Cream of the Crop

by Josephine Scott

  Marjorie was with him, a petite person looking even smaller than she really is against his largeness. She dresses expensively on the proceeds of his insurance broking firm. She is as dark as he is blond, black of curls and deep hued of skin, as if perpetually under the hot sun or a sun bed. This being the height of an English winter (I mentioned frozen flames a while back) I leave you to judge which it is. Marjorie likes being spanked, she likes the feel of a man’s hand slapping her cheeks, likes the feeling of total domination. She isn’t quite sure about having the event carried out publicly, which is why she is more than glad she has drawn a juror’s ticket again tonight. She surreptitiously looks around, trying to decide who has ‘the ticket’.

  If you can remember that far back, Dianne and James Kenning drew up behind the Johnsons, blocking the sports car with the Rover. Dianne is one of those seemingly limpid ladies who lie elegantly in armchairs or drape themselves along the arms of settees, floating gracefully. She has long shining brown hair which flows in ripples down her back. Her face is delicate, her eyes change colour as you stare into their depths. A beautiful lady, a sharp business woman too, who is more than capable of summing up an opponent, male or female, with one single all-embracing glance. She is fascinated by CP and all the implements that go with it. Their bedroom, in their own expensive luxury house, paid for out of the proceeds of the small engineering business, looks somewhat like a black museum, with whips and canes adorning the walls. She would be only too pleased to be on display even if it was face down over the padded stool for the executioner to mete out his sentence on her creamy white bottom, which blends so smoothly with her long, muscled thighs.

  But tonight Dianne clutches a juror ticket, for in any trial there must always be seven jurors, and one accused. Still, there is always later, and she looks, in this frozen moment, towards her husband with a sparkle of anticipation for what is to come, not only here but back in their black museum, where no restraining straps are needed.

  James Kenning has read her look and knows what is in store. He looks down at his juror ticket, and slips it into his pocket, trying to decide whether he is disappointed or not. Tall and lean, muscled, with not an ounce of fat, James Kenning is the epitome of the business man who has come up from nothing and made it into this rich society on the basis of his own determination. His hair is streaked with grey and he kids everyone that it is the result of all his worries and cares, in fact it is the result of the natural aging process that he doesn’t care to think about. CP is his love and his major hobby. In a locked bookcase in their bedroom is a collection of every good spanking magazine that has ever been printed. If they ever need any inspiration, and even the most devoted followers sometimes do, they play a game of selecting a book at random, allowing it to fall open and giving Dianne double whatever is on the page, no matter how severe.

  There is always later, as Dianne’s look has already promised him. It has also told him that she isn’t the victim or her look wouldn’t hold as much promise as it does. You can see nothing? But then you aren’t married to the lady, you don’t know her every whim and mood. But I bet you’d like to. While Annette has been mixing drinks and adjusting the volume on the wallpaper music which, incidentally, isn’t frozen and has been drifting violins into the air whilst we speak, Sandra and Alexander Danes arrived. Born rich, these two were bored with life until the Spanking Society got started, and they were quick to join as soon as they read about it. CP was a new game for them, and still is, in some respects, but they have joined in with great enthusiasm and a good deal of sexual satisfaction, which goes to show that spanking is for the rich as well as the poor. The only difference as far as I can see is the quality of the silk knickers and the price paid for the cane.

  The result, I’m happy to say, is exactly the same. Cane weals look like cane weals on a rich or poor bottom, and the squeals, whilst perhaps not quite so refined in the lower classes, are just as loud and indicate just as clearly that pain is being administered to a female who is dearly and clearly in need of chastisement. Aren’t they all?

  Alexander, then, portly with good food and wine, slightly balding from too much good living, blue of eye and firm of jaw. And, to his great delight and expectation, holding the executioner ticket for the first time since joining the club. He is anxious to know who the victim is, and is hoping desperately that it isn’t Sandra, because the executioner, by right, gets to bed the victim. It isn’t half so much fun bedding your wife - he can do that later.

