TITLE    : Spin Master
STORYID  : spin-master
SUMMARY  : After he spun her, she planned to give him a spin.
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2018-01-22
CATEGORY : bdsm-stories
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |bdsm|spanking|caning|cane|caned|naked|nude|lesbian|audience|performance|


"Daphne!" 



Daphne managed a smile for her former Phys Ed teacher. "Hello, Ms. French." 



"I must say I'm surprised to see you here," Ms. Fitt, Daphne's ex-French teacher, who was standing in line next to Ms. French, remarked. 



"Why's that?" Daphne asked, assuming her Little Miss Innocent voice. 



"Well, for one reason, having just graduated last year, I'd have thought you'd have had enough of us here at Silverton High," Ms. Fitt replied. "And for another—well, do you <em>know</em> what tonight's show is about?" 



"I know it's invitation only." 



"And you have an invitation?" Ms. French couldn't help interjecting. She sounded dubious, Daphne thought. 



The alumnus fished into her purse, extracted a purple card on which, in gilt lettering, her personalized invitation was printed, and showed it to the women. 



"Who in the world would have sent that to you?" Ms. Fitt blurted. 



"A friend," Daphne said. 



It was a bleak October evening, and a cold breeze blew steadily. Daphne's nipples were erect, and her coat was open, unbuttoned, but she doubted the women could see them under her sweater. She looked down. Wrong! Her stiff pokies were clearly visible. She thought about buttoning her coat but didn't. 



The line had moved forward as they'd spoken, and the women had moved with it, even as they'd conducted their conversation—or their interrogation, Daphne thought. Although the line was rather longer than she'd expected, it had moved at a steady pace. Now, she and her former teachers had arrived at the entrance to the auditorium, where they were greeted by Principal Carrington. 



"May I see your invitations, please, ladies?" Like Ms. French and Ms. Fitt, he seemed surprised to see Daphne. 



The teen anticipated he'd object to her presence, since she was only eighteen, but the principal merely nodded, smiled, and said, "Enjoy the show, Ms. der Riere." 



His eyes, as always, darted about, as if tracking a swarm of insects only he could see. Often, his gaze flitted down her body, as it had when he'd spoken to her when she'd been one of his students. He was doing it now, she saw, checking out her boobs. His gaze lingered on the sharp outlines of her stiff, standing nipples. 



"Thank you, Principal Carrington." 



"Dick," he said. 



She frowned. 



"Call me 'Dick,'" he invited. "You're out of school now. You're an adult." 



Daphne remembered having seen the principal's full name on a nameplate on his desk: "Richard Carrington, Principal." Evidently, among adults, he went by the nickname "Dick." 



His gaze swept lower, and she felt his eyes on the "V" of her crotch. His stare had a way of making her feel naked. 



"Thank you," she said, "Dick." It sounded weird calling an adult by his first name, she thought, especially when he was her former principal and he went by a nickname identical to a slang term for the penis. Welcome to the world of adulthood, she told herself. 



Following the phys ed teacher and the French teacher, Daphne stepped into the auditorium, the warmth of the cavernous chamber welcome after the chill outdoors. She had no doubt that Dick's eyes watched her bottom as she made her way down the center aisle to her seat, which, thankfully, was nowhere near those of her former teachers. 



Classical music played, faintly, through hidden speakers, as the guests continued to file into the auditorium. Daphne glanced around the large room, which, according to a fire marshal's notice posted on the wall, could seat five hundred. The place looked a quarter filled. Those who'd taken their seats whispered, wondering what, exactly, tonight's spectacle might involve. It was billed as a "Surprise Performance." The audience, of course, would know, in general, what to expect, because the performance was of the sort they routinely saw. The "surprise" would be comprised merely of the manner in which the presentation was presented. 



As a few stragglers made their way to their seats, a handsome, dark-haired young man whose tuxedo didn't hide his athletic physique stepped from between thick, purple velvet curtains, onto the apron of the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's extravaganza, <em>Surprise Performance</em>, for which I am billed as The Spin Master. In just a moment, the evening's entertainment will commence, but, before we begin, allow me to share a few <em>bon mots</em> and explain how our little drama will proceed." 



Daphne rose from her seat. Making her apologies, she stepped past the occupants of other seats in her row, making her way past their glares and frowns, to the aisle on her right and followed it to a door leading from the auditorium. 



"It wasn't easy in any generation to raise a child," The Spin Master told his listeners, "but it seems harder than ever nowadays. Just the other day, a mom found BDSM magazines under her son's bed. She called her husband up to the room, showed him, and asked, 'What do you think we should do?' After reflecting on the matter for a moment, the dad frowned." After a pause, The Spin Master shared the joke's punchline: 'I suppose spanking him is out of the question, he said.'" 



There was a smattering of applause and a some snickering. 



Without pause of transition, The Spin Master offered another gag: "When a pastor asked church members for their favorite Bible verse, a foster dad who'd taken in seven teenage girls replied, 'Spare the rod and spoil the child.'" 



This time, there was loud laughter and more applause. Either the joke was better than the first or the audience was warming up. 



"When I was in the army, I was offered a promotion to the rank of sergeant, but I turned it down, having acquired a taste for corporal punishment." 



This time, the audience responded with groans, several shaking their heads, but they did so with half-smiles on their faces. It was just the reaction The Spin Master had anticipated. The dismal attempt at humor would make the next joke seem all the more amusing, or such was the plan. 



"A Little Boy Wasn't Getting Good Marks In School. One Day He Tapped His Teacher On The Shoulder And Said, 'I Don't Want To Scare You, But My Daddy Says If I Don't Get Better Grades, Somebody's Going To Get A Spanking.'" 



This time, as anticipated, the joke went over well—better, in fact, than he'd expected. It had been selected because the little drama in which The Spin Master was to play a supporting role would take place here, in a high school auditorium, before an audience which included several men and women, he'd been informed—and he had no reason to doubt the veracity of his source—who were well versed in the practice he and the spectacle's star were about to demonstrate. 



The laughter of the audience was a roar that continued, accompanied by shrill whistles of approval and thunderous applause, for several minutes, despite his attempt to silence the formerly staid, but now boisterous, crowd. At last, when they'd finally responded to his shouted requests for silence, the howls of laughter subsiding to a chorus of chortles and chuckles, he said, in his P. T. Barnum voice, "And now, allow me to briefly explain a few matters your understanding of which will enhance your enjoyment of the performance you shall soon witness on this very stage!" 



The curtain parted behind The Spank Master, each half of the velvet expanse sliding to the opposite side of the stage. Some members of the audience exchanged glances. A general murmuring stirred the assembly. The parted curtain had revealed a raised circular dais six feet or so in diameter. At the center of the elevated disc, a pillory stood, of shorter height than typical of such a framework, and The Spin Master explained its presence: "In a moment, our star shall make her appearance. When she does, she will be forced to her knees. She will crawl forward, and the upper arm of the pillory will be unlocked and raised. 



