. He was made uncomfortably aware of certain telescopic 
properties of the human frame. Kim's stoicism was truly incredible. At the same time, the 
length of the pause, between impact and her half-conscious gasp, was indicative: it meant he 
was hitting really hard.

"Arch your back."

Janice could never have taken eight as hard without... Thwackkk!

"Ah."

Nine.

The new weal leapt up lower.

With her legs straddled in this manner Marc had a remarkable vision: first her fatty quim, 
then her dry black muff resembling, in this foreshortening, the beard of her working chin. Wet 
lips replied to lips.

Suddenly he heard her say in a considered manner, "That hurt intensely, Mr. Merlin."

"Good," he retorted cheerily. "I'm glad it hit the spot. You always did appreciate it low." 
The weal had fallen across the muscled top of her thighs.

"In fact, I'm not certain... I'm not absolutely sure, sir, that I can take three more like that."

"Too bad, since you're going to have to."

"Is there no way I I mean, mightn't I have them added on tonight perhaps?"

"You know I never bargain, Kim. This is doing you all the good in the world."

Pfuilllck! And he cut again.

This time her breath hissed hard, but still she kept her stance. Only her head came up.

After another long wait she said solemnly, "That was rather worse. It hurt... unspeakably."

"Excellent."

"You don't think you could try... a trifle higher?"

"I doubt it," said Marc. His eyes were throbbing, his blood had begun to beat at the base 
of his spine. As always, into his throbbing vision at such instants, there came the idea of Suana
stretching her long sleek backside but no, it would never be.

"Is there no possible way of my getting out of these last two, sir?" came in a very small 
voice that made Mare's manhood fairly jack upright then. It was a physical pain at his groin. 
He had never seen Kim so well whipped before. But on her, ten with the cane he was using 
now covered a certain amount of territory.

He belted the limb across her again.

"Y'eaow!"

With a catlike cry, Kim dropped to her knees in front of him, gripping her fanny.

"Uh... please... I... not another, Mr. Merlin, please."

Marc was in a daze. He scarcely heard the whirr of his zipper. But he saw the rubicund rod 
leap out and meet her face head-on. The Oriental girl appeared to measure it with her eye for 
a moment. Then, one hand at its base (the other still held to her own), she swallowed it 
speedily and began sucking for dear life, the strong head indenting her cheek from time to 
time like a child's lollipop.

"Wait a minute!" Marc protested. "I didn't say “ But he had been thinking of Suana, and 
that was always fatal. He could never let long-stemmed Sue into his dreams without 
consequence. But this had never happened before with Kim and he drew back instinctively, 
only to find her silky black head following, worrying his gristle like a terrier, eventually, it was 
he who was gasping.

Although prepared by the spasm of the monster she was swallowing, Kim's small face was 
driven back by the nature of the assault. Gulp as she might, a last spurt drenched one eye.

But when Marc had returned from his bathroom a moment later, order restored, his 
secretary was standing, pencil poised, pad at the ready, and so he noted pants on again. So 
utterly impassive was her expression that he decided to say nothing about what had passed 
between them. He felt sure she wanted it that way.

"That'll do for the moment, Kim," he said fervently, sitting down behind his desk. "I'll let 
you off that last one."

Her face split in a ready smile. He might have just granted her a week's vacation.

"Oh thank you so much, Mr. Merlin. That really was a most impressive correction. I could 
hardly get my pa my things on afterward. But I hope you'll add it on extra tonight."

"All right."

"Is there anything else you want just now?"

"I don't think so," he said.

Except a very large glass of scotch, he said to himself, as he watched that lithe and supple 
body sidle out. Dear God, if only Suana...





CHAPTER FIVE


Late afternoon of the following day, Suana Becker was bent over a massive tawny mane, the 
proudest head of female hair in Elchester.

Janice had come to her for her usual shampoo, tint, and set. Unusually, however, Suana 
had attended to her personally, and now they were almost through. During the last half hour 
there had been a noticeable exodus of the employees; in fact, Janice noticed, all three girls 
had left by now, and they two were alone.

"What's the time?" she asked sleepily. "Am I keeping you here late?"

"Oh, no," came the answer from behind her. "I let the girls go early today."

Janice returned her eyes to her Vogue. But her mind was a mile away. If Suana only knew...

She herself had on a brown sweater, with pearls, and a pair of hip-hugging bell-bottoms 
made of fawn gabardine, lightly elasticized. Her slacks were always special. True to Marc's 
mandate, however, she wore nothing underneath. True to his knowing prediction, too, she 
sensed the pressure of the fabric in a rare way. Her proud buttocks were still heavily bruised, 
but she examined the marks in the mirror with pride. They would go in a week, by the time 
David returned. She wanted to look her best for him. Dave she loved, Marc she... She moved 
uneasily on the wicker chair.

"Want to sit up higher, dear?"

"No, it's all right, Sue," she answered. "This seat's a bit rough on the... well, the seat, after a 
time."

"Yours is nicely padded, darling."

"All too much of it, I'm afraid."

"I don't know. The right man mightn't think so. I mean... " They had been swapping "girl 
talk" all afternoon, it seemed. Evening was setting in.

"Dave back yet?" Suana inquired mildly.

"Nope. Next week. I'll come in again for another set just before, if I may."

"Sure."

"He likes to find me spanking neat."

"Don't they all?" the handsome widow said behind her. Actually, the first thing Dave 
Stapleton liked to see when he returned from one of his longer business visits was cunt. 
C-u-n-t. It was a joke between them. Janice put hers ready and waiting on open display for 
him as close to the door as possible. Once she had even lain out on the hall table. He had 
chuckled at that, unleashed his ready masculinity' (it was always ready with Dave), and 
rammed her before taking his hat off.

"Give it to me, darling... cram... jam... cream it right into me, Dave, quick “ Her legs 
tightened at the memory. Suana was busy at a drawer.

"All finished?"

Janice stood up and gave a long stretch. Like this her breasts looked practically bare, 
didn't they, just? Her poor breasts...

"Sure you don't want a massage, Jan?"

"No, thanks." She hid her smile. If Suana could see her backside...

"Come in here before you go. I want to show you some improvements I've made in my 
exercise room."

She followed the tapering back, with its flaxen braid, and swirling skirt, out down the 
passage.

"I wish I had your height, Suana."

"I wish I had your chest," she said without turning back.

"Oh that," Janice said, pleased.

She was vaguely surprised to see Suana unlocking the door of the "keep-fit" room. Janice 
had had many grueling sessions inside, and she remarked on the fact now. The place was in 
darkness. She followed the tall woman in, groping.

"Wait. I'll get the light."

Janice heard the door shut and felt herself led forward.

"Give me your other hand."

"Why? This is spooky. What for?"

Suddenly she knew. Something chinked. Something cold on her left wrist. She had no time
to think. What! Suana was a karate instructor. Her hand was pulled behind her back and 
manacled yes in common or garden-variety steel handcuffs to the other wrist there.

"Hey! Sue! Are you kidding? What is this?"

"You'll find out soon enough, Mrs. Stapleton."

"Let me go!"

She kicked, violently, as she was bundled across the floor, but to no avail. Suana was 
bigger and stronger by far.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing to me?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

Janice found herself backed against a wooden post, behind which her wrists were 
manacled. She kicked wildly again, connected with a shin, heard a curse in the dark, and 
Suana's darkly threatening "You'll regret that, my dear."

"Let me go!"

There was a click. A bright light poured down into Janice's face. She blinked and tossed 
back her hair. She was indeed standing with her back against a thick wooden pillar, from 
ceiling to floor, which she vaguely recalled as being used for chin-ups and the like. It was 
furnished with curious straps and staples. But with her hands secured behind it like this there 
was little she could do beyond bending her knees.

Directly in front of her, in a pool of shadow from the overhead spot, Suana sat curled 
comfortably in a deep armchair.

"And now let's have the truth," she demanded.

"What truth?" Janice exploded angrily. "Is this some kind of game you're playing, Sue? If 
so, it's gone on long enough."

"These little dinners with Marc."

Janice sagged visibly. She almost smiled. It was all going to be easier than she thought, so 
long as she kept her head. For a second, she had wondered. "Oh, those," she said 
disparagingly.

"Yes, those. There was another tete-a-tete at The Hermitage the other night."

"And so?"

"Marc happens to be my man, Janice."

"Of course he does," she agreed happily. "Everyone knows that. My evenings with Marc are
perfectly platonic, and I don't happen to appreciate having my personal life pried into like this,
Sue."

"Odd that if they're so platonic, they always occur when David is out of town. Would you 
mind his knowing?"

"Not in the least," Janice bluffed instantly.

"Urn. So you wouldn't mind if I mentioned it to him?"

There was nothing Janice could say to that, so she said nothing. She only hoped the heat 
in her face would be attributed to righteous indignation.

"After The Hermitage, Marc took you back to his apartment."

"I don't know who your snoopers are, but I trust they also told you he drove me to my 
home later."

"There was an interval."

"You idiot, Sue!" Janice snapped, twisting in her bonds, "I haven't any designs on Marc. He 
adores you. You two should have got married years ago. I've always told him so."

Puffing idly at a cigarette, the tall blonde seemed to ponder that.

"I happen to be a very jealous woman, so far as Marc's concerned. Was there... how shall I 
put it?" She appeared to study her fingernails for an instant. "I'm interested to know if 
intromission of the male organ into the female vessel occurred later in other words, did he 
screw you?"

"Of course not!" Janice retorted hotly. But this time a strong flush mounted to her face. 
She fought it, hoping it would seem that of chaste wifehood at the term employed.

"You're lying, of course!" Suana rose.

"You sweet fool! Marc loves you. I don't mean a thing to him. I even encourage him to 
propose!"

"Did he stick his prick in you... anywhere?"

"No."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

"I don't know whether to believe you," came the answer after a moment's reflection, "but I 
propose to do my best to make sure he won't in the future. Just in case you might be inclined 
to let him, I'm going to administer some discouragement. I'm going to give you a whipping."

A second passed before the sense of what she said sank in. Then Janice cried 
incredulously, "You're going to... what?"

"I'm going to turn you round, take down your fancy pants, and whip your butt with a 
cane."

"Oh, no!"

It was perhaps lucky that Suana was making to a wall closet as she spoke or she would 
have seen her intended victim's virtual rictus of ironic realization. And she might have 
wondered.

"Unfortunately for you" the masseuse returned with something gleaming in her 
hand “I've practiced recently. Only the other night, I caned my cousin Doreen."

"With that!" Janice said sickly. When the cane came into the light, she realized it was the 
longest she had ever seen.

"No, this angel would hurt too much for the likes of her you're right. But I think it will do 
justice to a tail like yours."

"But it's horrible, so thick, and... and awful. I tell you you're wrong, Suana," she tried in a 
last mournful protest (after all, this was surely the final jest of Fate), "I'm not trying to take 
Marc Merlin from you. I love my husband. He satisfies me entirely."

Or almost, her inner voice added.

"Are you going to let me fix you up quietly?"

"I don't see that I have much to say in the matter, do I? How many were you... thinking of 
administering?" Suana had set the cane across the chair and was busy putting on a pair of 
tennis sneakers. Their white contrasted with the taupe of her nylons, which were 
attached Janice could see with the skirt hiked like this to a whisper-thin power panty girdle 
of red net. "Why are you doing that?" she asked.

"I'm going to take a run." Suana straightened to her full height. "I mean this to be a 
memorable experience, Mrs. Stapleton. Originally I thought that a dozen would do, but after 
you kicked me “

"I didn't mean to, please!"

"I decided that fifteen would be more appropriate. You're big enough behind to stand 
fifteen. Slow ones."

"With that that thing.?' Janice all but squawked. "You must be insane! Why, that's all that a
man could take with a rod like that. It's... positively Siberian!"

She was genuinely frightened. There was no assurance that fifteen with a rod like that 
would leave fugitive marks. Even with Marc's special cream, they might still be visible when 
Dave came back this time.

"A little warmer than that cold corner of the universe, I think you'll find," Suana was saying 
now, taking her rival's wrists, uncuffing them, and securing them high over Janice's head to a 
bolt on the front of the pole.

Janice let herself be turned with her back to the room. The apprehension was getting to 
her again. More especially with the trunk of the pole between her legs in the way she was 
arranged. She wondered vaguely what Suana was doing with a cane like this especially if, as 
she said, she didn't use it on Doreen.

"There!" Suana said at last. "I don't think you'll run away too easily now."

The gymnasium pole had been converted into a whipping post. Janice's wrists were hauled
high overhead, drawing up her breasts which protruded heavily either side. A strong wide 
leather strap at her waist drew her stomach painfully into the pole, which she hugged with her
equally well-strapped and slightly bent knees; her ankles also were secured. Across her spread 
buttocks, the thin material was almost bursting.

"And now let's take these down," she heard.

"Wait," she yipped suddenly. "Please!"

Suana paused, her fingers on the waistband of her victim's slacks. "Such modesty. I've seen
you stark before, my dear, and I know you're not a natural auburn. If that's what's worrying 
you, honey."

"This is different," Janice pleaded, squirming at the pole. "Please... please... please... " 
Suddenly she was scared to death. If Suana stripped her butt, she would see the weal marks. 
The woman was no fool. She would put two and two together. Janice would probably break 
down and confess. In any case, Marc's secret would be out, and she, Janice, would have 
betrayed it, perhaps put Suana off him forever. Her voice achieved a strangulated whine as 
she implored for grace in this regard.

"Please, Sue. Anything. Please don't bare me for this. You can see for yourself they won't 
protect me any."

"They are kind of snug." The woman seemed impressed by the sudden outburst. "Guess 
you have to triple-sew these at the seams." A hand roved over the taut surfaces. "What no 
panties?"

"I haven't... no... you see, I was rather late and I just chucked on the first things I could 
find... after my shower."

"Hm. I'd liked to have seen your ass. The marks, I mean. However, this stuff is like a second 
skin."

"Please, Suana, spare me that!"

"Good Lord, even Dorry doesn't make this fuss about showing a bit of flesh."

"Let me keep them on I implore you."

"All right. But it'll have to be extra strokes, to compensate."

"Yes, yes." She had saved Marc's secret. And her own. Then she felt a sickness at the pit of 
her stomach as Suana announced placidly, "We'll make it twenty in all."

Five extra for clothing! With Marc it had been only three. Everything was always rather 
worse than you “I can't. I can't possibly take twenty with that... tree trunk."

"Too bad you've got to."

Suana was stripping off her shirt. Her ample breasts jumped out, hammocked in a soft bra.
She gave some practice thrashes with the cane and made a last adjustment to her victim's 
pose.

To Janice, strained with arched back, it seemed that a small leather pad or protrusion was 
slid in a groove up the pole from the floor behind her. It was pressed, and fixed home, under 
her pelvic bone, giving a further backward thrust of her hips. She had never been in such a 
posture (except, perhaps, she reflected, when Dave wanted it from the rear); she was sticking 
out her rump like a mare. She awaited the first stroke with quivering quim and jutting nipples. 
There was a gap between her sweater and pants.