  Sandra on the other hand is clutching her juror ticket in carmine-tipped fingers, and is quivering with suppressed excitement. As thin as her husband is portly she carries her clothes a bit like a skeleton, with ribs and shoulder blades protruding but, surprisingly, she has a round bottom which invites the open hand as she wiggles her way through the gathered company. Or she will do, when I release the freeze-frame button. Even being a juror is all right with her. She delights in seeing someone’s rear end well and truly thrashed. Make no mistake about it, a sentence from this court is a severe one, when it is carried out in public. Perhaps it is better to be an observer after all. It all depends on your inclination. What’s yours?

  Rosemary and Stephen Trace arrived next, and as coincidence would have it, drew the victim and prosecutor tickets respectively. Stephen saw her ticket, which gave him plenty of time to consider how best to ensure that his wife receives the maximum sentence he can persuade the court to award, as she has been getting out of hand lately and he isn’t strong enough to dish out the just desserts the lady really needs. Stephen, you see, is a bit on the weedy side, as opposed to being thin. No muscles to speak of, his eyes are a washed out brown, his weak chin is hidden behind a neat goatee, which gives him a stern look he doesn’t actually deserve.

  And Rosemary, excitedly clutching the victim ticket, knows it. Her eyes dart around the gathered guests, wondering who is the executioner. Who will be laying it on hard later? Stephen’s hand isn’t hard, nor his aim strong, and Rosemary, a tiny waspish lady with tight bouncy brown curls and a ready entrancing smile, does love a hard hand. And a hard anything else that also happens to be going in the right direction. I should, for her sake alone, release that freeze-frame button, as she is going to be rather wet with excitement before the trial starts.

  But we’re not through yet, for Estelle Deacon, with the defence counsel ticket, and Christopher with the judge ticket, came last, but not unwilling, by any stretch of Estelle’s imagination. Rarely does this intelligent-looking lady, peering through tortoiseshell rimmed glasses at the world, actually experience the stinging slap of a well laid-on tawse or the burning line of a well-applied cane, because Christopher is gifted with a golden tongue, and has talked to her of so many delights that she comes, swiftly and dramatically, and rarely experiences the real thing! Which is a very good reason to join a spanking club, gentle readers. Practical experience. There’s no substitute. And if I keep writing lines like that, I’ll go drifting upstairs to my bedroom for some practical experience, and I’ll not finish the story. For the sake of all the people gathered here, that will never do. Christopher, appointed by chance the judge for the evening, is in fact a good choice. He is a studious man, a perfect partner for Estelle, and he too suffers the disability of poor sight. Not that that stops him spending hours reading and researching various obscure items for hefty tomes, the like of which are not seen on the shelves of W. H. Smith. Tall enough to look distinguished, he will arbitrate well in this trial, and mete out fair sentence to the unfortunate victim, whoever she may be.

  Before I release the freeze-frame, I must mention our hosts for the evening, in whose home we have intruded with our video and whose idea the club was.

  Annette and Giles Grayson, rarely apart, always referred to as a couple, these two are almost identical twins. Round happy faces with dark, cropped hair, ever-ready smiles and laughs, and an overwhelming interest in all things corporal, they are the perfect hosts for such an eve
ning. They have drawn juror tickets too, and Giles has appointed himself clerk of the court.

  And now I’ll release the button and let the guests go back to the buffet and the drinks.

  They’ll need them.

  Annette’s eyes flicker constantly round the group, watching levels of drinks descending and indicating to Giles who needs a refill. Keeping plates well laden with food and the talk drifting happily in all directions, she is the perfect hostess. Giles will find no fault with her tonight Not that that will mean her bottom won’t be well and truly reddened later with the first thing that comes to hand; even the excitement generated by the sight of the victim getting her just desserts won’t be enough for the Graysons. They’ll need the added excitement of Annette over the end of the bed being laid into with something hefty - she felt her body twitch at the mere thought of it. When Giles had gauged the moment at which everyone was pleasantly full of drink and food, he rang his small bell and immediately all talk stopped, and eyes turned to stare at him.

