Cream of the Crop

by Josephine Scott

  ‘Then don’t, not with me. Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘Right, bend over the desk then, please.’

  My insides had turned to jelly. Completely. Cold anticipation, hot quivering quim. Not sure even then what I was doing, feeling sexy and yet scared. Doing as I was told without question. Well, almost.

  Firm hands pushed me down and I folded my arms to rest my head on them. Funny how a desk is just the right height for someone to bend over, isn’t it? The manufacturers must have known.

  ‘ Look,’ he said, and the cane appeared through the crook of my arm.

  ‘I’m not looking!’ I was trying not to think about it. He had obviously decided what I was to get although I still didn’t know. He turned back my clothes, slowly, savouring it no doubt, while my knees trembled. My new black tights were lowered and then my pale green panties.

  ‘Oh very nice.’

  ‘Really?’ It made me feel good, restored a little of my confidence, although it didn’t stop the butterflies. The moment of pain came ever nearer.

  A hand slid over my cheeks, feeling their softness, appreciating the whiteness? I don’t know. All I know is; it felt nice.

  ‘Now we’ll see if you mark, shall we?’

  A very hard slap made me yelp. It was much harder than I had anticipated! It glowed, a solid round patch of red.

  ‘A complete hand print, you do mark easily, don’t you?’

  And he placed another one, right on top! I could feel my bottom protesting, hurting, but one-sided: one cool cheek, one hot. I pressed against the edge of the desk, trying to escape what was to come.

  ‘We’ll do something about this side now,’ he said and gave me two more hard slaps before he started spanking me all over. From the top of my bottom near the spine where the skin is pulled tight, to the undercurve which is particularly tender, he spanked me, and I cried out as the pain increased. I let myself flop forward onto the desk, let the spanking carry on as if it wasn’t anything to do with me. Only the sound penetrated my conscious thought; my subconscious absorbed the spanking, wondering why I didn’t think it would hurt this much.

  ‘That looks nice,’ he said, and before I could even begin to anticipate it, the cane was gone from under my arm, was whistling through the air, and was landing with devastating sharpness on the tender skin. It caught me almost by surprise, and I simply yelled out. It burned like nothing else, and I gripped the far side of the desk, determined to take it. Then came another stroke, slightly further down this time and I almost stood up but just held on by sheer willpower. Would it be six? He still hadn’t said. The third stroke cut across the tender join of bottom and thighs, the tip caught my thigh and brought me to the brink of tears, and the fourth one, which seemed to go wild, was definitely all I could take.

  I stood up, clutching my bottom, begging, ‘No more, I can’t take any more.’ And he lowered the cane. ‘I’m not used to it,’ I apologised, which was the truth. I’d never been caned like that.

  ‘I do cane rather hard,’ he agreed, putting it away in the corner, much to my relief.

  I rushed off to the ladies where, with the aid of a small hand mirror, I tried to inspect the weals. They looked horrific! They were already going black and red and they seemed to be everywhere, not like the neat lines I had anticipated.

  Back in the office, with the lines still hurting, I sat on the couch and let the pain settle down to a glow. When the editor came back, I showed him the lines and heard him tutting.

  ‘Not one of your better efforts,’ he told my friend, and I wondered why.

  With knickers back in place, and a feeling of warm satisfaction spreading to all known parts of the human body, I left the office, promising to be back one day.

  I went back home on the coach, trying not to wriggle.

  It’s a good job my friend didn’t carry out any of the promises made in the letters – I wouldn’t have been able to take them, that’s for sure. He said he was entitled to change his mind anyway. An editor’s decision is always final; a contributor has little to say in the matter.

  I’m glad the other editors I work for are not all into CP or life could become extremely painful, methinks, but interesting, all the same . . .

  (You’d be amazed at how often that doesn’t happen to me! Ed.)

  Editorial Comment

  This fantasy was specially written for the editor featured in the preceding true story. After my visit I got to imagining how easy it would be for him to find a series of willing ladies and he was so pleased with it he pinned cash to the return envelope, paid for out of his own pocket, not out of magazine funds!

  Bill Kennard smoothed down his wavy black hair and straightened his tie. Then he pressed the button on the intercom for his secretary.

  ‘Send Miss Daniels in,’ he said curtly, knowing she would hear it.

  ‘Yes, Mr Kennard.’

  The door opened slowly and a young woman crept into his office, her long brown hair falling forward as she tried not to look into his eyes.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, friendly but abrupt.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Kennard,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Now...’ He reached for the file on his desk. ‘Your stories have been way off standard lately, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  He watched her closely, saw her wriggling a little in the chair, and grinned secretly. Had she been told his remedy for lagging authors? A good spanking, over the knee, writhing body held firmly under one arm, reddening cheeks for his eyes to feast on, there was nothing like it!’ Or, as in this case, a few sharp strokes of his trusty cane.

  ‘But why? You used to send me such good stories!’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t seem to have had any inspiration to write anything lately.’