She heard the squelchy steps as Suana bounded two paces forward. There was the familiar
ominous whistle, completed now with a fearful slap that drove her into the pad and seemed 
to shake the very pole itself. Her buttocks gave a convulsive movement of their own, as if to 
shake off the stick, and a second later she yelped aloud.

Suana walked back slowly and turned.

Janice panted in something close to panic. Her already-beaten flesh could not stand 
twenty blows like this. The pain seemed to burrow unbearably into her sinews when the stick 
lashed her again.

"Yow!"

T his cane was so heavy that it lifted her cheeks off the pad with its impact. She got to 
four, at which again she cried aloud.

"You have precisely sixteen more," she heard Suana saying behind her. "Really, I expected 
more courage from you. Dorry doesn't make a sound until five or six and she hasn't got nearly
such a fat bottom."

"You told me you don't use this brute of a cane on her."

"That's true," Suana laughed. "It's really satisfactory."

Thwack!

Five... six... seven...

In the intervals, Janice tried to stretch. She heard the creak of her bonds but the only 
movement she seemed able to effect was a contortion of her toes and a shrinking-in of her 
bottom, with a reciprocal contraction of her sphincter muscle. Suana pulled her slacks up 
tight.

After the ninth blow, the punishment seemed to take on a new intensity, her buttocks to 
have a life of their own. Janice was aware of her fingernails scratching frantically at the pole, 
up which her knees might have been trying to climb. And suddenly she realized that the 
cramps and tremors of her whipped thick flesh behind were communicating themselves to her
streaming, swollen, sorry lips in front...

"YEOW!"

"That's a dozen," Suana said comfortingly. "Beginning to feel it a little?"

"Ah... ah... ahhgony... " She was going to...

THWACK!

Yes! She was going to... she was actually...

THWACKKK!

An incredibly prolonged and violent spasm shook her, through the fifteenth, and sixteenth
leaving her a limp and hanging thing, a sheer side of beef, on which Suana lashed the next. 
Janice made scarcely any reaction at all. There was a sense of wetness behind.

"Taking the starch out of you a bit?" A bottle of smelling salts was held to her nose. "I want
you to feel these last three."

They whistled with superb and telling velocity across the lower cheeks and all Janice's 
vitality flared forth in protest again. She had no breath to breathe...

"Let that be a lesson to you."

The room spun. She was sitting in the middle of it on her left hip some minutes or was it 
hours or centuries later? She had a glass of scotch in her right hand while her left supported 
her on the floor. Oh, yes, there were those white sneakers in front of her.

Suana said, "I gather that was fairly well felt."

"It was absolute blue hell," Janice answered after a jolt of scotch; the liquor cut sweetly in 
her throat. "You didn't have to hit me as hard as all that."

"I rather fear I broke the skin in one place, on the right. If you want a good tip on how to 
soak blood out of material “

"How do you know?" Janice interrupted sullenly. She felt the patch tentatively, then shifted
her legs. It was the other, oozy one at her crotch that she didn't want Sue to see. If only David 
had “Next time," said the impressive blonde, from what seemed like miles above her, "I won't 
let you off so lightly. Get this straight, Jan. If ever you date Marc alone again, it'll be this."

Something dark dangled in the region of Janice's vision. Black rubber. A short length of 
hard hose.

"It hurts."

She looked up. She wanted to say, "Where did you get that?" But she was hypnotized by 
the endless, godlike stretch of Suana's perfect legs, in their sheer dark nylon. She was standing
right over Janice with parted legs, and her short skirt showed the panty girdle tucked under 
her buttocks. Beneath a flat belly curled febrile fronds. She was smiling contentedly.

"Before you go, Jan, you can give me the Kiss of Devotion, dear."

"What's that?" she asked dully.

"What do you think? Use your imagination."

Janice stared at her friend, and foe. "You mean... under your skirt?"

"Where else?"

She made a movement forward on her knees. "My tongue?"

"What else?"

She hesitated, rubbing her wrists where the manacles had hurt. "Sue, please. I'm not a les."

To her surprise, there came a rippling laugh.

"That's the Kiss of Love, darling. I want to feel the Kiss of Devotion."

The tall woman made a slight change of stance as she spoke and Janice saw the profile of 
her buttocks. The panty girdle was rolled well under them. She looked up in horror.

"Sue, you don't mean... up your... "

"You're catching on fast."

"I couldn't possibly."

Still smiling sweetly, Suana Becker moved forward rhythmically. She took gentle hold of 
Janice's two wrists in one hand behind her and bent her forward on her knees, much as the 
rope had drawn Dorry over for her the other night. There was little resistance. Janice just said 
"Oh, oh!" and waited for the worst. The hose whacked hard down the inside of her left 
stretched cheek; it ended close to the chubby flesh under the quim. Janice yelped like a hyena.
A much harder whack married it on the right side and she shot out both legs straight behind 
her in pain.

"Eeeeeyyhhhhh!"

Tears streaming down her face, and holding her mined derriere, Janice drew near on her 
knees.

"Dry your face first. Your tongue is all I want to feel. And get it right up, or there's more of 
this in store."

"It's unbelievable!"

"Isn't it, though!"

The red cheeks approached the white, the rose and the lily blended. The color of the panty
girdle was scarlet.

"That's not nearly good enough. The Kiss of Devotion has to be felt deeply. And don't puff 
with your nose. Ye-es, that's decidedly better."

Janice withdrew with a grimace of disgust.

"May I have another shot of scotch?"

"You not only may," said Suana with a giggle, bending over with hands on her knees, "but 
I'd be grateful if you'd introduce an ice cube in that place where your tongue just was. After all
that exercise, I'm feeling rather warm!"





CHAPTER SIX


The house was set high in the hills. Its slate roof and low stone walls were lightly dusted with 
snow as the big Buick nosed up towards it one afternoon a week later. Two large Doberman 
pinschers greeted the man who stepped out of it in the drive, and almost immediately 
wagged their stubs of tails at sight of an old friend. The man was tall, lean, with closely cut fair 
hair. He grinned as he rang the bell of the front door.

After a minute, a well-dressed maid opened it.

"Could I see either Mr. or Mrs. Dale? They're expecting me."

"Mr. Dale's in the studio," the girl said dubiously.

"Then I won't disturb him," the self-confident visitor said promptly. "Just let me have a 
word with his wife."

"Whom should I say, sir?"

He looked at her with an even wider grin. The Dales' staff was really trained for prudence; 
this girl's name was Barbara, and she knew him perfectly well.

"David Stapleton," he said, and strode in past her. He had forgotten. Stretching in front of 
the open fireplace in the long, comfortable living room, he realized how everything here 
exuded such a sense of luxury. More than that luxury in its old sense, with a hint of 
lasciviousness in its connotations. The pile carpet was almost too rich, the curtains worthy of 
some operatic setting, the chairs and sofas deep and heavy. Cornelius did himself proud. 
Although only some fifteen miles from Elchester, this rural retreat might have been in the 
wilds; there was no house in visible sight from the big picture window out of which he was 
staring when Madge Dale came in.

"Dave!"

Madge always dressed well. She was wearing an oatmeal tweed suit, its fairly short skirt 
pleated and swinging over her really perfect legs. A little on the small side, she was in her 
mid-forties, moving a little toward the plump side, but it was a different roundness from 
Janice's. The little shiver of her calves as she advanced reminded him of the liquid maturity of 
the delights above. Reminded him that he had last seen this rather plain, pleasant, 
modest-looking woman naked, strapped to a military triangle and yelling her heart out while a
thin hard rope whistled into her ivory backside. As he went forward with hand outstretched, 
Dave Stapleton tried to keep the memory from his eyes.

"Madge, it's good to see you again."

"I'm so glad you could come. Cornelius did so want to have a word. And, as you know, it's 
not possible over the telephone."

"I came straight from the airport. Thanks for the call."

She smiled at him a trifle apologetically. She had not taken his hand; hers were held 
waist-high in front.

"I'm sorry I can't fix you a drink, Dave, but you see how it is."

Suddenly he realized. The belt that cinched her jacket was not from Chanel or Dior. Its 
leather had a plain, penal look. Through its brass ring in front, Madge Dale's wrists were 
secured with a short chain, perhaps eight inches long. With her left hand drawn tightly to the 
ring, she was able to gesture to the drinks tray at the side, with another weak smile.

"Do just help yourself, won't you, Dave?"

From her wrists, his eyes slid down the dark sheen of her marvelous legs. Madge's 
stockings were always spinnaker taut, and it was as he thought. The mincing gait with which 
she had entered was due to the fact that her ankles were secured by another small gold chain.
Dave Stapleton looked her in the eyes. After a moment, he said gently, "You people really take
this seriously, don't you?"

She shrugged. "It's a way of life."

"It is," he said gravely. "You're right. One that doesn't interfere with anyone else's."

"And which won't come to light," she returned to him equally solemnly, "unless by official 
inquisition."

He held her stare and nodded. So that's what it was about. Frankly he'd thought so, when 
he'd got the call at the airport. Cornelius wanted to see him before he returned home. But 
while fixing his drink, all he could see in his head for a second was the man in Athenian tunic, 
laced sandals running up the calves, smacking the wet rope across the cringing, slightly flaccid
buttocks of his elegant hostess. Every so often and it wasn't so often Cornelius Dale decided 
that his lovely wife was in need of an imperial fustigation. Punishment rather than love 
stimulation. A year ago he had coincidentally learned of Dave's interest in passion for “c.p.," 
or corporal punishment. Although he did not usually allow any single males in such soirees, he
had made an exception with Dave, who had now seen Madge whipped twice. Both occasions 
had been sensational.

She sat down in the chair opposite him across the fireplace. As she did so, her skirt slid to 
her stocking tops. He realized that any woman of her class and kind would normally have 
tugged it down again. Madge caught his eyes and blushed. With a visible effort, she stood up 
and then sat down and tried again. But, if anything, the skirt rose even higher.

"Sorry," she said, "no good."

"Let it lay," he grinned. "The view from here is good. You do have gorgeous legs, Madge."

"Sometimes I'd like to cross them. Now, for instance."

"I see what you mean." He took a deep drink and looked into the bottom of the scotch. 
"How's the average been lately?"

"Dismal. I haven't actually been belabored for a while, but there are other ways of being 
made to feel miserable."

"Such as?"

"Curiosity!" she scoffed. "Well, there's always the bar, if I'm feeling too cheerful."

"What's that?"

"One sits on it, my friend. That is, astride it. And after a minute, one wishes one hadn't. 
After ten, one feels like crawling up the wall. But let's change the subject. How's your fair 
wife?"

"Fine, when I last saw her. Actually I'm three days early; I mean to surprise her."

"I think you may," Madge Dale said with a level look.

"What do you mean by that exactly?"

"Oh, nothing. I last saw Janice at a PCDA meeting. I wonder what she'd have said if she'd 
known that I'd just had ten strokes with a cane across my where-it-hurts-most."

He nodded wryly. "She'd have been horrified, I guess." Dale Stapleton hung his head. 
"Deviate, all the rest of it."

"As a matter of fact, I'm due at our Conservation Committee meeting in an hour. I was 
wondering... when Cornelius lets me out of these things" she clinked her chains 
merrily “could you drive me in? We have a theater date later."

"Be glad to," he said. "And what was it Cornelius wanted to see me about?"

"Oh, he'll be through in a moment and tell you himself."

"Is it about" he hesitated a second, then finished “is there going to be another... 
evening?"

She gave him a long steady look, as if probing to his soul. She had very large pure pale 
blue eyes.

"What do you think?"

"Madge, it's amazing. I don't know I can't understand it “

"Don't try to, Dave."

"All I know is that it's the most incredibly thrilling thing. The whole combination. It's poetic.
You have this most beautiful back, and the first time I watched, you were so wonderfully 
frightened “

"I had reason to be, Dave."

"You sure did. Twenty-five cuts with that riding crop as a starter “

"I can feel every single one of them now."

There was the sound of steps. Cornelius Dale swept into the room, tossing aside a 
paint-stained apron. He was tall, tanned, with a shock of curly gray hair and looked what he 
was: distinguished, rich, and aesthetic in taste. He shook Dave's hand warmly and was soon 
settled with a drink between them.

"It was good of you to stop by, Dave. There is something I wanted to say. And," he added 
with a twinkle, "the kind of thing I prefer not to go into over the phone."

"I was glad to come. Only hope I didn't disturb you painting."

"No. Actually, I was just doing some lettering out there. What I wanted to say was this." 
The older man took a long swallow of his scotch. "As you know, every now and then I find it 
necessary to punish Madge publicly. Keeps her in line. The presence of other people adds to 
the shame, and humiliation, which I don't have to tell you, Dave are essential to the, er, 
happening. Do you wish to come?"

"If I'm invited."

"That's just it. As you know, these evenings are few and far between. They're sufficiently 
unusual here for us all to have to be extremely discreet about the matter."

"Of course."

"They involve only consenting adults, in private. At the same time I'd prefer, for the safety 
of all concerned, to make a rule: only husbands and wives."

"I see. Nonadulterous heterosexual intimacies."

"Exactly." Cornelius smiled. "Your business mind, Dave, is on the ball, as ever. It's not simply
that I don't want to take any risks, but I don't want to break up any happy marriages. I just 
don't know how it is with you and Janice."

David Stapleton looked gloomily at the floor. "Jan would have a fit if I told her. I'm sure 
she hasn't the faintest idea of the thrill this... thing can be."

"And yet you're happily married."

"Sure." He looked up. "Very much so. Why do you ask?"

There was a silence in the room. Madge Dale broke it, with a little clinking of her fetters.

"As you know," she said, "we're not the ones for telling tales out of school. I last saw the 
lovely Jan at our PCDA meeting. I'm certain she hadn't a stitch on underneath."

"Really!" Dave Stapleton grinned.

"We're giving you no names. Simply that she went out to dinner with a single man later. Of
course, you may have known."

"No I didn't." He was startled. "I called her only last night. She said she'd been home every 
evening."

"Well, that's it, Dave," Cornelius said warmly. "We're not snoopers because we don't want 
to be snooped upon. But we're not in the business of coming between husband and wife. We 
have one rule. No one comes who's not entirely independent. We don't want any of those 
nasty little phone calls going to our guests. You know the kind of thing: 'You wouldn't want 
your boss to know about this, and if you do exactly what we say, there'll be no need for us to 
tell him.'"

"Rule number one," Madge Dale said simply.

"Rule number two," her husband added crisply, "from now on it is going to be married 
couples only. I'm sorry, Dave, but it's with Janice or else."

"I see," he answered after a moment.

