There is no need for me to detail the caning. You’ve all had them, or given them. Or both. Suffice it to say that Rosemary had six scarlet lines etched across the red lines dealt by the tawse, and screamed at every one.
Stephen, watching with avid excitement, knew that this is what she needed and despaired that he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Estelle watches with glistening lips and glowing eyes, hoping someone would do exactly the same for her later.
Christopher watches sadly, knowing he too was incapable of giving such punishment and his wife had to go to others. He vows to try again. Soon. Sandra watches her husband’s performance with pride, and anticipation of something close to that with someone at the end of the session.
Marjorie and Darren exchange knowing looks. Dianne and James watch approvingly, yet knowing their sessions have surpassed this many times. Annette and Giles watch happily, knowing another successful trial is over, and another good spectacle has been laid on - in every sense of the words - for their guests.
Finally Rosemary is released from the execution stool, and leans on her executioner, who dries her tears and offers to rub it better for her, but not too soon. Without looking at anyone, they leave the room for the master bedroom; the prerogative of the accused and the executioner.
This is the signal everyone has been waiting for. As if by pre-arranged agreements, people began to pair off. Christopher held out his hand to Dianne, knowing she needed no more than release right then, as he did. James offered an arm to Estelle, delighting her, as she knew she could expect something good from an expert. Darren reached out for Sandra, and Marjorie, with only a moment’s hesitation, left with Stephen. After all, anyone different was worth trying.
Annette and Giles left together, as they always do. They are possessive and jealous of each other, these two, and everyone knows it.
It is time, gentle reader, for us to disappear into the night. If you pause for a moment, hand on door knob, in the very act of pulling the door shut behind you, you might hear the sharp slap of leather on skin or the whistle of a cane about to land on an upturned willing bottom; but not all the pairs are re-enacting the sentence or in fact need the stimulus. From those rooms you will hear little more than cries of ecstasy. Which is how it should be.
We can leave now, for I can tell you what will happen later. With dignity restored and alcohol intake stepped up to compensate for non-drinking time, the various legal couples will join up to go home.
It is at home that we may one day meet up with the couples we have seen tonight, but that is in the future, and another edition.
For tonight, at least, the trial by jury is over.
The Master
This story aroused all sorts of emotions when it first appeared, ranging from comments such as ‘it’s too intense’, to admiration and people wanting to write to me. Unfortunately I have to decline such invitations due to pressure of work, but the compliments are nice. It was actually a fantasy which kept me going for some months, until I committed it to paper and lost it. Your gain, my loss! There are times when I would wish I were free to make a fantasy come true...
I made a foolish mistake today. I reached out to take a file from my boss, and he saw the bruises on my hand. Instead of giving me the file he grabbed my wrist and held it tight.
‘Do you have any more of those?’ he asked. His voice was strange, and a little frightening.
‘Yes,’ I admitted carefully, and showed him my other hand, also marked with three clear lines. He let go my wrist and sat down in his leather chair.
‘Are there any more marks - anywhere else?’
Tactfully worded, I thought, and was grateful for that.
‘Yes. Plenty of them.’ A further confession. Would I regret confessing? Only time would tell.
‘Want to talk about it?’ His voice was strangely tense, still strangely frightening.
‘Too long and complicated a story,’ I said lightly, trying to dismiss it as a mere nothing.
‘All right,’ he seemed to make up his mind suddenly and stood up again. ‘Take some time off from my work and write it out for me. How about that?’
‘Is that an order?’ I asked as flippantly as I could.
His look hardened, went cold, as I did. ‘Yes.’
I left the room with the usual anticipatory tingle which came from being ordered to do something, which always produced a violent reaction in me, and went to sit at my desk, carefully, on the large cushion I had thoughtfully left in the office for just this occasion. So, he wanted the story, did he? Then he would have it. In all its gory and glorious detail.
I’m late. Nine and a half minutes late. I rushed everywhere, but the bus was delayed, people got in my way and slowed me down. The Master hates odd numbers, so it will be rounded up to ten, no doubt about that. Ten sound whacks of the leather slipper before I confess my sins and am punished for them. Not an auspicious start, by any means. Try excuses again? No, last time he doubled the amount because I tried to excuse my lateness. The door is shut tight. I ring the bell and wait fearfully on the immaculate doorstep. Not a leaf or a grain of dust in sight. The Master must be as tough on his housekeeper as he is on his penitents, if not tougher. After all, he pays her to do the work, while we pay him for our punishments. We? Oh yes, he once admitted there were quite a few of us. A rare moment of cordiality long ago, when we first met, before he became the Master.
A glance at my watch and I realise I am now eleven minutes late, because The Master is being deliberately slow in opening the door. Come on! Don’t make it worse for me, please! At last, I hear the lock turning.
He is there, tall, dark, coldly good-looking. oh so stern and looking at his watch.
‘Late,’ he snaps. ‘Get changed.’
I slip carefully past him, sensing the rigidity of his muscles, the cold radiating from his look, a faint hint of after shave that tingles as much as the anticipation churning madly in my stomach. I actually feel sick, but dare not allow myself to do such a thing, not here, not now.