  ‘Thanks for coining.’ A spontaneous burst of laughter greeted him. Double meaning, you see. ‘If you would like to depart to the courtroom...’

  Immediately people put down their glasses and move towards the door, fluttering feelings of anticipation increasing in all of them. Rosemary in particular finds herself going positively weak. Would she stand up long enough to be tried? Would the judge be strict? Would the executioner be hard on her? Oh let him be, let him be!

  The dining room had been set up as a court. Down one side a double row of chairs, at one end a throne-like chair on a dais, and in the centre, the high, padded stool. A little behind the stool, and just to one side, so the judge can see him, will sit the executioner.

  The jurors filed into place, nodding at each other as they saw who took the jurors’ seats, and laughing as they pointed out the defence and prosecution counsel, approving with a grin Christopher mounting the dais to the judge’s chair, and their hearts going out, partly in sympathy, partly in jealousy, as Rosemary stood behind the stool, and Alexander sat gleefully in the executioner’s chair.

  Rosemary gasps audibly as she realises that Stephen is the prosecutor, knowing guiltily that she has been out of hand these last few weeks, knowing she has been asking for a tanning and has not had it. But she will tonight. The feelings of fear and anticipation increase. Alexander is an unknown quantity. In all the times she has come to the club he has never been executioner, so she has no idea of his skill - or otherwise.

  The bell rang, sharply. The court was in session.

  ‘Your name?’ The judge leans forward, the better to hear. Rosemary clears her throat, nervously.

  ‘Rosemary Adriana Trace.’

  ‘What accusations are brought against the accused?’ Stephen steps forward, his goatee beard quivering as the nervous tic in his neck affects the muscles of the jaw. He’s nervous and trying not to show it. Grim determination to ensure Rosemary goes home well and truly thrashed helps in overcoming some of his nerves.

  ‘The accused, Your Honour, has during the last few weeks been insolent, neglectful of household duties, lax in her marital duties and has dented the offside wing of the automobile.’

  ‘I see.’ The judge leans back, giving defence counsel the chance for a swift discussion with the accused.

  Stephen has played a dangerous game, as far as Rosemary’s behind is concerned. The offences outlined have no real defence, and Estelle knows it. She stands up and bows deferentially to the judge, setting her glasses on her nose.

  ‘Your Honour, the accused has no real defence to the matrimonial crimes of insolence, or household duties unperformed, except perhaps - and here I speculate just a little on behalf of my client - she was angling for a touch of the very interest that brings us all together.’

  She pauses for the swift round of applause from the jury, most of whom have at some time or other practised the same deceptions themselves.

  ‘She wishes to state, however, that she has not been lax in her marital duties, in fact on several occasions she has been the instigator of a session. She also wishes to state in her defence that the accident to the automobile was not her fault, as witnessed by the fact that the insurance company is paying up.’

  Rosemary watches anxiously as Stephen assimilates the information, knowing he is trying to find a way round the defence, trying to ensure a severe sentence for her. She also watches Christopher, calmly waiting for all the sides of the argument to be put to him.

  ‘Your Honour, it is true that the accused has instigated several marital sessions, but we are talking about a time span of some six months, during which a few occasions have been lost due to overall neglect.’

  Estelle springs forward. ‘Your Honour, I protest -’

  But Christopher wavs her to silence. ‘The point is fairly made. I will accept it as it stands.’

  ‘But Your Honour, I would point out that in this trial, the prosecutor is also the spouse of the accused, and as such is biased.’

  ‘That point has already been considered, and due regard will be made to that point when sentence is passed.’