  ‘Are you getting any practical experience?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Much?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How much?’

  She shuffled uneasily on the chair, her head tilted even further forward, the long hair falling down to hide her blushes.

  ‘Come on,’ Bill Kennard coaxed her gently, ‘there isn’t much I haven’t heard, is there? Goodness me, you write me enough!’

  ‘Writing it and sending it to you is different from sitting here and talking about it.’

  There was a long silence. Bill Kennard waited patiently. However long the interview took he would get his own way and sometimes it was good to wait. Good for his self-control (and all that).

  Finally Diane Daniels raised her eyes and looked at him.

  ‘I’ve had a spanking or two,’ she admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Is that all?’ Bill Kennard was astonished and showed it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh gracious me, no wonder the stories have fallen off. Look Diane, I can call you Diane, can’t I?’ She nodded. ‘Look, Diane, you’re writing for me, you know I need stories - real stories, to give my readers the vicarious thrill they buy the magazine for. Let’s be honest about it, it’s the only way I can make any money and your stones have been rather - well, dull.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, has anyone told you the remedy for dull contributions? My remedy for dull contributions?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was obvious someone had been talking. She was beginning to go red and a sparkle appeared in her eyes; the thought was turning her on, even if she wanted to deny it.

  ‘Are you willing?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  Bill Kennard opened the long centre drawer of his desk and took out the whippy cane he kept there. Diane stood up and walked round to the side of the desk.

  ‘Who’s been talking to you?’ he asked, curious

  ‘Tha
t would be telling, wouldn’t it?’ she retorted.

  ‘All right then, lean over.’

  Diane carefully leaned across the desk, holding on to the sides with both hands. He carefully lifted the skirt out of me way and stopped to admire the black panties pulled tight over the shapely bottom.

  ‘No tights,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘Please be gentle with me,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s been years since I had the cane!’

  ‘I’ll be gentle; just enough to hurt for a while so you know what you’re writing about. All right?’

  ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed.

  He stepped back and held the cane against her to test the distance. ‘All right, Diane,’ and he brought the cane down sharply.

  ‘Ow!!!’ She leapt up, clutching her bottom. ‘No, no!’

  ‘Oh come on, Diane, it wasn’t hard.’

  ‘Oh!’ she was rubbing frantically and pleading with her dark eyes.

  One day I’ll have to try this myself, he thought, watching her rub her full cheeks. Find out just how much that sudden blow with the rattan really hurts. Then he thought again, why should I? I’m here to give, not take.

  ‘Come on, only another five to go.’

  ‘No, please!’

  ‘It’s up to you.’ He walked away and opened the drawer to put the cane back. She stared at him.

  ‘You, you won’t accept any more of my stories, will you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘‘Why not? Can’t I try again?’

  ‘Why not? Because, Diane dear, as I have been trying to tell you, they were dull. How long is it since you were caned? Must be years. I truly didn’t hit you very hard and you leapt up as though I’d really caned you. Does it hurt now?’

  She stopped for a moment.

  ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.

  ‘You see? How can you write me anything realistic if you’ve had no experience?’

  ‘You’re right, of course, you’re right.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll take the rest.’

  ‘Thank you, Diane. I’d hate to lose you, you’ve given me some good work in the past.’

  With the utmost reluctance she leaned over the desk again. He lifted her skirt out of the way and stepped back.

  ‘Only five more to go. Now you’ve had one and know how quickly the pain goes away, it isn’t so bad, is it?’

  ‘No, but please -’

  Bill Kennard gave her five quick whacks with the cane, placing them expertly and evenly over her bottom, ignoring her shrieks and cries. She clung to the desk, obviously determined to take them all. (The money for the stories was too useful to many authors to relinquish because of a little pain.) Then it was over and she was able to stand up and restore a degree of dignity. She wiped away a few tears and watched as he carefully put the cane away in the desk.

  ‘Hurt?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘It’ll stop. But now you know what you’re writing about, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do, and it’s much more painful than 1 thought, just lines of pain.’

  ‘You must have experience to write properly, there’s no other way!’

  ‘I’ll have to try and tell my husband when I get back.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Of course, I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘Thank - thank you, Mr Kennard.’

  ‘I can assure you the pleasure was all mine.’

  ‘I’ll - I’ll see what I can do for you.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  Bill Kennard watched her walk out of the door and leaned back in his chair, smiling at the memory. Nice! Then he leaned forward and pressed the intercom button.

  ‘Send in Miss Green,’ he ordered curtly, so she would hear him.

  ‘Yes, Mr Kennard.’

  What a wonderful way to spend a working day!

  (Well alright it has happened once or twice and I have to concur with that final comment, Jo! Ed.)

  Initiation

  As with so much of my SM writing, this comes out of one of my fantasies yet is partly taken from real life. It could happen, but don’t imagine it will happen with every woman, any more than any of my other fantasies will happen with every woman. But, if she is submissive by nature - and that’s something for you to find out - it will.

