Cream of the Crop

by Josephine Scott

  All right, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer; I’ll take you close so that you can press your ear against the window and hear what the girls are saying.

  The girl talk may surprise you.

  ‘Did you enjoy the ball the other night?’ Heather sips black coffee and looks at Anne. David Portram, Anne’s husband, is the local close-to-being-a-millionaire, running his own engineering business and a leading light in the Chamber of Commerce, the Round Table, the Table, the - well, you get the picture. It means Anne gets invited to the elegant dinner dances the others don’t.

  ‘Yes, we had a wonderful time.’ Anne’s eyes light up with the memory. ‘I danced with half the town, I think, boy, did my feet ache by midnight!’

  ‘What did you wear in the end?’ asks Heather. Anne’s ballgown had been the subject of much discussion prior to the great event.

  Anne jumps up. ‘I’ll show you. I went and bought something new in the morning after all.’

  She hurries out of the room, leaving the others speculating on how much might have been spent on a single evening. Not that they are overly jealous, you understand, well, just a little, well, perhaps more than a little. But not too much. Some girls can be bitchy, but these girls share a passion for –

  ‘Here,’ says Anne, as she comes back into the room, slightly breathless, carrying a scarlet dress. Unselfconsciously she slips off her summer dress and struggles into the layers of silk and taffeta. The dress is a beautiful thing. The other girls sit speechless as she swirls and parades in front of them, silk whispering around her legs, taffeta floating above it in a tempting wicked-woman cloud of red. Anne’s shining blonde hair looks even brighter against the scarlet dress.

  ‘Well, it was a special occasion.’ Anne unfastens the dress and steps out of it. She turns to lay it on the table. The other girls look closely and yes - there they are - distinct lines from a caning showing under filmy black panties.

  ‘Your turn,’ laughs Sonya. ‘Come on, let’s hear it!’

  Anne puts her summer dress back on, blushing.

  ‘I wasn’t going to show,’ she protests, laughing at the same time. ‘I truly wasn’t going to show you.’

  It is one of the rules of this group of friends that one of the girls gets to show the others the evidence of a session they have recently had. It is one of the rules because there is nothing more erotic for a submissive than seeing the real, genuine evidence of a session on another woman. It stirs the loins, it gets the juices flowing, it sparks anticipation (and if I keep on like this I will have to take my ear from the window and lead you away so you can...)

  Hell, let’s listen.

  ‘So we saw.’ Joanne leans back in the huge armchair, totally relaxed and pleased with life. She has marks too and was hoping someone else would be the one to tell all this morning. Hers were gained through an embarrassing incident in the local car park she doesn’t want to relate to the others. ‘Come on, Anne, let’s hear it.’

  ‘Well,’ Anne sits down, carefully, they note, and leans forward. ‘We went to the ball. Silbury House looked lovely! All decorated with gold and white and touches of green everywhere, huge ribbons, lovely flower arrangements and the table! I can’t begin to tell you how lovely the table looked. David looked pretty good too in his evening wear. You haven’t seen him in dinner jacket and bow tie, he looks fantastic! Well. I think so, anyway.’ Nods of approval from everyone else. They expect everyone to think their own husbands are the best in the world. (I happen to think mine is.)

  ‘So we had our dinner and then the dancing started. I danced with ever so many different people and ended up with the mayor. And I had had a touch too much to drink by then and I danced...er... well, a bit close, shall we say - and he was seen in the men’s loos coping with an erection soon after. Seen by David!’

  There is much laughter all round. Given the scarlet dress, Anne’s looks and the opportunity, they would all have done the same thing. While they consider their husbands the best in the world, it doesn’t stop them flirting and tormenting and amusing other men, just so they know they can still do it.

  ‘So, when we got home, I was told to get upstairs. I went, in a hurry! You know that tone of voice, there’s no arguing. He said I was to strip off the dress and get over the end of the bed. I did, got over the bed in nothing but black lace undies, and waited. I heard him rummaging in the wardrobe where we kept the things, not knowing if he was getting the cane or the tawse or even our riding crop. He was mad enough to have used that! He said ‘twelve’ in that cold, cold voice, and I still didn’t know twelve of what. I lay there, shaking a bit, trying not to say sorry, hanging on to the cover, and then he started. He’s not been that mad for ages, he really laid into me with that cane!’