"Matter of fact, I'll confide this far," Cornelius went on magnanimously. "Only the other day
a good friend in town asked me if he could come to one of our evenings. Someone we both 
know. Admirably qualified, as a matter of fact. Only he isn't married. I said no."

"Do I know this person, Corn?"

"You do. But I keep names private. Well, if you promise not to “

"I promise. Cross my heart."

"Well, it was Marc Merlin, actually. He runs his own business, so he can't be hurt."

"Marc! Yes, I know him a little. Does he like “

"Very much."

"He goes with Sue Becker, you know."

"I know. Probably that's what has made him hold back from proposing all these years."

"Marc is terribly tactful," Madge added.

"Anyway, rules are rules," Cornelius said.

"As I know to my cost," she put in, pouting.

David Stapleton smiled at them frankly. "Of course you're right. It's just that I couldn't 
conceivably tell Jan about this sort of thing. Punishment, ceremony, obedience. I'm convinced 
she wouldn't understand. Probably ask me for a divorce. Pity. I enjoyed seeing Madge 
thrashed."

"Pedro does a good job."

"When is the next... session taking place?"

"In two or three weeks. When I sense she's quite ready for it." Cornelius finished his drink 
and looked about. "Well, that's it, Dave. But it seems a pity to disappoint you entirely “ Madge
Dale said hurriedly, "Dave's going to drive me into town, darling. Isn't that nice of him?"

"It is." He appeared to reflect.

"If you could send for Barbara, dear, and get me out of these things, I could get ready."

"Yes, I'll do that," he said.

But as he rose and moved to the bellpull, Dave saw that Madge was seated on the edge of
the chair, her creamy forehead creased. She looked very worried indeed.

"Barbara," the tall man said with a dandyish gesture as the maid came in, "arrange Mrs. 
Dale. And then get two sets of the pins. Blue and red will do. Also some antiseptic."

"Yes, sir."

The maid approached the seated woman with a gentle, apologetic "Excuse me, madam.

Madge Dale stood up. With expert movements, the maid removed her skirt, her slip, and 
her panties. Below the tweed jacket, cinched at the waist by the belt, there remained only a 
black garter belt, with two straps fore and aft tugging at the nylons of dark brown. Cornelius 
took her vacated chair, saying to the maid, "I haven't too much time for this. Bring a switch 
when you come back, Barbara. A number three. With trainer."

"Yes, sir, very well." She went off hastily leaving the two men facing each other, Madge 
Dale standing in the middle, her legs together, her hands fettered.

It was a superb quiff, Dave reflected at once, as he had before. Not clipped straight across, 
like Janice's, it started thinly high up the belly, becoming very thick and curly lower down. 
With her thighs closed together like this, it protruded strongly over them; her whole quim 
appeared to curve appetizingly forward, like a Cranach Madonna.

Cornelius chuckled as he read his friend's mind.

"Ought to shave off all that shag, eh, publicly! Well, I did once. Only it was so damn prickly 
after. Turn round and show the gentleman your bottom, dear."

Again Dave was surprised by her beauty. The flesh was not sturdy, like his wife's, but yet 
there was a languorous tenderness and limpid vulnerability in these liquid, hanging yes, even 
slightly flabby pears. There were some fading marks, yellow and greenish on the right.

"The last application there, for a little while. I always have her skin unmarked for the big 
night. Bend over properly and let him see your anus."

Her hands tucked at her waist in front, Madge did as ordered.

"Right down, dear, and spread out."

A darkening of shadow in that so-white mass yielded to the definition of the anal opening.
It looked a piquant and appealing little emblem in contrast to the well-fleshed pussy.

Cornelius recited softly: "'Extraordinary that things dissolute and filthy are able to produce 
upon our senses the irritation essential to precipitate their complete delirium; it would be 
better to realize that objects have no value for us save that which our imagination imparts to 
them; it is therefore very possible, bearing this constant truth well in mind, that not only the 
most curious but even the vilest and most appalling things may affect us very appreciably.' 
Good old de Sade. The human imagination. Amazing to think that Pedro gets that big dong of
his up such a tiny aperture. Madge hates being buggered don't you, darling?"

"Yes," came the response. Then she added, "Need I be this time?"

Cornelius chuckled richly. "Entirely depends on how you take your whipping, my dear. 
And, of course, the will of the majority. Pedro has been complaining about all the bacilli 
floating around up there. This time he's going to wear some special condom. Serrated, or 
some such. Got them in Germany, it seems. It may leave you with a pile or two after, dear. 
Now stand up and face the music. Here comes Barbara."

She certainly did, Dave Stapleton reflected, watching. For at that moment the maid came 
in, walking briskly, with interest, and carrying in one hand a small surgical basin of a colorless 
fluid, and in the other what seemed to be a pincushion, which Cornelius took. Dave also saw 
that Barbara had clipped to her belt a long lean switch whose dark tail flicked about her calf. 
Madge Dale's expression of profound melancholy increased.

Her husband took the pincushion and removed from it one of several blue-headed tacks. 
It was a pin of half an inch or more in length and he tested its spike on his palm. Then he got 
up and sat down in front of the fire on a low leather hassock, ordering his wife to stand in 
front of him with her back turned.

"The idea of lettering reminded me, you know," he told Dave Stapleton. "Madge hasn't 
had her bottom initialed for quite a while, have you, dear? You can use a hatpin, but these are 
much more satisfactory. Bend forward, please, and yes part your legs as far as your restraint 
will permit. Lean over more."

Dave saw the maid place the bowl of antiseptic near his host's hand. Her face looked sharp
and lively as she took up position at her mistress's head, first removing the garter belt.

Cornelius approached nearer. In his right hand he held the blue tack; he dipped this in the 
bowl of fluid, then, with his left forefinger and thumb, pressed down a segment of flesh on his 
wife's left buttock. He jabbed the pin home hard. Madge Dale gasped. Cornelius selected 
another.

"DS," he mused, inserting it also. "Hardly any punishment at all. Now an M or, say, an L on 
the right side is much more educative. It's inside the cheek that it counts. There!"

Gradually the line of pins stuck into the capacious bottom began to form a vertical. Then 
began the curve of the D. A pin pushed out, and Cornelius restored it firmly, to the 
accompaniment of a stifled "Oh!" from his spouse. Madge looked back with an expression of 
almost-comical dismay on her face. It was clear that the first individual prick had not been 
unbearable no more, perhaps, than that of a strong hypodermic syringe. But the increase of 
the others was exacerbating. She moved her feet, and her wrist fetters chinked continually. 
Finally, after one or two more replacements, a big D was planted in pins on her left buttock. 
Cornelius turned to the red tacks on the cushion.

"S., S, A," he chuckled. "Let's see, where shall we start exactly? This liquid, besides being an 
antiseptic, Dave, is a caustic, and burns. Relax your cheeks, dear.

That's it. Helps retain the pins. Not that that's really necessary: Barbara will see that a tight 
panty girdle is put on after this and worn for twenty-four hours. That will keep them home 
nicely. There!"

"Ow!"

The operation was somehow deliciously humiliating, and when she stood up with a face as
though she had swallowed something unpleasant, Madge Dale looked irresistible. The 
presence of two tears, at either eye, made Dave conscious of his demanding desire. A D in 
blue, and an S in red. But now the maid was looking questioningly even eagerly at her 
employer. And Madge made a quick step back, naked below the waist but for shoes and 
stockings.

"Please!" she begged suddenly.

Her emphasis itself made Dave's cock leap in his lap.

Still seated on his hassock, Cornelius explained in a kindly tone, "We call these screamers, 
or pussies. I don't think you've seen one administered, have you, Dave?"

"I don't believe I have," he said hoarsely.

"Please!" Madge Dale implored.

"Two will do, Barbara."

The maid had undone the switch and was looking inspectingly at her victim.

"Kneel down, Madge."

"Oh, please, Corny... not that... please... anything... "

"They do hurt rather," Cornelius explained apologetically to Dave, watching beside him. "I 
agree."

"Please... "

"Darling, this is becoming monotonous. Kneel down here and get your knees apart. As far 
as they'll go."

"I beg you, I beseech you." Tears were streaming liberally down her face now. "I'd rather 
anything, anything in the world than... beat me, ber-ber-bugger me. Yes, I'd even rather be 
gut-buggered, Cornelius," she sobbed brokenly.

"Unfortunately, you don't have the option, dear. Unless," he turned in courtly fashion, "you
would do the honors, Dave. Would you care to sodomize this cringing flower?"

"At the moment I could do practically anything to her," he answered thickly, "but let's see 
her get these screamers first."

"Please!" Madge moaned.

"Make it three," her husband said boredly.

"Noooo!" She flung herself on the rug at his feet. "Two, two, two only... please... you 
promised."

"I did nothing of the sort," Cornelius said grandly and nodded to the maid.

She went to work at once. Madge knelt on the floor with her head at her husband's feet. 
Since her hands were fettered, she fell well forward, with her face turned upward to one side. 
Her ankles were freed, her knees parted. She stuck up her naked, parted arse, its quim 
quivering and Dave Stapleton longed to look at it closely. But again Cornelius read his mind.

"The prospect from in front is much more amusing. Her face, my friend, her face. Besides, 
perhaps Barbara would oblige... with a little added stimulation... " The maid grinned broadly 
and, before straddling her victim's head, slipped off her panties and tucked up her skirt 
behind. She stood with feet astride, back to the watching males, the long switch trailing on the
rug beside her. Her deep oval buttocks were lined from some recent whipping. Dave's throat 
went dry. This was really happening.

"Isn't this rather severe?" he ventured.

"Not to worry," Cornelius replied cheerily. "The tail that trainer you see at the tip “

"It looks rather hard."

"Umm. It is. But that will fetch up on her belly. Just above. I admit, it's devilishly tender 
there, but we plan no internal damage."

So saying, he reached down and drew his wife's head up by a handful of ebony hair 
behind. Dave saw her streaming face, saw her body trembling like jelly, with the tail of the 
switch lying, probing, down its middle when suddenly the maid made a little feathering 
motion.

Barbara did not hit hard. The switch snapped down the parted cleft and, with an upward 
draw of the wrist, the tough tail whunked audibly into the stretched woman's lower belly. The 
effect was electric.

Madge Dale's head came back, she uttered a piglike grunt “Unh!" her lips drawn back 
from her teeth. For a second she remained so, then suddenly jacked straight, shooting her 
legs behind her. A second after that she was writhing speechlessly, fettered hands clawing at 
her stomach, legs drawn up and threshing like an insect's. The letters on her buttocks flashed 
and bounded.

"Good shot, Barbara!" Cornelius had lost hold of his wife's head, but regained it now and 
drew her forward on the rug by the hair on the back of her scalp. "Now."

The maid struck again, slicing down the line of the suddenly exposed vagina.

"Yieeee!!"

Madge Dale went into a frenzy, rolling on the floor, doubled in agony. Adroitly the maid 
picked up her left leg and thrashed home once again. A coiling scream sang through the 
house. Dave felt his skin crawl.

They watched her plunge like a landed fish for over a minute. Then she lay gasping and 
disheveled, exposing three fiery brands below the navel and just above the cunt hairs.

"Well. I think you're about ready for that committee now, dear," was her husband's parting
salvo. "Help her get ready, Barbara." As the maid led the still-panting woman off, however, he 
turned apologetically to his guest. "I'm so sorry. Did you want to bugger her? Almost forgot. 
As I believe in happy marriages, my friend, the rest is decidedly mine. That's the only place 
you'll ever have Madge Dale."

"It doesn't matter," Dave replied weakly. "Another time. That switch looked most effective."

"I get 'em at Williamson's. East Avenue. Highly recommended. Have another drink."

"Thanks. I won't say no."

When Madge came down ten minutes later nothing might have happened. She was calm, 
dignified, even a trifle distant. Dave saw her to his car. They drove in silence a while. Her legs 
moved convulsively now and then, but that was all.

He turned once. "You look as if you were sitting on pins and needles." She smiled back 
faintly. "I'm sorry if I let you in for that. It must have hurt like hell."

"Did you get a charge out of it, Dave?" He nodded dumbly. "So did I," she said softly, 
looking ahead. "After, of course."

"Barbara?"

"Uh-hm. And I would have done if you'd buggered me, too. Thank you for not doing so, 
however. Here we are."

He saw her out and watched her walk off into the old colonial building, where her 
committee meeting was. It was sad to think that never again...

Dave Stapleton was whistling to himself, as he drove. He made for his apartment and his 
loving wife. On the way, he stopped at Williamson's.





CHAPTER SEVEN


To be stuck... to be fucked... to be plugged with a purplish prick... to look down between her 
plunging thighs and see its moist piston jamming into her wet black mat... feel the slamming, 
scummy shock as his hips met hers... the swelling wriggle of that internal eel and grab his balls
as the boiling knob shot its creamy...

"Aaaah!"

In under the shower, Janice Stapleton sucked in her breath. She stood naked under the 
warm jet and let the water stream over her sumptuous body, down her strong back and the 
crease of her slightly parted arse, over her colossal chest in front to gather in gleaming 
droplets at the rich bar of hair beneath her belly.

If only Dave were there. But he wasn't due back for another three days, dammit. He had 
fucked her in the shower a month ago, fucked her till she'd grunted like a pig and beat at his 
shoulders begging him to give it to her. Her hips twitched spasmodically at the memory. Her 
breath hissed louder than the water.

She flicked her clit with a finger. As she did, she closed her eyes and saw the long, empty 
corridor of her continual dream, its walls illumined with smoky flares and the man in black at 
the end of it. There was always the man in black. There had to be. He struck terror into her 
soul as she advanced slowly toward him, the matron in swishing robes behind her. He stood 
there with folded arms, clad entirely in black leather, shiny with grease and shit. From his right 
hand dangled a ferocious cat. He was masked.

And a voice belled through her head as she took the last, fatal steps towards him and the 
open door, from which light streamed. The judge's voice was saying: "You shall be taken to the
place from whence you came, your clothes shall be stripped from your back, and your naked 
buttocks will be whipped ten times with the cat-o'-nine-tails; you will then serve two weeks' 
solitary confinement at hard labor, whereupon you will again receive a whipping, this time of 
fifteen strokes, until your buttocks be bloody."

In her dreams, the man in black always gave a slight bow as she entered the lighted stone 
chamber, dewy-eyed, weak of knee. The matron then went up to the thin, bespectacled man 
standing there surely he was some priest or monk and said with a dry smile, "Here's one to 
have her back scratched a bit, sir."

After that, it all happened very quickly. She knelt on a straw-decked ledge, nude as a slug 
and trembling all over. Her calves were chained to the flooring, her knees wide apart. Her 
wrists were secured high above her head and her long titian hair was always carefully drawn 
over her left shoulder.

She was beginning to pant. What came then always made her pant. The man in black 
rested the thongs of his cat against her outspread rump, and she could feel their weight as 
they swung idly from their shiny handle. The thin man was standing on her right, looking 
closely at a kind of slate he was holding up. The executioner gave a nod and (always at this 
point) the matron sloshed a bucket of icy brine over her hips from behind.