"You will see that a large semicircle has been cut from the center of the upper arm of the pillory and two smaller semicircles have been cut from the wood on either side of the larger hole. The locations of each of these cuts match those of the semicircles cut from the lower board so that, when the upper arm closes upon the lower board, the semicircles form circles. 



While the pillory is unlocked and its upper arm is raised, our star will place her head and hands in the semicircles of the lower board so that, when the upper arm is again lowered and locked in place, the circular cuts will enclose and trap her head and wrists, forcing her to kneel, helpless, for the duration of our little drama." After a pause, The Spin Master looked toward the left of the stage, onto which a young woman of flawless, smooth skin, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in silky waves, stepped reluctantly into view, head down, eyes cast upon the burnished boards of the floor. Except for a pair of red knee pads and a microphone she wore on a leather thong around her neck, she was completely naked, absolutely vulnerable, and altogether beautiful. She was so terrified she could barely walk, and, with each hesitant step, she shuddered. 



As she drew near, The Spin Master took one of her wrists in hand, dragging the resistant victim toward the pillory. She shrieked, resisting, but her pitiful power was no match for the young man's superior strength, and, immediately, he cast her to her knees. "Crawl!" he ordered, booting her bottom to drive her forward. Whimpering, she obeyed. The Spin Master unlocked the pillory, raised its upper arm, and drew the young woman forward, thrusting her neck and wrists into place in the semicircular cuts of the lower board. The upper arm descended, its semicircular cuts matching those below, and trapped her head and hands. She faced away from the audience, affording the assembly a superb view of her sleek, round bottom and the curve of her hairless cunt between her smooth, shapely thighs. 



In the audience, Ms. French, the opera glasses she'd brought for tonight's performance to her eyes, gasped. "It's she!" 



Her companion, Ms. Fitt, wishing she'd had the foresight to purchase her own opera glasses, frowned. "Who?' 



"Daphne der Riere!" 



A couple seated behind the teachers shushed them. The Spin Master was speaking, and they wanted to hear him. 



"This dais rotates once every sixty seconds," he announced, pausing to whack the backside of the young woman with a long, broad, thick paddle he'd picked up from the floor of the elevated disk. Daphne, who'd begun to squirm in the pillory's unyielding embrace, at once became motionless and silent, lest she receive another, harder strike of the heavy wooden blade. "I shall stand on the other side of it, delivering a blow of this instrument"—he displayed the fearsome paddle to the audience, many of whom gazed wide-eyed at the intimidating blade at the end of the long handle—"each time her bottom comes round to my position." 



"Big deal," one of the audience members told his female companion. "So the chick gets her ass smacked once a minute. The whole damned 'extravaganza' lasts, what, twenty minutes?" 



"I want my money back," the woman agreed. 



"I will need a volunteer from the audience to assist me. His—or her—task will be to wield this." He reached for an object on the dais and held it up to show the assembly what it was: the twin paddle to the one with which he himself was armed. He or she will stand opposite me, on the other side of the dais, being careful not to block the audience's view, and, each time Ms. der Riere's bottom comes round, give it a resounding whack, so she receives not one swats per minute, but two." He grinned. "Any takers?" 



At least a dozen hands shot into the air. 



He pointed toward a balding, rotund man seated front and center, and the portly gentleman rose, grinning triumphantly. He hastened down the center aisle, and ascended the steps, onto the stage, huffing and puffing with exertion, and nearly yanked the oversize paddle from The Spin Master's hand. 



"With an exuberant assistant like—I'm sorry, sir; I didn't catch your name." 



"Carrington," the ebullient assistant paddler answered, "Dick Carrington." 



"Well, Dick, be sure to get in your licks." 



"Oh, don't worry, young man. I've had lots of experience at paddling asses." He paused, as if weighing whether he should say anything else. Apparently deciding to throw caution to the wind, he added, "I'm the principal of this school you see." 



"What a coincidence!" The Spin Master cried. "Are you ready to do this, Principal Dick?" 



The corpulent school official nodded, his jowls jiggling. "You bet her young ass I am!" 



The Spin Master looked into the audience. "Dick says he's ready for action, ladies and gentlemen. How about <em>you</em>?" 



The audience's affirmative shouts, applause, nods, and pumping fists told him they were. 



"Let's have twenty minutes on the clock, then." A gigantic digital countdown clock showed 20:00. The Spin Master flipped a switch, and the dais began to rotate slowly, as Daphne began to plead and whimper, her beautiful, sleek bottom bare and defenseless, her thighs quaking, and her breasts, suspended below her heaving tummy, jiggling and swaying. "Please don't!" she begged. "Let me go!" 



Slowly, the dais turned, offering the audience various views of the victim's splendid derriere—full on, three quarters, and profile, her bottom a waxing and waning moon awaiting the first of the forty blows it would receive at the hands of The Spin Master and his assistant, Principal Dick. 



As the circling dais aligned Daphne's beautiful bottom with The Spin Master, he delivered a resounding <em>whack!</em> to her buttocks. Even in the cavernous auditorium, the blow sounded like a gunshot, and the poor teen winced, gasping. The audience responded with resounding applause and a smattering of cheers. Some of the men probably had burgeoning erections already, The Spin Master thought, just from seeing their anticipation of the poor victim's ordeal come true before their eyes. For the same reason. the ladies among the crowd witnessing <em>Surprise Performance</em> likely felt a moistness in their nether parts. Well, cocks would stiffen far more and cunts would drench themselves before the evening's extravaganza was complete! 



The dais continued in its slow sweep, bringing Daphne's bottom into view, first from the side, then in a three-quarters view, and, finally, as it aligned with Principal Dick, in all its glory, a sleek, full moon, as yet pale and unmarked, despite the blow it had received at the hands of The Spin Master. 



The principal had already lifted his paddle, in anticipation of striking, and, with remarkable force, he brought its thick, wide blade down, in a flashing arc, against the bare bottom of the helpless teen, her buoyant cheeks flattening under the impact of the wood, which made a satisfyingly loud report and left a pink blossom upon either of its recipient's blushing orbs. 



Daphne had screamed, lunging forward in the pillory, but, unable to escape, she had no recourse but to attempt—in vain, of course—to alleviate the pain that inflamed her bottom by squirming, writhing, and moaning. Her suffering only inflamed the passions of the audience, who applauded, cheering Principal Dick and taunting the wretched victim kneeling, helpless, on the dais, her neck and wrists held fast in the circular cutouts of the pillory's thick wooden planks. 



"Perhaps we will get our money's worth, after all," Ms. French said. The phys ed teacher took her companion's hand in hers, setting Ms. Fitt's palm upon the mound of her sex. "I'm already moist." 



The French teacher placed Ms. French's hand upon her own damp sex. "I am, too," she said. 