  Anne stands up, turns around and lowers her knickers so they can all see the clear lines, all twelve of them.

  ‘Bet that hurt,’ breathes Sonya almost enviously.

  ‘Certainly did!’ Anne pulls her knickers up again and sits down in the chair, carefully. ‘That’s me told. We went to bed, laid on our own side for ages until he got soft and came over to my side. And the rest you can guess!’ She leans back in the chair. ‘Anyone else got a story to contribute today?’

  Joanne looks round at the others. ‘Not a story, but I must tell you about this man I saw getting out of a taxi at the hotel last week. He was small, not much taller than me, very slim, elegant beard, sort of - oh I don’t know, like one of those Spanish noblemen you read about in books - you know what I mean? Anyway, as he shut the car door and went to pay the driver, I saw his wrists. Very, very slim but they looked as if they were like steel. I instantly imagined him holding a cane, and damn near creamed right there and then on the pavement! I’ve been fantasising about him ever since.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Anne smiles knowingly. ‘Good job our men don’t know about our secret fantasies, isn’t it? But they’re nice to have, as long as we keep them as fantasies.’

  ‘I know,’ sighs Heather. ‘You see a man in the street or on a building site or something, build a complete fantasy around him and then can’t do anything about it.’

  ‘One day,’ Joanne smiles at them all in turn. ‘One day we’ll have to talk to our men about realising our favourite fantasies.’

  ‘Yes!’ chorus the others. Seems like a popular idea.

  ‘Right, if there are no stories, we’ll have some action instead. Whose turn is it today?’ Anne is looking round at her guests, waiting.

  Heather looks at the others. She is wondering whether she should volunteer to be today’s victim for bottom warming at the hands of the others - another of the rules - or whether to let someone else volunteer, or be picked on, if no one speaks up. Heather has had a session the night before and she isn’t madly keen on getting spanked all over again, still feeling a bit tender from her session over Alan’s knees for being cheeky.

  Joanne looks out of the window, hoping they will ignore her. She has tawse marks from her latest escapade, reversing into a post in the car park. Nigel was very, very annoyed. It showed in the tawsing she had to take, wriggling and struggling and protesting, bent over the side of the bath, still wet and pink and every stroke stinging like crazy. She lost count of how many she got, how many times the flexible leather wrapped itself around her, delivered with force, but she was still grinning with secret satisfaction today even if it was something she wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  ‘Sonya,’ announces Anne suddenly, making them look round with large smiles.

  Sonya hasn’t been spanked by the girls for - oh must be all of a month. Sonya blushes madly, as she does every time. ‘Must I?’

  ‘When was the last time Joe warmed your bottom?’ demands Anne.

  ‘Oh-’

  ‘Come on, the truth!’

  There can be no lies between friends as close as these girls. They have se
en each other naked, spanked each other and seen their husbands administer punishment to the other wives, too. There can be no secrets.

  Sonya groans. ‘All right, it’s been a fortnight.’

  ‘Great!’ Anne rushes out of the room, returning almost immediately with a rubber sandal. Sonya backs towards the window.

  ‘Oh no, that’s not fair, that’s not nice, you know that hurts!’

  Heather and Joanne are on their feet now, pulling Sonya into the centre of the lounge where a large leather pouffe waits for someone to lie over it, someone whose bottom needs attending to. Which is precisely why Anne and David bought it in the first place.

  Sonya fights, but not very convincingly. She knows she is overdue for some CP and she knows that she will take it willingly from her friends. With a sigh she pulls down her panties and lays across the pouffe, grinning stupidly. Her bottom is large, white and very inviting.

  ‘Who’s going first?’ asks Anne, holding out the sandal.

  ‘You can.’ Joanne has one of Sonya’s wrists to make sure she doesn’t try and wriggle away and Heather has the other - it is easier at that moment for Anne to start.