I go into the small room where the clothes are laid out; the sports top and wrap around games skirt are all that I am allowed to wear. They lie on the narrow bed where I will lie later, taking all that he can give me. Before then I have to take all that he decides to give me. The clothes are small concessions to modesty, but modesty somehow goes out the window when punishment is being administered. Hurry to the loo, quick nervous evacuation of bladder and I think I am ready. If only the butterflies and sick erotic fear feeling would lie down for a moment.
The Master is waiting in the punishment room. It’s a large place, probably sound-proofed, and cold, always cold. At the moment it is shadowed by huge wooden shutters he closes across the large windows. The lights will be switched on later, when decisions are taken as to what punishment I am to receive. For now, the Master needs no light. He is already sitting on the hard wooden chair that I have learned to hate and is holding the leather slipper I have also learned to hate. I cross the room as slowly as I can without incurring further anger and carefully place myself across his knees. My hands touch the floor, my toes touch the floor, all else is available for his attention. My skirt has ridden up already, showing a white bottom free of bruises or redness. I have avoided all contact with anything painful so I could come fresh and unmarked for his pleasure - as much as my own. I would have done that anyway, but it happens to be one of his rules. He wants a clean canvas.
‘Eleven minutes late,’ he says, resting the slipper against my tense bottom. It’s cold and it sends thrills through me, I cannot say he deliberately delayed opening the door, what would he do if I dared accuse him? Eleven minutes equals twelve whacks. The Master hates odd numbers. The slipper leaves me, then is brought down hard, leaves me, then is brought down hard on the other side. Every spank is soundly delivered, making me cry out and jump. But I lie there a
nd I take them. I will remember, next time I will be on time. Even if I stand at the end of the road for half an hour. With burning bottom and the prickle of tears (which come quickly as he has been far from lenient with me) I kneel at his feet and confess three months of sin. Things I have done that I wish I hadn’t, things I haven’t done that I wish I had, not being careful enough with my money not careful enough with the words that fly unchecked from my mouth. Enough sins to warrant a very severe thrashing. I know it, I expect it, I have not come for anything less. He listens without a word, absorbing all I offer.
The Master thinks over what I have told him. I remain kneeling. He stands up and walks over to press the switch on the wall. Spotlights spring into life, each picking out an element of his punishment room; the rack of canes, all twelve of them, a row of tawses and whips, a martinet, a paddle, a riding crop. A light shines directly onto the wooden chair, and another lights up the stool with its straps for wrists and ankles, only used for caning because when the Master canes, no one - but no one - stays in place. So I believe, anyway.
‘Come here.’
This means the decision has been made, the punishment is about to begin. I know from experience that the twelve whacks I have already taken have no place in the thrashing to come; it is as if they never happened. That’s why it is so important for me to be on time!
I stand up, and go across the Master’s knees for a second time for a thorough hand spanking, relentless, and very hard. I sometimes think his hand is as hard as the slipper, the slaps sting so much and I writhe and kick, muttering my protests at the punishment being delivered to an unprotected and already reddened bottom. But there is no escape, and when he is done there cannot be an inch of skin left untouched by his stinging hand.
‘Get up.’
I stand up slowly, carefully keeping my hands away from my burning cheeks, and stand by the chair. He moves away and I sit down. I have fifteen minutes’ grace now to compose myself, to allow the pain to subside just a little, to stop crying, before phase two begins. The chair is hard, uncomfortable and does nothing to comfort my poor bottom - it is designed not to, that much I do understand.
There is a large plain clock on the wall, just above the canes. You cannot look at the clock without subliminally seeing them, all part of his dread design for this terrible room. I sit and feel the pain settling just a little, wanting to rock from side to side, to ease myself off the hard wood, to move around, but I dare not. I clasp my hands, aware of the tears trickling down my nose, and stare at the clock, wondering what else he has for me.
The fifteen minutes go so fast, and yet so slow. At least the burning sensation has settled down now, has translated itself into the sick erotic feeling I know and love.
His voice conies from behind me. ‘Over there.’
I walk to the leather armchair, put myself face down over the arm; smell of polish, of body, of other people’s pain and suffering, perhaps someone else’s tears?
I go instantly. Obedience learned after painful digressions from the main punishment when I was not quick enough to do as I was told. Face down, waiting, scared, remembering.
It was agreed, when I signed the paper, that once in the punishment room the Master would give no explanation unless he chose to. Therefore, it was up to me to work out what the orders meant, and I would find obedience thrashed into me if I didn’t either decide or do what he wanted fast enough. I signed, because I thought it would be easy.
I have since wondered how many others made the same mistake. On my first visit, ‘Come here,’ meant little until I was grabbed by the back of the neck, pushed face down over the wooden chair and given six hard strokes with a heavy tawse, and was then spanked soundly. ‘Over there,’ was beaten into me with the nasty leather covered paddle, twelve sound slaps before the tawsing that was decreed. I learned fast. So far I have not broken the ‘no touching’ rule. I do not know what retribution that would bring. But oh the temptation to rub and rub to ease the pain!