Among Silverton High's student body, rumors contended the two teachers were lesbians. Some who doubted the claim would have been shocked, could they have seen the women now, holding each other's damp crotches, as they sat together, watching a former female student, naked in a pillory, being soundly thrashed for the teachers' amusement. 



In a way, the movement of the dais was proof of the relativity, not of time so much as of perception. To the audience and, especially to Principal Dick, a single rotation of the disk-shaped stage seemed to take far longer than a mere sixty seconds; to poor Daphne, its progress seemed but an instant. 



Waiting, with nearly insufferable anticipation, to bring the pine paddle sharply down, across the teenager's round, jutting bottom, the principal was goaded to action not only by imagining the impact of the blade across Daphne's full, sleek buttocks, but also by the erection that pressed, painfully, against the crotch of his trousers, making a tent that, he feared, was all too visible to his colleagues and the other spectators in the audience, some of whom were the parents of students presently in his charge. What might they think of the chief administrator of their sons' and daughters' high school? It pained him to consider the matter, and he focused on the hapless young woman kneeling upon the circular dais, willing her to hurry round, so that the bare cheeks of her girlish behind might align with his position and he might strike a hard blow across their creamy expanse. 



The dais seemed to rotate in slow motion, inches per hour, but, at last, Daphne's delightful derriere was before him, in all its beautiful glory, and, he was pleased to see, it already bore a faint blush of pink where his own paddle and that of Daphne's other tormentor, The Spin Master, had fallen. Well, he thought, as he drew back his instrument, he would deepen that faint pink blossom, soon bringing it to full flower. 



With a brisk motion, he brought the heavy paddle forward and down, in a flashing arc, the blade crashing into its target, and the full cheeks of the young woman's buttocks flattened beneath the wood's cruel impact, as a loud <em>crack!</em> was heard throughout the auditorium. Daphne shrieked, lunging forward, but her desperate attempt to escape was cut short by the pillory, and she could but writhe and squirm in the embrace of the device, gasping and groaning. 



Principal Dick smiled, as his twitching cock ratcheted forth another fraction of an inch. 



The dais continued to turn. 



Opposite the principal, The Spin Master struck, the exploding sound of his blow seeming to ricochet across the vast interior of the auditorium. 



Where before, when it had been he who had delivered the paddle's blow, Principal Dick had observed the collision of the hard paddle against its recipient's soft flesh. Now, he was treated to the sight of the young victim's face, contorted into a sniveling mask of pain and hatred, as tears streamed down her red face, past her gritted teeth, and he saw her breasts shake as she quivered, her thighs quaking with the pain filling her backside. Perhaps she was wet <em>there</em>, too, he thought, between her legs, where her shaved cunt nestled, bare to the gaze of all. The delicious misery of the young thing was enough to make his balls ache! 



But, now, finally, the rotating dais delivered his former student's beautiful bottom to him again, and he stared for a moment at the lovely orbs, now much more red than pink, before slamming the smooth globes with his paddle, whacking her hard with the thick pine blade. As before, Daphne's magnificent buttocks flattened beneath the impact, and she howled, all but dancing upon her knees in the embrace of the pillory that held her fast against her will, so that she had no choice but to endure the blows that he and The Spin Master laid upon her lovely, discolored bottom. 



Ah! If only, after she'd been thoroughly spanked, he might shed his own clothes, take up a position behind her, on his knees, and drive his rigid cock between those soft, smooth cheeks. He sighed, his fist tightening upon the handle of his paddle. If he could not release his pent-up excitement that way, he could—and would—vent it, at her expense, through the exercise of the paddle. 

<hr pg="2" />The dais turned. When its rotation had brought the young woman's derriere within range, a resounding <em>crack!</em> was heard once again, as, with alacrity, The Spin Master brought his paddle's hard blade across Daphne's bottom. The teenager lunged forward, but the pillory arrested her motion, and she could but twist and shudder in the framework's unbreakable grip. 



Tears flowed freely down her wet, red face, and her lips trembled. Rather than stirring Principal Dick's sympathy, the young woman's anguish stiffened his throbbing cock still more, and the rigid organ seemed to threaten to rip through the crotch of his trousers. When Daphne's derriere presented itself to him this third time, he took careful aim, striking her on the side of her right buttock and causing her firm bottom to shake all over. Her ass, he saw, was a no longer merely pink, for it had taken deepened, here and there, to a beautiful red hue spotted with purple blotches. He and The Spin Master, working together, had put roses in her cheeks! 



The audience responded to his latest blow of the paddle with the same enthusiasm they'd demonstrated for each previous stroke he and his accomplice, The Spin Master, had delivered to their poor victim's behind. Shrill whistles, thunderous applause, and heartfelt cries of approval filled the room. 



Principal Dick could imagine the favorable reviews he'd read of his performance in <em>Surprise Performance</em> in The Spanking Club's next issue of its journal, <em>Bottoms Up</em>: "Our own Richard Carrington was superb in his role as one of the young Daphne der Riere's disciplinarians, decorating the hapless young woman's fetching bottom with an array of pleasing discolorations, welts, weals, and bruises which should honor the occasion of her debut in the cinema of cruelty for several weeks, at least. Without Carrington's contributions to the drama, it would have been so much less exciting an extravaganza than the one the members of this Club and their guests enjoyed." 



Inexorable in its movement, the dais circled. After The Spin Master delivered his blow, it was Principal Dick's turn, once again, to strike, and, of course, he was ready. Lifting his oversize paddle's blade, both hands curled round the instrument's handle, he lifted the business end of the blade as high as his reach would allow. Eyeing his target—Daphne der Riere's splendid, red-and-purple bottom, he swung with all his might, bringing the thick, hard paddle's blade sweeping forward and down. Upon impact, the teen's buttocks flattened to a thunderous <em>crack!</em> 



Principal Dick stood transfixed at the sight of his pathetic former student, her pretty bottom inflamed, writhing and wriggling as she whimpered in the indifferent embrace of the pillory that held her fast, preventing her escape. What consternation, what dread, what terror she must feel to know, beyond doubt, she was at the mercy of the merciless, her fate in the hands of pitiless men who enjoyed the spectacle of her anguish. 



So caught up was he in his reverie that Principal Dick had hardly heard the loud <em>whack!</em> the brutal collision of The Spin Master's heavy paddle had made a half minute ago, but he was certainly aware of the splendid bottom circling round to meet him. A few new plum-purple decorations enhanced the bright-red blotches covering most of the well-disciplined cheeks. I shall paint another few plums upon the canvas of her flesh, Principal Dick thought. In a flash, his paddle fell, hard, across the lower portions of the firm, yielding globes of the young woman's bottom, and she gasped, shuddered, and rolled her hips this way and that, her teeth gritted and tears dampening her face. 



As the dais carried his victim round and away, Principal Dick was focused so much upon his handiwork he scarcely heard the uproarious, cheering assembly seated—and, indeed, in many cases, <em>standing</em>—behind him. 