"Ten strokes across the buttocks," the thin man announced primly, peering at his slate. 
"Lower quarter, Mr. Overseer."

"Very well, sir," said the whipper, standing back and swishing his instrument. "Maximal 
application?"

"Yes. You can draw from the start. She's to be in blood her second dose. You have here a 
good fat sirloin and rump. Take your time and baste it all properly. Make madam jump a bit, 
so she'll have two weeks of decent fear for the next time."

"You need not worry, sir."

It was at this point that, turning back her piteously apprehensive face, she heard it almost 
before she felt it the hot jet of her urine struck the boards between her knees as her bladder 
emptied uncontrollably.

"A pisser," said the overseer thoughtfully. And then he swung his cat.

"You randy bitch," Janice Stapleton said to herself as she shut off the shower, which had 
ominously associated itself with the flood of her fantasy, and stepped out in front of the 
bathroom mirror. "What you need is a damn good beating. Another."

She stood there slightly spraddled, dripping. The slabs of her breasts ended in wide dark 
areolas from which the stubs of her gristly nipples stuck up, plummy. She lifted one breast and
let it drop back heavily. Christ, how Benjy hurt. All the marks had gone by now; it was that oil 
Marc used beforehand. Amazing, too, how he had never hit a nipple. All the same, he was 
careful to put on the protective rubber nipple-caps.

She looked at her belly. Water dewed her cunthair, which curled in two tufts under her 
twat, where her legs joined her body. The marks had gone from her feet, too. She was all set 
for Dave if only he'd come back.

"Correction, woman," she told the reflection. "You need a cock up your cunt."

Turning her back she saw how all the marks had also gone from her bottom, except for 
that terrific caning Suana had given her. There were lines from that, all right. Fading, but there.
Perhaps in a day or so, and with a little powdering...

Janice Stapleton dried herself, perfumed her heavy body, and put on a light Lycra girdle. To
this she tethered dark size-ten nylons and slipped into a fitting purple velvet suit, the jacket 
double-breasted and frogged at the lapels. Sky-high heels completed the ensemble.

She took a last stance before the mirror. Her breath quickened.

"I could almost fuck you myself," she said, smiling wryly. "And now I come to think of it, I 
believe I will."

She reached for the vibrator on her dressing table. And a man's voice said behind her, 
"Can't wait for it, eh?"

Janice swung.

"Dave!" she cried.

She was about to throw herself in his arms when something in his eyes restrained her.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"So I gathered."

"What do you mean?"

She realized she was flushing, stupidly but furiously, and under the velvet of her top her 
heart was hammering strangely. Dave had never looked at her quite like this before.

She tried with a smile, "If I'd known, I'd have had it ready waiting for you. As always. But 
it's not too late to “ He cut short her movement at her skirt.

"Jan."

"Yes?"

"You do love me, don't you?"

"Tremendously, Dave. You know that."

"And we promised never to tell each other lies."

"Of course."

"So why did you tell me one on the telephone last night?"

"I... who... what?" She thought hectically. Staying home. Yes, yes, lying about The 
Hermitage. Marc, he mustn't know about Marc. Facing him, she was aware that all this showed
in her face. Sickly, dumbly, she dropped her eyes and looked at the bathroom rug. "And say I 
did what would you do about it?"

"It's not what I would do, it's what I'm going to do, Jan. I'm not going to ask who you went
out with while I was away, or why. So far as I'm concerned, the matter's forgotten. Don't let's 
either of us refer to it again. But now I'm going to give you a beating."

The word struck her like a snake. Through the unhappy fog of her mind, a glow started, 
darkly, deeply within her.

"You, you're going to do what?" she cried after him hoarsely, as he turned into the passage
and left her. She felt like giving vent to ceaseless, insane laughter, peal after peal, echoing 
down the years of their marriage together. But already the menace was working its magic 
within her. She felt wet, warm, molten and, above all, extremely curious. It was the curiosity 
about what was going to happen to her that did it, drew her like a magnet after him into the 
living room, where Dave was calmly fixing himself a drink.

"Like one?" he said cheerily. "I can't promise it'll help very much, but it may."

"Thanks." She accepted the inch of scotch he poured over the cube.

He sat down and she stood in silence, sipping.

Finally she said submissively, "Did I hear you right just now, Dave?"

"Afraid so." He wasn't meeting her glance, but otherwise he seemed his usual self.

"Wh-Whip me?"

"Hard," he added.

There was another pronounced silence. Janice could hear her heart beating recklessly. The 
glow had thickened to a heat behind her eyes. She put her hands to them a moment. She 
realized she was slipping more and more into position...

"What with, may I ask?"

"Oh. You'll find it on the hall table."

Yes, her limbs were liquid. She could hardly get herself to move, to walk. She went over on 
one heel as she did so. The moment had come at last the dreamed, the desired and she was 
feeling it in her marrow, through and through, bones and all; this was real and yet... Dave was
going to whip her ass. He would see the marks. He would know; he would find out. Everything
would be lost, she'd have to tell him all. Marks from a cane looked like marks from a cane. 
She stifled a sob, then sucked in her breath.

A long, lean eel lay on the table. A smooth waxed switch with a horrible thonglike tail that 
made her feel faint to look at.

"Where did you get this?" She picked it up. How perfectly made for pain such instruments 
were.

"I should have bought one long ago."

"Long ago?"

He got up and crossed to join her and took it from her fingers.

"Lovely weapon, isn't it? Used for training polo ponies."

"But they don't play polo here," she said wildly.

He grinned. "Here. It's the lash. This tough leather at the tip is what hurts. It wasn't quite 
what I wanted, but “

"What did you have in mind then, Dave?"

"Three thongs. Thin cord. Knots. Weals less and stings more."

"How very thoughtful of you," she said in a daze of heat and excitement. "And am I 
destined to have to bare my person for this marital chastisement?"

David Stapleton laughed shortly. "How nice it would be if you didn't have to feel it at all, 
eh? It'll be on the skin, stretched tight."

It is over, she thought, it is ending. It is all coming to a horrible, ghastly...

"Though come to think of it I'll bet this dandy would sting nicely through clothing, too. 
Turn round a bit, darling, would you?"

The air snickered and the air sang. Janice's drink went flying as she heard 
someone herself gasping. The switch bit across her unready backside, clawing its kiss into 
her right cheek, deeply dimpling the velvet there. She staggered, speechless, and then the true
strength of the pain reached her as she half-fell over the sofa.

"Christ!" She lay sprawled on her belly there, panting. This time the whispering switch 
sliced like a knife across the material, so hard it drew a puff of dust.

"Pleeeeeyyyyy !"

She jerked out, grabbing her buttocks behind, then rolled on her back with her knees up, 
her face contorted. This was fantastic! The switch seemed to cut her in two. She lay back, 
writhing weakly, and looked at him as he flexed it.

"Gee, it really does seem to do a good job," he said reflectively. "That's if you're not 
faking."

"What do you think?"

"I was intending to give you a couple of dozen, but I guess that twenty may do."

"I can't take twenty with that," she said brokenly. (Twenty, something within her was crying
hysterically, I'm always getting twenty!) "Please don't ask me to."

"Well, since you seem to have finished your drink, what say we go and get it over with?"

She stood before him, tears welling at her eyes.

"Dave. Fuck me. Please. Fuck my cunt."

"I'll fuck you when you're ready," he said and she couldn't give the answer she'd have liked
to that. Her dream was coming true, but it was also coming to an end. In a second, he would 
strip her ass and see the marks. She would have to tell him all.

But now he was leading her out and down the side stairs. The Stapletons' apartment was 
part of an old carriage house, and this stairway, of wood, led them directly to the garage. It 
was locked and empty. To Janice it looked very, very bare.

"Take off your jacket," he instructed coolly and busied himself at a worktable. "What, no 
bra?" he grinned when she had done as bid. "Well, it wouldn't have helped you much anyway. 
Stand there on that grating."

Janice stood astride the drain-off, rubbing her wrists. Already the apprehension was 
reaching her, so that her body was trembling in little spasms. Her hair felt moist in front. 
Perhaps she hadn't dried herself properly from the shower. Well, he would know in a moment, 
because Dave was going to make her take off her skirt and take down her girdle and he would
see her wealed behind and she had no answer to that. Her house of cards would come 
tumbling down. She was a "deviate," a queer, a pervert, the rest. But all she could see at the 
moment was that tough lash dangling off the worktable and smiling at her in anticipation, 
laughing. And Dave had taken off his coat. It was all happening. In a second He came back to 
her, smiling and rolling up his sleeves, two lengths of cord hanging from one hand.

"Spread your legs, Jan."

He bent over. She noticed that there seemed to be two ringbolts in the flooring here, one 
on each side of the grating. She hadn't noticed them before and as he roped her ankles apart 
to each of them, she wondered for a moment at how carefully he had worked this out.

"Ouch! I'd forgotten you were in the navy. What are these knots? Triple bowline, or 
something?"

"I think you'll find those'll hold you steady."

"You needn't have tied them that hard."

"Don't run away," he quipped as he returned to his workbench for more cord. "Should you
want to relieve yourself, go ahead. It'll all go down the grating."

"I don't, thanks," she said dryly. But how did David know that apprehension provoked 
urination? She was growing curiouser and curiouser. "Just get it over with as soon as you can."

He roped her wrists together in front and, standing on a stool, drew them up high above 
her head by running the cord through a ceiling hook. The place, she reflected as she strained 
in this inverted Y, might have been made for it. Then a sickness scooped out her stomach. He 
was standing in front of her flexing that switch.

He looked at her heavy thighs, widely parted so that the skirt hiked over the stocking tops.
In an instant he would lift that skirt behind, she was thinking miserably, take down her girdle 
and... one more holy union would be ended. What was the current score? Three out of five 
marriages ended in divorce...

"You do have these tremendous breasts, Janice." He fondled one. "I'd forgotten."

"I'm glad you like them, dear," she heard herself reply stupidly.

"You been putting on a little weight?"

"Do you know, I really couldn't say."

"Do you go over one-forty now?"

"No idea."

"Shall I get a tape? In this position... "

"I should have thought the question basically academic... in this position... " What a 
conversation, she thought. One loving wife strung from the ceiling and starting to quake and 
shake and slobber in the center of her being.

"Come to think of it," he said, "I don't know when I've ever seen your nipples so erect, Jan."

"Come to that, I can't remember when I've ever felt so erect myself."

"That goes for two of us, then."

Startled, she saw his mouth approach and felt his teeth tug on her bursting right nipple. 
She moaned in joy, head back, face flushed. But when he began to chew on it, using his side 
teeth, it was too much; she would never be able to hide the bursting volcano in her belly.

"Dave, please, please," she whimpered at him. If you're not careful, I'll “ He stood back, 
staring at her crimsoned face.

"Janice. It wasn't all that exciting."

"Get on with it, please," she urged him. (As soon as she received the first cut, it would drive
back her ecstasy.) With tears at her eyes, she added, "Whip me if you must. Just 
remember I'm not a polo pony."

"Yes, I do think I must," he said thoughtfully, and vanished to the left from her vision. "Let's
try a couple for length."

She sucked in her breath at the wicked whistle of air behind. Then the switch plucked at 
the taut rose velvet of her parted arse “Hhhuink!"

She jerked in her bonds, only to find she couldn't move. She clenched in agony, then 
relaxed, panting. He gave her one more. The tip hit her hipbone, and she squealed.

With fisted fingers, as if she were trying to climb the very rope she was hauled up by, she 
hung aghast, heaving and sweating. The pain had driven down the desire, all right. Perhaps he
would be satisfied by whipping her over her clothes, and so would not see but no, here he 
was approaching her, and there was also what he had promised upstairs. The skin stretched 
tight. As in a dream (as in her dreams) she felt her tawny hair drawn over her left shoulder, in 
front. She quivered as he felt her.

"I have an idea this is going to be a most salutary lesson, Jan. Did you feel those two?"

"Intensely."

"Hm."

He went to his workbench and came back with an opened can. Green. What was this? 
Janice felt desire flare up once more.

Trying to speak steadily she said, "You're not going to be able to get my girdle down far, I 
fear, Dave. I'll be better if “

"But I'm going to thrash your back," he said in surprise.

"That's what I mean," she replied weakly.

"Here" he prodded the flesh of her straining shoulders, pinching the muscle just under 
her right armpit “this is where it hurts most for the polo quirt, my pretty. No, Jan, you have a 
lovely deep long back and I'm going to lace it as it deserves. But as I don't want to cut the skin
I'm just going to anoint it first."

She began sobbing as the oil started trickling out down her spine. He placed the can at 
her nape and let the viscous stuff ooze all over her. She cried dementedly, frantically.

"The best Castrol," he said. "There."

"It'll ruin my dress!" she whimpered hysterically.

"We'll buy you another one," he said with a chuckle. "What you're going to need is another
back!"

As she felt the heavy motor oil squirm its way intolerably, humiliatingly, as if into her very 
being, she wept soundless spasms of tears. It was creeping under her skirt, into her girdle, 
over her intimate and exhausted inner flesh.

She was crying because she had been whipped on the buttocks, on the feet, on the 
breasts, and on the hands. And now it was the turn of her back!

She was saved, she was saved! The irony overcame her as she hung for her punishment. 
Dave would not see the marks. Moreover, he had now given her enough there himself for her 
to be able to pass off her weals as his...

Zzzzzsch!

"Uink! God!"

He started high up, and the tip ate into the mossy hollow of her armpit. It was 
unbelievable pain but her whole being was now a unified sob of sensation. A single swelling 
core of pure ela Zzzzzsch!

Two.

She grunted again. Breathlessly, she said, "You... don't... think... you could give me slightly 
longer intervals?"

"I'm giving you half minutes, as it is."

Thirty seconds? Ten whole minutes of “OW! That hurt!" she cried, at the third.

The pain at her wrists was enormous. She hung like a side of beef and he sliced her, 
moving downward. The stripes that caught her oily ribs were bad, but the worst were the 
couple just above the waist. She lunged, gasping.

Pure ecsta “Christ, you look lovely!" he said in a low voice.

Then something blazed in her being. Dave was enjoying this! She could barely believe it. 
But she knew him, she sensed it. She sensed it with every fiber of her being, which replied 
minutely to his. The quaking lava at her cunt was mounting with every convulsion of her torso;
even the strokes were not sufficing to hold it back now.

"Feeling warm, Jan?"

"Yes, ye-es... "

"Well, so am I."

Then in a strange whimper she heard a woman imploring, "Please... whip... cut... give it to 
me, Dave, please... don't wait because I'm “ His breath was in her ear. "Janice! What... are you 
serious?"

"Yes, yes!" she moaned, moving her head from side to side. "Oh, can't you see? I'm on the 
verge of orgasm. You have to help me, Dave. Hit me again, to stop it. Quick, don't wait. Hard, 
the arse across the arse, my love."