  Believe me.

  It’s late, the TV has long since been turned off. Supper is over, and Bob has a look which bodes ill for my poor bottom. He goes upstairs, and comes down with a blanket and the cane. His hinted, whispered promises of the day are about to come to pass and I feel the usual anticipatory thrill of apprehension and excitement go through me.

  ‘Come on,’ he invites me.

  Slowly I undress, knowing he is watching me. Knowing how the day would probably end, I have dressed especially for the night: green silk dress so every move rustles; lace-trimmed black slip; lacy black bra and brief black knickers, edged with lace. I remove them all as slowly as any stripper. My breasts are full, with large nipples which spring erect as the bra comes off, my hips invite his hands, my cheeks invite the punishment that is to come.

  Not only does this please Bob, but it delays the caning for a little longer too. Naked, I wait for him to look at me before lying on the blanket in front of the open fire, flat on my back, letting the flickering flames reflect on my body and warm me. Bob undresses, swiftly. He is muscular and broad, with hair running all over his chest and in a line down his back; hair which sends tingles through me if I touch and caress him. He is large everywhere he needs to be, I can cup him in one hand but he overspills my small fingers. His member is large enough to fulfil every woman’s dream, and certainly fills mine, along with my body. He lies on the blanket beside me.

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘No.’ But I am. I’m quivering inside with need and desire; need for the sharp pain which is to come, desire for it to come and fill me with the huge rush of sexy feeling which assures us both I will have a spectacular orgasm.

  He is caressing and kissing my erect nipples and I allow my fingers to travel even as his hands are. His fingers are inside me, finding the magic G-spot that lies just - there. He finds my pleasure button and caresses it, while I in turn slide my thumb over the head of his cock which is weeping just slightly, and sends a shudder through him.

  I know I’m moist, it’s the anticipation and it is almost too much to take; the need is growing for a few quick thrusts of fingers or cock - I can feel myself getting aroused to the point that if he isn’t careful I’ll climax now and it’ll all be over. For some reason I’ve never fully understood, any ‘punishment’ hurts a good deal more once I’ve reached my climax, the desire obviously cushions the pain in some way, so I try if at all possible to hold it back.

  After a long kiss, during which his tongue is almost as exciting as his fingers, he smiles at me.

  ‘Come on, Jan, let’s start.’

  ‘Start? You’ve been ready for ages, in fact for so long I don’t think you can wait any longer, can you?’

  Bob sits up and straightens his legs. I manoeuvre myself across him, him, pillowing my head on my arms. It’s all bones, feet pressing against the floor, pelvic bones pressing on his thigh bones, elbows creating dips in the carpet, but it pales into insignificance when the spanking begins.

  The only real problem is, as far as I’m concerned, my bottom is too accessible to Bob’s eyes and hands, and, being over his legs, is raised just enough to help him, as if he needed any help.

  ‘This is how I like you best.’ He is smoothing and caressing my bottom; his hands are soft, sensuous, sliding along the crack, seeking out the opening, finding little nerve ends that make me quiver.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Totally submissive.’
r />   ‘Typical man - Ow!’ That comment has earned me a sharp slap. Is this an indication of what is to come?

  ‘I’ve left a lovely hand print,’ he says, admiration apparent in his voice. Then he starts slapping me gently and I relax in the eroticism of it. Being still, doing as I’m told, I submit to my husband’s will, which is to have me lying still and in a position to spank, just lightly. The spanking tingles, arouses in its sexiness, the nakedness, the submission to another’s will, the gentle, oh so gentle, build up of smarting soreness.

  He doesn’t increase the severity of the slaps, it’s the combined effect of them on my bottom. I’m getting tender, each slap, no matter how light, counts and I start to wriggle a little, which earns me an immediate hard smack.

  ‘Lie still!’

  I do, but it’s getting painful now. I must be completely red by the feel of it.

  ‘All right, let’s get up.’

  I slowly climb to my feet. My bottom feels as though it’s glowing.

  ‘Over the chair,’ comes the command and I walk across the floor, and lean over the arm of the heavy armchair, the weave of the upholstery pressing into my pubis. Unlike me it won’t give way under pressure, for which I am grateful. I bury my head in the cushion, my toes only just touch the floor like this. Bob whistles the cane through the air a few times, the sound of it is enough to send shudders through me, along with the various thrills that are hard to describe.

  ‘You’re beautifully red, beautifully ready for the cane!’

  ‘Go easy on me.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’ he says, but being very sensitive now, the first stroke of the wicked whippy cane makes me jump up, clutching my poor cheeks. Bob waits patiently until I bend over again, which I do without his asking. The arm of the chair waits, the cushion waits, the cane waits.

  ‘Don’t do that again, will you?’ Bob warns me, ‘or you’ll get more than you bargained for!’

  ‘Bob, please go easy.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ll try and make them a bit lighter.’

  But I’m sure he only said that to deceive, for the next stroke lands an inch from the other one and makes me cry out in protest.