The existence of The Spanking Club and the hundreds of others of its kind that were scattered across the nation and, indeed, around the world, was a closely guarded secret among the organizations' educators, parents, lawyers, physicians, clergy, politicians, filmmakers, and other rank-and-file members. All were passionately devoted to capital punishment, both in theory and in practice, and they routinely enjoyed such spectacles as <em>Surprise Performance</em>. 



The attendees of these spectacles presented the same familiar faces, with rare exceptions. Even members' guests seldom differed from those who'd attended on prior occasions. After all, members understood how dangerous it could be to bring outsiders into the trusted circle of their fellowship. Membership was by invitation only, and members knew whom they, in turn, could trust to enjoy the Club's live spanking performances. Principal Dick was quite satisfied that those in attendance tonight were trustworthy, for the simple reason that everyone now assembled here had attended numerous similar performances, and there had never been a problem. 



The Spin Master delivered his swat; the dais rotated, presenting Daphne's delightful bottom; and Principal Dick struck, fast and hard, his paddle driving the teenager forward on her knees. She sagged in the pillory's embrace, her arms going limp and her knees splaying. Only the pillory prevented her from falling altogether. She sobbed and whimpered as, slowly, she pushed herself back up, onto her hands and knees. Her beautiful buttocks were all over red and purple, as lovely as over-ripened fruit. 



As with each of his previous blows to the teenager's buttocks, the crowd applauded, cheered, and shouted their approval. Principal Dick straightened his posture, feeling ten feet tall, rather than his actual height of six feet, and as powerful as Hercules. He felt he should be wearing the robes and crown of a king and as if the paddle he held should be a scepter. It was exhilarating how delivering hard, punitive blows to a helpless young woman's naked bottom could stir such feelings of superiority and privilege, but, in his case, at least, they did. That was, for him, one of the many delights of spanking. When next the hapless teenager passed his way, he would deliver a blow such as none seen or heard before. 



Then, the unthinkable happened. The dais stopped! 



Could twenty minutes have passed so quickly? The principal glanced at the huge countdown clock. It, too, had stopped, showing 14 minutes remaining of the time allotted for this evening's entertainment. Had something gone wrong with the dais's mechanism? If so, tonight's attendees would demand their money back and insist upon seeing another enactment of tonight's spectacle, but, worse than that—worse, by far!—he would be deprived of the rest of the blows he'd hoped to deliver to young Miss der Riere's bottom. 



Upon the cessation of the dais's slow, but certain, movement, the audience had frowned at one another. Then, they'd fidgeted in their seats. Now, they voiced their disappointment, murmuring to one another. Abruptly, booing began. 



Over the microphone pinned to his tuxedo's lapel, The Spin Master addressed the spectators: "Fear not, ladies and gentlemen, The show will go on. I've stopped the dais on purpose, to ask for a volunteer to take Principal Carrington's place." 



"What?" Principal Dick demanded. 



The Spin Master smiled at him. "It is only fair that others should have a chance to participate in the evening's entertainment. Wouldn't you agree, Principal Carrington?" 



He wouldn't, The Spin Master knew, not at all. But he was equally certain that the high school's corpulent chief administrator would consent to being replaced, for, otherwise, he would have to face the displeasure of the assembly, any of whom might be selected to take his place in inflicting the next series of blows to the stunning and utterly helpless victim in the pillory. 



Glaring at The Spin Master, the defeated principal let his paddle drop. The instrument fell with a loud <em>bang!</em> onto the burnished hardwood floor, and the dismissed paddler exited, stage left. 



Surveying the hopeful audience, The Spin Master looked left and right, over the hundred-odd faces. He allowed the suspense to build for half a minute as he pretended to be weighing possibilities. Then, he pointed. "The lady in the purple hat with the red feather," he called. "Would you do me the honor of assisting me?" 



"He means you, Emma!" Ms. Fitt cried, gripping and squeezing her secret lover's hand. 



"I know, Stella," the phys ed teacher replied. 



Ms. Fitt feigned pleasure at The Spin Master's selection, although she wasn't pleased at all. When Daphne der Riere had been a student, Emma had spanked her numerous times when the girl had fumbled a basketball, lagged during a lap around the track, or missed a softball pitch. Opportunities to discipline a student of French arose much less often. It wasn't fair that Emma should be given yet another chance to spank so lovely a bottom as that of the beautiful young Ms. der Riere. She squeezed Ms. French's hand again. "I'm so happy for you, dear!" 



Excusing herself, Ms. French made her way past the envious men and women seated in her row. All eyes were on her as she marched up the aisle to take her place onstage. 



The Spin Master met her at the top of the short flight of steps she'd ascended. Taking her hand, he escorted her to her place at the dais. 



"May I inquire as to your name, my dear?" 



"Emma French." 



Turning to the audience, The Spin Master said, "We're delighted to have such a lovely—and fit—young woman assist us in meting out the punishment of our unfortunate victim, are we not, ladies and gentlemen?" 



There was an unenthusiastic spate of applause. Judging by their expressions, which ranged from envy and resentment to rancor and hostility, the audience were none too happy to have had him pick Ms. French instead of one of them. 



Peering at the frozen countdown clock, The Spin Master announced, "Fourteen minutes remain. Shall we begin, Ms. French? I'm sure our audience would like Ms. der Riere's punishment to proceed." 



"I know I would," she replied. 



Stooping, he retrieved the paddle Principal Dick had abandoned with such annoyance and handed it to his new assistant. Walking around the stationary dais, he pressed a button. The countdown clock resumed as the dais began to rotate. "Let's begin!" he cried into his microphone. 



Ms. French had to admit, if only to herself, that she was eager to strike a series of blows to Daphne's bare, round bottom. In high school, Ms. der Riere had been a smug, even haughty, young miss. Daphne had had great potential to excel in several sports, but she'd dismissed the opportunities to become a star athlete, much to Ms. French's bewilderment and dismay. "Afraid you'll break a nail?" the phys ed teacher had asked her charge one day, only to see Daphne smirk dismissively, as if the teacher and her opinion were of no more importance than a pesky gnat. 



Ms. French had pushed Daphne hard to achieve and to excel, assigning her extra laps, detaining her after school, mocking her teenage interests and concerns, all to no avail. Daphne had maintained her self-confidence, her self-assurance, continuing her pursuit of boys and basking in the envy of her co-ed classmates. Her makeup was always as perfect as her attire, and she won boys with her dazzling smile set off by deep dimples and an affected, but seemingly sincere, coyness calculated o drive her prey as wild as the song of the sirens' maddening affected upon the sailors of Ulysses's crew. 



Finally, Ms. French, with Principal Carrington's permission, had resorted to the use of the paddle. If she couldn't reach Daphne with reason, perhaps a few strokes of the pine blade could convince the young lady of the error of her ways. If it were possible to beat some sense into her and make her an athlete by applying "the board of education," Ms. French meant to try. And try she did, numerous times. 