Feverishly he ripped up her skirt and whipped the jouncy rounds so that they cringed in 
agony. Janice hissed as if scalded, tensing.

"Yes, yes “ He said, "Oh my darling, all these years."

"I know, I know. But that's how it is with me."

"And that's how it is with me," he said, grasping her from in front and kissing her dry, 
pain-bitten lips and perspiring face. "Oh my angel, my love."

"And we never knew." She laughed hysterically once more. "Dave, you have to hit me 
again. Real hard. Quick. As of this instant I'm about to explode, and if you don't “

"Like that?"

"AAAIEEE!"

"If I don't stick you soon, I'll go mad." He fumbled with her bonds.

"Dave. Listen. You don't have to... untie me. Take me like this. I can move my hips enough 
to be interesting to you, I guess. Stick it into me from behind. Only... only... give me, quick, two
more low down across the fanny and don't mind if I yell like a stuck pig the neighbors won't 
hear and come to that," she said with another despairing gurgle of hysteria, "a stuck... pig's 
just what I want to be-eeeeeyyyyyah!"

The switch bit twice into the rumpy buttocks, paused, then sliced twice more against the 
stretched white spandex through which the weals showed darkly now.

Janice jerked like a puppet, her cry ending hoarsely. "I said only two, you brute."

"How do I get this thing down?" he groaned, wrestling with the girdle.

"There's a detachable crotch, quick. You'll find all well lubed “

"How in hell?"

"The convenience button, dear. The convenience button."

"I'll say," he said as, with a satisfactory sluicing thrust, he impaled this bound woman, his 
successively spasming wife, from whom he had been a stranger all too long.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Doreen Becker got up and sat down. It was a quarter to seven, and Chuck would be along any 
minute now. Eight would keep her the date, indeed! She glanced timidly across the Beckers' 
chintz living room at Marc Merlin. He had come for one of his regular evenings, she guessed. 
Strange that he and her cousin never seemed to make out, but Doreen could bet her last pair 
of panties they didn't. Gosh, for heaven's sake, the man doted on Suana. They should have 
been married years ago. Something stirred in her blonde head. Perhaps there was a way that...

Doreen pirouetted prettily in front of the fireplace. Her cousin would be along in a minute.
She had to work fast.

"The lass with the delicate air," said Marc Merlin, looking at her with a kindly smile.

She called it her "shepherdess" dress. It was a short cotton lilac-print voile, severely cut, 
with a prim high neck (Chuck was serious, for gosh sake): There were crisp sleeves terminating 
in roundelays of fresh lace. She really looked sexy, and she knew it.

"You look ethereal," said Marc Merlin, who had been observing her many movements. 
Suana was upstairs changing from her work clothes; they were planning to make this a 
pleasant domestic evening here, after Dorry had gone out on her long-awaited date.

"I assure you I d-don't feel the-ereal."

"Ethereal," he corrected.

"Ethereal here." She patted a well-padded sit-upon.

Marc Merlin's eyebrows rose. He had long known that Suana chastised her cousin 
corporally, but he had sensitively stayed away from the subject and scene. Unusual interest of
the kind was all too apparent, he knew. He did not want to give himself away to this wonderful
woman. And spoil everything.

At the same time, his curiosity was aroused. "By which you mean, Dorry?"

"Unh-huh," she singsonged, glancing at her watch. "In just three minutes I'm going to be 
caned again."

After a second, Marc said, "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened this time?"

"Oh, gee, I was late again, I guess."

"You always seem to be," he said.

"Well, this time it was truly murder," came the answer, to a delicate swirl of her flared skirt. 
"Do you want to see the marks?" She reached behind her, but stayed... reaching.

Marc Merlin said thickly, "I don't think that will be necessary, Do, all things considered. I'll 
take your word for it. Let's assume we've settled the why. So how are you going to get it this 
time?"

The girl looked genuinely puzzled. "How do you mean how? Across the rump, of course." 
Marc said nothing. The girl prattled on, "Oh, that new cane she's got is a beast. I promise you. 
I used to be able to take six okay; I mean, it hurt and all that, but it didn't exactly send me up 
the wall. Now with this new long one, I start wishing I'd never had a tail after three or four. It's 
horrible."

"Why don't you avoid it, then?" he said.

"I try. Somehow it just doesn't work. Sue always seems to find something to cane me for. 
Gee, there are times when I almost think she enjoys whipping me, y'know?"

Marc sat on the edge of his chair. He said nothing. The girl shot him a sly glance and went 
on, "Yeah. I mean. How would she like to have to bend over for a juicy eighter?" She tossed 
him a pleased smile. "Say. If by how, you meant in what position, like, it's usually this."

There were pink satin bows on Doreen's shoes and she bent down and touched them like 
a hinge. The solid hem of her pantyhose came into view.

A hidden drummer was beating in Marc Merlin's mind. He had no head for heights. There 
was a malicious complicity about the snub buttocks outlined under the "shepherdess" dress. 
His bowstring stretched. He murmured some growling assent, fascinated by his new 
philosophy. Doreen was still demurely doubled up. It was as though there were no bone at all 
behind that protuberant meat, he yearned to give it all a solid smack.

"Of course, I'm bared," Doreen said, still bent. "Oh, heavens, yes. Up goes my skirt and 
down comes, well, everything else," (she gave an apologetic laugh), "and I assure you it's most
unpleasant. I'd like to see Susie with her pants down and six red lines blazing up behind."

"That's enough!" Marc said decisively and decidedly. "Stand up and put yourself straight."

Someone was coming. Suana burst into the room in a snug pair of corduroy slacks and a 
shirt. She greeted Marc with a platonic peck. Her eyes strayed absently.

"Dear, I wonder if you'd mind. I do have something to settle with Dorry first."

The young blonde said, "Yes, I've told him about that, Suana."

"What have you told Mr. Merlin, pray?"

Doreen Becker took a deep breath. Standing with her feet together, she faced but looked 
over Marc's chair.

"That in order to have this date with Chuck, I have to bend over, bare my bottom, and take
eight sharp cuts of the cane across my naked skin."

"Dorry! You didn't have to be so explicit!" Suana Becker's face flamed.

"Sue, could you give me them high, do you think? They do hurt so down on the, the... 
bottom."

"If you're not careful, miss, I'll give you them in front of Mr. Merlin, too."

She shrugged playfully. "Oh, I wouldn't mind, Suana, honest."

With a surprised start, her cousin retorted, "And I suppose you wouldn't care, you hussy, if 
I asked him to give them to you. I've a good mind to."

"Very well, Suana. Anything you say."

"Get the cane," Suana Becker snapped darkly. "Chuck's car is outside, in case you didn't 
know." The girl went off at a run. Marc stood up and confronted Suana. "On this, I think I 
should pass," he said carefully.

"It might do her good."

The two stood staring at each other, uncertain, slightly afraid.

"You really want me to?"

The question was answered by a slender golden wand inserted between them.

"The cane, Mr. Merlin," Doreen Becker said in a bravely frightened voice.

He accepted it as if mesmerized. It was a lovely long malacca, very reminiscent no, almost 
exactly the same...

"Where did you find this?" he asked involuntarily.

"Oh. I don't know. Locally," Suana answered in a confused way. "It's been sized."

"Sized?"

"For stiffness."

He stared at her wonderingly. Perhaps she too Suana turned away. "Ask for correction 
politely, then," she instructed her cousin in a businesslike way.

The girl took a deep breath and said, "I request you, sir, to administer to me of your good 
and free will eight hard strokes of this young cane across my naked arse “

"Doreen!"

"Sorry, Sue. Bottom."

"Buttocks," Suana emended vigorously.

"Across my naked buttocks, bent tight so that it may hurt more and at good intervals for 
me to feel all the pain, and also “

"That's enough. Come here and bend over."

Marc watched bemused. Suana took her cousin's ear and led her to a low leather 
footstool, vaguely Moroccan.

"Hands on this."

Looking considerably less courageous now, the girl leaned forward.

"Like this," said her enflamed cousin. "Your legs back, please."

Marc cut the air with the cane and Doreen glanced back fearfully.

Suana positioned her. "I said like this."

She demonstrated and for a moment, holding the swaying cane, Marc had before him a 
vision of completion. Suana's fawn corduroy hips broadened taut, expectant. He closed his 
eyes.

"I hope you don't mind doing this," said a voice. And he was looking into his beloved's 
eyes. Doreen's "shepherdess" skirt had been turned up, and Sue had slipped two fingers into 
either side of the pantyhose at the girl's waist.

"It won't be necessary to strip her," he said.

"Oh, yes it will," said her inexorable cousin.

"Eight of the best, please," Suana said, stepping to one side.

Marc was bursting. He had taken off his coat and was aware of his doting staff pressing 
fully, like a bruise, at the center of his trousers. With luck Suana would not see it...

"Do you want me to hit her hard?" he asked dreamily.

"Very. Here." The older woman indicated. A pale nail drew a line above the tremulous 
bottom. "That's where she likes it least. I think you'll find this position excellent, if you cut 
under."

"I agree it's a good one," said Marc, thinking, "How does she know so much?"

He gave three ringing strokes into the fatted fold. The girl reacted at once, oohing and 
aaahing and swinging her bottom.

Hands dug into the pockets of her slacks, Suana looked on, bright-eyed. "Perhaps this will 
act as a small reminder of tonight's date, dear."

Marc paused and cut again, the cane bluntly belting up under the fat. Doreen yipped and 
grabbed behind. She gave a long, frightened fart.

"Get over," said her cousin. "Quick!"

With a fearful glance back, Doreen obeyed. The cane whirred, and she cried out again. She
seemed to be putting more and more of herself on display, lifting first one leg then the other, 
reaching down and rubbing lustily. She was well wealed in the crease, and Marc aimed the 
next cut slightly higher.

"Auuuu “

"Don't be immodest, dear."

"I'd like, I'd like, I'd just like to see you bend over, Sue, and take six as tight as these 
fer-from Mr. Merlin. Truly I would. You don't know how horribly... it hurts." came the angry 
retort.

"Don't be sassy, dear, or I'll order you extra," Suana said, but she said it with flaming 
cheeks, and eyes averted from Marc Merlin's bulging front. Her own breath was not coming 
easily, either.

The last two whunked home solidly, and the girl hopped and danced in earnest.

"Now pull up your pants," her cousin said sternly. "And walk out that door this instant, Do. 
Let this be a lesson to you."

With writhing face and folded arms the girl obeyed. There was an exultant honk on a 
jalopy's horn outside. The two adults eyed each other uneasily. They were both panting and 
Marc, for one, felt that he was burning alive at the core of his being. Never had he had such a 
hard-on.

But it intensified when Suana, chewing her lower lip, said, "Shameless. She ought to have 
had ten. But you know, there's one thing. I've never asked anything of my cousin I wouldn't be
prepared to do myself.

"Meaning, Sue?"

"When Dorry said just now she'd like to see if I could take what I order her. I mean... it was 
a challenge. Marc, I have a favor to ask of you," she said determinedly.

"A favor?" he echoed dully.

"I mean it. I'm going to bend over and ask you to give me eight... of the best... just like 
that."

He stood with trembling hands, flexing the cane.

"She was bare," he said faintly, at last.

"Very well." Busy fingers began undoing her slacks. They were fly-fronted, and Suana's 
motions showed signs of strain, too. "All I know is... I want to try. We've known each other 
long enough."

"Suana. You want me to... " Marc's mind reeled. He could not get his breath. "This cane 
hurts a very great deal."

Clad only in her shirt she said solemnly, "There's nothing in the world I want more."

He shut his eyes. This could not be happening! He was exploding in two. His vision 
seemed to be immersed in intolerable sunlight.

For when he opened his eyes it was to a connoisseur's gem, something that occurred only 
once in any thinking man's lifetime. Contemplating those rear divisions, Marc heard celestial 
music. He was a fastidious man and asked only the best in life. He had it here.

With braced back, she had bent over in the manner of her cousin. There was the same 
cuticle of flesh and then the more plumpish, widening thighs, slightly flaccid at their tops. 
Suana had herself turned up her shirttail and her nether hemispheres were on most gluteal 
display. Marc had never seen anything like it in his life before and hoped sedulously never to 
repeat the experience again. Yes, once in a lifetime was enough.

There was a resilient tensing of her thighs which quivered the skin above. He was 
extremely excited and in a most manly condition. Janice had been beautiful. He could see 
Suana only through a ruddy fog.

"Brace back your knees," he heard himself enunciate thickly, and she made a decisive 
thrust back, as at some ringmaster's command. The pearlike curves lay perfectly exposed for 
the perfection of this sweet and clean and living cane, so akin to those Kim sold him!

"Cane my can."

"After I have done so, there is a small favor I have to ask of you, Sue," he replied to the 
unbelievable command.

"Ask on," said the voice.

"Marry me."

"Will do," she returned politely, "only make me really feel it first."

He drew back his Merlin's wand and struck.

In the battered Chevy that drew in to the accustomed place under the trees of the distant 
park, crew-cut Chuck grinned broadly. It had not passed unobserved to him that his lovely 
young date had spent most of the trip on her right side, massaging her buns under the lilac 
skirt.

"Lover's Lane once again," Doreen said, still rubbing ruefully. "What do you know?"

"Gee, she must have hit awful hard this time, to have made that impression. Can l see?" the
boy said with a grin.

"No," she said, then, at his glance, "Oh, well, I s'pose."

Doreen Becker knelt on the seat and leaned over its back. Get it over with, was her motto. 
Chuck doused his lights. In the darkness she heard him scuffling behind her.

"You can't see the weals with the lights off, stupid," she protested. "Hey, I'm showing you." 
She had already eased down her panties. "Oh for Pete's sake, what have you got back there, 
you moron, a crowbar or sumpin'? No, no," the young voice assumed a protesting timbre, "I 
do not want it up me there. Chuck! You know perfectly well!"

"Spread," he grunted unfeelingly.

"Please. Chuck. I said. Not up my... NO! That's the wrong... oh!" she exclaimed with a curse 
and a wriggle, "you Elchester boys are all the same. So backward!"





CHAPTER NINE


"'Extreme remedies, are very appropriate for extreme diseases,'" Cornelius quoted with an 
indulgent smile.

"Who said that?" laughed a pretty blonde beside him. "Plato?"

"Hippocrates."

"Is it true that you were able to get Pedro again, Corny?"

"Jesus Christ, but that man's fantastic, isn't he just?" said the blonde's husband, a tall man 
with horn-rims. "I swear he could cut a fly off your nose from ten yards with that whip of his."

"Where is Madge at this moment?" the blonde asked.

"In Contemplation," Cornelius pronounced gravely.