  Rosemary sneaks a look behind her. Alexander sits, arms and legs crossed, as if he had not a care in the world, and is watching a TV show, but he winks at Rosemary to let her know he is awake, aware and waiting. She shudders again in pure bliss.

  Stephen edges forward and glances at Rosemary.

  ‘Your Honour, it is the prosecution’s case that the accused has been merely neglectful of her proper position as a wife,’ (this too brings laughter and applause from the jury, who are a most disrespectful crowd) ‘and I would merely state that it is the duty of the court to ensure that sentence is severe and fitting to the crimes of which she is accused.’

  He walks away to stand near the jury, knowing there was nothing much else to say.

  Estelle stands next to Rosemary, one hand resting lightly on her arm.

  ‘Your Honour, members of the jury, you have heard both sides of this particular marital dispute. It is clear from the evidence presented that the fault lies on both sides. I maintain that the accused cannot be wholly to blame for the charges brought against her. I would ask for leniency.’

  ‘Members of the jury, would you please consider your verdict.’

  The jurors confer together, delighted with the performance. Usually outrageous charges were brought, invented by the prosecution more or less on the spot, and bearing no relation to the accused whatsoever. This time the charges have been real and the defence well argued. Rosemary whispers her thanks. No one could have done more for her. Estelle has certainly ensured that she will get a fair sentence.

  Finally Giles stands up to deliver the jury’s verdict, after what seemed to Rosemary a length of time resembling eternity.

  ‘Guilty, Your Honour, but with mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Christopher considers the various combinations of sentencing he could give, knowing Rosemary’s desire for a good session, and yet not wanting it to be too severe, as she is unused to it and might not be able to stand too much. Not like Dianne, for example, whom he knew could take almost anything that the court would wish to sentence her to.

  He looked up. Alexander is grinning broadly and expectantly for Rosemary, for the first time, looks a little worried.

  ‘The sentence of this court is twelve strokes with the tawse, followed by six with the cane.’

  The jury applauds again. It is a fair sentence, severe, and yet not beyond what Rosemary can take.

  ‘The executioner will kindly carry out the sentence immediately.’

  Giles hurries to the end of the room and comes back with the tawse and the cane. Alexander puts one hand firmly in the middle of Rosemary’s back and bends her over the stool, where he swiftly tied her wrists. The stool was not secured to the floor, but Rosemary knows, from wa
tching others, that if she struggles so much that the stool topples over, the sentence will start all over again, as if it had just begun. Unless you had a tough skin, it wasn’t worth risking that!

  Alexander turns back her clothes and lowered the lace-trimmed, pale blue knickers, revealing Rosemary’s plump white cheeks to the assembled court. He takes the tawse from Giles and flexes it in his fingers. Then he looks round, catches Sandra’s eye and grins. He knows she is enjoying it as much as he is.

  ‘Sentence is about to begin,’ he announces, simultaneously bringing the tawse down with a crack across Rosemary’s unprotected and very vulnerable bottom.

  The shriek comes at the very instant that a broad red stripe springs across the white skin and almost drowns the gasp of pleasure from the onlookers. Again and again the tawse cracks down, never harder, never softer and each time a broad red line leaps up across the whiteness until the whole of Rosemary’s soft cheeks are covered in red bands. She moans and cries out but makes no attempt to struggle.

  ‘Six,’ announces Alexander, and Rosemary yells then, as if to say ‘no more’, but there are six more to take, and Alexander lays them on with deliberation and precision, exactly across the earlier six. He might have come late to the CP game but he is now quite experienced, and delighs the onlookers with the severity and accuracy of the tawsing.

  Rosemary, face down and helpless, is awash with conflicting feelings. Reality always far surpasses fantasies, and while she has fantasised about having a ‘real’ tawsing, she is finding the actual experience far more painful than she could ever have imagined. And there are still six more to come and the thought of the cane landing across the already burning lines is fearsome – and extremely exciting.