  ‘OK then.’

  WHACK! the sandal comes down in the middle of one cheek then the other. Sonya squeals and wriggles but Anne does it again and then again, quickly settling into a rhythm, a tattoo of rubber meeting flesh. Joanne and Heather are watching, a sparkle in their eyes, their teeth showing white between red, almost bitten lips, as the excitement builds. Sonya, the recipient, absorbs the smacks, sensing every one fluttering through every nerve, into her stomach, down her thighs, along her spine and touching her nipples, making them come erect. The pain spreads, glowing relentlessly. When she is showing distinct signs of pink, edging into red, Anne hands over the sandal to Joanne and takes Joanne’s place holding onto Sonya’s wrists.

  Joanne is adept at giving a good spanking as the others have found to their cost. The sandal appears to come down twice as hard, quickly turning pink flesh red, and making Sonya wriggle and gasp aloud a few times. Although she knows she would take the spanking, Sonya is glad the others are holding on to her wrists so she cannot even begin to think of escaping. Sonya loves bondage, but there isn’t always the time or the need to be carefully bound for a session. Being firmly held by two other women, determined you are not getting away with a single stroke, is almost as good as being tied down to a bench by a loving and determined husband. Finally it is Heather’s turn to use the sandal which she does, hard, remembering the times when she has been over the pouffe, and Sonya has had her turn. It is a chance to pay her back for every whack she has had in the past. It’s the same every time; they all remember past punishment sessions and get revenge on their friends in the only way they know - by giving as much when it is their turn.

  Finally Sonya is allowed to get up, gasping and protesting and clutching her sore bottom. But it isn’t over and she knows it; she has to stand in the middle of the room, skirt raised, panties lowered, until the others say she can sit down. The bottom they are looking at, in turn, is very, very red and will be sore for quite a long time. This usually guarantees firstly another punishment session with their partner and secondly a marvellous session in bed. It is always worth the pain and humiliation of standing with a well-spanked bottom on show. It is an oddity of CP that getting it is one thing, standing with the evidence on display is quite another, even when the people who are looking are the people who did it.

  And at this moment I think we should tiptoe away down the drive, quickly, before they see us. The session is over and soon the girls will be walking - with wet pussies - back to their homes to await their husbands who, knowing there has been a meeting, will come home with erections demanding to be satisfied, one way or another.

  And that is something we don’t need to spy on, do we?

  Trial by Jury

  You’ve no doubt seen many times a so-called pilot film which was supposed to be followed by a series, and often isn’t. Well, this was a pilot story. I had every intention of writing a series about the Club. The series never came off, as the editor never asked for any more. There’s no incentive if you find you are writing in a void, sending work out and never getting a response, so as with ‘Girl Talk’, the ideas were there... When this story first appeared a (male) friend complained he could not find enough description, couldn’t see the eroticism of it. So, before I get the same complaint from all you (male) readers out there, the eroticism, the whole point of this story, is the exhibitionism. I wrote it after a (female) friend said she rather fancied being punished before a group of people, almost a public execution, as it were.

  The sleek dark sports car fitted itself neatly into the drive of the luxurious detached house and stopped. Its engine sighed into silence and the lights faded out. Inside the car, Marjorie and Darren Johnson exchanged smiles in the half-light cast by the porch lantern. They touched hands.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Always ready for one of these nights.’ Marjorie’s response was husky, whispered with excitement, and Darren gripped her hand tightly.

  ‘Who do you think will draw what tonight?’ he wondered aloud, but the point was academic. No one knew what role they would play until they got inside the glassed porch of the Grayson’s residence and drew a ticket from the appropriate box, a ticket which would set their role for the evening.

  Inside the elegant house, standing so cool and tranquil in the dark night, a trial was to be staged. Every person attending the trial had an essential part to play. What that part was, no one yet knew. In time all would be revealed. Literally.

  ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Marjorie opened the car door and stepped on to the gravel path just as a gold Rover drew up. She waved to Dianne, who was grinning excitedly at her through the window. Darren locked the doors of the car and walked round the still warm engine to wait beside Marjorie for Dianne and James Kenning to lock their car before hurrying up the drive. ‘Cold. isn’t it?’ commented James, rubbing his hands and then tucking them deep in the pockets of his sheepskin coat.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Marjorie, huddling deeper into her fur. ‘The sooner we get inside, the better.’

  ‘And collect our ticket,’ added Dianne, anticipation sparkling in her eyes. ‘Let’s go!’

  Giles Grayson opened the door, greeting the arrivals as casually as if they were there for an informal gathering. Coats were removed and handed over in the flutter of greetings and embraces until almost shyly, each arrival took a ticket from the boxes, clearly labelled Men and Women. Well might you ask why. That way they ensured that the defendant for the evening was always female – no women’s lib allowed in the Scottsdale Spanking Society, you understand.

  Annette Grayson was waiting for them, nervous and bubbly. ‘Come in by the fire, and get warm. Have you got your tickets?’

  ‘Yes.’ Darren stopped to give her a brief kiss before approaching the huge log fire. ‘Have you taken yours?’

  ‘No!’ Annette rushed to the hall. ‘Giles, we haven’t taken our tickets yet!’

  ‘Come on, then, before I get involved with more people arriving.’

  They looked at their tickets, and then at each other, trying to read from their expression what ticket they had drawn. But not a word was said. Part of the fun of the evening was the not knowing; by long standing tradition, you see, no one revealed what part they were to play until the Court was declared in session and everyone took their place.

  Annette rejoined her guests, mixing drinks and putting on a tape of background music to help relax everyone. Giles responded to the summons of the doorbell to admit Sandra and Alexander Danes. They too stopped for tickets, which they glanced at before going into the lounge.

  Shortly afterwards Rosemary and Stephen Trace arrived, with Estella and Christopher Deacon hot on their heels. The members had arrived. The fun would soon begin.
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  Gentle readers, devotees to a man (or should I say person?) of the exciting, exhilarating genre of corporal punishment, I have a story for you. Well, not so much a story as facts carefully disguised as fiction, for that is the only way to describe the games and goings-on of the Scottsdale Spanking Society, not its real name, of course, under which banner a good deal goes on and not all of it concerns CP. Not by a very long cane weal! Rather than risk libel proceedings, it is easier and safer (if not cheaper) to change the names of the guilty, thereby protecting the innocent.

  Now, you will recall before I diverted your attention to me, unforgivable thing for a writer to do, that all the guests were gathered in the lounge of the Grayson house, each clutching or perhaps pocketing a ticket. We have frozen them with a stab at the freeze-frame button; they are suspended in a moment of time, drinks in hand, or half way to mouth, the flames are frozen in the very act of leaping up the chimney and the stirrings of anticipatory lust are, for the moment ceased, held in limbo.

  Or somewhere.

  Now that they are frozen in that way, we can examine them in detail, and peek over their shoulders to see what ticket they are clutching or pocketing. What secrets are stirring in their minds? What do they think of the role they have been called upon to play?

  Marjorie and Darren Johnson arrived first, did they not? Parking the sleek sports car in the drive. Not only is that a safe place, it is also a good way of ensuring they are the last to leave, their car being blocked by the others. This suits Darren, who we have to admit is rather fond of drink. You will also appreciate that drinking is banned in courtrooms, so he has to do all his drinking both before and after the trial. So he comes early and stays late. Darren is a large man, blond touched with grey so it is almost indistinguishable. His face tends towards redness and his body towards being large. He has a healthy appetite for all that life offers him. Not really a devotee of spanking he will be the first to tell you, but he has yet to refuse the offer of having a writhing woman across his knees, bared bum, for him to spank to his heart’s content with all the subsequent joys that brings! Of all the people frozen in this timeless moment he is possibly the least interested in the spanking of a bottom, he prefers it for its natural use, something to hold on to at the moment of orgasm. He contentedly clutches his ticket, which marks him as a juror. It means he can relax and indulge in sexy daydreams of the afterwards.