She took a sip of her champagne. "You mean lying up there in her room practically peeing 
in her pants with terror at what's to happen to her. By the way, are you going to gag her? Tom
has a theory about the pear." '"Slaves are generally expected to sing as well as work.' I really 
forget who said that, Clarissa, but it was undoubtedly somebody edifying."

The blonde laughed and turned with a clinking sound. She had come in a short tunic of 
chain mail. The links were circular and larger at the skirt, which was seductively see-through 
above the black stockings. The dark muff in front was an emphatic triangle, while behind, her 
peach cleft was very evident as she bent over the buffet table to replenish her plate. Both men
watched the metal tunic move over the soft cheeks, which were crisscrossed with thin blue 
lines.

"I see that Clarry has been in the wars once more," Cornelius said sententiously.

"Yes, I gave her those just before leaving, as a matter of fact."

"Hm. Rather high, don't you think?"

"Clarissa hates them high. I make her squat down on a low stool and bend forward. Then I 
cut in from above."

"How many can she get to now?"

"She reached nine the other night. But, provided my timing's on, anything over six begins 
to be a problem. I'd really like to see her get a sound thrashing in public, but she may not be 
ready for that yet." The younger man looked his distinguished host in the eyes. "I do want you
to know we are most grateful for being asked. It is very magnanimous of you to let us see 
Madge, er, getting it like this. Clarry ought to, too."

"Is that an offer?" Cornelius chuckled.

"But me no butts," said a purring voice between them as the good-looking blonde 
returned with a foie gras sandwich, "but I have a feeling you two were discussing me... as it 
were... behind my back."

The young man said, "If we're going to come here like this we ought to cooperate. I'd like 
to see you caned on the bench before the... other thing starts."

"As an overture, Tom?" The blonde smiled sweetly. "She could go a dozen with a thin 
cane," Cornelius said. The blonde paled.

But at that moment they were interrupted. A maid in black satin dropped the tanned host 
a curtsy.

"Shall I give her the enema now, sir?"

"Yes, Barbara. Two high colonics and a good flushing." He chuckled richly as the maid went
off. "Poor Madge. She docs so hate her enemas before it all begins. Barbara rinses her out 
inside till she's quite, quite clean and could drink the last pints put up her. And, to tell the 
truth, I sometimes think she does!"

The party at the low stone house in the hills was progressing smoothly. As always, it was 
extremely select; some five couples, and a visiting schoolmistress from England, the Dales' 
house guest and a well set-up woman of fifty. The Californian Korbel was circulating freely.

The Stapletons had come early and stood alone in a corner. It was Janice's first visit, and 
she needed to relax. Dave was explaining it all to her.

"But poor Madge," she said with a shuddery shiver that stirred her body in its brief cocktail
sheath. "Doesn't she ever come down beforehand? I mean, isn't she even allowed one drink, a 
small one?"

"The suspense is so lovely," Dave Stapleton said, letting one hand roam over his wife's 
well-jutting can, "as I think you know quite well."

"Oh, dear, yes. But still. Madge Dale. All those committees we've been on."

"Including the Prevention of Cruelty to Dumb Animals!" Dave laughed and slapped her 
side. "She has to contemplate at the moment. It's very important that she should be in the 
right frame of mind. Cornelius is careful about that. All her senses have to be involved. I rather
think she has to kneel down upstairs somewhere for an hour, just looking at a birch hanging 
on the wall in front of her. There's the sound of her being whipped on stereo tape and a 
strong smell of carbolic, or something."

"How diabolic!" Janice shuddered again.

Dave glanced at his watch. "Which reminds me. If the normal schedule holds, the birches 
have been taken down by now, I guess. Care to take a look at the... scene of operations, dear? 
We're allowed to. In fact, we're encouraged to."

"What do you think, monster?" Janice squeezed his hand and then his root and followed 
him across the room.

As she went, she heard flashes of conversation.

"Warren. Is it true she's going to get four dozen, and the Master's strokes after?" This from
a winsome thing in riding gear.

"I dunno," the man replied thoughtfully. "All I know is that after three the last time, her 
right side looked like uncooked liver, if you remember."

"Brrrh!" said his wife, her smile fading.

"Cheer up, Erika," he said. "I asked Barbara to put a couple of rods in the Blue Room for 
after. Cornelius said I could have it again."

A cheerful-looking woman in tweeds, eyes bright behind a flashing pince-nez and her 
brown hair drawn back in a bun, approached them with a drink.

"I'm Marjorie Watson-Taylor, I don't think we've met. Well, I can tell you, a century ago, 
boarding-school girls in England were getting up to six dozen. Six dozen. And kneeling down 
to kiss the rod after. The birch has a surface sting. You can go a lot with it."

"Not on my surface you can't," said Erika.

Janice, who had been delayed by the trio, asked, "Do you still... correct your girls corporally
in England, Miss Watson-Taylor?"

"Frequently and well," came the smiling reply.

Dave was tugging her hand. Suddenly she heard him saying, "Marc. Congratulations, old 
boy. So you two finally got spliced. About time, too."

Marc Merlin's handsome dark head bowed briefly before her. With genuine and 
spontaneous emotion, Janice said, "Oh, Marc. I'm so glad. That it worked out between you, I 
mean."

"Thank you," he said. "It did. Very well. We were married a week ago."

As she looked at him she found strange tears pricking behind her lids. He had been a 
good friend and a great Master. But she no longer needed him, nor he her. A chapter in her 
life had been concluded. A new one was opening, gloriously, before her. This path into the 
unknown woods rippled with the joys and fears of beauty, too. She loved Dave... she now 
needed Dave.

Waiting while Dave and Marc talked earnestly together, Janice felt a gentle pull turn her. 
She confronted a resplendent Suana.

"Good evening, Mrs. Merlin," she said. "How pleasant to meet you here."

Sue had come in a plain garment. Perhaps it was a leotard top of fitting black, beneath 
which was something that could, these days, be called a skirt, also of black, though it really 
was not much more than an extended cummerbund. Her head was held very high.

"Jan," she said in a begging tone. "I had to see you. Could you come upstairs with me for 
five minutes? Cornelius lends us all rooms, you know."

"Thanks, but I'm not planning to give you another chance to take the skin off my southern 
sectors, Sue."

"That's not it."

"You really hit me, you know."

"Please, Jan," she whispered urgently. "You don't understand. I owe you an apology."

Janice paused. "What's wrong with you? I seem to be talking to your chin."

Suana turned with a sigh. Suddenly Janice saw. The heavy flaxen plait held the proud head 
back under pressure. Its end vanished under the skirt. On raising it, she saw that it had been 
threaded with a leather thong, and that this ran through between the stately legs to fasten to 
a buckle in front. Janice smiled grimly. Suana was welcome to the "saddle." She only hoped 
that Dave would not learn more of Marc's devices.

"I see," she said sympathetically.

"No. I want you to beat me," Suana gestured imperatively. "Please, Jan. I deserve it. I gave 
you the mother and father of a shellacking and it wasn't really fair what I did, after, I mean. 
Please take me upstairs and cane me." Her moist eyes rolled ceilingward. "Please, Jan, please. 
Whip my butt. Marc won't mind."

Janice Stapleton smiled, but shook her head. "Sorry, Sue, but no dice. I just don't get my 
kicks that way. I like taking it, but not dishing it out. I'm happy it finally worked out between 
you two. Remember what I said."

"Thanks. And between you and Dave, too."

"Umm."

"It is so lovely afterward."

"Isn't it, though." On impulse, she asked, "By the way, who snitched? No, I won't ask you. I 
know. Kim saw the cane, right?"

"Also all those lines you had to write. In his wastebasket," Suana answered after a moment.
"Alas, it's me that has to do those now."

Janice frankly grinned. "Grin and bear it, eh, Sue. Spelled b-a-r-e." She gave a playful 
upward yank at the braid behind.

Suana said, "Ouch!"

Marjorie Watson-Tayior was still booming away. "And it must be boiling brine, too, y'know.
I do hope he has them soaking in hot water. Ha, ha, ha! The birch is a wood that absorbs 
water, y'see, and retains it ah, unlike some girls I've seen under punishment." She burst into 
her ridiculous chortle again. "You can get birch twigs tough as leather, and just as pliant, with 
some good hot pickling, I always say."

Dave led his wife down the winding stair, out of the living room, and along an 
underground passage. (Was it her imagination, or were the walls illumined with flaming 
torches?) They entered a long, softly lit chamber, its walls apparently hung with red bunting. 
Janice stopped instinctively on the threshold.

"Cornelius's playroom," she said at last.

"It has a pleasant sense of doom, I think you'll find. But come on and take a look."

They entered the place from the back. To either side had been arranged large curlicued 
love seats more like small enclosed beds, she saw as they slowly advanced.

Each assured privacy by its overhung top and latticed sides. Each faced forward to the 
focus of the room a raised dais empty at that moment but for a black block of what seemed 
to be stone, and surrounded on either side by receding walls on which hung shining 
instruments. Janice's heart gave a profound, hesitant flutter. The place struck a resonant chord
within her.

"Yes, they're here, all right."

Leading her forward Dave pointed to three steaming buckets placed to one side of the 
stage. Long birches lagged out of them wetly. He picked one up and hung it dripping before 
her.

"Mother!" Janice said sickly.

"I know how you feel."

"And I know how you feel, you brute. I'd always thought a birch... "

"Exactly. These are well chosen. Notice the buds at the tips. They harden in the pickle. Get 
really tough. Here, feel."

"They're more like whips."

They were. She had always associated a birch with a broom, but these instruments 
consisted of but four or five whippy limbs of the tree, extremely long and active-looking.

"More like five switches, come to that."

"You bet. Take a look at the block. A real museum piece. I think it's Hungarian, actually."

Janice mounted the dais with appropriate misgiving. Her whole being was responding to 
this scene, this mood. The black block confronted her. It seemed as if she had seen it all her 
life. There was a low ledge or shelf in front, and sure enough, it was sprinkled with sawdust. 
Cornelius knew, all right. Then the front part sloped sharply downward, like a European 
washerwoman's bench. Janice stepped toward it as if hypnotized.

She did not have to be told. The grooves were for the knees, set nicely wide apart. Then, of
course, you knelt over, right over, with "the part to be chastised" high in the air, on display to 
all, and oh, yes straps at the sides for elbows and wrists. It was a posture that spelt 
punishment, and nothing else.

"Gee, you really have to embrace this thing, don't Suddenly she realized that Dave was 
standing behind her parted arse, smiling. He still carried the birch.

"No!"

She was getting up when the wet whistle met her. The twigs lapped round her 
still-stretched seat like blades. She gasped and grabbed and stood up squirming.

"Christ, that stings."

"That was only one." Dave grinned.

"Trying it on for size?" said a voice, and a couple approached, smiling. They were tanned 
and young, the girl slim and wearing a halter-top over tight red satin shorts. "One good cut 
deserves another. Come on, Beth."

Dave Stapleton handed him the birch.

The girl said, "Tom, please!"

"I don't recommend it," Janice said, still rubbing.

"Over you go," her husband said happily. "If you two don't mind, she won't strip. Beth is 
rather shy."

"I don't recommend it," Janice said and she was still rubbing.

The girl bent slowly over the block. Her shorts stretched to bursting point. Suddenly she 
said "Ow!" and stood up.

"What's that?"

Dave said, "Haven't you two seen this before? I just turned the lever with my foot. See if it 
was working." He explained that there were serrations in the forward slope of the washboard 
and, with the lever turned, a series of short but strategically placed sharp pins appeared. "They
were especially designed for women. Maybe it was the Austro-Hungarian Empire I can't be 
sure. But if you drop your chest, like Beth did there “

"It hurts," she supplied.

"Precisely. Makes her keep her upper half up. The arching effect actually widens the, er, 
pelvic exposure, and thrust."

"I'll say." Tom took aim with the birch.

Beth took a slice across her small, well-packed shorts and stood up, frowning, but not 
rubbing.

"I see what you mean," she said.

The lights at the back of the room dimmed gradually.

"Proceedings are getting under way, I guess." Tom replaced the birch. "What an 
instrument."

"Let's get a ringside seat," Dave said to his wife, and they took possession of a love seat to 
one side. The room was in almost total darkness now, and couples could be heard coming in 
and feeling forward for unoccupied places.

"If you've got nothing else to do," Dave added, nuzzling into his wife's hair, "you might 
melt this down while we wait, would you."

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer... normal channels? They're all only too ready to oblige."

"If you insist, my dear, if you insist."

The large room was totally dark. Suddenly the stage was lit in blazing light. From a door in 
back of it Cornelius approached, smiling confidently. He held out a gracious hand to the 
applause which greeted him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began solemnly, "we are here to witness an important event. 
Physically, it is the correction of an offender. But you all know that what we do here is 
symbolic. Strongly so. Consciousness entails suffering. Yet man prefers suffering to inertia. 
Suffering is the token of his individuality." As his voice rolled on, a real attention was evident 
in the room.

"Cornelius is the mastermind, isn't he just?" Dave whispered to his wife.

"He knows." She raised her head, and the assent arose like a mermaid from her deepest 
depths.

"What is to be enacted here tonight is something that has to he done" Cornelius 
concluded and then, rather grandly, he added, "The war against death is always a beautiful, 
noble and honorable truth." With an apologetic cough, he turned. "And now I shall introduce 
you to the Whipmaster of the evening."

He gestured briefly and from the back of the dais appeared a figure that made Janice sit 
up straight and gasp.

"That's Pedro," Dave whispered in her ear.

"Good God, it's exactly “ The man was not clad in leather though his strapped codpiece 
was of that material but he was entirely in black. He was short, burly, squat, with immense 
thighs bulging in his black stockinette tights; wiry hair protruded from his chest above the top
of his inky singlet and from his bare brawny arms. His whole head was encased in a black 
mask, giving him the appearance of a bald horror from which the eyes winked beadily. In a roll
on his left shoulder he carried a gleaming whip. He was, she had to confess, totally 
terrifying and he was met with prolonged applause.

"He's an expert with a whip."

"I'm sure he is," she whispered back.

The horror stood to the left of the stage.

Cornelius went on: "In concordance with our usual practice there will be Preparation, 
Humiliation, Flagellation, and finally should your wishes so incline Degradation." He lowered 
his eyes. "That will be up to the company. As you know, we are democratic here. But I have 
decided to request Pedro to make this a very significant event for Mrs. Dale. It has been usual 
to administer birchings in the traditional dozens. Tonight you will see the first two applications
in fifteens, and I think we shall find the lack of conventional relief after the twelfth will be an 
extremely trying test. The third dose will be of twenty “ His voice was drowned in applause. 
He held up a hand to still it.

"What is more, the last twenty making fifty strokes in all will be inflicted with birches 
prepared by Pedro in a special manner. Each limb has been bound in wire, and this unknown 
to the recipient... " This time there were literal cheers.

"Please. It is Pedro who is to be congratulated on his use of imagination, not I." The black 
brute bowed. "And then it will be up to you good people to decide whether or not her 
conduct under chastisement merits the so-called Master's strokes. Are there are questions 
from the house?"