Young Daphne had twisted and writhed, whimpered and cried, groaned and moaned, wept and sobbed, her lovely, bare buttocks turning from pink to red under the paddle's relentless, heavy blade, but to no avail. The day following the paddling, she was the same self-satisfied, arrogant, and defiant Daphne as she'd always been and likely always would be. 



No, corporal punishment hadn't broken her, Ms. French knew, but it would be fun to make the obstreperous little bitch squirm again, and it would be sexy, too, sexy as hell. Already, her own cunt, moist when she'd stepped onto the stage a few moments ago, was wet. When the wheel brought Daphne round, the teacher would be sure to check out the captive miss's pussy, to see whether her paddling this evening, in view of a hundred or more spectators, had moistened her own hairless sex. Perhaps, by the end of her involvement in tonight's little drama, both she and Daphne would be gushing like geysers. 



As the dais spun, Ms. French ogled the lithe, young body of her former charge. Naked, Daphne was every bit as fit and beautiful as she'd been in the days she'd worn her skimpy silver-and-blue gym uniform. Polyester and cotton, the suits consisted of a tank top and shorts that rode low on the waist, a "V" notch in either side showing a tad more of the upper thigh. White ankle socks and sneakers finished off the look. Ms. French and Ms. Fitt considered the girls' suits the sexiest look on campus, other than the cheerleaders' even more revealing outfits. Of course, Daphne had looked more beautiful in her gym suit than any of the cheerleaders had in their outfits. It still mystified the women, to this day, that Daphne hadn't been on the cheer team. As far as they knew, she'd never even tried out for a spot. 



Seeing her former student in the nude, Ms. French thought, if anything, Daphne looked even lovelier now, at 18, than she had as a younger teen. She'd developed some amazing boobs, her muscles were better toned, and her buttocks, although full, were firm and tight. Her hairless twat was also beautiful to behold. How delightful it would be to snack on that juicy slice of pie! Ms. French thought. 



The dais had brought the captive completely around, and, now, Ms. French's hands tightened around the long handle of the paddle, gripping the wood tightly as she raised the thick, heavy blade overhead. Sweeping the blade down and forward, she brought the flat of it sharply against the curves of Daphne's rosy, bruise-decorated bottom, across both cheeks, delighting in the sound of the impact, which sounded more like a gunshot than the collision of pine against muscle and flesh. 



Immediately, the teen's buttocks flattened out, before rebounding as Ms. French let the instrument slide down and away from its target. A red band, the width of the wide paddle, marked Daphne's ass. The blonde lunged against the pillory, her her left knee scrabbling on the floorboards, as its twin stretched sideways. The cheeks of her perfect bottom shook like Jello, jiggling and shaking, and Daphne cried out, loud and long, before collapsing and sobbing against the pillory. Home run! thought Ms. French. 



Ms. French looked at the countdown clock. There were 13 minutes, 25 seconds left to go, which meant she'd have a go at Daphne's defenseless bottom six, maybe seven more times, before the show was over, provided The Spin Master didn't replace her with another person from the audience, as he had Principal Carrington. With that many more blows of the paddle, she could guarantee Daphne a long, slow, painful recovery. Maybe she'd even take some of that smug haughtiness out of the young woman's hide. 



A satisfying <em>smack!</em> of the paddle sounded from the other side of the dais as The Spin Master added another stroke of the paddle to the writhing, sobbing young woman's backside. Ms. French's pussy was so wet she feared its juices might soak through her dress, revealing her excitement. It couldn't be helped. She couldn't turn off her twat as though it were controlled by a faucet. Besides, the warm liquid bathing her crotch felt sexy. Her clit was harder than it had been in a long, long time. 



She glanced across the dais at The Spin Master and saw that he, too, was, beyond a doubt, excited by their victim's plight and by his part in creating their damsel in distress's misery. His cock was obviously erect. The damned thing had to be eight inches long, and its outline suggested it was at least as thick as her own wrist. Had she been attracted to men, the handsome, dark-haired sadist and his rigid manhood would have been irresistible. For straight women, especially those with a masochistic bent, he'd have been a dream come true, but he was no Stella Fitt. 



The dais delivered Daphne into Ms. French's hands, so to speak, and she responded with another solid strike of the paddle, one that seemed to astonish the teen. Daphne's body went erect, then began to tremble and flail. She shrieked, flexing her well-decorated ass cheeks as she wiggled her hips, gasping, grunting, and groaning. The blow had been well planned and well placed, Ms. French's intent having been to "fill in" the portions of flesh that remained pink, rather than red or purple, and her surmise that striking such spots, few though they were, would intensify Daphne's pain seemed well founded. 



Sobbing, mucus mingled with saliva and perspiration on her red, bawling face, Daphne was carried round the arc the dais followed in its relentless rotation, and the phys ed teacher's thoughts turned to her lover among the auditorium's audience, as Ms. French recalled how they'd come to know one another as more than mere colleagues. 



The women had worked in Silverton High for five years before they'd become anything more than colleagues. Phys ed teachers and French teachers didn't often have much to talk about even when their conversation consisted mostly of shop talk. 



Then, on a hot summer's day three years ago, Stella had offered to give Emma a ride when she'd learned the transmission of the phys ed teacher's car had to be replaced. The repairs would take at least a week, but the work couldn't be done until Emma saved enough money to pay for them, which, on her schoolteacher's salary, would take a couple of months. Emma's house along the route Emma took to school; stopping for her on the way would be no problem, coming or going. Thankful for the offer, Emma had accepted. 



Daphne had come round again. Spying a small patch of pink among the purple clusters of bruises on the teen's left buttock, Ms. French let fly, the broad blade catching the helpless victim precisely on the spot at which the phys ed teacher had aimed. Daphne leaped forward, into the pillory, sagged a moment on all fours, her labia parting to show the wetness within, a long strand of which hung between the former student's creamy thighs, dangling there like a strand of spider's silk. The sight was beautiful, of course, and Ms. French registered it without much conscious awareness, her mind more on Ms. Fitt now than on the teen she helped to punish. 



The twenty-minute drive to and from work each day had given the teachers plenty of time to talk, and they soon got to know one another. 



"Why don't you come up," Emma invited Stella one afternoon. It had been a particularly hot day, and Stella's air conditioning, both in her car and at home, were on the fritz. The unit in Emma's apartment worked fine. 



"That would be wonderful." 



Parking in Stella's assigned spot, they'd crossed the lot, climbed the stairs to Stella's second-floor apartment, and entered the delightfully cool, tastefully decorated interior. At her bar, Stella offered to mix her guest a drink. They both had a couple of margaritas, served with bright, tiny parasols. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to slip into something more comfortable. I have a cooler outfit that you could wear, if you like." 

<hr pg="3" />"No, thanks. I'm fine." 



"Make yourself at home, then. I'll be right back." 