The tawse. It always follows the spanking, coming with devastating pain over the red skin, bands of agony that build and build until I think I can take no more. The tawse hurts. This time it feels like a heavy one, it sounds like a heavy one. I count, silently. Something else I learned, after one occasion when the Master stopped and asked how many I had taken. I was foolish enough to say I didn’t know. He immediately started all over again, and that time I made sure I counted. Twenty today and I am crying again because there is no way I cannot cry after that. I am on fire.
‘Have you had enough?’
Oh tricky question! ‘Yes,’ and he will say it is not enough and perhaps do it all over again. ‘No,’ will no doubt have the same effect.
‘It is not for me to say, Master,’ I say in a muffled voice because I have not yet been told to get up. 1 talk into the cushions, feeling the pain, feeling the moistness gathering between my thighs, longing to stand up.
‘Indeed it is not.’
Oh thank you, I managed the right answer.
‘Get up.’
I spend another fifteen minutes sitting on the wooden chair which has now grown cold and is, for a few wonderful seconds, easing the pain. Sitting quiet and still, hands cupped in my lap, feeling the tears pouring down my face, feeling foolish and hurting and wanting it to be over, knowing it isn’t over, I secretly rejoice in the fact there is still more to come. To stop would disappoint me. He knows it as well as I do. We have been through this several times before, it never fails to have the same effect, a thrill, a fear, an adrenalin high to be ridden for up to two weeks into the future.
From somewhere behind me the door opens and then closes. The Master has left the room!
Glory, it has never happened before! I jump up and start rubbing madly at my swollen cheeks.
Stupid idiotic fool that I am not to have looked around, to think I would be left alone! Even as I rub, I hear the cold hard voice -
‘Come here!’
With sinking heart and deathly coldness creeping down my spine, I turn, both hands clutching my bottom. The Master is standing by the door, pointing at me with a cane.
‘If I decide to leave the room at any time, you will stay just where you are. Do you understand? It is not an excuse to break the rules. Come here. Hold out your hand!’
I walk across to him, jolting my cheeks with the effort of walking. I stand before him, looking at the floor, holding out my right hand. He has never done this before, I do not know what to expect. The cane swishes down with incredible speed and creates a line of unbelievable pain across my palm. I cry out and snatch my hand away. The cane waits, I reluctantly hold out my hand again for a second and then a third stroke. I cry out each time.
‘Now the other hand.’ It is fair, he caught me with both hands on my bottom. Three more incredible lines of pain; it takes all the willpower I have to stand there, one hand burning and shrieking at me, and holding out the other one for an equal amount of punishment. Sobbing, I return to the wooden chair, and glance up at the clock. Seven minutes left; seven minutes in which to cope with this new agony. I never knew hand caning hurt so much! He used the tawse on my hands once, when I was stupid enough to put my hands behind me in an effort to stop the beating, but not the cane. Oh I wish I’d been more sensible!
The Master is standing in front of me, swinging the martinet from side to side. There are still five minutes to go, but he torments me with the vision of what is to come. I shudder involuntarily. The martinet is agony on agony; the thin strands in themselves harmless, combined are devastating to a bottom already raw and swollen, as mine must be.
And I must be firm with myself. Last time - was it really as long ago as three months? - last time I was foolish enough to get up in the middle of the martinet session, to plead with the Master to stop, saying I couldn’t take any more. I was dragged by my hair to the stool, strapped down and slowly, with the
greatest deliberation and yes, say it, cruelty - he caned me six times with a heavy, thick cane. I screamed at every stroke. Then he unstrapped me, led me by my hair back to the leather armchair, pushed me down and started whipping me with the martinet all over again. I know, because I counted every one of the twenty-four strokes.
And I still got the mandatory six of the best before the punishment session ended. I vowed never to interrupt the Master again, particularly when I found it almost impossible to walk afterwards, and near impossible to sit comfortably for close on a week!
The time is up; I push memories aside and obey his gesture which means walk over to the leather armchair and bury my face in the cushion again.
My hands still hurt, my bottom still hurts, my thighs are (so far) unmarked but I don’t think that will last. He wastes no time, almost immediately the martinet is lashing across my cheeks. Thin strands bite into my painfully-thrashed cheeks, upward of a dozen at once cutting into me. Again and again they fly through the air, wrap around me, and this time he goes for my thighs, agony on agony, they are so tender, so vulnerable to the thongs! I count silently, but aloud cry out my sobs and protests. It is a severe whipping: thirty strokes, before he stops and tells me to get up. I am close to passing out, almost too giddy to make it back to the wooden chair. Perhaps the Master knows he has gone too far, for out of character he thrusts a handful of tissues at me, and allows me to dry my face.
No, banish the thought, the Master can never go too far, his wish is always my command. If he wishes to beat me until I am unconscious, it will be done. All this was discussed, agreed, the contract signed, long before my first visit. His will is supreme, my obedience is guaranteed no matter what he does. After all, I made the appointment, I came with sins to confess, I needed absolution in the way that satisfies me, severe corporal punishment.
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