There was silence for a second. Then a man's voice: "I'd like to recommend Urtication. Like 
last time."

"Urtication," Janice whispered on the bed beside her husband. "What's that?"

"Nettles," he replied. "Makes it much worse."

"Whipmaster," Cornelius inquired in a kindly voice, "can we manage Urtication?"

For answer, the burly Pedro reached behind him and lofted another bucket, this one 
containing a mass of heavy green foliage. There was more applause.

Cornelius hesitated, smiling. "One final proposal. There have been some suggestions just 
now. One of our members of the fair sex who shall of course be nameless to you believes 
herself guilty of injustice to another. She offered to accept a correction with the cane as a 
preliminary to this evening's event. She should be congratulated on her spirit."

There was applause.

I forgave Suana long ago, Janice thought with a pang. "However, other offers followed. In 
short, it was suggested to propose a small contest. It would serve to warm Pedro up for his 
work admirably. It is as follows: All the ladies present to receive the cane, the winner being she
who can take the most, the loser the least. After the main event is concluded, the winner may 
choose a small delectation for the loser. May I have your vote. Those in favor?"

In the silence there was a sudden clicking of fingers. Janice saw Dave snap his together 
several times.

"Those against?"

She made a motion, but he took her hands, whispering, "You don't have a vote."

"But I thought this was democratic!" she protested.

"It is!"

"Carried. Very well. We might as well get on with that first. It might facilitate matters if 
clothing beneath the waist was, ah, removed. Caning will take place on the bench. Offenders 
will be left with their hands free to knock when they can take no more."

"Offenders!" Janice snorted, reaching under her skirt and hearing, by various creakings, her
colleagues doing likewise. "I like that. Damn Suana!"

"Let's see if you can win," Dave urged her with a smile.

Cornelius had stepped to one side of the stage. The auditorium was now completely 
darkened. The stage, however, seemed more brilliantly bathed in light. And when Janice next 
looked, it was with another leap of fear inside her.

The whipping bench, rolled out and now secured below the dais in front of them, was a 
simple, if scarred slab of heavy wood. Apart from the fact that it was supplied with straps and 
that there was a small hump in the center, it looked innocent enough. The real trouble was 
that the man in black was standing astride in front of it flexing the longest, lithest cane she 
had ever seen.

"I believe that bench is Mexican," Dave said.

"Which century?" Janice scoffed. "It's so important for me to know before “ But the silence
was broken by the padding of feminine feet. In the darkness someone brushed by them in the
aisle, a woman's head bent over Janice's, a kiss was placed behind her ear “This is for you, 
darling."

"Good luck!" she had time to whisper back.

Standing under the spotlight in front of the bench without her shoes, Suana looked much 
smaller. The light poured on her perfect parted head and strong braid, which had now been 
released from its thong. She had on her skirt but had removed her stockings.

Pedro felt her buttocks under it like a butcher handling meat, then thrust her down 
roughly on the bench and strapped her there as if he were in a momentous hurry. She was 
strapped very solidly, indeed.

"It's as if he never wanted her to get up again," Janice murmured, to her husband.

"He knows she'll want to, all right, after the first."

The bench was placed perpendicular to the dais. The watchers saw Suana from her shapely
feet forward and even so, she seemed all buttock by the time Pedro had finished with her. 
Her ankles were strapped; her knees were strapped; her waist was strapped. Her hips were 
pushed up. A saddle strap was brought up, dividing her cheeks, and fastened so roughly that 
she gasped in pain, pressing up her torso with her hands. Two thin straps secured the tops of 
her thighs. Suana's gentle cheeks were bunched up as if bursting for the cane. Then her wrists 
were handcuffed in front.

"I thought her hands were left free," Janice said.

"To knock with, yes. But she might reach behind and rub otherwise."

"And get some relief, of course," Janice added sarcastically.

The executioner stood well back. There was a flicker of yellow in the hush, and the spasm 
of anguish seemed to contort the cheeks almost before the cane lashed down and clutched.

"Aaaah!"

"One," Cornelius said comfortably, from the side.

"Good God Almighty!" Janice cried in awe. The stroke had been incredibly fierce. Her quim 
was weeping within her. She writhed on the love seat, holding Dave to her, feeling his 
hardening answer to the scene, dosing her eyes. When she opened them again, there were 
three black bars across Suana's backside, and her upper body was twisting like a belly dancer's
on the bench.

"Aaaaiyeeeh!"

She took six. Then Pedro paused.

"Come on, you can go another," came a man's voice out of the darkness. Janice knew it 
was Marc's.

The face that was thrown back was stretched like a child's. With immense effort, she 
steeled herself. The cane thrashed down again, and she was pummeling the bench with her 
bound hands. There was loud applause as she was let down by the Whipmaster.

"Mrs. Merlin, seven," said Cornelius's authoritative voice from the side, and Suana was 
hobbling back out of the lights, holding herself and moaning.

As she went by, Janice was able to whisper, "Well done, Sue." She turned to Dave. "Dear, I 
can't possibly go six like that, let alone seven."

"You'll have to try', or else."

"Or else what?" she asked suspiciously.

But the next victim was coming forward. Beth had taken off her colorful shorts, to expose a
small liquid little ass that jounced as she was bound to the bench.

"Just above the tan line, Pedro," her husband encouraged with a laugh.

These hips looked hopelessly vulnerable, showing the soft slot of twat between 
contracting in anticipation. Pedro's first slash brought a gushing cry, but though she showed a
lot of pain, rubbing her manacled hands on the boards, she, too, reached a blistering seven 
that sent her staggering, stiff-legged back to her couch and what bliss her husband might 
give her there.

"What happens in the event of a draw. Cornelius?" asked a voice.

"We might have a playoff," their host replied cordially.

Erika was next, excusing herself for not stripping since she wore riding boots. She took 
down her breeches, exposing a surprisingly full behind, widening outward at the base. Pedro 
placed his strokes perfectly across this jellyish mass, extracting a dark dew of blood from the 
tip splotch at the fourth. For a second it looked as if the girl had had too much, then 
controlling herself she reached nine, to a long round of applause. Janice was feeling sicker and
sicker.

But the blonde Clarissa was next and took only six.

Dave was prodding her forward. She walked to the lights on melting legs.

The man smelled of sweat. He fondled her hips with his fingers. His leather codpiece 
creaked with the enormity of his desire. Together with Clarissa, her bottom was already 
marked and it seemed no excuses were in order there. Against her hair in front, the bend felt
warm from the other sufferers.

Whhhhh-llccck!

"One," said Cornelius from the side.

It was ghastly; it was unbelievable. Her body went into convulsions at once. She splintered 
her fingers on the bench. She beat at her forehead with her fists after the third to keep from 
knocking. The cane was a... seven, seven, she had to get to seven, she kept telling herself.

The fourth was a ripping lash across the broadest part of her hips. Although unable to 
move much in her straps, she wriggled breathlessly, tightening the saddle strap, wetted with 
her juices and Dave's, until she yelled soundlessly. The compensatory jerk backward and 
outward exposed herself totally, and the cane bit deeply, without mercy. She hammered on 
the bench with her hands.

"Mrs. Stapleton, five strokes," she heard in laconic accents, to extraordinary, ringing 
applause until she realized that the clapping was for Pedro, not herself. She limped back in a 
red haze, weeping, thinking Erika she won't demand that again of me as winner. Erika's a 
sweet... She was aware of excitement, chucklings, movement then, as she threw herself beside
Dave of the tapping of heels down the aisle.

Cornelius was saying, "Marj. It really won't be necessary for you. I mean, as house guest... "

"Nonsense!" said a woman's bossy voice. "A sound beating never did anyone any harm."

Miss Watson-Taylor, still tweeded, stood under the lights, her pince-nez flashing. In a 
second, she had stripped below the waist and stood for an instant confronting the sweating 
Pedro. She slapped her full if flabby butt. "There you are. Do your duty, Mr. Whipmaster. It's 
some years since I've had it, but you look to me as if you could warm a woman pretty 
thoroughly."

"This is fantastic!" Dave whispered as he consoled his wife. "They tell me she's over fifty."

Pedro positioned her respectfully. Despite the thick thighs the bottom was shapely, 
long what more than one man present called "Victorian." Abundant hair thrust back between 
her thighs as the executioner tightened the saddle, and Miss Watson-Taylor carried on a 
chatty monologue.

"I say, you do believe in strapping 'em down, don't you. Ouh! That does hurt. Um. You 
don't have to tie my wrists, I won't grab back. Oh, very well, if you wish to... " She leaned on 
her elbows, gazing forward thoughtfully.

Pedro thrashed as if trying to flatten the flesh there.

"Heavens, that's hard," said the schoolmistress, shaking her head, but showing no other 
visible symptom of dismay.

And as the correction continued, she proceeded simply to comment on its quality, 
occasionally sucking in her breath, or yielding a hissing "Yesss... yess!" but otherwise in full 
charge of her faculties. It was an impressive display, and the silence in the chamber paid her 
tribute.

"Yessss... there... Good Lord, you certainly hit hard, my man... you must have bruised me 
dashed badly back there... Owl... that was a beauty. Well done. Good shot!"

"Seven," Cornelius said wonderingly. "Eight... nine... ten."

There was more clapping and cheering.

Cornelius said gently, "Congratulations, Marjorie. You are easily the winner. I don't think 
it's necessary, er, to add any more."

"Oh I don't know." The woman's bespectacled face was very red, but controlled. "I think I 
can go a few more. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say."

"As you wish, my dear."

Pedro clearly felt himself challenged. Stepping back a pace, he took aim again. This time 
he slashed her left cheek only. The tip whunked round its massive contour and clawed inside, 
close to the strap across the woman's arsehole. The cut galvanized Miss Watson-Taylor, and 
she emitted her first, piercing cry.

"That's enough," she said, knocking. The applause this time was for Pedro; released, the 
woman knelt a moment, massaging her wounded buttock. Then she rose, dressed, shot a 
reproachful look at the executioner. "You damn near cut off my bum with that last one, didn't 
you!" Now the applause was for her.

As she passed Janice and David, she was heard to say, "I think I need a very large drink."

"You deserve one," Dave murmured to her in the dark.

"And what do you think she will order for me?" Janice asked him, fondling his prick.

"Oh, I don't know. Something unpleasant."

"Nothing cruel?"

He moved away from her, shocked.

"Jan! This has nothing to do with cruelty."

"It felt to me damn like it."

"No, no. Tenderness. But wait... look... " For in the sudden hush that had enveloped the 
room, the door had opened at the back of the stage. Madge Dale walked forward to the front 
of the dais, led by Barbara, the maid in black. Madge wore an evening dress of ivory silk and 
walked with chest out, arms pulled tight behind her. Her face was deathly pale and rather 
drawn, but determined. Suddenly Janice saw that her dark hair had been cut short almost to a
boy's length and slicked to her skull. There was scattered applause as she took her place, 
starring straight ahead like an actress. Barbara undipped the switch that hung from her own 
belt and stood behind her.

Cornelius spoke. He did so in an even more resonant boom, so that Janice realized he was 
using some kind of speaker system, or perhaps a bullhorn. At any rate, it was far louder than 
the distance merited.

"Madge Dale. You stand accused before the Court of Impertinence, Insolence, and Ideas 
Above Your Station."

"Nothing to say, Your Honor."

She spoke in a weak voice, yet resolutely, still staring ahead. Janice shuddered at the 
rhetoric, widening her legs to Dave's insinuating fingers.

"Do you wish to make appeal?"

"No, Your Honor."

"No appeal at all before you are sentenced?"

She hesitated this time. "None save my person."

"Appeal denied."

Barbara, the maid, moved back a pace. With all her strength she cut her switch across the 
sheath behind. There was a pause, then another stroke. Madge Dale gasped, her head jerked 
up, but she did not move. The maid gave her one more biting stripe. Three.

"Do you wish to make any more appeals?"

"No, Your Honor."

"That's unfair!" Janice whispered to her husband.

"Very well. I am afraid we shall have to proceed to sentencing. Madge Dale, your 
correction will be corporal. Your buttocks will be duly bared, you will be secured for your own 
good to the block, and you will receive with the birch rod: for Impertinence, fifteen strokes; for
Insolence, fifteen strokes; for Ideas Above Your Station, twenty strokes."

At each indictment, Madge's head dropped a fraction.

"Request correction."

With sunken face, she intoned, "I humbly request fifty strokes with the birch rod across my 
naked buttocks."

"All right, Mr. Whipmaster, you may proceed."

The maid turned the woman round gently, so that her back was to the watchers. Her arms 
were secured behind, with each wrist cuffed to its opposite elbow. A short stain of red high up
at the back announced that Barbara's switch had broken skin.

"See if he can do it in three," Dave said softly, with interest. "He usually does."

"What?" Janice asked, alarmed.

Pedro was standing on the floor below the dais, hiding his whip in his right hand. 
Uncoiled, it was an oiled and plaited affair, braided at the tip.

"Preparation," Cornelius commanded.

The whip moved lazily off the floor, stirred through the air and made a report like a pistol 
shot as it cracked behind Madge's rump. Janice at first thought it had struck her, but Madge 
made no sign and it was evident that Pedro had simply popped the lash inches off the flesh. 
Her vagina gave a gulp.

"Lovely," said Dave.

The weight of the instrument was told to all, then, as it flashed out through the air and 
flecked at the hem of the elegant robe. It did not strike it, it gathered the material visibly in its 
plucking lash and the strength with which it tore it off Madge's back sent her staggering with 
a cry of terror. When she stood up again, she shuddered, her face averted, her body stripped 
to the top of the hips. Pedro lunged, and with one more blow, tore the fabric from her body. 
Madge had nothing on beneath, and her well-powdered cheeks showed the vivid 
brownish-red of Barbara's ritual cuts. The Whipmaster swept the thin stuff over the dais as 
they applauded him.

There was even more applause, however, as the now-quailing Madge was turned. Naked 
but for her shoes, there was no more than a shadow above the gash at her center. She had 
been completely shaved. She mouthed something inaudible.

The maid, who had gone to the back of the stage, returned, wearing a rubber glove on her
right hand, in which she held a glistening object. Evidently parting Madge's buttocks, she 
made a goosing motion that made Madge rise to her toes with a grimace. The maid held her 
there, pushing upward hard.

"What's that?" Janice asked, feeling the dismay in her own skin.

"Barbara figged her."

"What's that?" she repeated.

"Ginger suppository up the rectum. Most uncomfortable. It prevents her or, rather, it 
dissuades her from wanting to clench behind."

"Barbarous."

"Beautiful."

"Humiliation," Cornelius intoned simply.

The executioner threw Madge forward on her knees beneath the stage. Then, standing 
astride behind her, he grasped the scruff of hair at her nape and held up her head to the 
withering lights. His beady eyes winked; he almost supported her upper body by her hair. It 
was a perfect contrast of white against black. Mouth open, eyes wide, Madge was the picture 
of despair.