She disappeared into her bedroom at the end of the hall. Having spied the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in her hostess's office, Emma wondered what sort of books her new friend might read. She decided to take a look. 



The dais presented Daphne's ass; Ms. French struck. The blow, delivered automatically, landed upon a small, pink expanse of the young woman's upper right buttock, between a flurry of purple weals and red blossoms. Daphne reacted in much the same way as she had before, squirming and twisting as she shrieked and moaned, her red face smeared with mucus, sweat, and saliva, and her pussy overflowing with thick, clear juices. 



Then, the revolving dais was taking her away, a look of dread on her anguished countenance that would have been pathetic had the audience not long ago developed a callous indifference to anything but their own twisted pleasure. Ms. French's memories continued, as if her need to deliver the blow of her paddle to Daphne's posterior had never intervened upon her thoughts. 



Most of the volumes in Stella's bookcase were hardback editions, but several were paperbacks. Emma read the titles of the latter: <em>The Well of Loneliness</em>, a novel by Radclyffe Hall; <em>The Children's Hour</em>, a play by Lillian Hellman; <em>Spring Fire</em>, a pulp by Vin Packer; <em>The Price of Salt</em>, a romance by Claire Morgan; <em>Rubyfruit Jungle</em>, a coming-of-age novel by Rita Mae Brown; more pulps, including <em>Third Sex</em> by Artemis Smith; <em>Beebo Brinker by Ann Bannon</em>; <em>We, Too, Must Love</em> by Anne Aldrich. 



There were others, too, plenty of them, but Emma had read enough to know they were all about lesbians, their desires, torments, temptations, loves, and lives. That Stella French owned a score or more of them could mean only one thing: Silverton High's phys ed teacher was herself gay! 



"I see you've discovered my secret," Stella said, from behind her. 



Emma whirled. "I didn't know you were there." Caught in her hostess's bold stare, she felt almost hypnotized. 



"Are you shocked?" Stella asked her. 



Emma shook her head no, but she heard herself say, "A little." 



Moving nearer, Stella scoffed. "A little or a lot?" 



She was very close. Emma could smell her perfume, a light fragrance that was most captivating. 



"A lot, I guess," Emma admitted. 



Stella had donned a scarlet teddy. The brilliant red contrasted sharply with the phys ed teacher's light complexion. Aware of Stella's generous curves, filling out the front of the slip-like garment, and of the swelling contours of her hostess's hips, and of her shapely, long, bare legs, Emma wondered whether the moisture forming in the cleft between her own thighs was an indication of an attraction to the phys ed teacher. Emma had never been interested in women before, but she found Stella's dark beauty irresistible. 



"So, now that you know I'm gay, you'll probably tell Principal Carrington," Stella said. 



Emma shook her head. "No." 



"Really?" Stella didn't sound convinced. 



"I might have," Emma admitted, "if I hadn't gotten to know you better." 



<em>SWAT!</em> The paddle left its imprint on Daphne's ass, but only for an instant, and then her buoyant buttocks rebounded to their normal fullness. The former student cried out, but Ms. French barely heard her victim's scream. Despite Daphne's beauty and the lovely agony that had transformed the pale moon of her buttocks into a masterpiece of crimson blotches and purple splotches, despite the young woman's' cascading cunt and the small puddle it had made on the floor of the dais, Ms. French's thoughts were far away, in the apartment in which she'd lived when she and Emma had first become intimate with one another. 



In one evening, the women had gone from casual friends to lovers. Stella could remember every detail—Emma's full, high, round breasts with the large areolas surrounding the erect buds of her nipples; her slender build; the wilderness of her long, wild pubic hair; the incredibly tender, succulent slit of her sex, as pink, inside, as the flesh of a watermelon; her firm, sculpted buttocks; the way she kissed and moved; her devoted submission of herself, body and soul; the warmth of her embrace, her skin feeling— 



A hand took the paddle from her hand. "Thank you, Ms. French, for your enthusiastic participation in our evening's entertainment. I'm sure your heartfelt contributions will help ensure that the wayward Ms. der Riere won't be able to sit down for a week, at the very least." Looking over the audience, The Spin Master said, "How about it, ladies and gentlemen? Can we have a hand for my eager assistant and the zeal with which she handled the responsibility with which I entrusted her on your behalf?" 



The applause was loud and accompanied by shrill whistles of approval. Although Ms. French barely remembered delivering the blows of the paddle to young Daphne's bottom, she must have acquitted herself well in doing so, if the crowd's reactions were any indication. 



The Spin Master escorted her to the short flight of steps, and Ms. French made her way down them, down the auditorium's aisle, past the guests seated in her row, to her own seat beside her lover, who looked to her, this moment, lovelier than ever. 



"You were wonderful!" Emma cried. 



"Did my little performance make you wet?" 



Emma placed her lover's hand in her lap. 



"Wow! I sure did!" 



On the stage, The Spin Master consulted the countdown clock. "Eight minutes remain, which means our star is due to receive sixteen more blows, eight of which are to be delivered by my paddle and eight by the instrument of whoever will be so gracious as to assist me next." He looked out, over the audience. "Do I have any volunteers?" 



Immediately, most of the audience raised their hands, some leaping to their feet and shouting to be chosen. The Spanking Club's members were certainly devoted to their passion! 



What runs through their minds, The Spin Master wondered, as they witness a poor, defenseless young girl put through her paces? Their thoughts and feelings were at least as large a source of their enjoyment of the spectacle of punishment as the discipline itself. 



He chose a willowy dark-haired woman not much older, by the looks of her, than Daphne der Riere herself. Despite her slenderness and the smallness of her apple breasts, she was a beauty, but that wasn't the reason he'd selected her.  



When the woman had ascended the stairs, onto the stage, he asked her name. 



"Anna Leigh," she told him. 



She was a petite brunette, her hair wavy and luxurious, a perfect match to her chocolate-brown eyes. Although she was a few years older than the teen in the pillory, The Spin Master was certain that, beneath the tight tank top and short shorts she wore—not a particularly practical outfit for a cold October's night—Anna Leigh had a figure as shapely, lovely, and beguiling as that of Ms. der Riere. "What a lovely name—as beautiful as you yourself." He looked to the audience. "Might we have a hand to thank Ms. Leigh for volunteering to help entertain you this evening?" 



The audience applauded. 



"Are you prepared to deliver eight sound blows to Ms. der Riere's fanny, Ms. Leigh?" 



The young woman blushed, stealing a glance at Daphne's bruised and battered bottom before nodding her assent. 



"Are you prepared, likewise, to do so in an unstinting manner, putting your full strength and vigor into each and every stroke?" 



Again, the young woman nodded. 



"Now, to finish our evening's spectacle," The Spin Master announced, turning his attention to the crowd, "we will dispense with the paddles in favor of canes." 



The men and women assembled before him cheered, whistled, applauded, and shouted their approval. 



He produced the instruments, holding them aloft. They were thin, cruel-looking tools, the sting of which was sure to astonish. He handed one to his new assistant. With his, he returned to his position at the dais. 



He started the countdown clock again, as the dais began to turn. 



Anna gulped. She felt—what was the word?—inadequate, deficient, wanting. Over a hundred pairs of eyes were on her. What was she doing up here, on a stage? Why had she consented to be part of a performance, especially a performance of this nature? She was no actress! She probably couldn't even wield the thin, supple cane The Spin Master had given her. The principal and the woman, Ms. French, had had no trouble spanking the young blonde in the pillory, but could she? Anna wasn't even good at hitting a softball. 



Of course, Ms. der Riere's bottom offered a bigger target, so striking it might not be a problem, but could Anna deliver a blow sufficiently strong enough to please The Spin Master, who expected her to discipline their victim in "an unstinting manner," with all her "full strength and vigor"? Anna wasn't all that strong to begin with, and, although she enjoyed watching spankings, she'd never been involved in delivering one. Could she bring the cane down hard on the poor victim's tush, knowing that, in doing so, she was hurting the someone who was only a few years younger than she herself? She didn't have anything against Ms. der Riere, after all; Anna didn't even know her. She found she very much wished she'd declined The Spin Master's request that she join him in spanking the poor victim. Well, it was too late now. All eyes were upon her. The audience were expecting her to act, and act she must. Otherwise, how could she hold her head up as a member of The Spanking Club? However much she'd rather not honor her commitment, she must. There was no alternative. 



The dais brought the bruised bottom of her victim around, and Anna wanted to look away from the red-and-purple flesh, but, of course, she could not. She tried to ignore the bruises, welts, and weals, concentrating on the shape and fullness of the lovely buttocks. She gripped her cane tightly. It was now or never, she told herself, as she lifted the cane. 



The first four strokes of the cane, although applied with force and deliberation enough, didn't do Anna much good. If anything, they cruel impact of the instrument made her feel sorry for the poor woman on the receiving end of them. Otherwise, Anna felt only a mild sense of nausea. Although she enjoyed the spectacle of corporal punishment, in observing it, she always imagined herself to be in Ms. der Riere's place, rather than in the one she now occupied. If she were to characterize herself, it would be as someone who was acquiescent, submissive, and yielding, not as someone who would relish applying a cane to another person's bare backside. It was due, in fact, to her own submissive nature that she'd accepted The Spin Master's request to assist him in meting out their victim's punishment. For her, the request was as good as a command. She'd not had the courage to say no. 



Why, did she wonder, did some people—mostly men, it seemed to her—enjoy inflicting pain on others? She couldn't imagine the basis of their motives, although her nature made her appreciate the motive for her own masochistic tendencies. Her younger sister, Belle, had always been prettier than she, more intelligent, and more athletic, more gifted in every way, in fact, and she'd constantly made Anna aware of her superiority from their earliest days. Although others, with the self-respect and self-confidence Anna lacked, would never have let such behavior diminish them, Anna had and did. Before long, despite her own three years of seniority, Anna was taking orders from Belle. Anna would do her chores for her sister. She would run errands for her. She would do anything and everything Belle demanded of her because, deep down, Anna knew she was her younger sister's inferior in every way. 



The Spin Master's request had been as good as a command, it was true, but more accounted for her presence on stage than just his bidding. There was in the lovely Ms. der Riere a certain resemblance to her hated, superior sister. Although the woman locked in the pillory was lovelier even than Belle, she looked a good deal like Anna's sister. Despite Ms. der Riere's tear-streaked, mucous-smeared face, the mess of her massacre and lip gloss, her sagging posture, and her frequent and piteous blubbering, the young blonde projected the same sense of superiority, the same haughty air of privilege, the same condescending aura of disdain for everyone else that Belle possessed and displayed. 



<em>That</em>, as much as The Spin Master's request, is what had made Anna join him on stage. Ms. der Riere was a whipping girl, pure and simple, a substitute for Anna's own detested younger sister, who'd abused her emotionally and physically for years and years. It was safe to punish her sister, symbolically, by punishing her stand-in, the lovely, well-marked young woman secured to the pillory. 



These revelations filled Anna with a sense of power and strength such as she'd never known. It felt to her that her muscles literally expanded, becoming positively Amazonian. She felt like a Valkyrie. She was a female barbarian warrior. Her sense of herself was magnified as well, until she brimmed with confidence and courage. Belle—or Belle's unfortunate substitute—would feel these last four strokes of the cane as she'd never felt any others, including those of The Spin Master himself! 



When the young woman in the pillory came round, the rotating dais presenting her splendid ass, Anna was ready, the flexible cane raised high. She lashed with all her might, and the thin bamboo, making a <em>swooshing</em> sound, flashed through the air, striking across Ms. der Riere's beleaguered buttocks. The cane made deep indentations in the poor victim's buttocks, jiggling the red-and-purple mounds. Ms. der Riere screamed horribly, as she sagged in place, her breasts dipping deeply. Her wrists, locked in the pillory, prevented her from falling. Otherwise, Anna thought, the wretch most certainly would have collapsed completely. A white line marked the victim along the cane's point of impact, and a few beads of blood formed along a slight tear in her skin. 



The dais carried its victim away, turning her toward The Spin Master, who struck a blow with his own cane that brought from the depths of the sobbing blonde's anguished soul a wail worthy of the legendary banshee. Now, the platform was bringing her slowly round toward Anna, who waited, impatiently, to strike again. 



Anna was beginning to understand the pleasure of inflicting pain upon another person. It was exhilarating, empowering. It left one in no doubt of his or her superiority. To dominate another, lesser person was more intoxicating than any drug, especially when Anna saw in Ms. der Riere her own smug and arrogant younger sister. It was true, Anna thought: payback <em>was</em> a bitch! 



Anna's fifth stroke of the cane was her cruelest yet. The supple instrument slashed across her victim's defenseless bottom, furrowing Ms. der Riere's red-and-purple cheeks for a moment as it sent a shock of intense pain through the young blonde's quivering orbs. The impact drove Anna's victim hard against the pillory, and, as if in a vain effort to shake off the agony that afflicted her, the sufferer shook her legs. Anna felt as wet as the unfortunate recipient of Anna's long pent-up rage. In striking the teen, Anna saw her smug, condescending younger sister, not Ms. der Riere. It was Belle, in Anna's mind, whom she punished. The bitch was enjoying it, too, Anna saw: Belle's cunt was awash in its thick juices. 



The dais seemed to turn more slowly than ever as Anna awaited her next turn. The minute it took the circular stage to rotate one full turn seemed an eon. She heard the loud report of The Spin Master's bamboo rod against Belle's well-beaten buttocks, which meant the dais had revolved halfway, which meant, in turn, Anna must wait another thirty seconds—another deeming age—for the damned thing to return Belle to her. Anna was determined to deliver the worst, most painful blow Belle the Bitch had ever experienced once the blasted dais aligned her sister's bottom with her own position. 