"She's beginning to feel it now," said Dave. "In a moment she'll be dripping."

"Dripping?"

"You watch."

"Why?"

The first man to go onstage was the horn-rimmed Tom. He had taken off his shirt. He spat 
on Madge's upturned face and on her bowstringed breast. Each man followed suit. The spittle 
shone in the light.

"Dave, you're not going to... " By the time Dave Stapleton went forward, Madge's right 
breast at least was indeed running with slime. Pedro braced back her aching head. Madge 
Dale's teeth were chattering. Dave Stapleton aimed at and scored in each eye in turn. Janice 
said nothing to him when he returned.

Then, Madge Dale was dragged to the block. Again Pedro worked fast, as if against some 
invisible deadline. Her knees were spread and strapped apart on the sawdust shelving of the 
stony mass. The waist strap was drawn tight. Finally, after a check on the lever, her arms were 
released, to be fastened either side, at wrist and elbow. As Janice had observed, it was indeed 
an unholy hug, of sorts. Madge leaned forward on the sloping portion, only to recoil with a 
sharp cry. She flung back her face in a last piteous appeal. But Barbara was mounting the 
block, standing over the tense white body locked there.

"What's she going to do?"

"Ssh, dear. Cornelius hasn't ended Humiliation, yet."

"I'll say," Janice said grimly as, with a thoughtful frown, the maid raised her skirt slightly 
and emptied her bladder on her victim's back. Madge Dale shuddered and lowered her head 
as the hot liquid hit her.

"Well aimed," Dave said, watching the stream course both sides of the body, as if the maid 
held a veritable hose to it there.

"Execution," said Cornelius, and Barbara stepped down to applause. "You have a plump 
buttock before you, Whipmaster. Birch it with a will. Fifteen strokes for Impertinence."

Pedro took a birch from the bucket. There was a pregnant hush as he stood well to the left
of the block. Janice watched hypnotized as any rabbit by its snake only here the serpent was 
the birch. She was gripped. Some dreadful consummation was upon her. It was all so perfectly
related, the metaphors allied. The white arse with its three marks was pitifully parted, the 
shudderings now that the limbs were stoutly secured conveying themselves in little fatty 
shiverings to the buttock's base. The sphincter seemed to dilate like some ghastly Cyclops eye,
and then retract. The lean leathery twigs appeared to draw back in derision at such signs of 
fear.

They bit with a firm wet smack, echoed by a startled gasp, another cry as the lunge of pain 
made Madge drop her chest on the pins, and a slowly enunciated "One" from Cornelius, who 
inscribed the stroke on a slate at the side.

The man in black swept the second up, streaking the unready, limpened flesh with another
row of raw red lines.

"Hieee!"

Madge's buttocks tried to spasm, twist off their right side. Pedro watched his moment. He 
did not seem to strike violently; in fact, it was a lazy, rippling movement that gathered great 
strength and at the fifth there was applause.

"What's that for?" Janice asked sickly.

"He's drawn. And at only the fifth."

"Drawn?" It was the word from her dreams.

"Blood. On the right."

"The birch has only a surface sting," she cited mockingly.

"Right. The buds break the skin. Little blisters and scratches. Oh, good cut!"

By eight Madge's whole bottom had been covered, and she was crying out regularly. 
Pedro changed his birch. He flogged lower with the new instrument, off which chips and buds 
were also soon flying. The blood had not yet started to roll down her thighs, but the last three 
strokes of the first installment seemed to smack into a wet mass of bruised skin on the right.

"And fifteen," said Cornelius. The maid came forward. Madge Dale was assisted, moaning, 
doubled, off the dais and out. Pedro was applauded lustily.

Janice turned to her husband. "I thought you said this wasn't cruel. I've never seen 
anything so. Oh, Heavens! And look it's excited you!"

"She's taken off and washed down and generally restored now," he explained. "Turn over 
and let me try to see your marks. I'm getting used to this light by now. Bend over “

"You don't have to “

"And you're trying to tell me you're not excited yourself? Here, take this!"

"Ouch. Not so deep. Yes, yes... give it to me, Dave... deeper... please... " After an interval, in 
which some of the guests went upstairs to "freshen their glasses," Madge Dale was brought 
forward for her second chastisement. There was an increase of solemnity in the chamber as 
Cornelius warned her that her conduct under the rod would be judged afterward by the 
"assembled public" and extra strokes awarded accordingly.

Madge struggled to control her reactions, but the birch's briny bit was too much; her 
thighs thudded at the block after each cut, her cheeks cringed, her sphincter opened and shut.
Blood oozed on both sides now as Pedro drove her to a new level of suffering. Janice had not 
seen its like before. More than once the maid held what Dave told Janice were smelling salts 
to Madge's nose.

"Mercy... please... pleaaaaase!... "

"Courage," Cornelius said reprovingly, from over his slate at the side. "Pull yourself 
together, woman. Whipmaster, whip on."

Again she gritted her teeth till the jaw muscles stood out, enduring two savage slices low 
down. But again the seeking twigs undid her.

"Noooooohhh!" she wailed with all her breath.

"Jesus, you'd say she was trying to shit, wouldn't you just... "

"Whipmaster, make these last two especially painful, please."

The slashes that succeeded seemed to drive the flesh up visibly. Released, Madge 
crouched on the floor, moaning, her heaving flesh bedewed with moisture urine, sweat, 
phlegm, it was hard to tell which. She held her hands beneath her and when she took them 
away, they were bloody.

Barbara stood over her. The maid was smiling. She yanked at an ear, but nothing 
happened. Madge Dale remained there, sobbing, broken. The maid bent and clipped her 
mistress's wrists behind her back and affixed a dog collar round her throat, attaching this to a 
leash. She tugged on the leash. Madge sat up, revealing, as she did so, that her breasts in 
front had been wounded by the pins on the slab. Then Barbara raised her switch gently and 
cut. Madge Dale yelped and crawled off the stage like a dog, her streaked buttocks jerking.

She was still panting and crying when she was brought back to her third correction some 
ten minutes later, in the same way. Janice saw suddenly, and with an inner flame of pure 
terror, that the woman had been transformed she did not exist. Madge Dale had become a 
thing, an object, an "it" that flung itself on the floor of the dais sobbing and imploring. 
"Please, no more... dear God, let me off this time... I cah-can't, Cornelius... not anymore, I beg 
you, please... "

"A disgusting exhibition," her husband pronounced at the spectacle. "A mere schoolboy 
could do better than this."

"I can't... please... I'll f-f-faint... "

"You won't faint and you won't die. But you will receive twenty strokes with a specially 
prepared rod and if you're not careful, I'll order the pimentade first." Madge looked around 
wildly. "Oh, no! Please... you don't know how it hurts... he's cutting me in two!... "

"Don't insult our Whipmaster, dear."

"Anything... I'll do anything. I swear I'll “

"These interpolations are unnecessary and tedious. Give her the pear."

The maid turned; she came back with a steel object which she inserted into Madge's 
mouth.

"This one really is medieval," Dave said to Janice. The gag was activated on some inner 
spring, for it held the jaws wide open. At the fount of her haired flesh, Janice felt the ecstasy 
coursing once more. Such terror was infectious. She remembered Marc's bit between her own 
oiled lips. She shuddered and shook, wondering whether the throb of her quim was actually 
shaking their couch.

Madge Dale was bent over for her final whipping.

"Might as well give her the pimentade," Cornelius was saying laconically. "Make her nice 
and lively behind, since we omitted Urtication."

The maid sponged the sore buttocks and they clenched to the accompaniment of a 
gargling protest of pain.

"Some sort of vinegar solution," Dave was saying in Janice's ear. "It gets driven in deeper 
by the birch, too."

And now the new, wire-bound twigs were ripping into flesh almost raw at the right. 
Made's starts practically lifted the block. Her face turned away, eyes starting out of her head, 
she seemed now to be pushing herself out offering herself for the frightful fangs. Her calves 
were speckled with blood. She squirmed as in some furious ecstasy, her hands scratching at 
the sides of the stone, her feet pummeling the ground.

Pfuittt!

"Nnnngh!"

"Sixteen."

Pfuittttt!

"Seventeen... " It was unbelievable. Janice shut her eyes. She could not... Suddenly she 
knew the last cut had been given, was aware that Cornelius was saying something, standing at
the foot of the dais holding a mean thong in one hand “Rhino hide," Dave explained, as if 
answering her mind asking them all about whether there should be extra, the so-called 
Master's strokes administered by himself, and the audience was snapping their fingers 
enthusiastically while poor Madge lay limp and bloodied And suddenly the world went red 
and she was on her knees, shouting, "Stop, stop! She can't take any more!"

And that was all she did say, as Dave grabbed and hauled her down, a hand thrust over 
her mouth.

"Disgraceful," came his furious hiss, as he wrestled her onto the couch, "monstrous... 
etiquette... " She just caught sight of the smiling, curiously peering face of their benign host, 
and heard his inquiry: "Is that the lady who lost our little wager, our dubbin?"

And Dave said loudly, "I recommend that the person who objected should get the 
Master's cuts herself."

"Well, we can deal with her in a moment."

Five sickening thuds. Five whimpers. Applause. Janice heard but did not see. She was 
struggling on the couch.

"If you're not damn careful!" Dave whispered angrily.

"Degradation," announced Cornelius's distant voice. And all went very silent.

Silent except for one ringing slap. It went clear through her skull and nearly knocked her 
off the bed. She sat up, dazed yet somehow totally conscious, nursing her jaw. And slowly, her
mouth widening, she heard herself saying, "G-good God! What's that?"

Pedro stood on the dais beside his writhing victim, and he had dropped his leather 
codpiece. His huge, distended cock throbbed out, belly-high.

"But it's black" Janice gasped with the whisper of a wail in her husband's ear.

"Of course it is," he chuckled. "There's still the caustic from that suppository up there."

The horror advanced, holding his rubbery tube. Even through the jet condom, it looked 
gnarled and tough. It pained her to look at it. Evidently it was greased, and Madge's bursting 
eyes strained to see its every inch as the man positioned himself behind her. Pressing thumbs 
to the bud, he stretched it to a white ring. It was as if he meant to turn her rectum inside out. 
The small body tensed furiously. A shocking stifled screech went out of the gulping throat as 
the head entered. Then, in an undulation of his powerful thighs and hips, Pedro skewered the 
bowels of the woman he had tamed with the whippy birches and Janice could look no more. 
She buried her head in a pillow, closing her ears, too, to the squishy agony of the 
"Degradation."

After a minute, Dave tapped her back.

"What?" She looked up. Voices. Footsteps. The dais had been cleared. The horror had 
gone. It was over. And then she knew it was not. It was just beginning...

Cornelius' cheerful voice was asking, "And since you were truly the winner, Marj, I 
wondered if you might have some sophisticated little suggestion for our excitable friend at 
the back just to close the evening on a tuneful note."

And in her jolly British voice the woman boomed back, "Quite. Well, I must say I was damn 
impressed just now at the way in which Pedro used that whip. Would like to see more of it, 
y'know. So I suggest, this time, a reverse strip. What I mean is, y'know, she should stand out 
there on the stage and strip. Let him see if he can stop her. With the whip. The strokes finish 
when she's naked."





CHAPTER TEN


The well-fleshed Canadian clubwoman of thirty-eight stood trembling on the aching expanse 
of brightly lit dais, flecked with blood and sprinkled with broken twigs. She was fully dressed 
in the brief, fitted cocktail frock, stockings, and heels. Her feet were together, her hands by her
sides. Her head was held high, but her eyes were on the coiled whip held by the monster in 
black who stood below her.

"The signal to start is the first stroke."

There was a whimper in the air overhead or was it only her own? the air quivered darkly 
before her, and instinctively she put out her hands to ward off the impending whiplash. But it 
seemed to hesitate in the air, then wrapped itself round her waist.

For a second, she felt relief. Only that, she thought. It was like the caress of a lover, some 
youth asking her to dance. Then, with a sickening thuck! that drove through her being, the 
thick tip bit. It bit into her hunched belly. Before the true enormity of the pain came to her, 
she stared down, as if marveling for a moment, at where a warm wet patch had appeared on 
her lap, through the elegant frock.

And then she screamed!

As she did so, there was a jerk on the whip which sent her spinning in its unwinding. 
Doubled on the far side of the dais, her back to the applauding audience, she felt another 
shocking thrust behind, a new searing of red-hot iron this time at her seat. With another 
murderous flick, the whip cut her right cheek behind. She jerked erect, clutching, and it clawed
her left side.

Suddenly panic overtook her. She saw the door. The door out. She had to get out, get 
away, anywhere so long as it was far from this hellhole. She started to run for the door. She 
had all but reached it, when there was another positive whirring behind her. The whip 
wrapped round her left ankle, jerked back, and sent her crashing to the floor.

With an almost insane energy, Janice started clutching, tearing at her dress, ripping her 
clothes off. She did so in a huddle, her back protectively toward the horror, stiffening 
speechlessly as the tail clipped across her buttocks twice more. Then, gushing from her throat,
came the cry "Help! Someone! Help, help!"

* * *

"This is getting respectably rococo." Marc Merlin drew Suana, his new bride, after him. "I 
suggest we can leave at this point."

He followed her out on tiptoe and up the winding stair. Her hips looked even more 
heavenly than ever to him as he mounted.

"Corn said we could have the Yellow Room, I think." When they reached it, Suana paused 
at the door. She was trembling all over.

"Poor Janice," she said. "Poor all of us. Especially poor Madge."

"She was let off too lightly. They forgot Urtication." He opened the door. The room was a 
bedroom, furnished in Louis XVI.

"But what's this?" she cried, advancing to one wall. An iron bar had been inserted in this, 
some four feet up. At this moment the bar was between the thighs of a supple Oriental girl, 
quite naked, who bestrode it with hanging legs, her face to the wall and her arms tied behind 
her.

"Kim!" Suana exclaimed.

"She's promised to be our slave," Marc said, advancing quietly. "As you see, she's been 
attended to, er, behind."

"So I see. Oh poor, poor Kim!"

The girl was sobbing. "Please, Mr. Merlin, how much longer do I have on this? It's hurting 
quite a lot."

"Let's see. Oh, only ten minutes or less. And then I'll cane you properly."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. And now', my dear" he turned to Suana “let me show you how' much I 
love you."

She came to him with open arms. "Kiss me, darling."

Marc Merlin bowed. "Anything to oblige."

From behind his back, he drew a long black whalebone switch. Suana's mouth fell when 
she saw it.

"But I've already been beaten," she protested, somewhat halfheartedly.

"And I was proud of you, Sue. Now you can show me how much you love me again. Turn 
round and bend over. So." There was a whippy whistle, and Mare Merlin said softly, "This is my
kiss of love."


THE END