Anna let fly, and the thin rod struck Belle's bruised and battered buttocks with such force Anna thought the fictile instrument might crack or break, but, instead, it laid a deep furrow in the fleshly orbs it struck, causing Belle to struggle mightily in the pillory, screaming mightily as she writhed and wriggled. 



Opposite Anna, half a minute—or, from Anna's perspective, half an eternity—later, The Spin Master struck again, his cane vibrating as he drew it away from the recipient's bottom, following the blow. He, too, was doing all he could do to inflict the most severe pain possible, and he hadn't even met Belle before this evening's entertainment. No doubt, Anna thought, his hand was controlled by his own personal demons, whatever they might be. 



Although Belle screamed as if her life were at stake with each lash of the cane, the little slut wasn't fooling her, Anna thought. Belle's cunt was a river, running down her thighs and dripping from her nether lips. The puddle on the floor of the dais, between her knees, was proof she enjoyed the thrashing she received. She was a pain whore. Well, then, Anna would give her more of what her sister obviously craved. 



Another blow of the cane had been delivered wholeheartedly by The Spin Master. Now, it was Anna's turn again. She took aim, concentrated, and, with a whip-like motion of her arm, snapped the cane down hard, delivering a vicious slash across Belle's bottom. Her younger sister bounces upon her toes, flexed her legs, and shook her hips desperately, but her pitiful attempts to find relief from the horrific pain filling her buttocks, was to no more avail than her grunts, groans, and anguished cries. 



Anna rolled her shoulders, bent her neck from side to side, arched her back, and shook her arm to loosen her muscles. She had one stroke of the cane left before the countdown clock would run down, and she wanted to be as limber as possible so she could put all her strength and the whole of her hundred and twenty pounds behind the blow. Vengeance was sweet. She'd had no idea how exhilarating making her sister pay for her years of insults and disparagement would feel. Having the little bitch in her control was heaven, nirvana, and paradise all rolled into one. 



She watched as the dais brought Belle back round, to her. Except that, somehow, Belle was no longer held fast in the pillory. A blonde about her age, or a bit younger, eighteen, maybe, had somehow taken Belle's place on the circular stage. She was beautiful, better looking, in fact, that Belle, who was a vision, and, like Anna's sister, this blonde woman had a firm, tight pair of buttocks crisscrossed with marks and mottled in red and purple. A few beads of blood, like rubies, adorned the lines Anna's cane and that of The Spin Master had cut into her bottom. Who was this impostor, and where was Belle? 



It didn't matter, Anna decided. If Belle had somehow magically found someone to take her place, a whipping girl, as it were, that was fine with Anna. She'd as soon as cane this impostor as her hateful sister. It didn't matter, really. One ass was pretty much like another when each belonged to a drop-dead gorgeous chick like Belle or this stranger, her sister's stand-in. Inflicting pain on someone, anyone, would have the same effect, would make Anna feel superior and empowered, restoring her self-confidence and self-respect. 



Another lash opened another gash, and more blood oozed and trickled from the wound as Ms. der Riere wept and blubbered more loudly, kicking her legs furiously and rolling from side to side. The dais stopped. The countdown clock had run down. 



Anna paused. When Ms. der Riere's thrashings and kicking subsided, Anna ordered her to raise her upper body from the dais. She tried to comply, the pain was so great as to be temporarily incapacitating. Someone was there, at Anna's side. A hand took hers, removed the cane she clutched with the strength and desperation of a drowning woman. To the audience, The Spin Master said, "I think you'll agree, my assistant, Ms. Leigh, deserves a tremendous round of applause." 

<hr pg="4" />The audience responded with thunderous clapping, whistles, shouts, and cheers. 



The Spin Master helped the beautiful brunette to the stairs descending from the stage. As she made her way down the aisle, back to her seat, he wondered just what had gone through her mind while she was lashing Ms. der Riere's bottom as fiercely and ferociously as she had the strength and passion to do. His "volunteer" had been fully immersed in the experience. He suspected that, for her, caning Daphne's bottom wasn't simply a role. It may have started as that, but it hadn't ended that way. Anna had become whatever she'd imagined herself to be, and, most likely, so, in her mind, had Daphne. What had the young woman, his accomplice, learned about herself in the process 



* * * 



"Hurt much?" 



Daphne glanced at The Spin Master, as he drove their van from the Silverton High School parking lot. After the evening's entertainment, he'd freed her from the pillory, and Daphne had made her way to the girls' locker room, where she'd showered and dressed in private. While she did so, he'd dismantled the dais and collected the countdown clock, loading both into their van. After Daphne had finished in the locker room, she'd reunited with him, and they'd climbed into their respective seats inside the van. Now, they were on the road. In a week, they'd set up again, this time at a college sorority, for their next gig. "Of course, it hurt," she answered her partner's question. "Quite a lot, toward the end." 



"Sorry." 



She nodded. "The red and purple makeup washed off nicely. My ass doesn't look nearly as bad now as it did during our little drama, although the scars from Anna's cane aren't going away for a few days, but, don't worry: they should be gone before our next performance." 



"Your idea about the knee pads was a stroke of genius." 



She smiled. "A 'stroke,' huh?" 



"You know what I meant. The button you pressed inside the one on your right knee worked perfectly in time with the turn of the dais and the countdown clock, producing the sound effect of the paddle or, later, the cane with which I pretended to strike you. The audience thought you'd received two strokes every minute, or forty, total, when, just as you planned, you actually received only half that number." 



"Half was plenty, let me tell you. My tears, like my screams and whimpers were real." 



"Bad, yes," he said, his tone sympathetic, "but not as bad as twice the number of blows would have been. Again, your idea was a—" 



"I know: a stroke of genius." 



"It really was. It fooled the audience and, at the same time, while allowing me to avoid delivering the twenty strokes I was supposed to give you, it let me touch up your ass with the red or purple makeup I smeared onto the paddle and, later, the cane, between the strokes I supposedly delivered, making your bottom look all the worse for wear." 



"Wear and tear." 



He chuckled. "Right. It seems our routine is perfect now, and it'll earn us a cool $100 for every minute we entertain." 



"It is perfect," she agreed, "except for one detail." 



"What's that?" 



"From now on, we put fifteen minutes on the clock, not twenty." 



"That'll drop our take to $1,500." 



"No, it won't. We'll charge the same as before: $2,000, total." 



"You think they'll pay that?" 



"You saying my ass isn't worth it?" 



He didn't even have to think about his answer. "It's worth it, all right, especially if you deliver a performance like the one you did this evening. Your acting's no small part of our deception. It's you, Ms. der Riere, who's the true spin master, not me." 



Daphne smiled. "Maybe, when we get home, I'll don my strapon," she suggested, "and take your ass for a spin." 



They'd left the suburbs behind, and the speed limit had increased. He drove faster.

